Saturday, 6 February, 1982

Nicolas de Brabant wandered idly through Little Whinging with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his heavy black wool overcoat. He didn't really need the coat, of course--being a vampire gave him a low body temperature, which pretty much made him immune to the cold. It was well past midnight, and most people in the little town were asleep. He wasn't sure what had brought him to Surrey. Really, he was just passing through and wasn't certain where he would settle down next. It wasn't as if he could stay anywhere for more than a decade--the mortals would notice, and Wizardkind was not tolerant of what they termed 'Dark Creatures.' Granted, they did manage to help with Rogues occasionally, which lightened the Enforcers' workload, but it was just as much for the Wizards' safety as it was for the vampires'.

He'd come to the UK after finishing his stint with the Red Cross in Vietnam, but he'd been wandering a bit since then. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do next, but it wasn't as if he didn't have the time to decide. Forever was a long time to live, after all. Nicolas's head shot up as he heard the thin, reedy cries of a young child pushed past the point of exhaustion. It was a sound that he'd heard many times in his unnaturally long life, but it wasn't one he could easily ignore; especially since it was coming from somewhere outside. If it had been coming from a house, well, he could have justified it as a careless parent who'd allowed their child too much leeway. The neat neighborhood he was currently in wasn't one that would lend itself to homeless vagrants, so it only followed that it was the cry of a child in trouble.

Nicolas had spent years flitting from identity to identity in careers that devoted themselves to serving mortals--he could deal with an abandoned baby, if that's what the cry truly was. He walked over to the house, absently noting that a number four was nailed to the door, and into the obsessively tidy back garden. There, he found a naked, bruised, shivering little boy with messy black hair who couldn't have been more than two. The child was dangerously thin and dirty, as if he hadn't had a proper bath or meal in weeks.

Nicolas had seen and participated in many atrocities in his eight hundred years, but crimes against children always angered him. He took a deep breath, forcibly calming his own anger. “Hello, there,” he said. He offered the little boy a smile.

The little boy drew in a hitching breath, stifled a sob, and rubbed at the tears on his face, smearing dirt all around. “'lo,” he said.

Nicolas took off his coat and wrapped the child in it, ignoring the small flinch. “You look cold,” he said, by way of explanation.

“Am,” the little boy said.

“Why are you out here, mon petit?” Nicolas asked.

“Hawwy bad boy,” the child said solemnly. “Had bad dweam an' acksident. Hawwy dirty.”

Nicolas hadn't taken care of a child this young since he'd been mortal, and his mortal memories were somewhat hazy, but a half-remembered memory made him gather Harry close and brush the messy hair away from the child's forehead. It was what he saw next that made him make a split-second decision that would change a small child's fate forever. A few months ago, the Dark Lord Voldemort had been defeated by a fifteen-month-old child on Halloween night. Reports from the Wizarding World had it that the child in question, one Harry James Potter, had survived the Killing Curse with nothing more than a lightening bolt shaped cut.

Five hundred years ago, a prophecy from one of their own seers had named the “Lightening Child” as one who would lead them into an era of equality for all the races. The Council, convinced that the now titled Boy-Who-Lived was the lightening child of prophecy, declared that Harry Potter was to be protected at all costs. It was forbidden to turn him or feed from him, and they were to help the boy if he were in trouble. The Council had required a blood-oath to ensure obedience to that particular edict, which no being in their right mind would break. Nicolas could no more deny the Council than he could deny the fact that he was a vampire. He stood, taking the little boy with him.

“Everybody has bad dreams, Harry,” he said gently. “If you had an accident, it wasn't your fault, and it doesn't make you dirty, either.”

“Weally?” Harry asked, wide-eyed.

“Really,” Nicolas said. If anyone knew about bad dreams, he did, though his were usually memories of all the mistakes and bad choices that he'd made. He'd spent the past century attempting to repent for all of the evil that he'd done, but he didn't think that there was forgiveness for one such as him. Perhaps he could earn a bit by taking care of the child? At any rate, he was bound by the Council's will to protect Harry Potter. It was fairly obvious that he wasn't safe where the Wizards had placed him. “Would you like to come with me, Harry?” he asked. “We'll go someplace warm, and get you some warm clothing.”

Harry's eyes widened, he nodded, and wrapped his little arms around Nicolas's neck.

Nicolas smiled at the little boy and left the back garden. Briefly, he thought about flying to the inn where he was staying, but decided against it because he didn't want to scare Harry. He had to make sure that nobody would take the boy away, which meant that he had to call Larry Merlin and arrange for a binding contract to be created. Magically binding would be even better. Mortals--the wizards called them Muggles--did not have any accessible magic of their own, but the blood magic it would be written with would ensure compliance, as would the Traitor's Payment that he would offer them.

The Wizards would not contest his guardianship, and the Council would endorse it once they found out, for the safety of the prophecy child more than anything else. It would be useful to not be hunted by the Wizards. As a general rule, most vampires simply wished to be left alone. Nicolas knew that his biggest stumbling block would be his Master, his Sire, LaCroix. While not even his Sire would defy the Council, there was always the chance that the Roman vampire would do something foolish, like turn little Harry over to Social Services, since he couldn't eat him.

A little smile stole over Nicolas's face as Harry laid his head on his shoulder. There were ways to block the wily old General. He, Nicolas, would just have to remind him of old debts that had yet to be paid. Andre. Daniel. Yes, that would work. Though if he knew his Sire, there would be other conditions attached. Most likely it would involve feeding on human blood for the first time in almost a hundred years. His lips curled at the thought that filled him with equal measures of both revulsion and longing. He shook the thought off and lengthened his stride. One thing at a time. First, he needed to call Merlin and the Council, and then arrange for some children's clothing to be delivered to his room at the inn.

~*~*~*~

Nicolas tucked a sleeping Harry in; then flopped into a nearby armchair. He'd stopped briefly to pick up some nappies on the way back to the inn (he'd managed to get a rather attractive young lady to help him figure out which ones to buy), and ordered some broth from room service after they'd gotten back. The little boy hadn't managed more than half of his portion before he'd fallen asleep. It had taken a few minutes to figure out exactly how nappies went on, but he'd managed, and then dressed Harry in one of his own t-shirts. Nicolas knew that he could manage clothes for Harry later; the shopkeepers could almost always be bribed to bring a selection by in the morning.

Nicolas pulled his chair closer to the bed and ran his fingers gently through Harry's hair. The little boy leaned towards the touch, even in his sleep. Nicolas smiled a little. Children were so innocent at that age, and it was an innocence that he yearned to recapture. He'd lost it long before he'd been Turned... he'd settle for being human again. More than anything, Nicolas wanted to walk in the sun without heavy coverings or restricted, expensive potions. He wanted to eat like a normal human being and not a bloodsucking monster. He sighed a little and pulled Harry's blankets up a bit more. His head shot up as he Felt a presence behind him. He knew who it was, of course... his Sire's aura was impossible to forget. “LaCroix,” Nicolas acknowledged without turning around.

“Nicolas,” LaCroix said, crossing the room with a few short strides. When he reached the bed, he recoiled; then turned to scowl deeply at Nicolas. “What is that?” he demanded.

Nicolas decided to play dumb. “A child,” he said. “His previous guardians were... negligent, so I liberated him from them.”

LaCroix scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. “Really, Nicolas,” he said. “It's not like you to not take the child to the proper authorities.”

Nicolas gave him a mischievous smile. “We are the proper authorities,” he said, then brushed Harry's hair away from his scar. “You know the Council's decree.”

LaCroix inclined his head. “I do,” he said. “We are to protect Harry Potter, we are not allowed to feed from him, nor are we permitted to Turn him.”

Nicolas leaned back and his smile widened. “The Wizards were careless with their choice of guardians,” he said. “I found him locked outside, naked. I very much doubt that his guardians cared at all for the child.”

“And why must you be the one to take him, Nicolas? Are your foolish mortal morals getting in the way again?” LaCroix questioned.

Nicolas leaned forward and rested his hand atop the child's head. “I found him, Father,” he emphasized the last word. It wasn't one he used very often, even if it was technically correct. There had been relative peace between them in the past decade, after all. “The Council will side with me this time; I found him, so he is mine to raise... or not, as I wish.” He pushed back his blond curly hair. “What are a few decades to raise a child to our kind?”

“That is beside the point!” LaCroix's blue eyes became tinted with gold. “Mortal children or even Wizarding children and our kind do not mix!”

Nicolas stood and turned to face him, his face turned into a scowl. “You've made your opinion on the matter perfectly clear,” he said. “You owe me, LaCroix. Andre suicided because of you. You Turned Daniel and he was destroyed because of your stupidity. This one, Harry, is mine, and you cannot take him from me--the Community is blood-sworn to protect this one.” He could feel the internal struggle LaCroix was going through from their link before the elder vampire finally gave in.

“What measures have you taken to secure the boy?” LaCroix asked finally. “The last thing we need is the Ministry's Hunters after us to reclaim the child.”

Nicolas shoved his hands in his pockets. “I have enough of the potion to run errands tomorrow--Gringotts will supply me with the necessary payment, and there should be a contract quill in one of the Knockturn Alley shops. Larry Merlin is arranging for the paperwork, and he promised delivery by noon tomorrow.”

LaCroix nodded slowly. “Legal paperwork or fabrications? And what of the boy?” he asked. “Taking him into Knockturn Alley or anywhere near Diagon Alley would be... unwise.”

Nicolas shrugged a little. “Legal, of course,” he said. “I won't take chances with my son and I haven't figured out what I'll do with him while I'm running errands yet,” he admitted. “A disguise would work. Perhaps a blood-based glamour will work later. Make-up can cover the scar for now, and with a hat, he's just an ordinary baby.”

“You are set on this course of action?” LaCroix asked. “You are determined to keep the child?”

Nicolas gave his Sire a sharp nod. “Yes,” he said. “Harry Potter will be legally my son, and raised as the de Brabant heir.” He gave his father a half-smile. “Before the last of my mortal family died, we produced several witches and wizards. I can hide the boy on my estate, educate him, and by the time he leaves to go to school under a new name, nobody will recognize him as 'Harry Potter' at all.”

“You intend to change his name?” LaCroix asked.

“Perhaps,” Nicolas said. “I am considering it.”

LaCroix sighed. “If you are certain, I must insist that you develop better taste in prey. The bovine swill you drink will not sate your hunger--it weakens you and you can ill afford to be weak if you are to protect your new... acquisition.”

Nicolas closed his eyes briefly against the sudden swell of desire that filled him. He wanted the sweet nectar of human blood again. He wanted the rush of emotion, of magic, of life that he'd been denying himself for the past century in an effort to make it up to those he had wronged and killed. He'd been feeding on bovine blood instead. Aside from being wholly unsatisfying, it tasted flat, bitter, and dead. Cow's blood, however, unlike human blood, was guilt free, because he didn't have to kill or thrall another thinking being to get it. But... bottled blood, blood willingly given, was readily available these days. He wouldn't have to kill for his meals. And it was true that he was calmer and more in control when he fed upon human blood, his natural food. Finally, he nodded. “I will,” he murmured. “I will not hunt, LaCroix, but I will give up the cows' blood while Harry is in my care.”

LaCroix smirked in what Nicolas interpreted as triumph. “I will watch the boy while you take care of your errands. I will send for my tailor to properly outfit the child.”

The comment amused Nicolas immensely.”I seem to recall that neither mortal nor wizarding children his age wear silk and Egyptian cotton,” he said.

LaCroix's smirk widened. “My tailor can provide... appropriate selections,” he said. “And by sundown tomorrow, the Community will know that my grandchild is the Boy-Who-Lived.”

Nicolas snorted, kicked off his shoes, and climbed on the bed next to Harry. In that moment, he made a decision that he hoped would help to protect his child. “And by sundown tomorrow, we will hopefully be on our way to de Brabant land, and little Henri will be my son.”

“Henri?”

Nicolas nodded. “An English name will stand out. Tomorrow, he will become 'Henri Nicolas Lucien Andre de Brabant', heir to everything I have managed to save of my family's legacy. I'll arrange for his birth certificate and new Christening when we get there--it has long been rumored that faerie rings have been found near my lands, and I know of a few changeling children that have been left behind over the years.”

“We must make sure to nail some cold iron over his nursery door, as well as over his bed,” LaCroix said.

“Yes,” Nicolas agreed. He leaned over and pressed a cool kiss to Harry's forehead. “Sleep well, my son,” he murmured.

~*~*~*~

Nicolas chugged the potion and grimaced at the taste--it was worse than cow's blood. It was a waste of good blood, as far as he was concerned. Vampires simply couldn't digest non-blood substances easily--alcohol was the exception rather than the rule--so the potion to allow him to walk in sunlight was actually blood based. That fact was one of the reasons why it was so expensive. Unlike mortal blood, which due to blood banks, was fairly common, fresh, willingly given Wizard blood was hard to get. Because the potion was technically blood magic, it had barely escaped being banned by the Ministry of Magic as being 'dark.' It wasn't something he used often, either. It had terrible side effects if used too frequently, and a very short shelf-life.

He walked over to the side of the bed that Harry currently occupied and sat down on the edge. “Harry,” Nicolas whispered, studiously ignoring the sound of the child's heartbeat and the enticing smell of wizard blood.

The little boy stirred slightly and rolled over. “Henri,” Nicolas called instead. He had decided that it would probably be best to call the child what he would officially be named in a few hours.

Slowly, the child opened his eyes and sat up. He rubbed them and yawned before giving Nicolas a sleepy smile. “Hi,” he said. “No dweam?” Harry crawled across the bed and leaned against Nicolas.

Nicolas's arms automatically came up around Harry as the little boy snuggled trustingly against him. “No, it's not a dream, Henri,” he said.

“Why you call Hawwy dat?” he asked.

Instead of answering right away, Nicolas asked Harry a question. “Do you know what happened to your Mummy and Daddy?”

Little Harry frowned. “Bad man with green light comed,” he said. “Mummy no wake up, and Hawwy woked with the mean people.”

“Would you like not to go back with the mean people and come and be my son?” Nicolas asked. “I'll be your new Papa.”

Harry wrapped his little arms around Nicolas. “Hawwy likes you,” he said.

Nicolas picked Harry up, stood, and walked over to the bed where LaCroix was still asleep. "This is your new Grandpére," he said. "And he's going to look after you while I make it official." The little boy laid his head on Nicolas's shoulder and stuck his thumb in his mouth. Nicolas rubbed Harry's back gently.

"Seepy," Harry commented around his thumb.

Nicolas gently laid the child down and covered him with the bedclothes. "I'll be back soon, Henri," he said.

Harry gave him a drowsy smile and closed his eyes. Nicolas looked into the mirror as he grabbed a long, dark, hooded cloak and threw it over his shoulders and fastened it. He looked like a respectable wizard--he would blend in nicely in the Alleys. Quickly, he checked to make sure that his daggers and long sword were accessible and hidden from Mortal eyes. While the goblin-forged weapons wouldn't be remarked upon by the Wizards, they would draw unwanted attention from Mortals. All of Voldemort's followers had not yet been caught, and it would be foolish of him to go anywhere near Wizarding enclaves in Britain unarmed.

Nicolas had known about Wizards since his mortal days; he and his sister had both been disappointments when they'd proved to possess no accessible magic of their own. He and Fleur had both been what Wizards termed "Squibs". Most people who survived being turned were either incredibly lucky, Squibs, or Wizards--more ordinary Mortals died than ever became vampires. Nicolas rather thought it had something to do with the level of magic in their blood. He'd long since decided that the absolutely magicless were the ones who died, not being able to accept and incorporate vampire blood magic into their beings.

While Vampires were considered masters of blood magic--they knew more about the subject than Wizards could ever hope to learn--fledglings weren't proficient in it until they were a few hundred years old, if then. It really depended upon who the fledgling's Sire was, and even then, how much the Sire was willing to share his or her knowledge. Luckily for Nicolas, LaCroix had never seen the value of letting his children wander around unarmed and ignorant. While there were some things that he was sure his Father hadn't taught him, he had spent the better part of his first four hundred years learning how to use his own innate magic. Wizards were taught to defend themselves from rogue Vampires, but even they knew better than to try and attack a Master Vampire. Even if it weren't for the Treaty of 1257, Nicolas was sure that the Wizards would leave them alone if for nothing else than their own senses of self-preservation.

Nicolas spared a glance at both LaCroix and Henri; then left the motel room, making sure to lock the door behind him. He pocketed the key and hurried to his rental car, wincing a bit in the bright light of the sun. He slid on his sunglasses, got in the car, started it and headed for the nearest Tube station. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, which meant that traffic was light. It didn't take long once he arrived at the station to park his car in the long-term parking and pay his fare into London.

As he boarded the train into London, Nicolas hoped that Larry Merlin would be prompt with the paperwork--he preferred to get the unpleasant business of arranging for legal custody transfer over with as soon as possible. With the fees Nicolas was paying for his services, though, he thought that the paperwork would be ready when he returned to the inn. He pulled his first edition copy of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein out of his pocket and started to read, but he couldn't seem to keep his attention on it for any long stretch of time. He was impatient for the train to reach his stop, so it really wasn't surprising that it seemed to take forever.

When the train arrived at the Charing Cross station, he hurried to the Leaky Cauldron and through it to the wall in the back alley. Nicolas glanced around to make sure nobody was watching; then tapped the correct bricks with his fingers. It just wouldn't do for a wizard to see him open the gateway without a wand. While very powerful wizards could do it, it was fairly well known that vampires could, too. He didn't need for his status to become common knowledge, because it would complicate matters.

Quickly, he went through the newly opened gate and, ignoring the rest of the Alley, headed straight to Gringotts. At this hour, there weren't many lines, so he found himself in front of a teller within minutes. Nicolas gave the goblin behind the desk a deep nod and asked to be taken to his vault in flawless Gobbeldegook.

“Vampire,” the goblin answered, also in the same language.

“Yes,” Nicolas said. “You and your kind have no reason for emnity from me and mine--we have long fed from mortals almost exclusively.”

“Almost?” the goblin behind the counter questioned.

Nicolas closed his eyes and allowed his fangs to drop. He opened his eyes, letting the gold color show through and quirked a half-smile, allowing one fang to show. “Wizard blood is still a delicacy,” he murmured. “I, however, have been drinking bovine for the past century.”

The goblin gave him a long stare as he retracted his fangs and his eyes faded to their normal blue. “This place is under compact,” Nicolas reminded the creature. The conversation reminded him just why he preferred to keep the balance of his funds in Mortal banks in Switzerland. He'd once considered entrusting his valuables to the gnomes there, too, but Gringotts' security was unmatched, and few people dared to attempt to steal from the goblins.

Goblins and Vampires had an enmity dating from the Goblin War of 1352 when a young wizard-born vampire had bitten and killed the son and heir of the then goblin manager. That idiotic act had led to war with both the vampires and the Wizards, until the foolish fledgling had met a grisly end at the hands of goblin executioners. Unfortunately, the hard feelings had been passed down to the next generation, and the next, and so forth. Goblins never forgot a slight against their kind, which was why there had been so many wars with them.

The goblin finally nodded. “Do you have your key?” he inquired, switching to English.

Nicolas reached in his pocket and produced a much-rubbed black velvet pouch, opened it and emptied it onto the counter, producing a ruby, a gold dubloon, an uncut emerald, a gold sovereign, a galleon, a sickle, and a little gold key. He scooped up everything but the key and stuffed it back into the pouch. It had been a very long time since he'd used the key; he didn't go to London often, and he ventured into the Wizarding world even less. It wasn't the only Gringotts vault he owned, though. There were at least five more in various countries. In times of economic upheaval, he'd made it a policy to transfer his funds back to there, because the goblins' bank was the most stable.

Because of this cautious policy, he'd never really lost massive amounts of money due to depressions and recessions. He always had plenty, waiting for him at a branch of Gringotts. Of course, the divisions of his charity, the de Brabant Foundation, that dealt with scholarships for impoverished magical children were easier to administer from there as well. Most of the trust was dealt with by a firm in Canada, whom he'd been dealing with for the better part of fifty years. He met with them a few times a year, to disperse portions of his fortune--with the fifty billion American dollars he had in Switzerland, there was plenty of good he could do with his burden.

“Griplock,” the goblin called, “show Mister de Brabant to his vault.”

A young goblin who was standing nearby bowed as the teller handed him the key. “Follow me, please,” he said.

Nicolas followed Griplock into the bowels of Gringotts. A short cart ride later, and they were standing in front of vault 237. Griplock inserted the key, turned it, and motioned Nicolas forward. He put his hand in a depression and winced as it took a sample of his blood. His body objected to having blood removed, but he wrestled the beast back as the vault opened. His eyes took in the piles of coins of various denominations, ages, and nationalities. Galleons, sickles and knuts were piled high in the front, taking up about half of the enormous vault.

The rest was filled with piles of American double eagles, various gemstones, set and unset, Spanish dollars, jewelry, pandas, krugerrands, gold drachmas, some gold bars, dubloons, and even a small pile of coins he'd received from LaCroix over the years that had the image of some emperor or another stamped on the sides. Nicolas pulled three pouches from the pockets of his cloak. The first he filled with wizarding money. He threaded his way through the various piles of money to the Spanish dollars and counted thirty of them into each of the other two pouches. He'd briefly considered obtaining small, one ounce silver bars for the same purpose, but the Spanish dollars would suffice. He was taking no chances--both Vernon Dursley and Petunia Dursley would receive the payment for their... services. It would make it impossible to ever return the child to their dubious care.

He tucked the money back into the pockets of his cloak, made his way back to the entrance of the vault, and endured the cart ride back to the surface. A few minutes later, he pulled the hood of his cloak over his face and headed into Knockturn Alley. He went to Borgin and Burkes first. Contract quills were hard to come by these days. After all, they'd been made a regulated item in 1503 and were illegal to use by law for anything but magical contracts. Since what Merlin was preparing for him was definitely a magical contract, Nicolas knew that, despite being bought at what Magical Britain considered a black market, his use of it was perfectly legal.

Luckily, Mr. Borgin had a single blood quill in stock. Ten minutes, and fifty galleons lighter, Nicolas left the store and headed back to Diagon Alley after a short stop in a potions shop to replenish his stock of the sun potion, and to obtain an adoption potion. Flourish and Blotts was open by this time, so he made a quick detour inside to buy a few books on child care. Neither he nor LaCroix had much experience with small children, so he was sure the books would help until they could engage a nanny or something for Henri. While he did keep house elves, they weren't suitable for looking after small children because they followed orders too well. After paying for the books, Nicolas made his way out of Diagon Alley and back to the train station with a sigh of relief. As soon as the proper paperwork arrived, he could arrange everything to his satisfaction... and the Mortals who had mistreated the child would never remember that it was he who had been there.

~*~*~*~

LaCroix woke to find bright green eyes staring at him. He pushed himself up in the chair as the owner of the eyes climbed up into his lap. “Hi,” the child said, then patted his cheeks.

LaCroix frowned at the child. “You are annoying,” he said. “And you're not big enough for a meal.” He paused and studied the child, who was smiling at him crookedly.

“I'm not allowed to eat you... pity. Though, you're only big enough for a snack.”

“On-wi not snack,” the child said.

“Yes, you are,” LaCroix corrected. “I think I shall have to call you that,” he said.

Henri stuck his lower lip out in a pout.

If LaCroix had been anyone else, he might have found the small boy to be adorable, but he didn't. At least, he did his best not to. He firmly believed, and he had taught all of his progeny, that a vampire's heart must be cold. Eternal life would be far more difficult if it were not so. He loved his children, especially Janette and Nicolas, though it would be near impossible to get him to admit it. As Henri gave him a sunny smile, a part of LaCroix that he usually ignored whispered that he could learn to love Henri, too. It said that like Nicolas, Henri would become his baby boy, his light. With the ease of long practice, he dismissed the thought and focused on his responsibility to the boy instead.

Henri pulled at his diaper. “Wet, yucky,” he said.

LaCroix pulled in a deep breath and almost choked. It smelled awful. He glared at the child. “We shall have to obtain a nanny for you,” he muttered as he stood and grabbed the paper bag that Nicolas had told him contained supplies for the child. “I have never done this, and I do not plan on making a habit of it.”

He laid Henri on the bed and dumped the contents of the bag on the bed. He pulled the child's shirt up and examined the plastic diaper that he was wearing. After a few minutes, he figured out how to open the diaper LaCroix opened it, and clumsily cleaned the child's bottom, then disposed of the wipe and diaper. He pulled out a diaper and turned it over, trying to figure out how it went on. He leaned over the boy, only to be hit by a stream of pee. He glared at Henri as he wiped his face with a handkerchief. “You are most definitely a Snack,” he said, then, after a few false starts, put the diaper on the child.

Henri sat up and wrapped his little arms around LaCroix's neck, then kissed him on the cheek. “Fank you,” he said.

LaCroix picked the boy up; then walked over to the desk where the phone was. He hoped that Nicolas returned soon; he had a feeling that he was in for a very, very long day.

~*~*~*~

Nicolas unlocked the door to his room and entered, making sure to shut and lock it behind him before he hung up his cloak and divested himself of his weapons. LaCroix was ensconced in one of the armchairs, reading a thick, leather-bound book, while Henri was on the floor in a corner, quietly playing with a stuffed rabbit. The little boy looked up when he came in, abandoned the toy and threw himself at Nicolas's legs.

Nicolas picked Henri up and settled him in his arms. The child wrapped his arms around Nicolas's neck. Automatically, he rubbed the child's back, but pulled back a bit in surprise. The child was dressed like Little Lord Fauntleroy. “What are you wearing, mon petit?” he asked.

Henri pulled at the white lace collar of his black velvet suit. “Itchy,” he said.

Nicolas looked at LaCroix for an explanation. “I was assured it was the height of fashion for Wizarding children his age,” LaCroix said. “And my tailor had it on hand. He will be delivering some shirts and trousers for the boy by tonight.”

Nicolas nodded. “He still needs toys and things,” he said. “But I think that can wait until we get home. If everything can be wrapped up today, I'll arrange for one of the Foundation's jets to be ready for us tonight, and call one of the house elves to tell them that we're coming.”

“I wish you would not keep those... things,” LaCroix said with distaste.

“They are bound to keep our secrets,” Nicolas reminded him.

“They are annoying,” LaCroix said.

“They are low-risk, low-cost servants,” Nicolas countered. He put Henri down and sent him off to play as he went to rummage in his nine-compartment trunk. He'd been grateful when they were invented; he never had to travel without important belongings that could mean life or death. It was also very useful to be able to climb inside the last compartment if he were caught outside with the sun rising. The only inconvenient part was that he didn't have the magical ability to shrink it down, making actually transporting the thing a pain. He was just lucky that multi-compartment trunks didn't rely on the magical abilities of the user to work.

Nicolas removed a black Armani suit, a silk Cambridge stripe tie, and a white shirt from the trunk and headed into the bathroom to change. He emerged a few minutes later, carrying the clothes he'd been wearing before, neatly folded, which he placed in the top compartment of his trunk. “Did the paperwork arrive?” he asked as he watched Harry play with his toy. The child was making it hop around him and twitch its whiskers. Nicolas smiled a little. Henri, his son, would be a powerful wizard; at eighteen months old, he just shouldn't be able to animate an inanimate object.

Nicolas could remember his older brother struggling to master that bit of magic as a teenager quite well, as he'd been fascinated with it, and unable to perform magic himself. He watched Henri for a few more moments before turning to LaCroix. “Have the papers arrived yet?”

LaCroix shook his head. “Merlin called about an hour ago. He said it might take a few more hours to get all the proper clauses into it and to enchant the parchment but that he'd get it here before close of business today. You know he usually just arranges very good forgeries to be put in place, should anyone check backgrounds.”

Nicolas nodded. “I know,” he said. “But for an extra fee, Merlin can and will provide perfectly legal paperwork for stuff like this. I assume he's sending a wizard courier?”

“Yes,” LaCroix said. “He's in Ireland at the moment...”

Nicolas didn't comment, but instead walked over to the bed and sat down, careful not to wrinkle his suit. Harry picked up his rabbit, came over, and handed it to Nicolas. He accepted the fuzzy toy and examined it gravely. “What's his name, Henri?” he asked.

The little boy seemed to think hard about that for a few minutes before answering. “Bway,” he said.

Nicolas made the rabbit “hop” into Henri's arms. The little boy giggled and hugged the toy, then held out his arms to be picked up. He obliged, hugging the child close. They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Nicolas stood up, holding Henri easily, and answered it. He accepted the folio from the courier and tipped him before putting Henri down and closing the door. Once that was done, he examined the paperwork inside and let out a low whistle. “Merlin did a good job with this one.”

LaCroix held out his hand, silently ordering Nicolas to hand over the paperwork. Without a second thought, he obeyed. While he, himself wasn't particularly sly or cunning, he could and did admire that kind of thinking when it was so nicely hidden in a simple legal document. Merlin had arranged it so that Henri's guardians would effectively disown themselves and their progeny from Henri's family. As soon as they signed it, they would make themselves and any descendants ineligible for any inheritances that Henri would be eligible for once he came of age. There had also been a dossier of the family. It looked as if their son, Dudley, was magical as well, as the mother, Petunia Dursley, was a squib. The documents were designed so that Dudley and any children he might have would never be able to inherit from Petunia's side of the family.

While Nicolas had long since discovered that LaCroix was right--wealth was a burden--it served the Dursleys right to lose out on what might have been theirs considering the way they had treated Henri. Once they had signed the paperwork and accepted the Traitor's Payment, there would be no legal recourse for them. He would be happy to mete out this small measure of justice, and wished that he could do more. It wouldn't be possible, however, without drawing unwanted attention to the matter. It would be best if the Wizarding World found out long after he and Henri had left the country. Also in the folio were all the documents he needed to leave with Henri, including a passport in the child's new name.

“Merlin does excellent work,” LaCroix commented with a raised eyebrow as he handed back the paperwork.

“Yes,” Nicolas agreed. He slipped the papers back in the folio. “Hopefully, they'll be home, so I can get these signed. The potion I took should last another few hours, and I purchased more just in case.”

Henri, seeming to sense that he was about to leave, threw himself at Nicolas and wrapped himself around his legs. “No go,” he demanded. “Stay wif On-wi.”

Carefully and gently, Nicolas pried the child loose and sat him on the bed. “I won't be gone long, mon petit,” he said. “I have to go see the mean people so that you can be my little boy.”

“Don't wan' to go dere,” Henri said with a frown.

“I know you don't, mon petit,” Nicolas said gently. “I'll be back soon, I promise, and you'll never have to see them again.”

“Pwomise?” Henri asked.

“I promise.” Nicolas said. He brushed the wrinkles from his suit and tucked the folio under his arm before turning to LaCroix. “Was there a hat with that outfit?” he asked.

“Yes, why?” LaCroix asked.

It had occurred to Nicolas on the way back from Diagon Alley that the Potters had been a very wealthy family and with adopting the last Potter, it would be his responsibility to protect that and even increase it. “How hard would it be for an unscrupulous wizard to help themselves to the Potter fortune?” he asked absently.

LaCroix considered the question for a few moments. “They would have to be declared a magical guardian, which might not be hard considering that the boy was left with Mortals.” He paused and watched Henri. “Wealth is a burden, Nicolas, you know that.”

“Yes,” Nicolas agreed. “But would you condone leaving an opportunity for someone to steal from Henri?”

“No,” LaCroix answered. “I wouldn't.”

“Then I need to take him to Gringotts to secure it once the paperwork and the blood adoption are complete.” Nicolas shook his head. “You would think that the wizards would learn from history--leaving magical children with Mortals is... inadvisable.” With that and a hasty farewell, he left, making sure to lock the door behind him.

He made his way to the car park, found the Aston Martin that he'd rented, and headed to the house where he'd found Henri only the night before. It seemed like longer, to be truthful. From the profile on the Dursleys that he'd obtained, he knew that obvious wealth would sway them in his favor, that they would try to impress him and he could go a long way to convince them to sign over Henri with his appearance, thus the Aston Martin and the Armani suit. It wasn't long before he pulled up to number four, Privet Drive. He parked the car in the driveway, got out and walked sedately up to the front door. It wouldn't have done to be seen to hurry, after all.

Nicolas rang the bell, and it didn't take long for a tall, thin, horse-faced woman with stiff blonde curls answered the door. “Madam,” he said with a regal nod, “I have business with yourself and your husband.”

She looked him up and down, most likely assessing him by his appearance, before answering. “Why yes, Mister--” she paused, most likely hoping that he would fill in his name.

Deciding to oblige her, he supplied an alias that he hadn't used since the sixties. “Forrester,” he said. “Nicholas Forrester.”

“Come in, come in,” she simpered, fluttering her short, stubby eyelashes at him as she lead him into the lounge. “Vernon, this is Mr. Forrester.”

A fat man with thinning blond hair and watery blue eyes grunted him a hello and held out his sweaty hand. Nicolas shook it, inwardly wincing and promising himself a very hot shower to wash the Dursleys off when he got back to the inn. The woman, whom Nicolas could only assume was Petunia turned off the telly and put the grossly overweight toddler who'd been watching it in the playpen with a chocolate bar before returning to them.

“Mister and Missus Dursley,” he began, “I have a business proposition for you.” He opened the portfolio, pulled out the paperwork, and the blood quill. “You see, I was on an early morning constitutional, and I discovered something that concerns me greatly--you left a naked, obviously mistreated toddler in your back garden sometime last night. You're lucky he didn't die from the experience. I assure you that the authorities look... badly... on people who abuse and neglect small children.”

Vernon and Petunia both started to bluster and protest, but Nicolas could see what they were thinking. They were trying to figure a way out of the situation that wouldn't involve prison time. Usually, in this country and day and age, he would've simply called Childline... if the child in question had been anyone but Harry Potter. “Since you obviously wish to rid yourself of the child, I have a proposition to make.” He paused to make sure that they were listening.

Both of the odious people were giving him their full attention. He pulled a small vial, a silver knife, and the two pouches of money from an inside pocket and placed them on the table. “You-you're one of them,” Petunia spat.

“I am not a wizard,” Nicolas said smoothly. “I do however possess knowledge of their world, and these measures will ensure that the boy will never be returned to you.”

“What do we get in return?” Vernon asked, a greedy light in his eyes.

“Aside from not turning you in for child abuse, giving the authorities the pictures I took as evidence, and getting what I want anyway?” Nicolas asked mildly.

“But that's blackmail!” Vernon sputtered.

Nicolas released some of his power to cow the stupid Mortals. Really, this kind of intimidation wasn't his style; it was something that his Sire was more fond of than he was, but sometimes subtlety paid off more than heedless rushing into situations. “I prefer to call it... negotiation,” he responded. “I shall also give you each one of these velvet bags. I believe that the market value of the contents of them is a bit higher than their stated worth.”

Vernon glanced at his wife, then at the bags, and nodded. “What do we have to do? Good riddance to the freak, anyway. We never wanted him.”

Nicolas handed the quill to Vernon. “Sign here,” he said indicating the correct places. “Mrs. Dursley, I also require a vial of your blood as an added protective measure.”

Scowling, Petunia held out her hand. Nicolas made a small cut on her palm and collected the blood, restraining the instinct that made him want to simply drain her dry. When he had enough, he handed her a handkerchief, then capped the vial and slipped it into his pocket before showing her where to sign. When both of them had signed the document, he handed over the pouches, one to each. It was time to cover his tracks. He caught Petunia's heartbeat and her eyes. Her heartbeat resounded in his ears as he captured her mind. “You will forget my name and what I look like,” he said. “When wizards come to investigate, you will say only that you gave your nephew up for adoption.” Petunia nodded submissively as he repeated the process with Vernon. He finished quickly and left, and as he left, he heard a quiet, but resounding pop and saw a flash of light that gathered around him. He increased his pace, because he'd only ever seen something like that happen when blood wards fell. He got into his car and started it, heading as fast as he legally could, back to the inn.

~*~*~*~

LaCroix traced some runes onto the floor of the bathroom, spilt a little blood to key them to him, then tapped them with his wand. The room expanded to five times its normal size, giving him plenty of floor space in which to work. He consulted the dusty book that he'd laid on the vanity, making not of the exact configuration and placement of the runes on the floor. It was a good thing he'd anticipated what his son had planned and obtained ritual robes of plain, undyed silk for the occasion. Before the day was out, young Harry Potter would obtain a vampire clan as relations. (LaCroix had made many children over the centuries, though he had only ever remained close to Janette and Nicolas.) While it wouldn't actually replace his original parents in his DNA, it would give him a new father, which would make it impossible for the government to interfere.

LaCroix had never had reason to use this particular spell. He'd never held with vampires caring for children and, in his mortal days, being a wizard was like any other trade, and he had chosen the Legions as a better path to power. It was a decision that he'd never regretted. While he could use magic, it wasn't really part of his daily life. He rarely used it as a mortal, and even less as a vampire. He'd much preferred battle magic to everyday charms, anyway. Over the centuries, he'd developed a habit of collecting magical texts, though, so he now had what was probably the greatest library in the world, with manuscripts dating back to ancient Egypt, all carefully preserved and ready for perusal at need.

With a quick spell, he transfigured the floor into slate, then began to chalk in the diagram. Once he finished, he cleaned his hands and returned to the bedroom where he dressed the squirming child in undyed silk robes that matched his own. When his son returned, they would add their own blood to key places in the diagram, place Henri in the center, and begin the incantation, culminating in the child drinking the adoption potion, which would contain Nicolas's blood. By sundown, Henri would irrevocably belong to them.

~*~*~*~

Nicolas walked in the door and spotted the ritual robe laid out on the bed. He sighed, and promised himself he'd shower later. He put the portfolio down on the bureau, stripped, and pulled on the robe. He was just lucky that the adoption ritual didn't require a ritual bath before hand. “LaCroix?” he called.

“In here,” LaCroix's voice floated in from the bathroom.

Nicolas walked into the room, carefully, so as not to smudge the chalk work on the floor. He stepped around them, making sure not to touch any of the runes with his bare feet. He spotted Henri, who was seated in the middle of the diagram. “Henri?” he said.

The little boy flashed him a big smile. “On-wi be your baby?” he asked.

Nicolas smiled back automatically. “That's right, mon petit,” he said. “We're going to do a spell that will make you my little boy.”

Henri grinned at him. Nicolas looked at LaCroix. “What do I need to do?” he asked.

LaCroix picked up a dagger that Nicolas knew had to be silver. “Blood goes in certain places in the diagram,” the elder vampire said. “I'll put mine in first, and then yours needs to overlap it.” He slashed his wrist and massaged above it to get the blood flowing. Carefully, he dripped blood over certain places in the diagram, making sure that blood landed nowhere else. When he was finished, he licked the wound clean, sealing it closed. He handed the dagger to Nicolas, who copied his Sire.

After he finished, he laid the bloodstained dagger back on the vanity and turned to LaCroix. “What next?” he asked.

“The potion should be in the pocket of your robe. Add three drops of your blood into it and go stand next to Henri,” LaCroix instructed. “You may hold him if you wish. After I recite the incantation, feed the child the potion.”

Nicolas hesitated. He had no wish to bring Henri into his eternal darkness. “Will it bring him across?” he asked.

LaCroix shook his head. “No, it won't,” he answered. “He may look a little like you, and perhaps even me, but he will still be fully mortal... barring unforeseen circumstances, that is.”

Nicolas nodded, picked up the knife, nicked his finger, and added the blood to the potion vial. He capped it again and licked his finger to seal the cut before carefully stepping into the middle of the diagram with Henri. Henri held up his arms in a wordless plea to be picked up. Nicolas complied.

He settled the toddler in his arms. “When your Grandpére nods at me, I have a potion for you to drink so you can be my little boy.” He leaned a little closer. “It probably tastes yucky,” he said conspiratorially.

Henri seemed to consider his words carefully. “On-wi dwink,” he said.

Nicolas gave LaCroix a nod. LaCroix Pulled out his wand and, going anticlockwise, started tracing fire runes into the air while he chanted in Latin. "Sanguine et magica arte nunc alligati,

"Parens et parvulus:

"E duobus, parentes tres:

"Per dilectionem, per fidem,

"Per sanguinem, per magicam,

"Alligati ut gens una in aeternum,

"Per omnia saecula saeculorum,

"Fiat!"

As LaCroix chanted, light gathered around Henri. When he finished, Nicolas uncapped the potions vial and held it to Henri's lips. The little boy grabbed it and drank it quickly, grimacing at the taste. As he finished the last drop, tears began to roll down his cheeks and he whimpered quietly. His limbs lengthened slightly, as did his fingers, and his wild, messy hair relaxed into loose curls, much like Nicolas's, except in color. Henri's eyes turned blue-green, and his nose changed shape slightly, making it resemble his new Grandfather's.

Nicolas tucked the vial into his pocket and brought his free hand up to rub Henri's back. He murmured comforting nonsense into Henri's ear and the child's eyes fluttered closed, tears still streaming down his cheeks. He walked over the diagram, this time not caring as the chalk marks smudged, and into the bedroom where he laid Henri on the bed and covered him with a blanket. Nicolas ran his hand through the child's hair comfortingly as he hummed a lullaby. He'd gotten his father's plans through the link while he was on his way back from Privet Drive and, after a bit of thought, approved. Originally, he'd planned on a simple legal adoption combined with an adoption potion. The blood adoption ritual they'd just performed, however, would serve to further conceal Henri from his enemies, make him the de Brabant heir by blood and magic, and make it impossible for the Ministry to interfere with his custody once his birth name came out, as it would eventually.

The adoption hadn't taken away his original parentage; to the contrary, it had only added to it. If Henri took a heritage test, it would now show that he had two biological fathers, rather than just one. It was the closest a vampire could ever come to fathering a biological child, other than bringing someone across. Even with the latter, it depended upon the Master vampire what the relationship was. With LaCroix, his children were just that--his children. With some, they wanted companions or sexual playthings. Not so with his Master. As much as LaCroix had espoused letting go of mortal bonds, he, himself, held on to vestiges of his mortality. Certain... attitudes still held true, even after two thousand years.

As Nicolas took the blanket off Henri, undressed him, and redressed him in a disposable nappy and pyjamas, he reflected that it wouldn't be long before his Sire insisted upon sharing blood again. For the first century of so of his immortal life, his meals had been his Master's blood supplemented by human blood. It was meant to strengthen the bond between parent and fledgling. In times of great distress, when he was badly injured, half-starved, or otherwise weakened, LaCroix would show up out of the blue and insist that he, Nicolas, feed from him. It was unavoidable... even if he'd wanted to resist.

LaCroix came out of the bathroom, walked over and laid his hand on Nicolas's shoulder. "No traces of the ritual remain. I have removed all signs of magic from the room as well."

"Thank you, Father," Nicolas said quietly. He took his Sire's hand and kissed it, for once almost following etiquette.

LaCroix inclined his head and examined Henri. "He will awake soon," he said.

A few minutes of silence later, Henri's eyes fluttered open, and he hugged Nicolas. "Mummy say you On-ri's Papa now," he said. "Mummy say you good bampiwe." He looked at LaCroix. "She say be caweful 'wound you."

Nicolas threw back his head and laughed. "Your Mummy was very, very smart," he commented.

Henri beamed. LaCroix glared at them, a scowl flitting over his features.

"Your Grandpére won't harm you, mon petit," he promised, shooting a look at his Master that promised pain if he did. Nicolas picked Henri up and simply held him for a few minutes before LaCroix interrupted.

"Is the paperwork all in order?" he asked.

"Not quite," Nicolas admitted. "I still need to sign it, and I need you to witness."

LaCroix gestured imperiously for him to get on with it. Nicolas settled Henri back in the bed, with blankets covering him, and fetched the adoption papers and the contract quill. He signed in all the appropriate places, not even wincing as the quill magically drew his blood, and then handed both items to LaCroix, who signed as well. The papers flashed gold, duplicated themselves, and one of them flew into Nicolas's hand. The other set of papers rolled themselves up, sealed, then disappeared with a flash of light.

"Thank you," Nicolas said as he returned to sit by Henri on the bed. "I don't trust the potion to last through another trip to Diagon Alley, and I don't want to take another dose for a few months, so we can go tonight to secure Henri's inheritance."

LaCroix raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. "That is," he paused a moment, "wise of you, for once, Nicolas. After eight hundred years, it is long past the time for you to stop acting the impulsive fledgling."

Mentally, behind the meager shields he'd learned to erect by trial and error over the centuries, Nicolas rolled his eyes. He picked Henri up again and held him close. The little boy lay contently in his arms and put his thumb in his mouth. There were still arrangements to be made, but it looked as if they'd be on their way to the de Brabant estate before midnight. Nicolas knew that over the next twenty years, he would be in for much, much more conflict with both his father and the Wizarding world, but at the moment, he didn't really care. He felt content, if not happy, for the first time in years. The guilt that plagued him was still there, but it was more muted than he could remember it being, except in the beginning when he'd reveled in what he was. He still believed with all he was that he was damned for eternity because of what he had allowed himself to become, but at the moment, he felt more, well, human than he could remember feeling in centuries.

Nicolas swore that he would raise Henri properly and teach him to be a good, strong, upright man. He'd teach his son to be better than he was. While it wasn't forgiveness, which was what he really wanted, it felt... good. For the moment, it was enough.

~*~*~*~

Nicolas held Henri's hand as they walked into the Leaky Cauldron. LaCroix was behind him, despite his disdain of the Wizarding World. Together, the trio made their way to the alley, where LaCroix opened the gateway. Henri was wearing a miniature set of robes and a cloak over his little velvet suit and a pointed hat to further conceal his scar. They'd covered it with Mortal makeup and a glamour, but it never hurt to make sure.

Nicolas led the way to Gringotts, walking slowly for Henri, who'd insisted that he could walk by himself. They ended up seeing the same teller than Nicolas had done business with earlier in the day.

"Vampire," the goblin said in gobbeldegook.

"Yes, we went through this earlier today," Nicolas answered in the same language. "I am here to see the Potter account manager."

"What business do you have with him?" the goblin demanded.

"That," Nicolas said, "is none of your concern."

The goblin glared at him through narrowed eyes; then nodded sharply. "Bentneb will escort you," he said, with an abrupt wave towards a side door. A goblin with a very crooked nose met them and after a short but dizzying cart ride, they entered a plushly appointed office. The wizened old goblin behind the desk gave them a pointy-teethed leer and gestured towards a couple of chairs. Nicolas sat down, pulled Henri into his lap, took out the paperwork, and laid it on the desk. "We're here as the guardians of the Potter Heir."

The goblin examined the papers, waved his hands over them to feel the magic, then pushed them across the desk. "It all seems in order," he said. "What do you require?"

"We require all Potter possessions to be immediately returned to the main vault, all keys recalled, and access cut off for all but young Henri," LaCroix answered.

"I trust the goblins to manage his fortune until such a time as he can manage it himself, but I will oversee it," Nicolas said. "I suggest that you look into investing in Mor-Muggle computer companies like Apple Computers and Texas Instruments in the States. An investment in them could easily triple in the next decade."

The goblin nodded and wrote down what they'd said. "Anything else?"

"Statements can be forwarded by the Brussels branch of Gringotts," Nicolas said. "They know where to reach me." He tucked the adoption papers into his cloak pocket, stood, and settled Henri in his arms. Henri fussed a little, but settled down quickly, his fingers playing with Nicolas's buttons. Nicolas bowed. "Thank you," he said.

LaCroix gave the vampire a deep nod, and they left Gringotts the way they came. They hailed a cab outside the Leaky Cauldron, and took it to Heathrow. Once they were inside the car, Nicolas pocketed Henri's wizard's hat and replaced it with a stocking cap. All of their possessions, including Henri's new wardrobe, were shrunken in LaCroix's pocket. With their seeming lack of luggage, it didn't take long to get through airport security and to the private jet that was waiting on the tarmac for them. Soon they were in the air on their way to Belgium and home.

LaCroix had contacted the Council to inform them of recent developments that afternoon, while Nicolas had put out feelers for a halfling nanny, no more than a century old, and tutors for his son. By the time Henri left for boarding school when he was eleven, he would have the best education that Nicolas could give him. But all that could wait until after they'd settled in. The house elves had been informed and were probably busily preparing a room for Henri. In a few scant hours, they would return to a small castle that Nicolas hadn't been to in over a century--home.

"But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men

Gang aft a-gley,

An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain

For promis’d joy."

--Robert Burns, “To a Mouse”

~*~*~*~

Dumbledore's head shot up as an alarm sounded in his office. Something was wrong with the wards around the Potter boy's house. He frowned. It wasn't the first time that the alarm had sounded in the three months that the boy had lived with the Dursleys, but this time it sounded... different. The other alarms had alerted him that the Dursleys weren't treating the boy kindly, but it really couldn't be helped. He needed the boy alive and relatively intact, and the blood wards would keep him safe from marauding death eaters. A little mistreatment would be fine--it would make the child much, much more pliable and open to his influence when he came to Hogwarts.

Besides, it really wasn't any of his business what happened in other people's families. Perhaps the boy's aunt had taken discipline a bit too far, but Dumbledore was sure that she wouldn't actually hurt the boy. Still, the alarm had sounded different than any of the others, and it never hurt to be thorough. It wouldn't do his reputation any good if someone were to find out that he'd condoned abuse of the Boy-Who-Lived. The disappointed looks that his phoenix was giving him were ignored. Dumbledore sighed, stood up, and headed for the moving staircase. It wouldn't hurt to pop over and check. The ward-monitoring device hadn't screamed, so the house wasn't under attack, but he didn't know what was wrong.

On his way out of the castle, he was stopped four or five times, so it took over twenty minutes to make it outside the door. There was no hurry, as Dumbledore was sure that whatever was wrong would resolve itself before he arrived; so he meandered his way down to the gates and towards Hogsmeade, until he was past the wards. With a soft, almost inaudible, pop, he apparated into a secluded corner of Wisteria Walk, a few streets over from Privet Drive. With a swish of his wand, his purple moon and stars robes were transfigured into a slightly out of date Muggle suit. He holstered his wand up his sleeve, and made his way to Privet Drive, whistling cheerfully. He was sure that the alarm was over nothing, and he didn't really need to check, but his paid watcher, Arabella Figg, wasn't scheduled to move in until Monday.

There was nothing out of the ordinary on the street at all. It was a normal, neatly-kept, suburban Muggle neighborhood. Everything he could see was tidy, and as it was the middle of the afternoon, bundled-up children were outside running, playing in the snow, and riding what Dumbledore vaguely recognized as being bicycles on the neatly-shoveled sidewalks. In fact, if it weren't for the snow on the ground, the neighborhood looked remarkably just as it had three months prior, when he'd left the baby on the doorstep of number four, Privet Drive.

He strolled up the walk of the aforementioned house and rang the bell. He hadn't felt the tingle of passing through wards; it was almost as if they were... gone. The door was opened by a woman that he didn't really recognize, as she looked nothing like her beautiful sister, but knew that it must be Petunia Dursley. "Mrs. Dursley," he said with an ingratiating smile.

"If you're selling something, we don't want any," Petunia said as she started to close the door.

"Mrs. Dursley," Dumbledore began again. "My name is Albus Dumbledore--"

Petunia's face twisted into an expression of hatred and petty spite. "You," she hissed. She opened the door wider. "In, before the neighbors see you."

A little puzzled by the venom in her voice, Dumbledore obeyed. Once he was inside, and before he could say anything, Petunia attacked. "How dare you waltz in here after what you did!" Petunia's fists were clenched and her mouth pinched, as if she'd just eaten crabapples. "You just left it on my doorstep without even asking if I wanted it."

"It?" Dumbledore inquired with a sinking feeling.

"Yes, yes, it," Petunia said with a glare. "The freak. Then again, you're a freak too, and all you freaks stick together! Just like Lily did with that horrible boy! Well, we fixed it. We never wanted it anyway, so we got rid of it. The freak is gone, and we've been promised that the man who adopted him made it impossible to return it."

Rage tore threw Dumbledore. How dare she? How dare she give the Brat-Who-Lived-to-be-his-Weapon away and ruin his carefully constructed plans? He caught her chin, turned her face towards him, and raised his wand. "Legilimens," he whispered forcefully. He kept a tight hold on his rage, even though part of him yearned to rip her mind apart and leave her a mindless husk. Carefully, he went through her most recent memories. The man who'd brought them the papers was strangely obscured, and nothing he did made the memory of him clear. Another memory after it made it impossible for him to ever use them again--the pouches that they'd been given each contained thirty pieces of silver.

The Traitor's Payment. He left her mind quickly, but carefully so as not to cause any damage, and obliviated the knowledge that he had been inside her mind. Not only was it impossible for him to return the boy to them, ever, but they'd made their son's life harder as well. When Dudley received his wand, for he was indeed magical just like his cousin and Aunt, the Traitor's Mark would appear on the back of his wand hand. He would never be trusted within magical society, because his parents had done the unthinkable and betrayed their own kin. What they'd done wasn't illegal, so as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, his hands were tied. In a fit of pique and an intense desire for revenge, however, he cast a hex on the odious woman and her house, that no matter what she did, it would always appear slovenly and the neighbors would forever gossip about her.

Disgusted, and unsatisfied by his petty revenge, Dumbledore apparated away with an ear-splitting pop. Upon arriving in Hogsmeade, he stormed back up to the castle, not bothering as of yet to undo the transfiguration on his clothing. Rather than return to his office, he stomped down to the dungeons, and barreled into his Potions Master's office. "SEVERUS!" he yelled.

Severus looked up from the stack of papers he was most likely grading. "Headmaster," he said evenly.

"The boy is gone!" Dumbledore all-but screamed. "Petunia Dursley allowed him to be adopted for a Traitor's Payment."

Severus then did something that Dumbledore had neither seen not heard him do before-- he threw back his head and laughed. Dumbledore frowned angrily as he waited for the man to stop. "Are you quite finished?" he asked after a few minutes.

Severus smiled at him. "Yes," he said. "If you had asked me, I would have told you that Petunia Evans has always been jealous, spiteful, and vengeful, even as a child. She got worse after Lily was accepted into Hogwarts."

Dumbledore's frown turned into a scowl. "Did you know she might accept money for the child?"

Severus shrugged. "No, but it doesn't surprise me. I'm glad! Lily's boy would have had a miserable life with that bloody bitch, and he at least has a chance now of having a decent childhood." Severus's voice was passionate, it was obvious from the tone that he actually cared about what happened to the child.

Dumbledore sat down in the straight-backed chair that Severus kept around for students. "I can turn you back in to the Aurors," he reminded the man.

"And I can go to the new Head of the department, Amelia Bones, and offer to testify under veritaserum that you forced me into spying for you when I came for help." Severus glared at him and smirked evilly. "I wanted you to get Lily and her family out of the country! They would've been safe hiding in America, Australia, or even New Zealand! Hell, they would've been safer at Potter Manor! I blame you for her death just as much as I blame myself!"

"You shouldn't--you were the one who gave Voldemort the prophecy," Dumbledore countered.

"And Lily wasn't due until the end of August!" Severus said. "I only came to you when her life was endangered. It was bad enough that I'd succumbed to pressure and become the Dark Lord's Potions Master. At the time, it was the only choice I thought I had, because it was the only way my family would pay for my apprenticeship! By the time I knew what an awful mistake it was, it was too late."

Dumbledore opened his mouth; then closed it without saying anything. He hadn't really spoken to Severus about why, exactly, he'd become a Death Eater.

"Go, Headmaster," Severus said wearily. "Just leave. The only reason why you're so angry is that if Harry Potter shows up at Hogwarts, it's entirely possible that he won't be at all easy to manipulate. And if he does, under disguise and a different name if his adoptive parents have a brain between them, I will protect Lily's child, because he is all I have left of her." He gathered up his stack of papers, capped his bottle of ink, and swept out the door.

Dumbledore sat still for a few minutes, then stood, drew his wand, undid the spell, reholstered the wand, and smoothed out his robes. He hadn't been told off like that since his baby sister was killed in the duel between himself and Grindelwald. Back then, it was Abeforth that had done it, his little brother. He'd deserved it then, but he wasn't sure he deserved it now. Slowly, he left the office and began the trek up to his office. He had plans to make. True, Harry Potter was now beyond his reach, and might not even attend Hogwarts. He would have to check the Book of Magical Children to see if he was still even in it.

There was, however, another child from a magical family that fit the prophecy almost perfectly--Neville Longbottom. He was now in the care of his paternal grandmother, Augusta Longbottom, who wouldn't be so easy to get around as Muggles were. Still, Neville was the best he could do. Perhaps it would be enough. He certainly hoped so. Harry was to have been the sacrifice to stop the Dark from overtaking their world. If he had to sacrifice Neville for the same cause, he would. It was all for the greater good, after all.

~*~*~*~

As the car pulled into the circular drive of the de Brabant estate and the doors opened, across the ocean, all the way in Scotland, a name shimmered and disappeared from the Book of Magical Children. It had faded with Henri's adoption, in preparation for the name change, but didn't completely leave until they had arrived at what was now Henri's ancestral home. Nicolas held the sleeping toddler close to him as he entered, LaCroix three paces ahead of him. They were met in the entry by a house elf, who curtsied respectfully.

"Master Lucien, Master Nicolas," the elf said in French. "I is being Mitsy. Mistress Janette has arrived. She is in the solar and wishes to see the child. Yous rooms is ready, and so is the child's."

"Thank you, Mitsy," Nicolas said. LaCroix ignored the elf, much as he always had. Instead, the older vampire, who was more than familiar with the layout of the castle from previous visits, headed upstairs towards the inner parts of the castle and the solar. Nicolas sighed, settled Henri more firmly, and followed. Most likely, Henri's room would be near it, anyway. He'd specifically asked the house elves to prepare a room for the child that had an adjoining room for a nanny.

He carried Henri up the stairs and hurried to the solar. In the eight hundred years he'd known his vampiric older sister and sometimes lover, he'd learned that keeping her waiting was a bad idea. He entered the room to find LaCroix sitting on a spindly chair, sipping from a wineglass full of what Nicolas knew was bloodwine, and Janette lounging upon a divan.

"Nicolas," she said. "You have adopted a child into our little... family?" She rose gracefully from her seat and came over. "Let me see him."

Nicolas carefully moved Henri so that he was cradled in his arms rather than laying against his shoulder. "He's asleep," he said unnecessarily.

"Lay him down, then," she said imperiously.

Nicolas obediently laid him on the divan and stepped back to allow Janette to examine the small boy. She leaned down over him, a gentle smile on her usually impassive face. "He's gorgeous, Nicolas. And is he ours?" she asked sharply.

"Yes," Nicolas answered. "LaCroix said that the blood adoption shouldn't have any ill effects on him."

Before anyone could say anything else, Henri's eyes opened and gold flecks flashed in them when he found a strange vampire near him. He moved faster than any human child could have, and ran over to the other side of the room. "Papa!" he called, tears in his voice.

Nicolas all but flew across the room to his son, and gathered him up in his arms. He spent several minutes murmuring comforting nothings in French before assuring him that Janette meant no harm. Henri still seemed scared of her, though, and buried his face in Nicolas's shoulder.

"No ill effects, LaCroix?" Janette murmured.

"You have heard the legend of the dhampir?" LaCroix asked.

Nicolas brought Henri back over to them. "Yes," he said. "But it is just a legend; everyone knows that we cannot father children."

"More like the mortals and witches that male vampires make love to do not survive the experience," Janette said, amused.

LaCroix waved his hand, as if to say that it made no difference. "My research showed that if your blood was strong enough, Nicolas, which I did not believe it to be, something like this was possible. Improbable, yes, especially considering your... weakened state, but there was approximately a half of a percent chance of Henri becoming the equivalent of a dhampir."

"Mitsy," Nicolas called.

The little elf popped in. "Oui, Master Nicolas?"

"Show me to Henri's room, please?" Nicolas asked.

"Oui," the elf said.

As he left the room, he turned towards LaCroix and Janette, both of whom had sat down again. "Are the legends correct in that he will have many of the benefits of our condition?" he asked.

"Yes," LaCroix affirmed. "He won't be immortal, and if we're lucky, he won't inherit our memory--if he does, we will have to train him to control it."

Nicolas nodded and left the room, following Mitsy. "Bedtime for you, mon petit," he said.

Henri lifted his face from Nicolas's shoulder. "Stowwy, Papa?" he asked.

Nicolas smiled and kissed the top of Henri's head. "Of course, Henri." He chuckled a little and hugged the toddler close. "It looks like Voldemort isn't the only one to find out that, where you're concerned, things just don't go as planned," he murmured; then took Henri to his room. The nanny was set to arrive in a few days, and tutors would start arriving within the month. Nicolas knew that Janette would happily mother Henri; she had always wanted a child to raise, and they could begin to teach him the grace and manners that he would need to move through the higher levels of society. He would also have to see to the blood wards he would erect with the vial of blood he obtained from Petunia Dursley--half of it would be drunk, and the other half put on the ward stones along with his, LaCroix's and Janette's blood. Henri would be protected and grow up safe and happy if it was the last thing he, Nicolas Geoffroi Pierre de Brabant, would do. If he made a difference in Henri's life, at least he would have done something worthwhile since he had come across in 1228.

~*~*~*~

Dumbledore could have sworn with sheer frustration. Augusta Longbottom refused to let him have access to Neville at all, even after he'd perused the Book and informed her that her precious grandson was, indeed, magical. It had also confirmed his suspicions that Harry Potter, if indeed he was still alive, was no longer in Britain. While the devices he'd set up to monitor the boy's life force were still somewhat active, due to the fact that they were easily affected by distance, his condition and general health were unknown.

Neville Longbottom was unavailable to him, and would be until he attended Hogwarts. It was possible, however, that the boy wouldn't be allowed to attend and would be sent to a different school. That was what the boy's grandmother had hinted at when pressed, anyway. Dumbledore cracked his knuckles as he tried to think of some way to locate the Potter boy. The alarms had sounded only the day before, so the trail wasn't too cold... yet. It was the only thing he could think of to salvage the situation--find the Potter child and lock him up in Hogwarts. An idea began to form at the back of his mind, and it had to do with one individual... Remus Lupin.

Lupin wasn't the only werewolf to survive being bitten as a small child, but he was the only one who had been allowed to attend Hogwarts in the last century. At the time, Dumbledore had allowed it with the vague notion that the boy would be indebted to him, and that could prove useful somewhere down the line. It was time to call in the debt. It also helped that Lupin had considered the Marauders his pack, and looked on the Potter brat as the child he would never have. Even Dumbledore knew better than to stand between a werewolf and its cub.

Quickly putting thought into action, he walked over to the fireplace and removed a handful of floo powder from a pewter container. He put on his favorite harmless grandfather facade. “Remus Lupin, Marauders' Hideaway,” he said; then threw a handful of floo powder into the fire. As the flames flared green, he knelt and stuck his head into the fire.

A few bare seconds later, he caught sight of a haggard, sandy-haired young man. “Headmaster,” Remus said with a cautious nod.

Dumbledore gave the man a jovial smile that he didn't feel at all. “Mr. Lupin!” he said. “I would appreciate it if you would come through the fire. I'm afraid that my knees aren't up to kneeling in front of a fire for long these days--old age catching up to me, I'm afraid.”

Remus nodded. “If you'll just step back, sir, I'll come through momentarily.”

Dumbledore removed his head from the fire, climbed slowly to his feet, and made his way back to the comfortable chair behind his desk. He sat down and had just gotten settled when the fire flared green again and Remus Lupin stepped out of it. “You wanted to see me, Headmaster?” the werewolf asked.

Dumbledore schooled his face into a serious expression and nodded. “I have some grave news for you, my boy,” he said. “With the Ministry's restrictions, Mr. Black in prison, Mr. Pettigrew dead, and the Longbottoms current condition, I'm sure you're aware of where young Harry was sent.”

Remus gave him a cautious nod. “And you're aware of my objections--Petunia is not the nicest of people and she detests magic and anything and anyone associated with it. Anyone who knew Lily could tell you that.”

Dumbledore allowed his expression to turn sad; he was adept at projecting the exact emotion he wanted his listener to see. “I should have listened to you and Severus, my boy,” he said. “Petunia sold young Harry yesterday for the Traitor's Payment.” He stopped at Lupin's gasp. “Yes,” he nodded. “I will be checking Ministry records first thing tomorrow, but if the adoption was done properly, the records we need will be under an unbreakable seal until young Harry comes of age.”

Amber light flared in Remus's eyes. “What. Do. You. Know?” He asked, biting off each word as if it would do him an injury not to.

Dumbledore took a moment to collect himself. He hadn't quite realized what he danger he was placing himself in before. “Not much,” he admitted. “Petunia neither knew nor cared who adopted young Harry. There must have been some magic involved, because she could not clearly remember what the man looked like, or even the name on the adoption papers.”

“Then I want nothing more to do with you,” Lupin growled. “Bad enough that Sirius is in Azkaban for something I doubt he actually did, but I don't recall ever hearing of a trial.” He stood up and leaned over the desk. “Harry was his heir, did you know that? He was five days old when Arcturus, as Head of the Black family, approved Sirius's request to make Harry his heir by right of adopto.”

Dumbledore leaned away from the werewolf. “Charlus would never have approved it.”

Remus stood up straight. “He did,” he said. “He supported it wholeheartedly. And the Blacks can't really contest it because Harry's grandmother was a Black.”

Dumbledore closed his eyes. He could feel a headache coming on. It was well known that Walburga Black had burned her son off the family tapestry, but it was also well known that he hadn't legally been disowned. Blacks, despite their Dark tendencies, were clannish to the core. They hadn't been happy that Harry had been sent to the Muggles, but he hadn't known why. It had seemed odd at the time that an old, dark pureblood family like the Blacks would concern themselves with a half-blood Potter, but he hadn't paid it much mind and forged ahead with his grand plan anyway. “I-I don't know what to tell you,” he admitted. “Harry is gone, and if we're lucky, the person who took him doesn't mean him harm.”

There were still hints of amber in Lupin's eyes as he made his way to the fireplace. “I will spend time searching for him when I can,” he said. “I still must make a living... do not contact me unless you have information on Harry.” He turned to face Dumbledore. “I will find the cub; he is the last family I have left.” With that, he grabbed some floo powder and floo'ed out.

Dumbledore rested his head on his hand and groaned. His weapon was truly gone and fled. His plans were in ashes around him. Vaguely, he registered the sound of Fawkes's triumphant chirp and a plan began to occur to him. “Fawkes?” he said, turning towards his phoenix.

Fawkes cocked his head and gave him a beady-eyed stare.

Quickly, Dumbledore scribbled a note and held it out to the firebird. “Will you take this to Harry Potter?”

Fawkes lifted his beak up in the air, turned around on his perch, and let loose a bit of poo on the note and Dumbledore's hand. While Dumbledore stared at the spattered parchment in shock, Fawkes took off,and flew around the office twice. Dumbledore felt something warm and wet splat on his head just before Fawkes flew out the window.

Dumbledore took that as an absolute refusal. He drew his wand and pointed it at the mess. “Scourgify,” he muttered. He was relieved when it worked, because he hadn't been sure it would work on phoenix dung.

Perhaps he ought to rethink things. The Potter boy wouldn't stay hidden forever. Sooner or later, he would come to Hogwarts. Yes, the illusion of being able to control his upbringing was swept away. Yes, he would be harder to control with parents than as an orphan. But all was not lost; he still had Neville as a back-up saviour. It would have to do, because without the prophesied saviour, the wizarding world was doomed to fall into darkness and drag the rest of the world with it.

~*~*~*~

Janette rocked the increasingly fussy little boy. In the six months she'd been at de Brabant castle, little Henri had wormed his way into the heart that she could have sworn was cold and almost dead. They were between nannies at the moment--Amarissa, the halfling, had been scared off by a particularly spectacular bit of accidental magic. Nicolas had engaged Vachon's Urs because of her sweet, unflappable nature and desire to protect the helpless ones, but she wasn't due to come for a few days yet.

A soft smile flitted over her face as she looked at the child. Quietly, she began to sing a lullaby that would have been used to sing babies to sleep a thousand years before. Henri began to settle down; hugging his rabbit with one arm, his thumb in his mouth, while the other hand held on to her dress. She had always wanted children, but they had been denied her during her mortal existence. As a vampire, well, while their hearts did beat every five minutes, it was not enough to sustain the life of another. It was not well-known to the Wizards and the Mortals, but after a woman was brought across, she would bleed for the last time in her existence, releasing everything of what could have become a child, if she were mortal.

In her immortal life, Janette had taken to mothering strays, the young fledglings whose masters had abandoned them. Now, though, she had something better; a child who would never be turned. In time, she would have his children, his children's children, and so on throughout the ages. It was so much better than Daniel, for unlike him, Henri would not be destroyed. Henri's eyes were starting to close, but he kept opening them, as if he were afraid to miss something as he fought sleep.

As Janette continued to rock and sing to the almost two-year-old, she looked around the nursery. The house elves had outdone themselves. Most likely, they had taken the furnishings from storage; Nicolas had a tendency to collect things, and must have picked them up sometime in the early eighteenth century. Every piece of furniture was ornately carved with decorative shell-like curves that mirrored the ocean in places. The whole room was classic Rococo. The walls had been painted a medium blue, touched here and there with gold. Large tapestries depicting magical creatures hung on two walls, and there was a nameplate on the door that proclaimed that it was “La Chambre de Henri.”

It was ornate. It was beautiful. It was... wholly unsuited as a room for a rambunctious toddler, especially a magical one. She felt a presence behind her but ignored it; Nicolas could wait a bit while she put Henri to bed. Janette kept rocking for a few minutes after Henri had dropped off to sleep. Carefully, so as not to jostle the sleeping child, she stood up and walked to the child's bed. She laid him in it and covered him up, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead. She was, for all intents and purposes, Henri's new mother, even though he called her, “Tante Janette.”

For months now, they had spoken very little English around Henri, instead speaking French and Latin. He was picking up both languages fast. He was even quickly learning the difference between the modern language and more ancient variations. The rate at which he was learning astounded her at times, but considering that he'd somehow managed to inherit the total recall that was vampiric memory, she supposed that it wasn't really surprising. “Nicolas,” she murmured.

“Janette,” he followed her as she left the room to preserve the quiet so that Henri would not wake up.

They went to a small sitting room nearby. “Henri has taken to you well,” he said in French. “After the first day, I did not expect it.”

“Yes,” Janette answered, in the same language. “He is almost my son as much as he is yours. I did not expect to... care as much as I do. I have always followed our Master's teaching. A Vampire's heart must be cold,” she paused. “Immortality makes this so--but I can not be cold around Henri. He will not allow it.”

“No, he will not. LaCroix is speaking of taking a short journey,” he changed the subject abruptly.

“Delphi. That is where he must be going,” Janette said. She almost smiled at the puzzled expression on Nicolas's face. “Remember the trip he made by himself in your first century?” Nicolas nodded. “He made a similar one when I was still young. He will be seeing the pythia about Henri, just as he saw her about you and me.” Her blue eyes flashed with hidden amusement. “We are his favorites, thus he consults with seers about us.”

“I would say that I'm surprised, but I'm not,” Nicolas said. “For all his prattle about releasing mortal bonds, he is still the General he was when he was brought across.” He brushed a lock of dark, curly hair away from her face.

Janette caught his hand, and gave it a squeeze before letting go. “The rest of the Family should be showing up soon,” she commented.

Nicolas nodded. “They want to teach him what they know. Before he attends school, he will know many lost and ancient magics.”

Janette laughed softly. “He will know more than that. Father will not wait long before teaching him the sword, Latrunculi, and the violin, to say the least.”

“I know,” Nicolas said. “I was surprised that it was so easy to find tutors among our kind. LaCroix wants to mark Henri as a precautionary measure.”

“Let him,” Janette said. “He won't hurt Henri.”

“How do you know?” Nicolas asked. “I am loath to trust anyone with Henri's welfare.”

Janette laughed harshly. “Because he knows that if he does, I will teach you how to better mask your presence, and we will sneak up on LaCroix as he sleeps, behead him, stake him through the heart, and drag his corpse out into the rose garden to await the morning light.” With those as her last words, she left. It was true. She would do anything to keep her Henri safe, and she was cold, ruthless, and vindictive when it came to protecting what was hers. LaCroix knew this as well. By putting their marks on little Henri's neck, it would ensure that most vampires, blood oath or no, would be wary of harming the child. Age and power were the same, so few would dare incurring the wrath of one who was two thousand years old. Combined with her paltry thousand years and Nicolas's eight hundred, there would be precious few who would dare to try anything around their boy. If it would keep Henri safe, then she was all for it.

~*~*~*~

LaCroix made his way on foot to the Oracle, as tradition demanded it. He hadn't been there in centuries, but the wizarding enclave was, for the most part, unchanged. He was just lucky that most of the pomp and ceremony had fallen by the wayside in the past thousand years or so. Now, instead of being a temple as it used to be, the Oracle at Delphi was the foremost school of Divination in the world. Oh, if you knew where to look, it was fairly easy to spot the worship of the old gods that went on there as well, but that sort of thing had gone far underground a few years after Christianity had taken over the Empire.

This was the fourth time in his long life that LaCroix had come seeking counsel from the Pythia. The first had been before he left on his first campaign with the Legions, the second when he had made his Janette, the third after he had made his Nicolas, and this time, this time he was here for his grandson, Henri. His grandson had the weight of prophecy on him, and it only made sense to consult the best Seer in the world about him. He left an offering, as was customary, and made his way inside the Oracle room.

LaCroix waited quietly; he knew that impatience would get him nowhere, and it was also customary for the Pythia to make her supplicants wait. It was better than when he'd first come, he supposed, when visiting the oracle was an days-long trial. A pretty young woman walked over to him. “Pythia will see you now,” she said in Greek.

LaCroix nodded and followed the young woman into a room. “Lucius of Pompeii,” the Pythia greeted him in his native language, which was surprising, since Latin was long dead.

He took a half-step back, a bit surprised. The last Pythia he'd seen had not been so clear sighted. “Yes,” he said.

“Yes, that is who you are,” her eyes were slowly turning white. LaCroix rather thought that she must have some sybill blood in her.

“You see clearly, Pythia,” he said. He was about to say more, but she interrupted him.

“You now call yourself Lucien of the Cross, an ironic name for one who walks the night,” she mused. “But at heart, you are still Lucius Maximus, from Pompeii, one of the most feared and respected generals of the old Empire.” The words he had been about to say were silenced by one look from her. “You have come about your grandson--the prophecy child whom your son adopted and whom you are learning to love.”

LaCroix considered denying it, but this Pythia was too clear sighted to believe him. “Yes,” he said again.

“The first and second prophecies spoke truly. The Fates are at work on the poor child. Two paths lie before him--one of the darkness that you love, and the other of the light you shunned millennia ago. The first path leads to nothing but destruction. Henri has the power to be the worst Dark Lord the world has ever seen.” She paused and seemed to study him intently through her milky-white eyes. “The other path leads to much good, for you and the rest of the world. Teach the child to love the light you have shunned.” She paused, as if to allow him time to think.

LaCroix had considered teaching Henri about the darkness in hopes that once the Council lifted their edict that he would join them in the darkness. Only the thought of what Janette and Nicolas might do to him had stopped him. Janette had a vicious streak that Nicolas did his best not to acknowledge in himself. He had known for years that if both of them turned on him at the same time, they were more than capable of dealing him True Death. If he knew his daughter, and he did, she would advocate beheading him and staking his body outside somewhere to await the sunrise.

“Lucius of Pompeii,” the Pythia began again. “Teach Henri to love the light you pretend to hate, but cling to nevertheless. Henri will help Nicolas find the faith he lost long ago. Teach him to be a warrior, for he will need your teaching throughout his life; not just on the battlefield, but in the political arena as well. Teach him well, Lucius Maximus, for what you teach him to be will affect the fate of the world.” The Pythia slumped in her chair, and the white drained out of her eyes, leaving them a clear brown. “Did you obtain what you came for, Lucien LaCroix?” she asked in Greek.

“Yes, I did, Pythia,” he answered in the same language. LaCroix bowed and left the room. It was time to go home and begin. He would teach Henri the sword, and how to navigate through politics. He would teach him to love music, how to spot manipulation, and how to manipulate people for his own ends. Quietly, sunk in thought, he left the Oracle building and began the journey back to Nicolas's estate. It was to be a new experience for him; to teach a small child and guide him towards the light that he, himself clung to Nicolas for. It was something different, something new. And he wasn't sure he liked it at all.

~*~*~*~

Nicolas sat crosslegged on the floor and watched three-year-old Henri play. He didn't necessarily have the be there; Urs was working out well as Henri's nanny, but in the past few years, he'd found himself wandering more and more to the nursery and school room to spend time with his son and supervise the tutors. He'd begun teaching his son to play the piano, and had spent many happy hours painting with him. Henri preferred his fingers to brushes still, so he'd obtained finger paints for his son to play with; they were much more washable than what he usually used.

“Regardes, Papa!” Henri called as he ran over holding a piece of paper. He handed it to Nicolas, beaming.

Nicolas took the drawing and examined it. For a three-year-old, it was very good. “Bon!” he praised. “Tell me about it?” he requested, in English this time.

Henri plopped down in Nicolas's lap and pointed at the big blob with yellow eyes and fangs. “That's you,” he pointed at the smaller blob with black scribbles on its head. “An' that's me.” He pointed at the big blue round thing at the top, left-hand corner of the paper. “An' it's night, an' we're out flying.” He gave Nicolas a big, innocent smile. “Can we go flying, Papa?”

Nicolas laughed. Henri's favorite thing in the world was flying, be it on his children's broom or with his family. “May you, Henri,” he corrected.

Henri's smile grew wider. “May we go flying, Papa?” he asked.

“What's the magic word?” Nicolas asked.

“Please!”

“As soon as it gets dark enough,” Nicolas said. He was rewarded by a big hug from his son. On average, he took Henri out flying about once a week. Henri had adapted quickly to living at night, but some days, like today, he woke before the sun went down. His mornings were usually spent in lessons and he'd already learned to read. One of his tutors had insisted upon adding Italian lessons to the French, Dutch, and Latin he was already learning, and Nicolas expected that Greek would be added before Henri's seventh birthday. Both he and Janette had insisted upon raising him with wizarding traditions; while he could probably blend in the Mortal world, it made more sense to teach him about his rightful world first, before teaching him about the world that ordinary mortals lived in.

Urs appeared at the door and beckoned to Henri. “Breakfast, Henri,” she said with a smile.

Henri bounced to his feet and hurried to take the blue-eyed blonde's hand. “D'accord. J'ai faim,” he said cheerfully. Nicolas watched as Urs led Henri away.

“Mitsy!” he called.

The little elf popped in. “Master Nicolas?” she asked.

“Henri is to have porridge, fruit, milk, and juice for breakfast,” he said. “No sweets!”

Mitsy curtsied. “Yes, Master Nicolas, but the little Master likes sweets!”

Nicolas fought the urge to bang his head against the wall. “They are not good for him,” he said. Despite not having eaten real food for eight hundred years, he knew what a balanced meal was; he had briefly studied at the Cordon Bleu, after all. The house elves were delighted to have someone to cook for, and it seemed every time his back was turned, they plied Henri with candy and other goodies.

The little elf pulled her ears and looked forlorn. “No sweets ever?” she asked.

“On holidays and occasionally, not all the time,” Nicolas said.

Mitsy looked close to tears. “Yes, Master Nicolas,” she said; then popped out.

Nicolas sighed, stood up, and left in search of Janette. The war with the house elves over spoiling Harry was an ongoing thing. It was in the little creatures' natures to want to please, and as vampires in general didn't need as much care as a child, all of them had set out to please Henri. If they weren't careful, it would turn him into a spoiled rotten little beast. The sugar wars were the worst, though. The house elves seemed to love to load Henri up on sweets, which at his age, just made him hyperactive and hard to deal with.

If the house elves kept it up, it was entirely possible that they'd have to roll Henri out the door, though the physical training that LaCroix had started with the child might prevent that. Nicolas found Janette in the library, curled up in a leather wing chair with a thick book. “Janette,” he said with a smile.

She looked up from her book, her lips curving into a smile. “Nicolas.” Janette closed her book. “I find that I am bored,” she said. “Henri is a darling, and amusing, but we are rather... isolated here.”

Nicolas nodded. “I know. It's not like Paris, is it?”

Janette sighed and pouted. “No, it is not. I have been bored many times in this Immortal life, and I survived it. I daresay I will again.” She stood, stretched like a cat, slinked over, and kissed him. “You can relieve my boredom, Nicolas,” she said, with a spark of mischief in her eyes.

Nicolas smiled. They had played this game many times before. After all, they had spent ninety-eight years living as husband and wife. “But then what happens when you become bored with me?” he asked. He leaned in and kissed her.

Janette simply smiled and moved away. “Then I take Henri on a, what do the mortals call them? Ah, yes... a field trip.”

“We could do that anyway,” he said. “It would save on the drama that would eventually happen.”

“Ah, yes, the drama,” Janette said. “There was much of that in the sixteenth century, as I recall.”

“Yes,” Nicolas said with a smile. “I still have the painting.”

“And I still want it,” she answered. “Leonardo painted it for me, and the sittings took forever.”

“You said you would commission another,” he pointed out with a smile.

“I lied,” she said.

“I know,” Nicolas admitted. “It is just a... thing. Perhaps it is time I let go; you are welcome to it, Janette.”

“Yes,” Janette murmured. “I was serious about the field trip,” she said. “Henri needs to see life outside these walls. We do him no good keeping him locked up here.”

What Janette said made sense to Nicolas, perhaps a trip to the zoo or something like that? It would have to be in the evening hours, or they could obtain a supply of the potion, perhaps? He hadn't used any since he had acquired Henri. As much as he loved to see the sun, it was too big of a risk. “We need some sun potion,” he said. “Next week we can take him to the zoo or someplace like that.”

“Good!” Janette walked over and kissed him on the cheek. She slipped out of the room, leaving Nicolas to his thoughts.

Even a year ago, he would have never thought he could find such... contentment as he did caring for Henri. Oh, he still felt incredibly guilty about the people that he'd killed, but there was no way to avoid that. It was a bit strange, he supposed, that he and Janette were teaching Henri the religious beliefs that they'd learned as Mortals, yet didn't really believe in them. It was even stranger since LaCroix had returned from Delphi, for he had begun doing the same thing. Nicolas stuffed his hands into his pockets and left the room to go to the schoolroom. He had to make sure that the house elves had followed orders; the last thing he wanted to deal with was a sugar-high three-year-old.

~*~*~*~

LaCroix had declined to come. Nicolas was sure that it was his long-held disdain for the Mortal world that had given him the strength to resist Henri's sad puppy dog look. It was a downright strange sight to see the three-year-old almost succeeding in manipulating the old Roman, but the truth of it was that Henri had almost succeeded in wrapping the General around his little finger. Nicolas rather thought that if Henri had been a little girl, LaCroix wouldn't have stood a chance. Janette had caved under the power of those big, blue-green eyes. It was funny what they'd do for Henri. The sun potion was just plain nasty, and very few vampires wanted to risk the side effects and the addiction that could result from using it.

They'd already seen lions, tigers, bears, and elephants. Henri had loved every minute of it, and had been racing excitedly back and forth between exhibits. Nicolas breathed a sigh of relief as they entered the reptile house. Despite the potion, being in the sun, as beautiful as it was, made him feel uneasy. Part of it was probably the knowledge that the sun potion had a tendency to wear off at the worst possible moment, making most vampires, including himself, to look on it with suspicion.

Nicolas watched as Henri ran from tank to tank, finally stopping in front of one. He cocked his hear to one side as if listening to something, then hissed at the tank before assuming a 'listening' pose again. Nicolas turned to Janette and silently asked if she'd seen what he had. At her nod, he lengthened his strides until he got to Henri; then picked the child up.

“Papa!” Henri protested.

Determined to protect Henri--there might be wizards around who would get the wrong idea--Nicolas ignored the plea. “We're leaving mon petit,” he said.

“But Papa!” Henri protested. “The snake said she was bored!”

“Henri,” Nicolas said gently, “Most people think that talking to snakes is something that only bad wizards do.”

Henri shrunk back a little. “Does that mean I'm bad, Papa?”

Janette caught Henri's hand. “No, mon cher,” she said with a smile. She kissed the little hand. “You can no more help that you have the ability to speak to snakes than you can the fact that you have hair like mine.” Henri reached out to her, so she took him from Nicolas.

Nicolas ran his hand through Henri's hair. “Tante Janette is right, Henri,” Nicolas said. “People, and very much so wizards, are often illogical when it comes to things like this. You aren't bad, and people that will think badly of you because of your gift are wrong. It's how you use it that counts.”

Henri frowned, puzzled. “What do you mean, Papa?”

“They say that people who speak to snakes may also command them,” Nicolas explained. “So if you told a snake to bite someone, that would be bad. But if you just make friends with them, that's good. Do you understand?”

Henri bit his lip for a moment, and then nodded. He held out his arms to Nicolas, who obligingly took him from Janette. Henri wrapped his arms around Nicolas's neck, seeking comfort. Nicolas rubbed the child's back and pressed a kiss into his dark curls. Together, the trio left the reptile house and made their way out of the zoo. It had been a trying end to a long but happy day, and they were looking forward to going home.

~*~*~*~

Janette sat with Nicolas and LaCroix in a sitting room with a glass of bloodwine in her hand. Four-year-old Henri was long in bed, and LaCroix and Nicolas were playing chess. She disliked the game, so didn't mind that she wasn't playing. Life was.. pleasant at the moment, if sometimes a bit dull. Not that life could ever truly be dull with Henri around. The little boy was a bit of a daredevil when it came to heights, and at least twice a week, they had to rescue him from some strange place he'd managed to climb to, but couldn't get down. Last week, he'd gotten stuck on the roof, though nobody knew how he'd managed to climb up there as the towers had long since been closed off.

That night, though, she was unsettled, and it had everything to do with the topic of conversation.

“Have you put some thought into... securing the boy's future, Nicolas?” LaCroix asked.

“A betrothal contract, you mean?” Nicolas asked.

“But of course,” LaCroix said. “A British witch would be best, I'm sure you agree. And she should have a proven magical lineage.”

Betrothal contract. The very words sent a shiver down Janette's spine.

~~~~~~~~ Flashback ~~~~~~~~

Janette wandered the halls of her father's keep. It was a cold day in early January, very soon after Christmas. At fifteen, she knew that her father would soon be looking for a marriage for her, and she did not relish the idea. He'd been making comments lately about how she was getting old for marriage, and it would not be long before he forced a match upon her. She had considered fighting it, but she had no recourse; he was quick to remind her every time she showed a little free will that she was his to do with as he liked. Not only that, but she was just a useless daughter anyway, who would cost him money for a dower.

“Daughter,” a voice behind her said.

Janette stiffened and turned around, her head lowered submissively. “Father,” she said.

“I have found a match for you,” he said, catching up to her. “He's a duke, so your station will rise.” He ran a hand over her stomach. “You will produce him an heir within the year or there will be consequences. Remember, you're only a girl and can be replaced or sold.”

“Father,” Janette protested.

He slapped her across the face. “You belong to me, Janette, and soon you will belong to the Duke. You will do as I say!”

~~~~~~~~~ End Flashback ~~~~~~~~~

Janette shivered again. “Have you given no thought to the girl?” she interrupted. “Shall she have no choice in the matter?”

Nicolas got up from the chair he was sitting in, came over, sat down next to her, took her hand, and squeezed it. “I'll make sure that both of them have a way out of the contract if they really want out, I promise.”

She had heard him, but it hadn't really registered. “A thousand years,” she murmured. “Have things not changed? A woman belonged to her father, who arranged her marriage. Then to her husband, and if she did not produce an heir, she was replaced by servants. When she got in the way of another marriage, she was sold to the brothel keeper.” She took a deep breath. “There is a nameless, faceless girl-child out there who will be betrothed to our Henri. She should have a choice, and so should he.”

LaCroix came over and kissed her on the forehead. “So they shall, ma Janette,” he said quietly. “I shall look into it, but I'm sure we can put some out clauses in the contract. If Henri and the girl we choose truly hate each other, or fall in love with someone else, they do not have to marry.”

She looked up at her Sire, searching his face to see if he was telling the truth. Something told her that he was, but things were never that simple with LaCroix. He always had plots within plots, and a whole sting of back-up plans in case the first failed. So instead of replying, she simply raised an eyebrow, which was a mannerism she'd picked up from LaCroix.

LaCroix put his hands behind his back. “We need someone from a traditionally Light family,” he said. “That will offset the fact that the Boy-Who-Lived was raised by vampires in the public eye.”

Janette sighed and gave in to the inevitable; when LaCroix decided something it was usually easier to agree with him. “She should come from a... fertile family,” she said. “I want petites-enfants to play with.”

“She should be magically powerful,” Nicolas offered. “If they do marry, it should be a marriage of equals.”

“British, too,” LaCroix said. “He will have to return there someday.” He smiled a little. “I will begin the research tomorrow.”

Nicolas nodded. “I'll paint a miniature of him to send along with the offer.”

Janette sighed. “That leaves me to make arrangements with the tailor for new dress robes.” She stood and left the room. She still didn't like the idea of arranging a marriage, but she knew her Henri. He would never treat anyone the way she had been treated... and if he did, well, he would never be too old to be turned over her knee! Not that he ever had, of course, as he was a generally well-behaved child, even during dancing lessons, which he hated. She dismissed the thought. Perhaps it would work this time. She had known some arranged marriages to actually work, after all.

~*~*~*~

Henri sat up in his bed, tears streaming down his face. He was four and a half, and, in his opinion, too old to cry, but the dream had scared him. He'd seen people that he vaguely recognized from his Aunt and uncle screaming at him, hitting him, and throwing him into a dark cupboard. He'd been the same age he was at the moment, so it wasn't a memory at all! It was as if he were seeing what his life would have been if his Papa hadn't taken him from the mean people.

He shivered; then stood up on the bed. Papa could make the bad dreams go away; just like he'd protected him from the monster that used to live under his bed. Grandfather had made the monster go away, and he said it was a boggart, but Henri wasn't sure if that was true. It never hurt to be careful, so he'd taken to jumping in and out of his bed so the hand of the monster couldn't reach out and grab his ankle.

Henri jumped off the bed as far as he could and stumbled a little on the landing. He walked as quietly as he could--Grandfather said he should practice stealth whenever possible--and headed for his Papa's room, out of his and down the hall. He briefly considered going to Tante Janette or Mademoiselle Urs, but Papa was better at making bad dreams leave him alone. He hurried inside his Papa's room and, with a great leap, jumped into Papa's bed.

“Papa,” Henri said, shaking his arm. “Papa!”

Nicolas's eyes snapped open, glowing gold. Henri wasn't afraid at all; he'd seen his beloved Father like that quite often in the two and a half years he'd lived there. “Henri?” Nicolas said, sounding sleepy. “What's wrong, mon petit?”

Henri sniffled and threw himself at Nicolas. “I had a bad dream about the mean people again,” he said.

Nicolas caught him, sat up, and rocked Henri a little. He rubbed his back comfortingly and kissed his forehead. “Did you see the green light again?” he asked.

“Uh uh,” Henri shook his head. “Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia hurt me and threw me in the dark cupboard, and I was still four and a half.”

Nicolas hugged him tightly and Henri felt safe for the first time since he'd woken up. “It won't happen, Henri, ever. I won't let the Dursleys hurt you ever again, I promise.”

“Really?” Henri asked.

“Really.” Nicolas kissed his forehead again.

“Tell me a story, Papa?” Henri asked.

Nicolas tugged the blankets out from under Henri and held them up. “In, first,” he said.

Henri crawled under the covers and snuggled up to Nicolas. His Papa was cooler than most people, but he didn't mind; it was how Papa had always been.

Nicolas hugged him, and then began. “Once upon a time, not so very long ago, there was a little boy named Harry,” he said.

“Is this a true story, Papa?” he asked.

“Yes, it is,” he said. “Anyway, before Harry was born, there was a prophecy about a little boy that could make a very bad wizard go away. There were two little boys who could have fulfilled the prophecy--Harry and another little boy named Neville.”

“Was Neville nice?” Henri asked.

“Yes, he was, and so was Harry,” Nicolas said. “Both Harry's parents and Neville's parents were scared for their little boys, so they went into hiding so their boys could be safe.”

“Were they safe?” Henri asked sleepily.

“For a time,” Nicolas said. “But baby Harry's parents were betrayed by someone they trusted, and the evil wizard killed Harry's parents and tried to kill Harry. But Harry's mother loved him so much that she wove layers of protective spells around her baby. And when the evil wizard came to kill him, he made the mistake of killing Harry's mother first. She used her death, her innocent blood to seal the protective spells so that the evil man couldn't hurt her Harry.”

Henri listened to the comforting rumble of his Papa's voice and got sleepier and sleepier. “Did it work?”

“Oh, yes, it did,” Nicolas said. “When the evil wizard tried to kill baby Harry with a spell, one with green light, it bounced back and hurt him instead. But the evil wizard wasn't dead, only banished...”

Nicolas's story continued, but Henri, lulled by the sound of his voice, had dropped off to sleep. This time, he dreamed not of the Dursleys, but of a red haired woman and a man with messy black hair who tickled and played with a younger version of himself.

“Family isn't about whose blood you have. It's about who you care about.”

--Trey Parker and Matt Stone

~*~*~*~

Nicolas checked the small canvas one more time.  The gesso was dry; the canvas was ready to paint on.  He was just lucky that the Mortals had figured out how to create acrylic gesso; otherwise, he'd still be using the old-fashioned kind, which meant he'd still be painting on heavy boards or masonite.  Oil paints and acrylics just didn't work well; the acrylic gesso didn't blend well enough with the paint to have any kind of longevity.  The old, natural gesso was still best for use with oils.  He'd prepared his own oil paint, of course.  It was easier and more convenient to buy paint these days, but the colors were better if he made it himself.  If he were holding down a Mortal job, he might have bought the paint, but as it was, he had time to make it, so he did.  It had taken time to make sure that the colors were perfect, as well as time to obtain perfectly tailored dress robes for Henri that would adjust themselves in case of unexpected growth spurts.

Nicolas checked his finest, smallest, brushes; then settled them, handle side down, in a clean cup next to his jar of paint thinner.  His pallet, which was enchanted so that the paint never dried out, sat on a small table near his easel, and a small chair, just the right size for Henri to sit in comfortably, was set up not far away.   There was a pile of books on a small table next to the chair, and Bray was laid over one arm.  At almost five, Henri didn't always hold still well, so a few things for him to do were in order, because he'd most likely need to stay there for a few hours a day for at least a week, if not two, as a model.

As Nicolas well knew, sitting for a portrait was tedious, and due to the age of the subject, was sure to stretch out over a good long while.  That is, unless he painted fast.  He supposed he could try for an impressionistic style.  It had been a very long time since he'd painted anything like that.  In fact, it had been a long time since he'd painted anything representational.  He'd taken to the modern art movement and hadn't painted a portrait in decades.

Nicolas's studio was mostly bare.  Had he been anything but a vampire, the large, stone room probably would have had skylights and large windows to catch the natural light.  Instead, it was a large, windowless room, well-lit by artificial light that was diffused through shades, bathing the room in soft light.  His sawhorse for drawing sat in one corner.  It was currently empty, but still scattered with bits of charcoal.  His easel sat on top of a dropcloth, with a small table beside it.  There were a few stools and tables scattered around.  Other than those, the only other furniture was an old Windsor rocking chair.

Henri bounced into the room.  “Regarde-moi, Papa!” he said cheerfully.   He spun around, his arms out, showing off the brand new, expensive, dark blue dress robes.

Janette had entered the room after him.  “Henri!” she said.

Henri stopped spinning and contrived to look absolutely innocent.  “Oui, Tante Janette?” he asked.

Nicolas hid a grin at the barrage of French that followed, scolding Henri for wrinkling his robes and admonishments that he must look his best for the portrait.  “Assieds-toi!” he said.

Nicolas watched as Henri obeyed, immediately going to the chair and carefully sitting down.  He picked up Bray and petted him.  After a few minutes of sitting absolutely still he smiled.  “Papa,” he said, switching fluidly to English.  “Why do I have to sit for a portrait?”

Nicolas knew he'd have to choose his words carefully.  If he didn't, he could screw up the whole thing.  “Your Aunt, Grandfather, and I have been trying to assure your future,” he said.  He picked up a pencil and began to rough in the outlines with a light hand.  “Your Grandfather will take this painting and the offer to the girl's family.”  He smiled at Henri.  “When you're grown-up, if you and the girl like each other, you'll get married.”

Henri worried his lip.  “Girls,” he pronounced finally, “are icky.”

Nicolas grinned.  Little boys never changed; he could remember telling his mother the same thing.  “But your Tante Janette is a girl,” he said reasonably.  “So is Mademoiselle Urs.”

“No they're not,” Henri said, shaking his head.  “Tante Janette is almost my mother, and Urs isn't a girl, either.  Mothers aren't girls, and neither are nannies.”

Nicolas chuckled, but didn't try and change Henri's mind.  He knew the futility of that course of action.  “That is why we need the portrait,” he said.  “You'll appreciate girls more when you're older.”

Henri made a disgusted face.  “Uh uh,” he said.  “Girls are the most yucky thing ever,” he said earnestly. 

“Why?” Nicolas asked.  He was curious as to why Henri thought that, as he had very little exposure to other children.

Henri seemed to be thinking it over.  “They play with dolls and they cry a lot,” he said finally.  “And they like kissing people, and that's just dies-gus-ting.”

“I think you mean 'disgusting', Henri,” Nicolas said, highly amused.

“Yeah!” Henri said.

“How do you know that?” Nicolas asked.  “There aren't any little girls for you to play with here.”

“That's how they are on books and a lot of 'em are that way on the telly, too,” Henri explained.

For a few moments, Nicolas was sorry that they'd ever let him watch educational programs on that infernal contraption for an hour or so every day.  Okay, so maybe it wasn't from the pits of hell; he rather liked being able to get the news the moment it happened, but the television was one of the modern inventions that made life as a vampire more complicated.  “Henri,” he said carefully, “television and books aren't always exactly correct.  They sometimes exaggerate things for entertainment.”

“Okay.” Henri was quiet for a few minutes.

Nicolas completed the rough outline and picked up his brush and pallet.   He started painting his son, mindful of the way the light fell on the robes that Henri was wearing, and how the light picked up shadows from the deep, rich hue of the robes that looked almost black. 

A few minutes later, Henri spoke up.  “Papa?”

“Hm?” Nicolas answered absently.

“I love you.” 

Nicolas's head shot up.  It wasn't often that Henri said something like that.  “What brought this on, mon petit?” he asked.

“I had another one of those dreams last night, Papa,” Henri said.  “The ones that show me what life would have been like if you hadn't found me.”

“You should have come and found me,” Nicolas scolded gently.

“You were tired, Papa,” Henri said.  It was a measure of the child's current insecurity that he  was using Nicolas's title over and over.”

“Henri Nicolas Lucien Andre de Brabant,” Nicolas said sternly.  He had a frown on his face and he looked at his son.  “I am never too busy or too tired to help you, and I know those dreams are frightening.”

“Yes,” Henri said.

Nicolas put down his pallet, washed out his brush, put it with the others, wiped off his hands, and removed the smock he had on over his clothing.  Once he was as clean as he could get, he walked over to his son, dropped to his knees, and held out his arms.  Without a word, Henri barreled into them and hid his face in Nicolas's shirt.  “Tell me about the dream, mon petit?”

Henri's voice started, hesitating a little.  “The Dursleys were really mean to the other Harry,” he said.

Nicolas kissed the top of Henri's head.  Good.  Since the dreams had begun, they'd tried to convince Henri that the Harry he saw in his dreams wasn't him; that the experiences he saw were someone else's entirely. It helped that Henri didn't look quite the same as the Harry of his dreams did.  “What happened to him?” he asked.

Henri shivered and clung tighter to Nicolas.  “They held his hand to the burner for burning their breakfast,” he whispered.  “Then they hit him, threw him in the cupboard, and told him that he was a worthless freak who should have died with his parents.”  He looked up at Nicolas, his blue-green eyes troubled.  “Am I a worthless freak, Papa?  Should I have died with my Mummy and Daddy?”

“No!” Nicolas said as he hugged Henri fiercely.  “Harry is not to blame for what the Dursleys tell him.  They're wrong, and so are our Dursleys.  You are not worthless.  You are not a freak.  Neither is the other Harry.”

Henri nodded, his face still partially buried in Nicolas's shirt.  “The other Harry is always hungry,” he said.  “They don't feed him hardly at all, so he steals food out of bins to survive.  He doesn't see as well as I do, either.”

Nicolas carded a hand through Henri's hair.  “That may be because of the adoption ritual,” he said.  “The vampire blood healed everything--including any problems you might have had with your eyes.”

“Really?” Henri asked, obviously interested.

Nicolas nodded and kissed Henri's forehead.  “You will never see a vampire wearing glasses that actually needs them.  They are usually an affectation in order to fit in amongst the Mortals or the Wizards.”

Henri frowned and looked up at him, a quizzical look on his small face.  “If vampire blood heals, why isn't it an ingredient in healing potions?”

“Well,” Nicolas started to tick off reasons.  “First of all, it must be willingly given, and not only do our bodies not give up blood easily, but most of us prefer to stay apart from Wizards.”

Henri nodded.

“And vampire blood is also a bit unpredictable,” Nicolas explained.  “The effects are usually temporary, and our blood can also cause very volatile mood swings.”

“What's vol-la-til?” Henri asked.

Nicolas smiled.  “It means unstable or unpredictable.”

Henri leaned against him, still not relaxing the tight hold he had Nicolas's shirt.  “Papa, how come I don't look like Harry?” he asked.  “And if he's a different me, how come my name isn't Harry Potter?”

Nicolas took a couple deep breaths, stalling for time.  “Henri, remember when your Grandfather and I performed the adoption ritual?”

Henri nodded.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Mummy said it was okay to love you, and that she and Daddy loved me a lot.”

Nicolas couldn't help but wonder if Henri had somehow gotten his penchant for dream-visions when he'd been adopted; there were documented Seers in the de Brabant line.  “That's right.  You used to have a Mummy and a Daddy, but they died.  They're still your parents, mon petit.  And you legally still have the right to use the name they gave you—Hadrian James Potter.”

“Harry?” Henri asked.

“Yes,” Nicolas said with a smile.  “When I became your Papa, I named you Henri so you can still be called Harry if you like.  I changed your name so that you could blend in here better.  Because of what happened the night your first parents died, the people who followed the evil wizard might be looking for you.”  He hated to do it, but he, Janette, and LaCroix felt that it would be irresponsible to not give Henri the information he needed.  One day, Henri knowing accurate information could be a matter of life and death.

“So I have two fathers?” Henri asked.

“That's right,” Nicolas said with a sharp nod.  “I adopted you and made it forever with the blood adoption ritual.  It's why you heal so quickly, see in the dark so well, and can move as fast as you do.  It's also why you remember absolutely everything.”

“Okay,” Henri said. 

Before he could say anything further, LaCroix swept into the room.  He was dressed in his usual black, with a folder under one arm.  “What a... touching scene,” he said, with just a hint of condensation. 

Nicolas looked at his sire and raised an eyebrow.  “Yes?” he said, giving Henri another short hug.

LaCroix put the folder on one of the small tables and opened it.  “I have a list of possible candidates,” he said.  “At the top of out list is Ginevra Molly Weasley, she's only a year younger than Henri.  She's the seventh child and the first girl in seven generations, so magical power shouldn't be a problem.  The Weasleys also haven't intermarried with any of Henri's relations for ten generations or more.  She fulfills every requirement, and is not currently contracted.”

“As soon as I finish the portrait, I'll go and see the Weasleys about a betrothal contract,” Nicolas said.

“Nicolas,” LaCroix chided him with that one word.  “As the only wizard in the... immediate family still here, it would be more... politic for me to handle the negotiations.”  He gave Nicolas a little smile.  “I will even take your surname for the duration; it would not do if they thought that you were a bastard child.”

Henri shifted restlessly in Nicolas's lap as Nicolas contemplated his Sire's words.  Finally, he agreed.  “Very well.  Please, Father, would you do your best not to lose your temper when they irritate you and eat them?”

LaCroix snorted a little.  “Please, Nicolas.  I have survived for a very long time; I can control my impulses.”  With that, he turned around and left.

Nicolas rocked Henri a bit more.  “Better?” he asked finally.

Henri nodded.  “Uh huh,” he said.  He got off Nicolas's lap and allowed Nicolas to straighten his robes.  Without being asked, the little boy headed straight for his chair and sat down.

Nicolas stood, walked over to his easel, picked up his tools, and started to paint.  He just hoped that the Weasleys would be amiable to an alliance with the ancient and noble house of de Brabant.  If they were, Henri's future partner would be set.  He had a gut feeling that it would be fairly important in the future to have a betrothal contract with them.  He wasn't sure why, but over the centuries he had learned not to ignore feelings like that.

~*~*~*~

Harry would be five years old.  Remus held a picture and ran his finger over the figures.  Harry, the only child of his old pack, was now five years old, and he had no idea where the cub had gone.  Moony, the wolf side of himself, had known that something was wrong on that February full moon, which had occurred the Monday after Harry had been taken from the damnfool Dursleys.  He'd spent his spare minutes in the four years since searching for the little boy, but Harry had disappeared without a trace.

Remus worked at a Muggle bookstore these days that dealt with alternative lifestyles.  His need to have full moons off thanks to his little furry problem, as James had called it, was passed off as religious observance.  It was an excuse that had served him well the past few years.  Granted, he'd rather live in the Wizarding world, but the persecution made it virtually impossible.  He was living like a Muggle, but at least he was living.

He sighed quietly as tucked the picture back in his pocket, grabbed a box of books, carried it over to the shelves, opened it, and started shelving the contents.  Trying to find Harry was like looking for a needle in a haystack.  Without leads, Remus was reduced to going on day trips to various countries on his days off and poking around magical day schools for younger children.  So far he'd been unsuccessful.  Soon after Dumbledore had told him, somehow the Daily Prophet had discovered that Harry was missing.  Remus grimaced.  When he got home from work, he fully expected to find a copy of the Daily Prophet featuring another article bemoaning the loss of the Boy-Who-Lived-and-Disappeared. 

It was a stupid title.  As if the first title they'd given him wasn't idiotic enough.  People still celebrated their liberation from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named on Halloween.  As far as Remus was concerned, Halloween was nothing to celebrate.  It was the day that both he and Harry had lost everything.  Both of them had lost their family that night to death and Azkaban. 

Remus finished shelving the books, cut the tape on the bottom of the box, folded it, and added it to the pile of disassembled boxes before going to fetch another.  He took it to the travel section and began to repeat the process.  Over the past four years, he'd visited every English speaking country in the world on weekends, holidays, and vacations.  He unloaded the box quickly and put the books in the proper places.  Once he finished he paused and took a world atlas off the shelves, and flipped through it.  Perhaps he should try France next?  It was right across the Channel, after all. 

One thing was for sure, once he found Harry, hell would freeze over before he handed the child's location over to Dumbledore.  Remus still wasn't convinced of Sirius's guilt, and the Headmaster, with all his influence, hadn't even tried to get him a trial.  It was damn near unforgivable in Remus's eyes.  Sirius and James had been the closest thing to brothers he'd ever had.  Peter, well, Peter he wasn't so sure of anymore.  If Sirius was innocent, which wasn't proven even with his serious doubts as to his guilt, that meant that it was Peter who betrayed James and Lily and blew up the street.  And that meant that Peter was the one who was the betrayer and should be rotting in Azkaban.  Without a trial, nothing had been proven, and he was unwilling to take a stance on his old friend's guilt or innocence without incontrovertible proof.

Remus didn't know much of anything for sure.  What he did know is that he had to be sure that Harry was safe, happy, and cared for.  He owed that much to the only child of the Marauders.  He'd long since given up on the idea of a wife and children for himself; what woman would want to marry a werewolf?

~*~*~*~

LaCroix studied his map carefully.  While he could have Apparated to the Weasleys' cottage once he returned to England, one could never tell what kind of wards they had, so it was safer to find the place by ordinary mortal methods.  He knew that The Burrow, quaint name for a dwelling that didn't belong to a Hobbit, was located outside Ottery Saint Catchpole, in Devon.  The problem was that he wasn't certain in which direction it lay.  Stupid map.  It wasn't as accurate as he required.  He supposed he could call the Knight Bus, but the thought of arriving in such a plebeian method  didn't appeal to him.

He missed the days when he had maps that were accurate down to the last detail, when all he had to worry about was which orders to give to his men.  LaCroix missed the days when he had been the most feared and respected General in the Empire.  True, he had much more power as a vampire than he ever had as a mortal Wizard, but there was a rush in defeating one's enemy and ordering the rape and murder of their women.

He hated the idea that he had become... soft.  It wasn't so long ago when he had fed wherever he wished; when he had hunted mortals for sport and taught great generals how to wage war.  Now, he was reduced to tutoring a child in hopes that the boy would grow up to make conditions he had lived with for millenia improve.  True, he had grown fond of the child, but only forty years ago, he had brought a slightly older child across for less reasons.  Since his visit to the Pythia, however, he dared not contemplate turning Henri.

LaCroix loved the darkness.  The problem was, that if the world fell into darkness, while the vampires might survive it, the majority of their food would not.  Unlike Nicolas, who seemed to thrive on a near-starvation diet, he didn't like going hungry.  Nicolas's diet in the past few years, LaCroix reflected, was one benefit of having Henri.  His son was also happier and smiled more often.  Nicolas had always been a bit over emotional, he reflected.  But the contentment and happiness that Nicolas was experiencing was much better than his usual moods and sulks.

LaCroix mentally shook himself out of his reverie and turned his attention back to the matter at hand--finding the Weasleys' residence.  He sighed.  He'd have to go to Ottery St. Catchpole and do something he'd always hated; ask for directions.  He hated having to ask mainly because he had an extreme dislike of dealing with what he deemed lesser beings.  As far as he was concerned, both Mortals and Wizards were food, nothing more and nothing less.  Vampires were at the top of the food chain, and that was how he liked it.

However, sometimes necessity overcame such minor considerations such as preferences.  While he would much rather keep to his own kind, he did know that prophecies turned out more often than not to be true, and it was essential that his grandson be seen as being aligned with a purely Light family.  LaCroix knew that it was inevitable that Henri's birth name would eventually be discovered, and the sheep of the Wizarding world would attempt to slander the child, using the fact that he'd been raised by what they termed 'Dark Creatures' as ammunition.  The betrothal contract would most likely become public knowledge as well, and would help young Henri appear to be completely Light, even if he turned out to be slightly Grey.

LaCroix knew politics; appearance was often more important than actuality.  He had been doing his best to teach Henri how to navigate and survive them along with his other lessons in more martial fields and the arts.  By the time Henri left for school, if they allowed him to, he would be more accomplished than any other child in his age group.  At five, he was already well on his way to mastering the sword; he had begun to learn it at three.  LaCroix hadn't taught his grandson only fancy tricks that fencing masters taught these days, he had taught him the hard fighting that was what real masters knew; he was the fighting that one only learned from surviving thousands, nay, millions of altercations with a sword alone.

Indeed, the child was a natural with a weapon in his hands.  He could admit a certain amount of... pride at being the one to teach the young one.  Unlike Nicolas, LaCroix had not amused himself with an unending stream of mortal 'jobs', though occasionally he had taken occupations.  He, however, did not take them as seriously as Nicolas did.  His amusements were almost always in the mortal world.  With the Wizard's prejudice against his kind, and their intimate knowledge of how to destroy them, it simply was neither prudent nor safe to look for amusements among wizardkind. 

However, he had once taught History of Magic for a brief time at Hogwarts.  Headmistress Derwent had been taken with the idea of a history professor that in some cases, had actually been there.  She had been even more delighted when he admitted to having known Salazar Slytherin after the quarrel with the other founders.  Sometimes, the hero-worship that the Wizards lavished upon the founders amused LaCroix.  The icon status that the four had achieved would have befuddled all of the very human people they truly were.  Occasionally, he had considered debunking the mythos surrounding them, but why bother?  It wasn't as if he would be believed; Dark Creatures were viewed as untrustworthy.

LaCroix sighed as he went to his bedroom to pack a bag.  His plane would be leaving in a few hours and he would find a secluded place, most likely in a restroom, from which to Apparate to Ottery St. Catchpole.  From there, he would ask directions, then make his way on foot to this “Burrow”.  He only hoped that, as purebloods, they weren't so inbred as to resemble Professor Tolkien's creations.  He'd seen something of the like happen before.  He had seen civilizations rise and fall, wars, famine; he survived all.  He held no illusions about himself.  He was a cruel, vindictive man.  He could be kind when it suited him, as it did with Henri, but some of his past actions with his favorite son, Nicolas, proved that he was no always so.   His rebellious child had felt his wrath on more than one occasion. 

LaCroix was sure that the peaceful period he was having with Nicolas would soon end, as they always did.  Peace between himself and his son rarely lasted for more than a decade.  He had long since blamed his son's mortal upbringing and embarked upon a campaign to rid Nicolas of the hindrances of his mortal life.  He hadn't been successful, but he refused to lose his child to the foolish boy's search for a cure.  As far as he was concerned, they needed no cure.  As vampires, they were next to gods!  Why would any sane person want to give that up?  He shook his head and finished his packing.  He really wasn't looking forward to his coming interview.  Who knew what would happen?  Mortals, especially Wizards, were notoriously unpredictable. 

LaCroix picked up his satchel, filled a flask with sun potion, which he tucked into an inside pocket, took a dose of said potion, and left the room.  He found his family, and, after swift farewells, Apparated to the airport.  While he supposed he could attempt an international apparation, he disliked the feel of it; Mortal travel, while it took longer, was much, much more comfortable than Wizarding travel.  Security was easy enough to get past, so it wasn't long before he was settled in his First Class seat.  The trip wasn't long, either, merely a few short hours, though it probably seemed long for anyone cursed with such a short existence as the lesser beings, and they were landing at the Heathrow Airport in London.

He exited the airplane and made a beeline to the nearest restroom.  Once there, he shut himself in a stall and put formal robes on over his Mortal clothing.  LaCroix drew his wand and disillusioned the robes so that only what the wizards would call 'Muggle' clothing would show and then reholstered his wand.  With a quiet, almost unnoticeable “pop” he vanished from the restroom and reappeared at the end of a blind alley in the small, country village of Ottery St. Catchpole.

He made his way to the greengrocer's shop and went inside.  Once inside, LaCroix went to the counter.  “Excuse me,” he said, as politely as he could manage.  “You wouldn't happen to know where I might find the Weasley family would you?”

“Huh?”  the man behind the counter said.  “Weasley, you say?  Bright red hair?”  At LaCroix's nod, he continued, “they might live west of here, but I can't be sure.  They always come from that way, anyway.”

“Thank you,” LaCroix said, then left the shop.  He thought it should be easy to identify the Weasleys.  Although at least two of the children should be away at Hogwarts, the de Brabant Foundation had offered them scholarships to offset the fees, finding a Wizarding dwelling with at least five red-haired children and two adults shouldn't be that difficult.  He left the village, and once he was far enough away from it so as not to be seen, he drew his wand and removed the spell from his robes before tucking it away again.

After a short walk along the dusty road, he spotted a ramshackle cottage that looked as if a stiff wind would blow it over.  It was an impossible building by ordinary standards, and merely improbable by wizarding.  It was obviously constructed and held up by magic, and he imagined that Mortals would see a burnt-out wreck or something similar, because without magic, the cottage was unlikely to stand up.  As LaCroix grew closer, he observed from the stonework that the core of the house was most likely several centuries old; there were signs that it had once been plastered and whitewashed, though time had eroded both. 

He was hard-put not to sneer at the exterior, though he had lodged in more humble places in his lifetime.  He could see a vegetable garden to one side of the house, while chickens pecked in the yard.  There was still a little light outside so, paranoid about even a little bit of light, he pulled a flask from his pocket and took a long swallow of potion and adjusted his sunglasses.  He screwed the cap back on tightly and put the potion away before approaching the door.  He felt the tingle of wards that tested his intent as he reached it.  They didn't cause him harm, so he knocked once and waited.

A red-haired woman answered the door, and LaCroix had to restrain himself from sneering.  Her hair was pulled into an untidy bun, with strands falling out.  She was dressed in outdated, old, but neatly patched robes with a bright, flowered apron covering them.  The end of a worn, well-used wand was sticking out of the pocket of the apron.  “May I help you?” she asked with a kind smile.

“Madame Weasley?” he asked with a slight French accent.  He bowed.  “Lucien de Brabant. I am here with an offer for your daughter.”

Mrs. Weasley paled, then reddened.  “Come in,” she said, opening the door wider.

He followed her, closing the door behind him, into a formal sitting room.  The room had an unused air, as if it was a room that the children were rarely allowed into.  Antimacassars laid on the backs and arms of the sofas and chairs, none of which looked new.  Bookshelves filled one wall and were stuffed to overflowing with books.  Pictures covered the walls, with red-haired children flitting in and out of them.  There were sconces on the walls with lit candles, while heavy drapes adorned the windows.  “Have a seat please, Mr. de Brabant,” she said, gesturing to one of the chairs.  “I'll just go fetch my husband; he's putting the children to bed.”

After examining the room for a while longer--his eyes lingering on the vase of preserved flowers on the mantle amongst more wooden-framed pictures of children--he deigned to sit down in one of the horsehair armchairs.  A few minutes later, the older Weasleys entered and took a seat on the couch across from him.  “Monsieur and Madame Weasley,” he said, before they could speak.  “I am here on behalf of my grandson, Henri de Brabant.  He is of an age with your daughter, and I wish to tender an offer of betrothal.”  He took both the portrait, which he handed to them, and the paperwork, which he laid on the coffee table, out of his wizardspace extended pocket.

Wordlessly, the patriarch of the Weasleys accepted the portrait and examined it.  “He's a personable young lad,” he commented quietly, before passing the portrait to his wife.

“Yes,” LaCroix acknowledged with a tilt of his head.  “My son has asked me to act as his agent in this.”

“Is this the same de Brabant of the de Brabant Foundation?” Mrs. Weasley asked.

“Yes,” LaCroix said again.  “It is my son's endeavor alone.”  He laid out the contract.  “We wish an alliance between our two families.  Nicolas has not said, but I suspect he is thinking of sending young Henri to school here in the UK, rather than Beauxbatons or a smaller school in Belgium.”  Privately, he thought that he would fight for Henri to be sent elsewhere.  Durmstrang would be more appropriate than either Beauxbatons or Hogwarts if he couldn't convince Nicolas to send Henri to the Spartan Academy of Magic.

Mr. Weasley drew the contract towards him and started to read through it.  “I am not certain we wish to arrange a marriage for our daughter, Mr. de Brabant,” Mrs. Weasley said.

LaCroix inclined his head.  “We do understand, but the contract does contain several clauses that permit a mutual dissolution of the contract if the two genuinely do not wish to marry,” he said.  “This will provide more of an alliance than anything.  If young Henri comes here, it would be well that he had allies.”

Both of the Weasleys looked as if they weren't sure they approved.  There was a whispered discussion, which LaCroix didn't exert himself to overhear, and then they turned to face him.  “This is a generous offer, Mr. De Brabant,” Mr. Weasley said.  “But we would like to have some time to think this over.”

LaCroix essayed to smile.  “I understand.  You are...” He paused. “...wise to put some thought into your daughter's future.”  He rather thought that they would have no choice but to accept sooner or later.  He would have preferred sooner, but Henri was only five, and they could afford to be patient.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card that he had prepared specially for the occasion.  He handed it to them.  “I can be reached at the Leaky Cauldron for the next few days; I will be returning to Belgium within the week.”

Mr. Weasley shared a long look with his wife.  “We will have an answer for you by the end of tomorrow if that suits?”

LaCroix nodded, stood, and made his way to the door.  He had few doubts that they would decide against the betrothal.  It was too beneficial to them to accept, and with their lack of status, he imagined that they had not received many, if any, offers for their daughter's hand.  He walked quickly outside the wards and Apparated away.  He hated the idea of staying at the Leaky Cauldron, but it was what would be expected, and it was a way for the Weasleys to reach him.  A few words with Tom secured him a room, and a few more coins ensured that he would be undisturbed until a Floo call came for him.  He made his way to his hired home for the next few days and sat on the bed with a sigh.  Soon he would be home with his family, where he could keep company with his family, and his grandson's tutors.  The Council itself had been making noises about coming to see young Henri, and perhaps teaching him themselves.  He pulled a bottle of blood and a glass from his bag, poured a glass, and took a sip.  He wouldn't have to put up with Wizards for long, and that suited him.  Unfortunately, he still had a few days to get through before he could return home, hopefully with a signed betrothal contract in hand.

~*~*~*~

Nicolas sat on the piano bench next to five year old Henri, patiently showing him a new scale.  He had started teaching his son when Henri had showed interest the year before.  Considering his age and level of training, Henri was quite good.  Nicolas was confident that his son would be able to at least play for his own amusement as he grew older.   He had been taking the lessons slowly, partially because Henri's hands weren't yet big enough to reach the longer chord stretches.  He'd also thought that it would be best if his son learned to read the music first, thus they'd only been learning basic scales and exercises for the past six months.

As with all his other lessons, Henri was serious about learning to play.  Nicolas had been surprised, having taught a few lessons here and there over the centuries, when his son had insisted upon practicing every day, whether they had lessons or not.  It was surprising to see a child his age put such effort into learning.  After all, the art lessons hadn't lasted long--Henri was much more interested in making a mess than he was in drawing, painting, and sculpture.  He had hopes that the child would develop and interest in art later, but for now, Henri had developed a fascination with music and anything that required physical activity, such as swordplay and the formal dances that Janette had been teaching him along with etiquette.

Nicolas spent much of his time sitting in on Henri's lessons--he refused to allow any vampire, other than himself, Urs,  and Janette, to be alone with Henri, not even LaCroix.  It wasn't that he didn't trust them... Well, okay, he didn't trust them.  The beast inside them all was impossible to reason with or control when angered, hungry, or hurt, and few of his kind even bothered to try.  He would be negligent if he allowed his son to be alone with other vampires, for without reason, they might hurt him before they knew what they were doing.  In a few years, when Henri was old enough to carry the family's mark, it would be safer, but until then, his lessons would be supervised.

Henri played the scale perfectly and Nicolas smiled.  “Very good, mon fils,” he said. 

Henri grinned at him, showing a missing front tooth.  “Merci, Papa,” he said.

Nicolas smiled again and showed Henri another scale.  With his tongue poked between his teeth in concentration, Henri repeated it with only one minor fumble.  The lesson continued, but was interrupted a few minutes later when Nicolas felt LaCroix's presence enter the room.

LaCroix clapped and praised Henri in the thirteenth century French of Nicolas's boyhood.

In a flash, Henri was off the piano bench and chattering a mile a minute in the same language, telling his grandfather about everything he'd missed while he'd been away.  He threw his arms around LaCroix's waist in a huge hug.

In a surprising fit of indulgence, LaCroix picked Henri up and hugged him before returning him to the ground.  “It is almost time for your violin lesson,” LaCroix said to the boy, changing both the subject and the language in which it was spoken.  “Go and fetch the instrument and show me how well you have practiced while I've been gone,” he said, swatting Henri's bottom to send him on his way.

“Yes, Grandfather,” Henri said with a huge smile, then hurried out of the room.

As soon as Henri left, LaCroix pulled a roll of parchment out of his cloak pocket and threw it on top of the piano.  “It is done,” he said.

Nicolas unrolled the parchment and studied it; as expected, it was the betrothal contract.  What was probably the most surprising thing was that it was with their first choice, rather than second or third, as they'd expected.  They'd thought the Weasleys might refuse, so the Abbotts and the Patils had also been on their list.  Neither family's daughters had quite fit the requirements as well as the Weasley girl, but an alliance with either family would have worked.  “Did they give you much trouble?” he asked mildly.

“No,” LaCroix said.  “They did want a few days to think things over, but that was to be... expected.”

Nicolas inclined his head, and then stood up to make his way over to the bookcase.  It was, perhaps, a trifle early, but the end of August was fast approaching.  It was, after all, a tradition to give tokens to family on their Conversion Day.  He removed a small black velvet box from one of the shelves.  It was unremarkable, really, just a simple black velvet box tied with a black silk ribbon, but he hoped the contents would please his father.  He walked over to LaCroix and handed it to him with a bow.  “Happy Conversion Day, Father,” he said, and then kissed his father's ring.  He held the position until he felt his father's hand on his head.  He straightened up to find a gentle smile on LaCroix's face.

“Thank you, mon fils,” he said.  LaCroix moved his hand and undid the ribbon, laying it aside on top of the grand piano.  He opened the box.  Nicolas knew what was in it, of course.  It was a silver pin shaped like a sword and layered with protective charms against fire, sunlight, and garlic.  One of his wizard-born brothers, Aleric, had done the charms work for him.  He watched as his Sire freed the pin from the box and put it on.  “My thanks, Nicolas,” he said.

Nicolas simply inclined his head.  As gifts went, it was fairly impersonal, and not the gift that he knew his sire truly desired.  LaCroix had a box filled with personal tokens from each of his children... except Nicolas.  If he had given his father something like the contents of the box, such as a lock of hair, it would mean that he had completely given up his quest for mortality, for forgiveness for his past crimes.  He wasn't yet ready to do that.  He might never be.  “You are welcome, LaCroix,” he said quietly.

LaCroix inclined his head.  “Now, I must go listen to young Henri play...  After two years of lessons, he is beginning to play quite... well.”  With that, the older vampire swept out of the room.

Nicolas watched him go before turning back to the piano, sitting down, and idly playing a simple tune.  Urs would be with Henri as she always attended his violin lessons.  Sometimes he wished he could trust LaCroix completely as he had when he was a fledgling, but he knew better.  While his Sire had been tolerant of the child, he wasn't sure how long it would last.  Frankly, he was surprised that the tolerance had lasted so long.  He sighed and began playing something more complex.  It wouldn't be long before Henri would be grown up and out on his own, and Nicolas wasn't looking forward to it.

~*~*~*~

Dumbledore clenched his fists tightly and did his best to reign in his tongue, but wasn't entirely successful.  He almost started throwing things, and would have, except for the little voice in the back of his head that taunted him about being awfully childish for throwing a temper tantrum.  It wasn't just that he'd been unable to become close to the Longbottom boy.  It also wasn't that Severus was barely speaking to him, or that he was still unable to locate the Potter brat.  No, the current object of his ire lay on his desk and had been delivered with his breakfast.  He didn't know how a reporter had found out; he had done his best to repress the news.

“BOY-WHO-LIVED Vanishes!  Adopted under our noses!,” the article began.

Staff Reporter

 

“Five years ago today, our beloved Boy-Who-Lived was adopted by unknown parties.  We were told that he was sent to his family.  We were told that he was loved and cared for there.  We were told lies.  It has come to our attention here at the Daily Prophet that the poor boy was abused by his relatives until five years ago, when the then eighteen-month-old baby was rescued and adopted by a as of yet unknown good Samaritan.

“Apparently, this person or persons who is now unknown found the child, who had been tossed outside, bruised and naked and left overnight.  This rescuer is to be commended, but will remain unknown as records of this event will remain sealed until Harry Potter's seventeenth birthday.  We attempted to interview Petunia Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive.  She slammed the door in our faces after yelling, “Go away, freaks!”  Baby Harry was left with her after the tragic death of her sister, Lily Potter née Evans . 

“Investigation into Ministry records shows that she is a squib.  Obviously bitter about her lack of magic, while her sister was a powerful witch, could she have been the one who mistreated our saviour?  Further investigation shows that around the time of the Boy-Who-Lived's disappearance, both she and her husband, Vernon Dursley, accepted the Traitor's Payment.  We must pity their son, Dudley, because he will pay for his parents' crimes.

“We here at the Daily Prophet must ask--what is being done to locate our Saviour?  At the time of this article, the Ministry of Magic was unaware of his disappearance.  When informed, they checked their own records and assured us that the adoption was perfectly legal and binding, and they were unable to say more.    We would also like to know the fate of any other war orphans.  Are they safe?  Or are they being abused as Harry Potter obviously was.  We call for full accountability for Harry and for other orphans like him.  The lives of many families were cut short in the War--what became of the children who were left behind?  Friends of the Potters have stated adamantly that baby Harry was never to even meet his aunt and uncle, because of the fear that they would treat him badly for being a magical child.  Why were their wishes ignored, and more importantly, who placed him there?

“We here at the Daily Prophet wish the now six-year-old Harry Potter well, and hope he is happy with his new home and family.  However, we wonder about the future of our world.  What is in store for us when we allow an orphaned child to be placed in an abusive home and never even check on the welfare of one of our own precious children?”

The only people who had known of the brat's disappearance were himself, Lupin, and Snape.  One of them was responsible, he knew it, but the article hadn't fingered either of them.  He couldn't go diving into their minds to find out, either.  Severus had very tight shields, due to his work spying on Voldemort, and Remus had naturally tight shields due to his status as a werewolf.

He would get no information from either of them.  The only thing he had to be grateful for was that he hadn't been named as the one who'd overridden the Potters' will and placed the brat with the Dursleys.  Dumbledore had been under no illusions at the time; he'd known of Petunia's rampant jealousy and spiteful nature.  He'd also known that Vernon was likely to follow her lead and that the boy's life would most likely be miserable with them.  He'd even rejoiced in the fact, thinking that it would make the brat more pliable to be moulded into the weapon he needed for when Voldemort returned.

Dumbledore had been ruing that decision for five years, ever since the man had absconded with his weapon!  One day, he would catch up with the person who had kidnapped his weapon, and that person would pay dearly for obstructing his plans.  He snatched the paper from his desk and threw it into the fire.  Why couldn't anyone see?  He, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, the leader of the Light, defeater of Grindelwald, Order of Merlin First Class, knew best.  Only he could steer the Wizarding World in the right direction!  Only he could discern the correct path and take the long view needed for their very survival!

What was the life of one child when compared to the wellbeing of an entire world?  It had all been going so well before Harry had been stolen from them, from him!  Why couldn't anyone see?  He needed Harry Potter to be willing and able to die to save them all from Voldemort! Dimly, caught up in both his thoughts and his rage, he heard Fawkes's cries of disgust at the path his thoughts were taking.  He dismissed the dumb bird from his mind and started trying to come up with a plan to put the Boy-Who-Lived and the rest of the British Wizards back under his thumb--where they belonged.

~*~*~*~

Six-year-old Henri blitzed through the corridors of the castle, looking for a place to hide from his tutors.  He knew he'd be caught eventually, but the actual chase was fun!  He didn't feel like doing lessons at the moment, but if he hid well enough, he wouldn't have to for a while.  His papa would show up wherever he hid to take him back really soon.  He knew it, but at least he'd have a few lesson-free moments.

He didn't mind the lessons with his Grandfather, Papa, or Tante, but he wasn't so happy about learning things like Maths.  It was okay, he guessed, but he'd much rather be learning stuff about music and swords.  Henri rounded a corner... straight into his current tutor's arms. 

The vampire raised an eyebrow as he picked up the boy.  “It's not your playtime yet, Henri,” he said.

Henri pouted.  “You're no fun, Uncle Etienne,” he protested, looking up into the vampire's dark eyes.

Uncle Etienne grinned.  “No, I'm not,” he agreed.  “I'm just here to teach you history, and as your father's and Aunt's older brother, I know more of it than they do.”

Henri sighed.  “But it's boooring!” he protested.

Uncle Etienne settled him on one hip.  “We're not doing politics today, if that helps.”  He brushed his longish dark  hair over his shoulder and started walking towards the schoolroom.

Henri  perked up.  “Are we talking about battles again?” he asked.  He loved battles; they were exciting!  Talking about battles wasn't as fun as looking for secret passageways in the castle, but it was much, much better than learning about politics or math.

“Battles are not exciting, mon petit,” Uncle Etienne said sternly.  “They're hard, confusing, bloody messes in which a lot of people, including vampires and wizards, who don't deserve it, die.”

“Have you been in one?” Henri asked.

“Several,” was the reply.  “War is a waste, though it's also free meals for our kind.”  Uncle Etienne smiled at him.  “We ought to be carrion crows for the way we tend to follow them; nobody notices a few more bodies here and there.  In centuries past, many of us took only the mortally wounded which, for many of them, was a mercy.”

His uncle's words sobered Henri.  Every vampire he knew, even his papa and grandfather, were afraid of True Death.  At six, he wasn't always sure what that was, but he knew that his Mummy and Daddy had experienced it.  He also knew that there was no coming back from True Death, that is, unless you decided to return as a ghost, and that wasn't really living.

Henri, himself, wasn't afraid of True Death.  His papa had taught him that he would see all the people who loved him that had died before when he died.  He had asked once why, if that was true, his Papa was afraid, and was told that his Papa was afraid that because he'd hurt many, many people that he wouldn't be allowed to see people who loved him.  Henri didn't think that was true; his Papa was really good at being a papa and a good person, too.  He knew about not being allowed; he wasn't allowed to touch Papa's big swords because he might get hurt.  It didn't make sense to him that Papa wouldn't be allowed to see his Maman and his sister.  Mentally, the child shrugged. 

“Uncle Etienne?” he asked finally.

“Yes, Snack?” the vampire answered absently.

Henri grimaced at the nickname.  He didn't like it, but Grandfather's name for him had stuck.  “Does it hurt to die?  What's it like?”  Even at six, perhaps because he was surrounded by immortals, he was very much aware of his own mortality.

Uncle Etienne was silent for a few minutes before he answered.  “Sometimes,” he said.  “It depends on how a person dies.”  He seemed to hesitate for a moment.  “For me, no, it did not hurt.  There is a place between life and death, little one.  When I was there, I was given a choice, because of your Grandfather, and I chose to come back.”  There was a smile on his face as he looked at Henri.  “I was not a wizard, or I imagine I would have had three choices--to go on, to come back as a ghost, or to return as a vampire.  I think my choice would have been the same; I like what I am.”

Henri nodded.  Most vampires he knew liked what they were.  Some, however, were different and hated being vampires.  His papa was one of those.  Someday, he thought, as he was carried back to the schoolroom, he would become a great potions master and find a cure for the vampires who wanted to be human again.  He thought it would be a great present for his papa, and it sounded like a wonderful idea to him. 

Henri knew he'd have to study a lot, and maybe even become a healer and a doctor, too, in order to invent the cure.  But he also knew that wizards could easily live two hundred years, so he'd have the time to do it.  He wrapped his arms around his uncle's neck.  Maybe lessons wouldn't be so bad, after all.

~*~*~*~

Nicolas watched as LaCroix drew the last rune, using a mixture of blood and a brand new, never used quill made from the feather of an augurey.  Vampire families were odd things, he reflected.  The mix of blood that his Sire was using came from everyone that LaCroix had intentionally turned who had not experienced True Death, so it contained blood from everyone in the immediate family.  For this particular spell, it was necessary to put their claim on Henri.  The blood magic, combined with the runes they would put over the child's jugular, would warn off all other vampires and even, in a limited fashion, other magical creatures.

While he knew it was a wise precaution, Nicolas wasn't so sure he liked the idea of putting another scar on his son.  Realistically, he knew that Henri would not make it through life without scars, both physical and emotional, but he didn't like it at all.  If it were up to him, he'd keep Henri safe forever, but some of LaCroix's sources swore that there was a prophecy concerning Harry Potter and that trumped-up excuse for a Dark Lord, Voldemort, and that it was still active.

Protection from some of the nastier magical creatures would be helpful, though it wouldn't work on some, such as dementors.  Mostly, it would be protection from most vampires.  Those that didn't see the lightning bolt scar would see the runes before Henri was bitten. It was magic of the oldest kind; invented by Ancient Ones, some of the first vampires, to protect the occasional child raised by vampires from their own kind.  The runes that they would be using, as well as the incantation, was in a language so old that it was long forgotten, lost in time to everyone but the vampires themselves.

Long ago, vampires had been considered the keepers of history by the wizards, but that, too, had been forgotten.  The language had no name any longer, but it was the language that they'd kept their records in for longer than the young ones could remember.   At LaCroix's nod, Nicolas left the ritual room and went next door, where seven-year-old Henri was waiting, reading a book that looked much too thick and too big for a child his age and size to be reading.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Henri?” Nicolas asked.

Henri closed his book, looked up, and nodded.  “Yes, Papa,” he said.  “Grandfather is right; there isn't much risk with this, and the benefits more than make up for it.”

“If you're sure,” Nicolas said.

Henri got up and hugged him.  “I'm sure,” he said.  “Papa, I'm scared.”

Nicolas picked up his ritual robe clad son and hugged him.  “So am I,” he admitted.  “But that's what courage is, mon petit.  It's doing the right thing whether you're afraid or not.”  Henri leaned against him for a few minutes.  Sometimes, he thought, it was hard to remember that Henri was only seven, and then he'd remind them.  Nicolas supposed that Henri's sometimes oddly mature behavior was a by product of a lack of playmates his own age.  In fact, the youngest person that Henri had met was at least a hundred and fifty years older than he was.

Nicolas picked his son up, hugged him, and headed back inside the ritual room.  “It will be okay,” he promised, the steadiness of his voice belying his nerves.  He carefully stepped into the center of the runes, put Henri down, and drew a silver knife.  Ritual magic was, for the most part, all the same.  While the rune markings and incantations differed, the ceremonial aspects were very similar.  If you'd seen one such piece of magic, you'd pretty much seen all of them.  In this case, the language was different as well.  He didn't want to do this, not really.  Nicolas felt that intentionally hurting Henri, even a little bit, was unforgivable, even though Henri had consented to it, knew exactly what would happen, and would most likely forgive him.  He just didn't know if he could forgive himself.

While this would serve as additional protection for Henri, what it did was to permanently inscribe runes, both on the boy's physical body and magical core.  Anyone who could read them would read what was basically a label of ownership.  It sounded worse than it was.  For any vampire who saw it, it would invoke both LaCroix's name and lineage, which were highly respected in the Community.  Over the millennia, he had developed a reputation of both power and ruthlessness.  Very few vampires would cross him, especially with his family backing him.  While Nicolas's tendency to gravitate towards Mortals and Mortal occupations was much looked down upon, he, also, was respected as one of the few who would dare flout his Sire's authority.  He sighed and stood in a comfortable position, waiting for the correct time in the ceremony.

As soon as Nicolas and Henri were settled, LaCroix began the chant.  Nicolas only understood bits of it, for LaCroix's accent was a little on the heavy side, but he knew the meaning.  He watched as his Sire used another silver dagger to slice his palms to drip blood in certain places during the ceremony.  It seemed to stretch on forever, though it was probably only about ten minutes, before LaCroix nodded to him.  His heart hurting with what was involved, Nicolas knelt next to his son and carefully cut the necessary runes into the skin over Henri's jugular.  He cut carefully, just deep enough to leave a scar without actually hitting the vein.  Henri, who had been prepared for exactly what would happen and had agreed to it beforehand, made not even a sound of protest, though his hand did tighten on Nicolas's robes. 

Once Nicolas had finished, he motioned to LaCroix, who stepped over the runic markings on the floor.  He cut his hand again and, still chanting, rubbed his own blood into Henri's cuts.  As he ended the chant, the runes glowed white, before settling down to silver.  Any blood disappeared, leaving silver runes embedded into Henri's skin.  Once it was finally over, both father and son started to cry, red blood tears from Nicolas, and regular salt-water tears from Henri. 

Nicolas scooped Henri up and cradled him to his chest, murmuring apologies over and over for having hurt his baby boy.  At that moment, he hated himself once again for the pain he had caused.  Only this time, he had hurt his child, the person he loved more than his own life.  At the moment, it didn't matter that Henri was, for the most part, unharmed.  All that mattered was that, even for a few moments, Henri had been hurt, and it was all his fault.

“Papa?” Henri's teary voice jarred him out of his guilt.

Nicolas hugged him and kissed his forehead.  “Yes?” he said.

Henri looked up at him, absolute trust and love in his blue-green eyes.  “I knew it would hurt,” he said.  “But I knew that you didn't want to hurt me at all.”  He smiled a little.  “I love you.”

Nicolas just almost-smiled and held Henri more securely.  He couldn't forgive himself--not yet, anyway.  And sometimes telling his son that he loved him, like now, was hard as well.  One thing he knew, though, was that if he had it his way, Voldemort would never get near his little boy.  If he had to, he'd petition the Council for bodyguards to keep Dark Wizards far away from Henri.  He would be willing to swear it by his own blood and magic.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 4:

Eyes of a child

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Seek the wisdom of the ages, but look at the world through the eyes of a child."

--Ron Wild

~*~*~*~

Remus was the perfect picture of dejection as he walked through the main castle doors at Hogwarts and headed down to the dungeon.  His hands were stuffed in his pockets.  His shoulders were slumped.  He walked with his head down, studying the stone floor as he went.  He didn't even bother to brush the graying sandy-brown hair from his eyes.  He'd been searching for Harry on and off for years without any luck.  He'd come to realize that perseverance would only take him so far; he needed help.  With Sirius in prison, Peter dead or in hiding, Alice and Frank Longbottom in hospital in the long term care ward, most of his list of candidates to aid him was gone.  The only person he could think of who had been close to either of the Potters was Severus Snape.  It was entirely possible that he would want to find Lily's boy as much as Remus did.

He found his way to Slughorn's old office.  Severus was the youngest Potions Master in living memory and had returned to Hogwarts to teach soon after gaining his Mastery, taking old Sluggie's place.  Remus hadn't had much reason to return since he had completed school, and he'd never been down to the dungeons on his rare excursions to his old school.  He hadn't liked Potions much, anyway.  He wasn't a genius in it like Lily and Severus were.  He hesitated for a moment before he raised his hand and knocked on the door.

The door opened, revealing Severus.  He was dressed in black, and while he looked a bit better than he had the last time Remus had seen him, his nose was a little more hooked, as if he'd broken it again, and his black hair was greasier than usual, as if he'd been brewing recently.  Indeed, the dragonhide apron he wore over his clothing backed up that theory.  “Lupin,” Severus said neutrally.

Inwardly, Remus winced.  He and Severus had gotten on tolerably well before The Incident, but Severus had never really gotten over it.  He always seemed almost afraid of Remus near to the full moon.  It was why Remus had purposely chosen to come and see him at the dark of the moon, when his furry side was at its weakest.  “Severus,” Remus said.  “I believe that there is a matter that we have a... mutual interest in.”

Severus raised an eyebrow and his black eyes gleamed.  “Come in,” he said. 

Once Remus entered, Severus closed and locked the door, then warded the room with a few quick flicks of his wand.  He took off his apron and hung it on a nearby hook.  Remus took a look around Severus's office, noticing that it hadn't changed much since Slughorn's tenure.  Alone in a corner, a cauldron bubbled and steam rose from the top.  “It's about Harry,” he said, without further preamble.

Severus swept around him and behind the desk.  He sat down and leaned his elbows on the desk, steepling his long, potion-stained fingers.  “He is most likely better off where he is,” he said.  “Wherever he is, he is free of the Headmaster's manipulations and most likely having a much better life than he would have were he still with Lily's sister.”

“While that's true, we don't know for sure,” Lupin said, frustrated.

Severus inclined his head.  “The Headmaster came to me the night the wards fell,” he admitted.  “He was furious!  I think he intended to use Lily's child as a weapon.  The adoption records will be sealed and there hasn't been a trace of him since that day.”  He gave Lupin a little smile.  “His adoptive parents are, must be, smart; they've hidden and they probably won't emerge anytime soon if they have any great intelligence.”

“It wasn't supposed to happen like this,” Remus said with a soft growl.

“No, it wasn't,” Severus said.  “Harry was supposed to be raised by Black, and by the time he came to Hogwarts, I could have safely hated him.”

“You were in love with Lily, Severus,” Remus murmured. It wasn't a question; it had been obvious to anyone with eyes... except Lily herself.

Severus inclined his head.  “Indeed.”

“You were more upset with James for marrying Lily than with anything we Marauders did during our prank war,” Remus said slowly.

“Yes.”

Remus hesitated, and then continued.  “You were prepared to be angry at Harry because he's not your son... and part of you thinks he should be.”  He was rather proud of himself for figuring it out; even after their falling out, Lily had still been Severus's staunchest defender.

Severus glared at him, his dark eyes flashing.  “I do not deny it.”

“If Lily had survived that night...” he paused, almost afraid to go on.

“I would have convinced her to marry me and treated Harry as my own, yes,” Severus finished for him.  “Harry will come to Hogwarts in three years... or not.  Perhaps he will be home schooled or attend another school.  He's most likely safer where he is; hidden from those who would exploit him.  Give up, Lupin.”  He stood, canceled the privacy spells, and gestured towards the door.  “I have an experiment to get back to.”

Remus sighed, stood, and left the room.  As the door closed, he heard Severus whisper, “Stay lost, Harry--stay safe.”  He almost went back inside, but left the dungeons and made his way out of the castle and outside the wards instead.  Perhaps Severus was right, but part of him refused to give up.  He wanted to know if Harry was safe and happy.  He wanted to see if Harry was still the bright, happy child that had called him, “Unca Mooey,” all those years ago.  He wanted to be there for birthdays and Christmases.  He wanted... he wanted his family back.  Harry was currently the only member of his family who was free.  He silently cursed the promise he'd made to Dumbledore to stay away from the Dursleys for the first six months.  If only he hadn't made that promise...  If only.  He'd been around this chain of thought millions of times since Harry had disappeared.  With a quiet sigh, Remus disapparated with a pop, heading for home.

~*~*~*~

LaCroix sat in a burgundy leather armchair with his feet propped up on a matching ottoman in the library.  He was dressed in black, from his black dragon hide boots to his black button up shirt that had his still fairly-new sword pin stuck through his collar.  He was reading a copy of Oliver Twist, the pages turning slowly as he reread the story.  It had been... gratifying to watch the reactions of his grandson's tutors when they had seen Henri's new decoration.  It was mildly amusing to see the reactions of the new ones every time they saw Henri, as well. 

The child had been sick for the past few days, but LaCroix was sure that he'd be better soon.  He had to be.  He didn't like the feeling of helplessness it gave him to see his grandson sick, like... Divia.  He didn't want to remember his mortal daughter, who had become his vampire master, so he pushed any thoughts of her out of his head.  Things had been different between himself and his son since he had returned from Delphi, mostly because he had allowed things that he never would have allowed before.  But in the past few years, he had felt his son returning to him. 

LaCroix knew he could wait, but he didn't want to.  While Nicolas was slowly returning, he could still feel his son's mistrust of his motives and especially a great deal of mistrust in him around Henri. He didn't like that at all.  As much as he hated being told what to do--he should be the one giving orders--he would have abided by the Council's requests, even if he hadn't grown... attached to Henri.  The thought of something happening to that child was devastating, just as it was with Nicolas.  He closed his book and leaned back in his chair, then sat up straight when he felt another vampire approach the room.  Reaching out his senses, he felt a familiar presence.  “Nicolas,” he said, as his son entered the room.

“Father,” Nicolas greeted him as he made his way to the matching chair nearby and flopped into it.  “The Healer just left.”

“And?” LaCroix prompted.

“Henri's fine... or he will be,” Nicolas answered.

LaCroix frowned.  “There is something the matter, Nicolas; I can feel it.”

Nicolas sat up straight.  “Perhaps I don't wish to tell you,” he snapped.  “Perhaps I don't trust your motives at all.”

LaCroix sighed; he'd known that this was coming.  He stood, unbuttoned his collar and tilted his head to one side.  “Drink, mon fils,” he said.  “I will not hide anything from you.”  He backed it up with a mental call.  'Come to me, Nicolas,' he sent, over and over.  He could see his son struggling with himself, so he used a sharp fingernail to make a small cut on his neck.  He saw the struggle end as Nicolas moved towards him, reared back his head, and bit down, almost faster than humans could see.

He carded his hand through Nicolas's hair and controlled the memories going through the link of the blood kiss.  He didn't hide anything, but he showed him the visit with the Pythia and then allowed Nicolas to feel his emotions for his little family, including Henri.  While LaCroix would probably never say it in words, he loved them.  Slowly, Nicolas pulled back, licking the small wounds closed, then offered his own neck to LaCroix.

It had been a very long time, centuries in fact, since he had tasted his child's blood.  Gently, LaCroix bit down and took a few mouthfuls of blood, savouring the taste of saffron, oranges, and spices that he, himself had never tasted.  He let go, also licking the wounds closed, then hugged his son.  “Tell me, Nicolas,” he commanded.  “Your blood gave no indication of what is worrying you.”

Nicolas sighed and sat down.  “Henri only has dragon pox; he should be over it soon.  It's not the dragon pox that disturbs me.”

Wordlessly, LaCroix motioned for him to continue. 

“She found Dark Magic radiating from his scar, Father,” he said. 

Outwardly, LaCroix was composed, but inwardly, he was cursing the name of every god he'd ever heard of.  Dark Magic coming from Henri's scar was a very bad thing--by nature, it was dangerous, and for all they knew, it could be slowly killing the child from the inside out.  He would not lose his favorite grandchild to the Dark, and thus lose everyone else as well.  “Of what kind?” he asked.

Nicolas hesitated.  “She said... she said that in her three thousand years that she has only seen such a thing once; she thinks that Henri has been made into a horcrux.”

LaCroix's internal cursing increased.  He had heard of horcruxes; they were the darkest magic to exist.  To create one, the wizard in question had to willfully kill another in cold blood and enjoy it while saying a specific incantation that split the soul and put it into a prepared container.  He had heard once of an accidental horcrux about a thousand years ago, but like all of them were eventually, they were destroyed.  “I see,” he said finally.  “And how shall we rid him of this unwanted trespasser?”

Nicolas slumped into his chair.  “Another ritual that shall be... uncomfortable for us to perform; an exorcism.”

LaCroix scowled.  “Shall we need holy water, crosses, and a priest?”

“No,” Nicolas said.  “Just the ritual room, a wooden table, the correct incantation, and a silver knife.”

LaCroix headed for the door.  He was sure that he had a few books on the subject.  After all, it was always a good idea to be familiar with the opposition.  “I shall find the ritual,” he said.

“Thank you, Father,” he heard Nicolas say as he left the room.

LaCroix strode towards his room and the secret that was concealed inside it. After a moment's thought he knew where the horcrux must have come from.  He had coerced his agents in England to search for Voldemort's past and managed to find out quite a bit about the self-styled Dark Lord.  Most likely, there was an object in the ruins of Henri's biological parents' house that Tom Riddle, for that was Voldemort's real name, had meant to turn into a horcrux.  He would see to it that the abomination was removed from his still-innocent grandchild. It was a strange thing for LaCroix, wanting to preserve innocence instead of corrupting it, but he had to make sure that Henri stayed Light.  If not, they were all doomed.

~*~*~*~

Nicolas sat by his son's bed and placed a cool, damp cloth on the child's forehead.  Henri stirred restlessly and pushed the covers off.  He kept telling himself that it was only dragon pox—all wizarding children had it sooner or later—but that didn't stop him from worrying.  When he'd been a boy, any kind of pox could turn fatal fairly quickly.  The Healer had promised that Henri would recover, but he wasn't comforted.  There was just too much that could go wrong, and too many ways his little boy could die.  To be frank, it was one of the worst things he could think of to live through; knowing that Henri was sick and not really being able to fix it.

Nicolas wanted his happy, curious Henri back.  He looked down at the boy just as Henri opened fever-bright eyes.  “Papa?”  he said.  His voice sounded rough and painful as if his throat was badly inflamed.

Nicolas lifted him up, picked a cup off the nightstand, and held a straw to his lips.  “Drink,” he ordered.  “The juice should help your throat.”

Obediently, Henri took a drink.  “Papa,” he tried again, after he had finished.

Nicolas put the cup down and smoothed his son's hair away from his face.  “Yes, mon fils?” he asked.

“I'm hot,” Henri said.

“I know,” Nicolas said.  “You'll be better soon.”

Henri nodded and leaned against his father.  Nicolas looped an arm around him so that he wouldn't slip.  He stayed like that for a few minutes, just holding Henri, until the Healer came in.  Carefully, Nicolas lowered Henri to the pillow, stood up, and bowed.  “Elder,” he said.

“Relax, Nicolas,” she said.  “I refuse to have you stand on ceremony right now.”

He straightened up, and then sat back down in the chair that stood next to Henri's bed.  He watched as the Healer--he'd never gotten her name--ran diagnostic tests over Henri.  “How is he,” he asked with urgency in his voice.

She gave him a sharp nod.  “He will recover,” she said.  “His temperature is down, and the rash should erupt fairly soon.”

Nicolas picked Henri up and settled him against his chest.  Henri grabbed fistfuls of his father's shirt.  “How soon?” Nicolas asked.

“Soon,” was the answer.

Nicolas gave the Healer a glare and a scowl.

“Nicolas, son of Lucius, son of Divia, daughter of Qa'ra,” she said, using the formal address.

Nicolas's head shot up and he looked at her in shock for a moment before bowing his head.  “I apologize, Elder,” he said formally.

The Healer sat down in a plush armchair with a swirl of green Healer's robes.  “Accepted,” she said.  “The Lightning Child is important to us all.  He will recover, Nicolas.”

Nicolas didn't know how far he could push the Healer.  LaCroix had seen to it that he'd had little contact with Ancients.  He wasn't sure why; it was something his sire was disinclined to share with him. He settled for something safe.   “He is more important to me than he is to you,” he said finally.  “He is my son.”

The Healer inclined her head in acknowledgment.  “Perhaps,” she said.  “But if LaCroix had arrived at that inn a few hours later, you would be my son, and Henri my grandson.”  She stood and left.

Nicolas held Henri tightly as he slumped against the back of the armchair.  That had been... unexpected.  He would have to speak to LaCroix at a later date about that encounter.  True, he could do it through their bloodlink, but something such as this latest revelation would be best spoken of in person.  Henri stirred slightly.  He dropped a kiss into his son's sweaty hair before he disentangled Henri's hands from his shirt front and settled him back in bed.  Henri had fallen back asleep.  Carefully, he tucked him back in before he called a House-elf.    “Mitsy!”

The little elf appeared with a pop, a huge grin on her face.  “Master Nicolas called for his Mitsy,” she said.

“Mitsy, Henri is asleep.  Watch him and call me when he wakes or if anything changes,” Nicolas ordered.

Mitsy nodded, her large, bat-like ears bobbing comically.  “Yes, Master Nicolas,” she said.

Nicolas left the room.  He needed to think.  He was still worried about Henri, but he needed a little break.  This was the first semi-serious illness that Henri had contracted.  Sure, he'd had the occasional cold, but nothing like this.  He sighed, stuck his hands in his pockets, and headed towards the studio.  He did his best thinking when his hands were occupied, and with the recent revelation, he had much to think about.

~*~*~*~

Ten year old Henri walked through the castle, engaged in one of his favorite activities--looking for secret passageways.  It was Saturday afternoon, one of his few afternoons off from lessons, and he just knew that there was a secret door along the corridor he was in.  Well, at least it was what he called afternoon; it was two in the morning, but he'd been living at night for a long time.  Lately, though, his papa had been making noises about adjusting Henri's sleep schedule around so that he slept at night, like most people.  He wasn't sure he liked the idea at all.  Being awake during the days meant change, and he liked things the way they were.

For as long as he could remember, Henri had known that sooner or later, he would be sent Away to school.  His papa said that he needed to be around children his own age, but he didn't think so.  He spent his time with people who were centuries older than him and who knew fascinating things.  His grandfather and his tutors could make history come alive as he was sure that no one else could; they had been there, after all. He shook his head and started examining the wall in front of him.  There was something different about one stone.

Henri traced the seams between blocks of stone until he reached the different one.  He prodded it experimentally, but nothing happened.  He smiled, then traced his finger on a swirling pattern on the stone and then whispered the equivalent of 'open sesame' in thirteenth century French, his Papa's native language.  The stone sank into the wall, and a door swung open.  He shouted and danced around a bit in triumph before remembering himself.   He quieted down and straightened up.  Tante Janette always reminded him of exactly how he should behave in public.  At the moment, he was in a very 'public' part of the castle, and he knew better than to shout like that where someone other than family could hear him.

Instead, Henri went in the hidden room to explore.  There were torches on the wall in brackets that lit when he entered.  It was actually a bit of a disappointment.  All that was in the room was a bedstead that was falling apart and half-rotted rushes on the floor.  A thick layer of dust laid over everything, and it looked as if no one had been in there for years.  He sighed, left the room, and whispered the password to close the door.  He almost wished for lessons again, but he'd been studying hard all week and needed the time off. 

In short, Henri was bored.  The House-elves had work to do, and very few of the vampires would drop their dignity long enough to play games with him.  Well, Grandfather would, but only if he chose the game.  Henri was tired of playing old Roman games and chess.  He supposed he could go play the violin or the piano, but he was tired of doing that, too.  If Tante Janette hadn't forbidden him to mess up his clothes, he'd go to the studio and make a mess.  He sighed again and decided to head to the library.  Maybe he could find his papa and convince him to take him flying.  That never got boring!

With that thought in mind, Henri sped up, almost running to the library.  He pushed open the heavy door and hurried inside.  His grandfather was sitting on one of the chairs with a glass of what Henri knew was blood in one hand, and a book in the other.  He stopped before he bumped into something and immediately bowed.  “Grandfather,” he said.

LaCroix raised an eyebrow at his grandchild.  “Snack,” he said.

Henri hated that name.  “Surely I'm bigger than a snack now, Grandfather,” he complained.

LaCroix closed his book and looked Henri up and down before replying.  “Ah.. yes,” he said.  “You are closer to an... appetizer now.  But I shall still call you Snack, because I've grown quite used to it.”

Henri stuck his lip out in a pout as LaCroix opened his book again.  “Grandfather, I'm boooorrrrred,” he complained.

“Cease whining, Snack.  I suggest you do it now.”

Henri heaved a large sigh that was mostly for effect.  He really was bored... maybe he could convince his grandfather to take him flying?  It had been a long time since they'd gone together.  Well, it couldn't hurt to try, he thought.  “Grandfather, may we please go flying today?”

LaCroix looked up again.  “I suppose,” he said.  “You must ask your father if he will allow it.”

Henri grinned.  Flying was his most favorite thing in the world!  “Do you know where Papa is?” he asked.

“Check the stables,” LaCroix said, once again looking at his book.  “He said something about riding Moonlight today.”

Henri hurried out of the room, out of the castle, and across the grounds to the stables.  He stretched out his senses and concentrated, trying to find his papa.  It was a talent that he hadn't told anyone about; he could find other vampires and his papa especially.  From what he'd overheard, it was a vampire trait, so he must've gotten it with the heightened senses and photographic memory.  As far as he was concerned, it was almost criminal that he hadn't also inherited the ability to fly without a broom or some sort of aeroplane.  He sensed his papa close by, in Moonlight's stall.  “Papa?” he called.  He spotted his papa's curly blond hair over the top of a stall.

Nicolas turned around and came out of the stall.  “Yes, Henri?” he said, giving the horse a pat on the nose.

“Can I go flying with Grandfather?”

“May you please, and yes--on one condition.”

Henri was bouncing a little.  “May I please go flying with Grandfather?” he asked obediently.  “Pleeeeeaaaaasssse!  What's the condition, Papa?”

Nicolas smiled.  “I'm coming, too.  Now, do you want your training broom, or do you want to fly with me or your Grandfather?”

Henri had to think about that a little.  His training broom didn't go very high, nor very fast, but he controlled where it went.  “I want to fly with you,” he said, deciding on speed and height, rather than control.  Flying was always fun, but the faster he went, the happier he was.  “My broom doesn't go high enough, and it's slow, too!”

Nicolas laughed and picked him up.  “Papa!” he protested.  “I'm too big for you to pick me up.”

Nicolas shook his head and tickled him.  “Nope,” he said.  “One of the perks of being a vampire... I'll always be able to pick you up, mon fils.”

Henri couldn't help laughing as his Papa tickled him mercilessly.  “Papa!” he protested again through his laughter.

“Let's go get your Grandfather,” Nicolas said as he started back to the house, still carrying Henri.

Giving in to the inevitable, Henri wrapped his arms around his Papa's neck.  He'd seen his Grandfather carrying his Papa once when he'd gotten hurt, so maybe it wasn't too babyish to let his Papa carry him.  Maybe.  After all, he'd be carried when they went flying, though in Henri's mind, that wasn't the same thing.  It was nice to be carried... sometimes, Henri reflected as he laid his head on his father's shoulder.

Other times, well, sometimes it seemed as if his Papa wouldn't let him do anything on his own.  His family could be pretty overprotective, and they rarely left the estate.  It was smothering sometimes, but it also felt... nice.  Especially after he'd dreamed of Other Harry.  Sometimes after those dreams, especially after particularly scary ones, he still went to his Papa's room for comfort. 

“Is there anything wrong, mon petit?” Nicolas asked.

“Nooo,” Henri said.  “I'm just bored.  There's nothing to do that I haven't already done a gazillion times!”

Nicolas laughed and Henri felt comforted by the sound of it.  Nicolas tweaked his nose.  “You can't say that until you're a few hundred years old, Imp.  And as my son, your aging process will slow when you're in your twenties, so you could outlive most wizards.”

Henri nodded.  He'd heard this before.  Most wizards could expect to live around two hundred years.  Very powerful wizards lived longer than that, and because he'd been adopted by a vampire, he could easily live into his third century.  It was young for a vampire to pass into True Death, but fairly old for a wizard, and unheard of for a Mortal.  By the Ancients' standards, his father, at around eight hundred years old, would be considered barely an adult.  But what was eight hundred years to people who'd been alive for six thousand?  Henri had met an ancient once, and been frightened of him.  They were... different from your average vampire, and he didn't want to run into one again.  He hugged his father and smiled.  They were going flying.  And as soon as they took off, he wouldn't be bored anymore.  For that moment, it was enough.

~*~*~*~ 

LaCroix  studied the way the ritual room was set up, satisfied.  He wasn't sure he believed that spirits could actually possess people, but he knew what horcruxes were.  He'd chalked runes of protection all over the space to keep the horcrux from seeking another vessel.  He knew that spirits existed; he'd seen too many ghosts not to know that.  He knew that those gifted—or cursed, depending on the way you looked at it—with the Sight were more often correct than not.  He knew that holy water, crosses, and wooden stakes worked on his kind.  What he didn't know—and didn't really believe in, or so he told himself—was the existence of some sort of God or higher being.  He'd scoffed at his Crusader son's notions of sin, repentance, forgiveness, and redemption.  But he was now preparing for an exorcism, to remove an unwanted, unasked for, piece of soul from his grandson.

It had taken quite some time to locate and research a spell that would expel the soul shard that didn't contain some sort of religious dogma that would cause him pain or give him hives.  In fact, it had taken almost a full year, even with his magical library.

Over the centuries, LaCroix had amassed a collection of scrolls, manuscripts, and books—all about magic—that was now probably the best collection in the world.  He even had the only remaining copy of the Abbarat, which was erroneously thought to contain a cure for vampirism within its fragile pages.  His was now the only known copy, especially since he had burned the other copy to prevent Nicolas from getting it a few decades earlier. It had taken some study after acquiring the ancient manuscript to determine that the so-called cure truly nothing more than a legend.    It was for the best anyway; he  refused to lose his son to True Death.

Of all his children, Nicolas had given him the most problems.  The stubborn fledgling had spent centuries chasing his dream of becoming mortal again.  Sometimes, LaCroix wondered why he didn't just let the boy walk into the sun if suicide was what he wanted.  As far as he was concerned, wanting to become mortal was foolish.  He certainly didn't want to; he would live forever, outlive all his enemies, and have more power as a vampire than he ever did as a Wizard who was also a General.    He shook himself out of his reverie and turned back to the task at hand.

LaCroix placed the large wooden table in the exact middle of the room, and laid the sterilized silver knife on a small table that he'd placed next to the large one.  He examined his preparations and nodded in satisfaction before calling Nicolas and Henri in.  He smoothed down his undyed silk robes as he motioned the two inside.  Once they had entered, both wearing robes identical to his own, he sealed and warded the door. 

LaCroix knelt down in front of Henri, put a finger under the boy's chin, and tilted his face up so that Henri was looking at him.  “Has your father explained why this must be done?” he asked.

Henri nodded.  “He said that the evil wizard who killed my first parents performed a ritual that is the darkest of dark magic to split his soul.  Papa said that the ritual that Voldemort did is an example of magic so evil that it should be lost.  He said that Voldemort meant to make something called a 'horcrux', and that he accidentally made me into one.”  The little boy looked at him with a troubled expression on his small face.  “Since there's a piece of an evil man's soul in me, does that make me evil, Grandfather?”

Part of LaCroix was horrified at the thought that his innocent grandson could somehow become as twisted and evil as his daughter, his mother, Divia had been.  “Certainly not, Snack!” he said.  “Remember when you learned a bit about Mortal surgery?”

Henri nodded. 

“It is a little like that,” LaCroix said.  “The horcrux inside you is like an infection that we will be removing to make sure you are not harmed by it.  Did not your father explain?”

“Yes,” Henri said.  “But I wanted to make sure.”

LaCroix stood, picked Henri up, and set him on the table.  “We were foolish last time, Nicolas,” he said.  “We should have hypnotized Henri so that he wouldn't feel the pain before we began.”

Nicolas looked chagrined.  “I will do it,” he said.   He walked next to the table and focused on his son.  “You will not feel any pain from the cut,” he said.

Henri just looked at him, puzzled.  “Papa?” he said.  “What did you just try to do?  'Cause it didn't work.”

Nicolas groaned and shook his head.  “My son would be a Resistor,” he said.

LaCroix caught Henri's attention and focused all his will on the child.  He could hear his grandchild's heartbeat, and it resounded in his ears.  “Henri,” he said.

Henri's eyes unfocused.  “Yes, Grandfather?” he responded.

“Listen only to my voice,” he commanded. 

Henri nodded; then seemed to snap out of it.  He looked confused.  “Grandfather?” he asked hesitantly.

“Henri, we need you to allow us to convince your mind that you're not feeling the pain,” he said, exasperated.

Henri took a deep breath.  “Okay,” he said.

LaCroix tried again.  He focused only on his grandson until he heard the child's heartbeat resound in his ears.  “Henri, you will not feel the pain,” he said.

Henri's eyes glazed over and he nodded.

“Nothing we do will hurt at all,” LaCroix said.  “You will sleep.”

Henri nodded again and his eyes drifted closed.  LaCroix leaned forward, placed a kiss on his grandson's forehead; then laid the boy down on the table.  “As I say the incantation, I need you to cut open his scar,” he instructed.

Nicolas nodded, took a deep breath, and picked up the dagger. 

LaCroix took three steps back and recited, “Expulsum spiritus quod expello,” while doing a complex wand movement.  At the same time, Nicolas cut open the scar and then staggered back away from the table as a black cloud tinged with green burst forth from the lightning bolt shaped cut.

LaCroix put his hands over his ears to try and muffle the scream that came from the soul shard as it was forced out of Henri and disappeared.  He stepped forward and applied a healing charm to Henri's forehead, sealing up the cut.  Nicolas stepped forward and picked Henri up.  “Wake up, mon fils,” he whispered.

Henri opened his eyes.  “Is it over?” he asked with a yawn.

“It is,” LaCroix said before Nicolas could answer.

Henri rubbed his eyes and laid his head on Nicolas's shoulder.  “I don't feel different,” he complained.

Nicolas and LaCroix exchanged a glance.  “I'll put him to bed,” Nicolas said.

LaCroix didn't respond.  Instead, he cleaned the room with a few flicks of his wand, then holstered it.  He had to admit that he felt a little... relieved at the fact that Henri could no longer be harmed by the foul abomination that was Voldemort's horcrux.  It would be much harder for someone to turn Henri to the dark without the horcrux inside him.  Tomorrow would be soon enough to see if the child's magic had changed at all from removing the soul shard.  He wiped his hands on his robes and left the ritual room.  There was time enough for that later, but he needed to contact his spies to find out what the situation was in the UK.

~*~*~*~

Ginny put her Harry Potter doll next to the Ginny doll that her mother had made her for her birthday.  She was nine whole years old, and doing one of her favorite things in the world—having a wedding with her dollies.  She was sure that one day, she would meet Harry Potter, and they would fall in love and get married... only without the kissing her parents did, 'cause kissing was icky.  She was playing in the living room at the moment.  She had wanted to play Quidditch with her brothers, but they'd refused to let her play, too.  Stupid boys.  As far as she was concerned, her Harry and her Daddy were the only good boys in the whole world!

She frowned as she heard the Floo flare up and tiptoed over to the door.  It was a little open, so she peeked through it and smiled a little when she saw Professor Dumbledore step out of the fire.  He was the headmaster of her brothers' school.  The twins would be going there soon, and Bill had already finished, leaving Charlie and Percy there.  Someday, after Ron went, it would be her turn to go, and maybe she'd meet the real Harry Potter there.  It was possible, even though he'd gone missing.

Ginny focused her attention on what was going on in the kitchen.

Her mother smiled at the Headmaster.  “Good morning, Professor,” she said.  “Might I interest you in a cup of tea?”

The professor politely declined.  Instead, he changed the subject.  “Molly, I've come to you on a matter of great importance.”

Mrs. Weasley smiled again.  “How can I help?” she asked.

Dumbledore seemed to hesitate a little.  “Lily and James would want their son settled,” he said finally.  “I've come to ask if you'd consider a betrothal contract between your daughter and the Boy-Who-Lived.”

Mrs. Weasley put down the dish she was holding.  “And what right do you have to make arrangements for Harry?” she asked.  “He might even be dead, for all we know.”

“I--” Dumbledore said.  “It's what James and Lily would want.”

“Fair enough, Headmaster,” Mrs. Weasley said.  “But you're five years too late.”

Dumbledore looked gobsmacked.  “Too late?”

Mrs. Weasley nodded firmly.  “Her betrothal contract was set when she was three.  If both she and her betrothed are willing, they'll marry soon after she completes school.”

Professor Dumbledore looked angry to Ginny.  “Who may I ask is she contracted with?”

“Henri Nicolas Lucien Andre de Brabant,” Mrs. Weasley replied promptly.  “He's Ron's age, so the gap isn't too wide, and a handsome and accomplished boy.  His mother was British, which is perhaps why his father and grandfather wanted him to marry a British witch.”

“I... see,” Dumbledore said.  “Is there any way you would change your minds and break the contract?”

Mrs. Weasley looked scandalized.  “I should say not!” she said.  “The penalties for breaking it without just cause are quite severe.  I will not have my Ginny's name bandied about as a scarlet woman!”

“I apologize,” he said, but Ginny didn't think he was really sorry.

“Headmaster,” Mrs. Weasley said formally.

Dumbledore gave her a nod, tossed some Floo powder in the fireplace, and stepped in.  “Hogwarts, Headmaster's Office,” he said, then disappeared.

Carefully, Ginny pushed open the door and entered the kitchen.  “Mummy?” she began.

“Yes, Ginny?” Mrs. Weasley answered.

“Why can't I marry Harry Potter?” Ginny asked with a pout.  She wanted to marry Harry Potter and nobody else.

Mrs. Weasley held out her hand.  “Come with me,” she said.

Ginny slipped her hand into her mother's and followed her into the formal sitting room, which was rarely used.  She sat down when her mother waved her to a seat and waited with her hands folded neatly in her lap, the way a lady's should be.  She watched as her mummy took a packet down off one of the shelves and enlarged it.

Mrs. Weasley handed the packet to Ginny.  Curious, the little girl looked through the photographs inside before she reached the painting.  It wasn't Harry Potter at all.  “Who is it, Mummy?”

“That's Henri de Brabant, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said.  “Someday, when you're all grown up, you and Henri will get married if you don't like anyone better.”

Ginny frowned and at that moment, decided that she didn't like Henri de Brabant at all.  He was yucky, just like her brothers, and she wanted nothing to do with him... though perhaps she'd like to try out the hex that Bill taught her, because it was just as yucky as boys!  After all, who really liked to be attacked from bats made from bogies and snot?

~*~*~*~

Nicolas flipped through the school pamphlets one more time.  Henri would be eleven fairly soon, and it would be time for him to go off to school.  He dreaded it.  He knew that they could teach the child at home, but it was time and past time that Henri learn how to interact with people his own age, and it was time he met Wizards that weren't Vampires.  For him, Henri's childhood thus far had been an eye blink.  Before he knew it, Henri would be ready to leave home, and him, for good.  He didn't like the idea at all.  He could almost empathize with LaCroix for wanting to keep him nearby.  Almost.

Nicolas sighed and read the names at the top of the pamphlets.  Beauxbatons.  Durmstang.  Salem.  Spartan Academy of Magic. Il Accademia di Magico. Virginia Magical Institute.  Hogwarts.  Madam Laveau's School of Voodoo and Witchcraft.  The Quebec School of Magic.  All reputable schools with fairly long histories and traditions of academic excellence.  For him, the problem was distance, as every single one of them was a boarding school.  He wasn't ready to let go yet, and to be truthful, he might never be.  His eyes closed as he felt the presence of two familiar vampires approaching—Janette and LaCroix.

They entered the room a few minutes later.  Janette practically pounced upon the pamphlets and rifled through them quickly.  She sneered at the ones from VMI, Quebec, and Madam Laveau's.  “Choosing a school, Nicolas?” she inquired as she tossed the the three she'd sneered at into the garbage.

“We could home school him,” Nicolas murmured. 

“Really, Nicolas, we must cut the apron strings sometime,” LaCroix said.  He took the pamphlets from the Spartan school and Durmstang from Janette and flipped through them.  “You should pick one; I, myself, like the idea of sending him to Sparta.  It's a fine school.  The Greeks trained their war wizards there.”

“I don't think so,” Nicolas said.  “It doesn't seem as if their practices have changed much, and I don't want Henri to learn that he has to steal to fill his stomach.  I really don't want to send him to America--it's too far away--so that leaves out Salem, VMI, and Madam Laveau's.”

“Italy,” Janette suggested.  “The Accademia has an excellent reputation.”

“And he doesn't speak Italian,” Nicolas said.

Janette waved the comment away as if it were a wayward fly.  “Beauxbatons, then.  They turn out polished ladies and gentlemen.”

“And they also can't fight their way out of a tough spot and survive,” LaCroix said.  “Henri is likely to have to defend his life sooner or later.  Durmstang has the best dueling program in Europe.”

Nicolas sighed.  “And they also teach Dark Arts, which by your own admission, Father, we need to keep Henri from even dabbling in them.  Hogwarts, then.  We could move to your townhouse in London, so we wouldn't be too far away.”

“I hate London,” Janette grumbled.  “But for Henri, I will go.”  She paused a minute, then smiled.  “Henri's betrothed will be attending Hogwarts--it will be an excellent opportunity for them to get to know each other.”

Nicolas slumped into his chair.  “That is a consideration,” he said.  “I still think we should just home school him.”

“Nicolas,” LaCroix said with a warning tone in his voice.  “Time away will be good for him; he needs to learn some independence, and you can't keep him locked away here forever.”  Nicolas almost missed what his Sire said next.  “As tempting as that sounds.”

“Hogwarts,” Nicolas said with a sigh.  “Aristotle is on this side of the pond this year; I'll have to call him to arrange for us to have legal identities for the next seven years or so in Great Britain.”

LaCroix actually smiled.  “Already done,” he said.  “Hogwarts is our best choice for a school for Henri.”  He lapsed into silence for a moment.  “Salazar certainly liked it--when I met him, he was upset over the argument that caused him to leave.”

Nicolas sighed again, and then stood up.  “I'll go break the news to Henri.  We still have five months before he starts school, but I think we should be settled before I see the current Headmaster about admitting him.”

“Tell him that it will be an adventure,” LaCroix said unexpectedly.  “Tell him that my town house has several secret passages built into it for him to discover.”

Janette gave him a small smile.  “He will fight it,” she warned.  “He has known very little but this castle since you brought him here.”

“I know,” Nicolas said with a nod.  He was well aware of how isolated they were on the estate.  Henri had no playmates, other than vampires who were at least a century and a half old.  He spent most of his time in study, and Nicolas was aware that he would probably be ahead of his year mates in quite a few subjects when he arrived at school.  He left the room and headed to Henri's bedroom.  His son had to know of their decision. 

Nicolas was almost sure that his son wouldn't be happy.  He hurried up the stairs, and then down several hallways until he reached Henri's door.  He knocked, and then entered.

“Papa!”  Henri's face was covered with a huge smile.  The little boy was laying on the floor, surrounded by Lego blocks, while an animated dragon toy from one of the magical toy shoppes patrolled around the Lego castle he'd been building.

Nicolas picked his way over the toys and sat down in a nearby chair.  “Put away your things, please,” he said in his boyhood language.

Henri nodded, picked up his toys, and put them away.  “What's wrong, Papa?” he asked in the same language.

Nicolas held out his arms, and Henri willingly gave him a hug.  “Nothing is wrong,” he answered.  “I just have some news for you.  Remember how the girl you're betrothed to lives in England?”

Henri's brow furrowed and he frowned.  “Yes...”

“The Family has been looking for a school for you; you'll be eleven in a few months, and it will be time for you to go,”

Henri's eyes widened, and he grabbed hold of Nicolas's shirt.  “You're sending me away?” he asked, his voice panicked.

Nicolas hugged Henri, and as he lifted the child into his lap, the thought that his son was really getting too big to be held like that crossed his mind and saddened him.  “I'm not getting rid of you, mon fils,” he said.  “You will always have a place with me, wherever I am, I promise.”

Henri had an iron grip on Nicolas's shirt.  “You're not going to abandon me?” he asked.

Nicolas kissed his son's forehead.  “Never.  Remember when I adopted you?  Remember what the spell said?”

Henri, who had learned to speak Latin fluently since that night, answered with one word.  “Forever.”

“Yes,” Nicolas nodded.  “I will always be your papa, Henri.”

Henri's eyes were wide and frightened and he chewed on his lower lip.  “Mummy and Daddy left,” he whispered.

“I can guarantee that they didn't want to leave you,” Nicolas said as he rubbed Henri's back.  “I won't leave you—I'm a vampire, remember?  As long as I avoid sunshine and sharp sticks, I'll live forever.  You still have to go to school, though; you need to learn to interact with children your own age.”

“Promise you'll avoid the sun and sharp sticks?” Henri asked.

Nicolas nodded.  “I promise,” he said.  He looked at his watch.  “It's almost time for your piano lesson.”

A small smile spread over Henri's face, and then disappeared.  “What about my music lessons when I go to school?”

“We'll make arrangements for them to continue,” Nicolas promised.  “You'll be going to Hogwarts.  That's where your betrothed will go, and where your biological parents went.”

Harry nodded slowly.  “Can we do my lesson now?” he asked as he slid off Nicolas's lap.

Nicolas nodded.  “Meet me in the music room,” he said.  “You'll need to pack your belongings in the next week or so.  Mitsy will help.”

Henri bowed.  “Yes, Papa,” he said, and then left the room.

Nicolas stood and left Henri's bedroom for the Music room.  He walked slowly, giving his son the chance to beat him there.  Moving was always a hassle, and despite centuries of experience in doing it, it never really got easier.

~*~*~*~

Nicolas walked up the cobblestone street that went through Hogsmeade and past, to Hogwarts.  It was well maintained, and had never been paved by modern methods, because Wizards, at least in Great Britain, didn't really use automobiles.  It was dusk, and the lamplighters were just lighting the streetlights.  He climbed the hill that separated the small town from the castle and approached the gates.  As he looked at the castle, he briefly wondered when all the fortifications had been taken down.  He clutched the handle of his cane a little tighter as the gates swung open without being touched.  It was quite a way from the gates to the front doors of the castle, and he limited himself to what speed was humanly possible as he walked down the wide cobblestone drive to the castle.

Nicolas finally reached the front steps.  He climbed them and walked up to the front doors.  They were huge, made from wood and bound in iron.  Smaller doors that would be much easier to block were set into the large ones, and one of them stood open.  He walked inside  and was stopped by a stern-looking woman with dark hair that was pulled into a tight bun.  “May I help you?” she asked.

Nicolas didn't know how she happened to be in the entrance hall, but as he didn't know the way to the Headmaster's office, it was fortuitous for him that she was there.  He bowed.  “Nicolas de Brabant,” he said with a very French accent.  “I have an appointment with the Headmaster, but I'm afraid I have never been here before.”

Her eyes swept up and down his form.  He knew that he was impeccably dressed for an appointment at a Wizarding school, so he ignored it.  Finally, she smiled a little.  “I'll escort you, Mr. de Brabant,” she said.  “May I ask why you are here?”  She started up a staircase, motioning for him to follow her.

Nicolas gave her a nod as he followed her unspoken command. They were moving fast enough that he wasn't paying much attention to his surroundings; he knew he'd remember the way back, anyway. “I'm sure you're aware that magical children who live in countries that do not have their own magical school receive brochures from most of the schools in Europe.”

The woman nodded.  “Of course; I'm the Deputy Headmistress, and I send them out for Hogwarts.  It's rare that a foreign student decides to attend, and I believe an owl is all that is necessary.”

“True, Professor,” Nicolas said.  “But I must make sure of Henri's place here; we recently relocated to London so that he could attend.”

They approached a carved stone gargoyle.  The Professor nodded deeply to him.  “Tangtastics.  I hope to see your son in September,” she said, then left. 

The gargoyle sprang aside, leaving him to walk up the spiral staircase.  He walked onto it, and was shocked that it moved.  He shouldn't have been; after all, some of the staircases on the way up had moved, too.  When he reached the top, he knocked on the door.  “Enter,” a voice answered.

Nicolas went inside and immediately bowed.  “Headmaster,” he said.  He looked up to see an old man that rather reminded him of the descriptions of Gandalf sitting in a high-backed leather chair behind a big, heavy desk.  A perch sat nearby with a large red and gold bird sitting on it.  The old man's blue eyes twinkled at him, and there was something about the man that put Nicolas on his guard.  “Thank you for seeing me,” he said.

“Not at all, Mr. de Brabant,” he said.  “Have a seat.  What may I do for you today?”

Nicolas sat down in one of the chintz armchairs in front of the desk.  “We have recently moved to the country,” he said.  “My son will be starting school soon, as his birthday was in February, and I need to enroll him here.”

“From Belguim?”  Headmaster Dumbledore asked.

Nicolas nodded.  “Yes,” he said.  Before he could say anything more, the bird, which Nicolas finally recognized as a phoenix, let out a soft trill, launched itself from the perch and flapped over to his lap, where it landed.  Hesitantly, he reached up to pet it, and it butted his fingers.  He'd never heard of a phoenix liking a vampire before.  Like cats, phoenixes usually hated his kind.  He petted the bird gently for a few moments before it returned to its perch.

“Your English is very good,” Dumbledore said.

Nicolas allowed himself a smile of pride.  “My son is fluent, also,” he said.  “He should have no problems keeping up with the curriculum.  I do ask that if he is injured or sick that I am notified, of course.”

Dumbledore was silent for a moment, and then nodded.  “Of course,” he said.  “I will make sure your son's name is on the list.”

Nicolas shrugged casually.  “He received a brochure,” he said.  “I just wanted to make sure that he will be sent a letter.”

Dumbledore pulled out a long list and a quill.  “I will need his full name, Mr. de Brabant.”

“His name is Henri Nicolas Lucien Andre de Brabant,” he said.

Dumbledore gave him a sharp glance, and then wrote the name down. 

Nicolas stood.  “Thank you, Headmaster,” he said with his most charming smile.  “May I use your Floo to return home?  We have had a long trip.”

Dumbledore smiled, but it did nothing to reassure Nicolas.  Every instinct in him was screaming that the old man would be dangerous to him and his.  “Of course,” Dumbledore said. 

Nicolas took a pouch out of a pocket in his cloak.  He opened it, removed a handful of Floo powder, and threw it into the fire.  It flared green.  “The Leaky Cauldron,” he said; then stepped into the flame and towards home.

~*~*~*~

Henri sat at the breakfast table, working his way through a bowl of porridge with berries sprinkled on top.  He wasn't sure he liked the new house, but at least his family was with him.  He wasn't sure that he'd like going to school in September, because they wouldn't be there.  His papa sat next to him, with a mug of blood next to his right hand.  “Papa?” he said.

“Yes, Henri?” Nicolas took a sip of the blood in front of him and set it back on the table.

“Do I really have to go to school?” he asked.

Nicolas reached over and ruffled Henri's hair.  “Yes,” he said firmly.  “I spoke to the Headmaster of your new school soon after we arrived, and your letter should be arriving any day now.”

Henri sighed and ate another spoonful of his breakfast.  He didn't want to be whingey and admit that he was scared.  He was too old for that, anyway.  He wasn't a baby, and he refused to act like one.  Nicolas put his free arm around him and hugged him quickly.  He gave his father a grateful smile.  “I'm just apprehensive, I guess,” he admitted finally.

Nicolas caught Henri's face and tipped his chin up so that he was looking at his father.  “It will be fine,” he said.  “Just remember your manners and do your best to be nice to everyone, and you'll make friends.”

Henri frowned.  “But what if there are bullies?” he asked.

Nicolas pushed Henri's hair back from his face.  “Stand up for the kids that the bullies are trying to hurt,” he suggested.

The idea had merit, Henri thought.  He might've stood up to the bullies, anyway, but getting what amounted to permission...  “Won't I get into trouble, though?” he asked.

“You might,” Nicolas said with a smile.  “But I'll be proud of you for doing the right thing.  Remember this, mon fils, true courage isn't from being not scared--it's from doing what you know is right, regardless of the consequences that might follow.  It's acting whether you're scared or not.”  He took another sip from the mug.  “Do you understand?” he asked.

Henri frowned a little as he thought about it.  “Oui, Papa,” he said finally.  “But do I just automatically do the right thing without thinking?”

Nicolas gave him a sharp look.  “If you did, I might be disappointed.   You've been taught tactics and strategy, Henri--don't fail to apply what you have learned.  Bravery and courage are completely different from foolishly rushing into battle without thinking things through.”

Henri nodded and continued with his breakfast.  What his papa just had said wasn't new; it was something he'd heard, in one form or fashion, many times.  A few minutes later, just as he was scraping the bottom of the bowl, he heard a tapping at the window.  He got up, opened the curtains, and then opened the window for the owl who'd been making the noise. He reached into a nearby jar, and fetched an owl treat for the bird.  It hooted quietly and held out its leg, which had a letter tied to it, before accepting the treat.

He unrolled the letter and read the name on it; it was addressed to him, and there was no mistake.  It even had the name of his Grandfather's house on it. It read:

Mr. H. de Brabant

The Villa

Belgrave Place

Westminster

“Papa, is this from Hogwarts?” he asked.

“Most likely, yes,” Nicolas answered, keeping well away from the morning light that was streaming through the window.  “Send the owl on its way and close the curtains, please.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered as he obeyed the instructions.  He sat down at the table next to his papa, and opened the envelope.  He pulled out the letter and read out loud for the benefit of his father:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL

of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

~

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,

Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

            Dear Mr. de Brabant,

                        We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.  As you are new to the country, please notify us if you wish a guide to show you around the Wizarding shopping area.

                        Term begins on September 1.  We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Henri looked up at his papa.  “Do you think we should ask for a guide?” he asked.

Nicolas seemed to think hard about the matter for a few minutes before he answered.  “Yes, I do,” he said.  “We shouldn't seem too familiar with the area; remember, we aren't supposed to have ever been here.”

Henri nodded.  The biggest secret he was supposed to keep was his birth identity.  It would be dangerous for him if it got out; as there were Death Eaters around who'd bought their escapes from justice.  He didn't mind, though.  He'd much rather be Henri de Brabant, pureblood heir to the de Brabant fortune, than be famous.  Being famous would take too many of his choices away.  As Henri, he could become what he wanted to be without worrying too much about public expectations.  Being famous would only get in his way. He'd much rather earn recognition by things he accomplished now, rather than something his papa said was accomplished by a mixture of blood-based protection spells that his parents had cast and sealed in their own blood, and his own innate magic.

He'd much rather be known as a potions master who invented the cure for vampirism and lycanthropy, or the first Minister of Magic to abolish laws that persecuted fringe members of their society or even the Head of Magical Law Enforcement who fought for equal justice under the law.  Those were, in his opinion, better things to be known for than mysteriously surviving an evil curse that no one else had ever survived.  Henri knew that all three were good dreams, but that all of them would take a lot of time, and a lot of hard, grueling work to achieve.  His papa had been a police officer once, so he knew something of how it went... at least amongst the Mortals.

“I guess I'd better answer then,” he said.  “When shall I request our guide to come?”

“LaCroix has called for a wandmaker that he has known for fifteen hundred years to come by tonight to fit you for a primary wand...  How about next Monday?”

Henri nodded.  “Are you okay for taking the sun potion?” 

“I haven't taken it much in the past few years because I knew this was coming,” Nicolas replied.  “I should be okay for this trip, taking you to the train, and all the other trips to pick you up this year.”  He smiled.  “Your grandfather has been talking of making a thrall to ferry you back and forth to Kings Cross.”

“I'm not sure I like that idea,” Henri said.  He didn't wait for his father's response.  Instead, he grabbed some parchment and a never-out quill and wrote both his acceptance and when they would be going to Diagon Alley.  He folded it, then gave his father a swift hug and headed to the owlery to mail his response.  Perhaps going to school wouldn't be so bad after all.  Diagon Alley certainly sounded like an adventure.

~*~*~*~

Henri was reading in the drawing room when he heard the bell ring.  “Papa, the Hogwarts person must be here,” he called as he headed to the front door to answer it. 

He opened the door to find a tall man dressed in black with sallow skin, a hooked nose, and lank greasy hair that, to Henri's mind, identified the man as a potions master.  The man also had a deeply graven scowl on his face that looked as if it were habitual.  “Potions Master,” he said with a deep bow.  “Come in, sir,” he said as he straightened up and held open the door.

The man came inside, and Henri closed the door behind him.  “Mr. de Brabant?” he said. 

Henri nodded.  “Yes, sir,” he said.  “My papa will be joining us.  If you'll follow me to the drawing room, sir, my father will be there shortly.”

The man inclined his head then motioned for him to continue.  Henri obeyed the silent order, and walked back to the drawing room.  Just as the man that Henri had pegged as a potions master was about to sit, his papa walked in.  “The letter I received said to expect you,” he said.

“Mr. de Brabant, my name is Severus Snape, and I'm the--”

“Potions Master,” Henri said quietly.

“Henri,” his papa's voice was stern.

“Yes, Papa,” Henri said.  He bowed slightly at Potions Master Snape.  “I apologize for interrupting, Master Snape,” he said.

“Accepted,” Master Snape said.  “I will be your professor soon.  Call me Professor Snape.”

Henri nodded.  “Yes, sir.”

Professor Snape turned to his papa.  “Have you connected the Floo yet, Mr. de Brabant?” he asked.

“For family only,” Nicolas said.  “We've altered the wards for today to allow you to Floo from here as Flooing is faster than walking to the Leaky Cauldron.”

Professor Snape looked startled, but the expression passed so quickly that Henri was almost sure he imagined it.  “You've been to the Leaky Cauldron?”  he asked.

“Briefly,” Nicolas said.  “I didn't have a chance to go to Diagon Alley, but Tom the barman said that the entrance was somewhere behind the pub.”

Professor Snape nodded.  “Very well.”

Nicolas walked over to the fireplace and pulled down a silver canister from the mantle and opened it.  “If you don't mind, Professor, I would rather that I go first so that someone will be there when Henri arrives.”

Professor Snape gestured to the fireplace and inclined his head.  “Not at all,” he said.

Henri was fairly sure the man realized what kind of trust he was being given--he was being left alone in a strange house that if he'd a mind to, and a time turner, he could probably burglarize before Flooing over.  His father handed him the tin, grabbed a handful, and threw it into the fireplace.  “The Leaky Cauldron,” he said clearly, and the stepped into the green flames.

Henri followed his example by first handing the canister to Professor Snape before throwing in his own handful.  After a dizzying ride, he stumbled out of the fireplace and was caught by his papa.  He waited next to him for the Professor to arrive, and then, together, the three of them headed out of the pub into the back alley. 

The professor tapped a brick, and Henri watched in fascination as the bricks rearranged themselves into an arch.  The Wizarding section of Brussels had a much different opening; though it was hidden. To most Mortals it looked like a pile of junk and he'd only ever been there at twilight, right before the shops closed.  Diagon Alley was bright, colorful and cheerful.  Henri knew that his grandfather would probably hate it.  With the ease of long practice, he hid his reaction so that prying eyes wouldn't see it. Grandfather had taught him that allowing the enemy to know one's emotional state was to hand said enemy a weapon.  As Henri didn't know yet who the enemy was, it was only prudent to hide his emotions from people he'd barely met and strangers.   Covertly, he glanced at his father, who was also wearing a poker face. 

“The bank first, I think,” Nicolas said.

Professor Snape raised an eyebrow.  “I didn't know that Gringotts dealt in international accounts,” he observed.

Nicolas waved a hand.  “I transferred a trifle here to cover expenses—Henri has a trust account here, of course, to pay for his schooling.”

The Professor eyed Henri for a moment before giving his papa a sharp nod.  “Follow me, then,” he said. 

Henri studied the man as they walked.  It was obvious, at least to him, that the last thing the Professor wanted to be doing was escorting him through the Alley.  He decided that he'd better be on his best behaviour to avoid irritating the man.  Not that he wouldn't have anyway; he was in public, after all.  He'd hate to see Tante Janette's reaction if he'd misbehaved in public.  She gave 'scary' a whole new meaning when she was upset.  His eyes scanned the poem above the lintel; aside from the language difference, as well as the rhyme and meter, it was much like the poem that graced the door of the branch in Brussels.

They went inside and waited in line for a teller.  When they reached the front, the goblin behind the counter eyed the three, then looked shifty-eyed at Professor Snape before he spoke.  “What business have you with Gringotts?” he asked.

Nicolas stepped forward.  “I need to make a withdrawal from Henri de Brabant's trust vault,” he said.

“Key, please,” the goblin said.

Henri watched as his papa fished a small golden key from the pocket of his cloak, and then handed it over.  Nicolas looked back at his son.  “After today, I expect you to keep track of your key, mon fils.”

“Oui, Papa,” Henri responded, mostly out of habit.  He still wasn't used to this speaking one language thing.

The goblin examined the key, nodded, and handed it back.  “It all looks in order.  Griphook!  Take the de Brabants to their vault.” he said.

A young-looking goblin who was standing next to a large, heavy door nodded.  “Follow me,” he said.  Griphook led them inside a cavern, very much unlike the exterior room.  They were ushered into a small, rickety-looking cart that stood on metal tracks.   “Is this like the fun park, Papa?” Henri asked.

With a sidelong glance at Professor Snape, Nicolas answered in French.  “Yes, Henri.  It is a bit like a roller coaster.”

A huge smile spread across Henri's face and he hurried into the cart to sit down.  “Brilliant!” he said.

He watched as his papa and Professor Snape filed into the cart after him.  Before the grown-ups were seated, Griphook threw a leaver, and the cart took off.  “Hands inside the cart,” Griphook ordered.

The ride down to the vaults was wild, and Henri was sure that he saw a flame from a dragon once.  Finally, they coasted to a stop, and the four of them stepped out of the cart.  “Key, please,” the goblin said.

Nicolas handed him the key, and he used it to open the vault.   They were greeted by a substantial pile of gold, silver, and bronze coinage.  His papa pulled a large silk bag from a pocket of his cloak, and started to pile some money in it.  Henri rushed over to help and listened to his papa.  “There are seventeen silver sickles to a galleon, and twenty nine bronze knuts to a sickle,” he explained. 

Together, they finished filling the bag.  “Will that be enough?” Henri asked.

Nicolas nodded and they walked back to the cart with Professor Snape following.  “You should have received a list with your letter, de Brabant,” he said as they climbed back into the cart and started the trip back to the surface.

“Yes, sir,” Henri said in English.  He pulled the letter out of his pocket and separated the pages.  Nicolas looked over his shoulder.  “Robes first,” he said.

Professor Snape gave them a short nod and led them over to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.  He excused himself quickly, by saying that he needed to visit the Apothecary to check and see if the ingredients for the students stores had arrived yet.

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve.  “Hogwarts?”  she asked.

Nicolas nodded.  “He'll need several sets of uniforms, robes included, and I'd like them tailored to him, complete with growth charms.  He also needs some casual robes—five sets.”

She nodded and led him towards the back.  “Have the lot here—another young man being fitted up just now, in fact.” 

A boy around Henri's age was standing on a stool, with another witch pinning up his long, black robes.  He was blond and very pale, as if he'd never seen the sun.  He was also a little shorter than Henri and had pointed, sharp features.  As directed, Henri stepped up on the stool and allowed a robe to be slipped on over his head.  It itched a little more than he was used to.  His papa took one look at it and shook his head.  “Madam Malkin, I require my son's uniforms to be made from something a bit better than that.  He's unused to much besides Egyptian cotton, fine linen, silk, velvet... well, I'm sure you understand.”

Madam Malkin nodded and took helped Henri remove the garment.  She returned a few minutes later with another, and slipped it on over his head.  He straightened as tall as he could and removed his hair from under the collar of the robe before standing perfectly still.  The witch started pinning up his robes, and his papa sat down in a spindly chair a short distance away. 

“Hello,” the boy standing next to him said.  “Hogwarts, too?”

“Yes,” Henri said.  “My family moved here to be closer to me while I attend.”

“Where are you from, then?” the boy asked.

“Belgium,” Henri replied.  “It's standard for those of us who live in countries without Wizarding schools to receive invitations to most of European schools.  Papa decided that Hogwarts was in my best interests.  Not many do, because most stick to the same language group.”

The boy nodded.  “Your English is good,” he commented.

“My mother was British,” Henri said, sticking to the cover story.

“Was?” the boy asked.

“She died during the war, so Papa took me back to Belgium,” Henri said.

“Oh, sorry,” the boy said, not sounding sorry at all.  “Play Quidditch much?”

“Not really,” Henri said.  “There weren't any wizarding children around the estate to play with.  I love flying, though.”

“Me, too,”  the boy said.  “I'm quite good at both flying and Quidditch.  Father says that it would be criminal if I'm not allowed to play Quidditch at Hogwarts.  I'm going to try and sneak a broom in.”

Henri wasn't sure if he'd ever be friends with the boy; it was too obvious that he was an absolute spoilt brat.  “I'll miss flying,” he said wistfully.  “Papa promised me a racing boom for Christmas.”  A sidelong glance showed that the boy was a bit jealous.

“Were your parents our sort?”  the boy asked, changing the subject.

“Were they magical?  Yes,” Henri said, knowing full well the prejudices amongst some circles in the Wizarding World.  “Can't see that it much matters, but I'm a pureblood.  Without the infusion of new blood that muggleborns and muggles bring, the magic would eventually be bred out of us.”

The boy looked shocked, and part of Henri was gleeful that he'd been able to provoke a reaction.  “My father says--” he began.

“Parents can be wrong,” Henri said.  “Diseases can be passed through family lines, and if you marry cousins too much, not only does the magic leave, but the children start being born squibs, and ugly ones to boot. It's happened to a lot of pureblood families who refused to marry outside their own family.”

The boy looked thoughtful, but soon changed the subject.  “Do you know what house you'll be sorted into?” he asked.  “I'll be Slytherin; all if my family has been.  Ravenclaw wouldn't be bad, but Hufflepuff...” he shuddered.  “I think I'd leave.”

“No idea,” Henri said, his face carefully blank.  “Mother was homeschooled, and Papa attended elsewhere.  I suppose they'll place us where we fit best.”

“I guess,” the boy looked dubious at the thought.

“There, dear, you're done with the robe,” Madam Malkin said. 

Henri hopped down from the stool and, with help, removed the robe.  He was sent to a dressing room to change into a uniform, sans robe, which was then perfectly fitted to his frame.  Luckily, it was done somewhere else, so he didn't have to listen to the pale boy again.  He examined himself in the mirror while the uniform was fitted.  He was a little bit taller than average for his age and slender thanks to his papa's insistence on a healthy diet and the exercise he engaged in, rather than the short, emaciated form of the other-Harry.  His hair wasn't messy; instead it fell in loose curls to his chin, and was usually tied back at the nape of his neck.  His blue-green eyes were unobstructed by glasses, and, thanks to the blood adoption, his features had refined slightly so that he was a mixture of his papa and his biological parents.

Madam Malkin soon finished with the uniform and carefully helped him remove it.  He changed back into the clothes he'd come in and followed her out to the main room.  “You can pick up the clothes in an hour,” she told his father.

Nicolas bowed slightly and nodded before pulling out his money bag and paying her. 

“I'll see you at Hogwarts then,” the pale boy said, who was still being fitted.

“I suppose,” Henri said, and then followed his papa out of the shop.  They were met by Professor Snape, who led them to an instrument store next, where they picked out the cauldron, phials (Nicolas paid to have Henri's initials monogrammed on them), a telescope, and a set of brass scales. 

The next shop was Flourish and Blotts, a bookstore.  Henri eagerly went inside and started browsing.  He took copies of the required texts from the shelves, along with a few others for extra reading.  The Professor helped, adding extra potions books to his stack.  Nicolas just watched with an amused smile, and Henri knew that he'd probably be teased about being a bookworm later on.  They paid for the books, which were shrunken and placed in a bag.

The Apothecary was next but before they could do anything, Professor Snape went to the front counter.  “A Slytherin potions kit, please,” he said.

The shop witch nodded and pulled a wooden box out from under the counter and handed it over.  Without a word, they paid for it and left the shop.  “You'll need a trunk, Henri,” Nicolas said.

A trunk shop was a little ways away.  They walked inside and were greeted by an old, stooped man.  Henri took a quick glance at the old wizard's hands and was unsurprised to see them rough and calloused from working the wood.  He knew that while it was a simple matter to construct an ordinary trunk with magic, magical trunks required quite a bit of hand work so as not to be contaminated with different magic before they were enchanted. 

Nicolas nodded to the shop wizard.  “I require a three compartment trunk,” he said.  “I would prefer it in cedar, with enough space for his clothing, both winter and summer, and all his school supplies.  I'd also like it spelled so that only he or a blood relation can open it.”

The old man raised an eyebrow.  “The latter will be extra,” he said.

Nicolas smiled.  “Not a problem,” he said.

The old man led them to a trunk that was a piece of beauty.  It was cedar, polished to a high shine, and bound in brass.  Satinwood inlay, in a simple geometric pattern, chased across the surface.  A brass nameplate was centered on the top.  “Magical locking charms,” the old man said.  “It will only be accessible to the owner, blood relatives, and House-elves.”

Nicolas examined the trunk minutely and nodded.  “How much?”

The old man named a price, and his papa paid the man.  “Lay your hand on the nameplate,” the old man instructed.

Henri obeyed and felt a sharp prick to his middle finger.  He watched in fascination as his name wrote itself across the brass.  He opened the trunk and placed his purchases inside, and then his father closed the lid and picked it up.  “You need a pet first,” he said.  “And then we'll see about a wand.”

The Professor, who had been watching the whole transaction, led them to the Magical Menagerie.  Henri felt a pull the moment he walked inside.  It was a feeling he'd been taught not to ignore, so he followed it towards a snowy owl.  He examined the markings, smiled, and held out his arm.  “Hello, girl,” he said.  “Would you like to come home with me?”

The owl hooted and hopped onto his arm, then climbed up to his shoulder where she nipped his ear gently.  Henri reached up and stroked her, then turned to his father.  “May I please have her, Papa?” he asked.  “She can deliver my messages home.”

Nicolas smiled a little.  “What will you name her?” he asked.

Henri stroked her feathers a bit while he thought.  He touched the platinum religious medal that his father had given him for his second birthday that he never took off.  Despite the fact that he had a family now, he was still an orphan... “Hedwig,” he said finally.

“The patron saint of orphans?” Nicolas asked.

“Yes, Papa,” Henri said with a small smile.

Nicolas picked out a cage and the equipment necessary to take care of Hedwig, and paid for all of it.  Ollivanders was their next stop.  Once inside, an odd little man measured him and had him start trying wands.  They went through twenty-five wands without success.  The shop was wrecked by the time they'd finished.  Ollivander finally stopped handing him wands.  “I wonder...” he said, and then headed towards the back.  He returned a few moments later with a box that he laid on the counter and opened.  Henri picked up the wand and gave it an experimental wave.  Sparks of all different colors shot out of it, and he felt a wave of warmth sweep through him.

“Most unexpected,” Ollivander said. 

Before they could find out what was unexpected about it, Nicolas put the money on the counter, and they left.  After a quick stop back at Madam Malkin's, they headed back to the entrance of the Alley.  Once they reached the Leaky Cauldron again, Professor Snape spoke.  “It is here that I leave you,” he said.

Nicolas bowed slightly, and Henri followed his example.  “We thank you for you time, Professor,” Nicolas said.

Professor Snape gave them a brief nod.  “It was not as... unpleasant as I expected.”  With that, the professor left.  Nicolas and Henri Flooed home.  Henri tripped once again coming out of the fireplace, and was caught by his papa.  “Keep your wands on you at all times,” Nicolas said.   “Remember, to use the one we bought today most often, as it is the one registered with the Ministry.”

Henri nodded and followed his papa's unspoken directions and headed up to his room. School started in a little more than a month, and there was plenty to accomplish between now and then.

~*~*~*~

Severus landed right outside the boundaries of Hogsmeade with a pop of displaced air. He'd actually doubled back to Ollivander's and asked why the wand had been an unexpected choice for the de Brabant boy. The reason was shocking, to say the least. That a foreign pureblood had ended up with the brother wand to the Dark Lord's was information that he knew Dumbledore would want. Of course, the real question was whether or not he should tell the manipulative old man. He knew that as an old friend of Dumbledore's, Ollivander would most likely inform him, which meant that he need not bother to do it. And if Ollivander didn't, well, it wasn't really any of his business, now was it? It was Slytherin business, for Severus was sure that the de Brabant boy would end up in Slytherin. It would be up to him to mentor the boy and subtly keep him on the side of the Light. He had determined a long time ago that he would do his best to keep his snakes from making the mistakes he had.

It would be hard, he knew, mentoring the de Brabant child and Lily's child as well. He owed it to Lily. He owed it to the child that should have been his, but was Potter's instead because he, Severus, had been stupid. He should have never followed Avery and Mulciber into the Dark Lord's service, even with the promise of his grandparents to pay for his schooling if he did. He'd had delusions of power then, virtually no prospects, and nothing to live for without Lily in his life. He shook himself from his reverie, and headed back to the castle. The Headmaster would want to see him, to find out how it went. It was rare that foreign children opted for Hogwarts as they tended to stick to their own language groups. Severus scowled. Most likely, the Headmaster would want to use de Brabant. It would be his job to thwart the old bastard in a way that it couldn't be traced back to him. He followed the Light, yes... but that didn't necessarily mean following Dumbledore.

He hurried into the castle and up through it to Dumbledore's office. "Revels," he muttered, and the gargoyle jumped aside. He stepped on the circular staircase and moved with it, almost running up the steps. He didn't bother to knock on the door. Instead, he pushed it open and entered.

Dumbledore looked up from his ever-present pile of paperwork and smiled. "Severus!" he said. "I've been expecting you."

Severus gave Dumbledore a deep nod. "It was not as... unpleasant as I feared it would be. The de Brabant boy is nothing like the Malfoy child."

The irritating old man had the gall to twinkle at him. "I found his father very pleasant," he said. "He firecalled me a little later to inquire if his son's music teachers would be allowed to see the boy here."

That news was a bit surprising. "Music?"

Dumbledore smiled genially. "Apparently, he plays the violin and the piano. To play both at eleven, he must be something of a prodigy."

The comment irritated Severus. Just because you could play an instrument didn't mean that you'd mastered it. Most likely, Henri de Brabant had had lessons since he could walk. It was the normal course of things for a wealthy pureblood child. "The boy was quiet, very polite, and most definitely not a spoilt brat." He could wish that more of his Slytherins could be that unassuming. To him, it looked like Henri de Brabant was the kind who could blend into the shadows, should he so desire.

Dumbledore gave him a benign smile that didn't fool Severus at all. "Was there anything... unusual about the visit?" he inquired.

"Aside from the fact that I was leading them around Diagon Alley? No." Severus said.

"What about Ollivanders?" Dumbledore asked.

Damn. Severus affected a careless shrug. "Ollivander never said exactly what was different about the boy's wand."

"Ah," Dumbledore steepled his fingers and his smile widened. "I have filled the Defense Post. Quirinus Quirrell has agreed to return."

"I have heard some disturbing rumors about the Dark Lord and the Philosopher's Stone," Severus said.

Dumbledore's expression turned serious. "I have spoken with Nicholas," he said. "He has agreed to allow me to protect the Stone here."

Privately, Severus thought that the old man had finally lost what few marbles he had left. The Philosopher's Stone had long been a draw for Dark Wizards, and he was bent on hiding it in a castle filled with school children? Quickly, he excused himself and made his way down to his dungeons. He had much to accomplish before the children arrived on the Express.

LaCroix didn't like the fact that Henri was leaving, at all. Sure, he put up a good front for Nicolas, but he didn't want his innocent grandson out in the world alone without any of them to protect him. He clutched the bundle of Moroccan leather tightly as he made his way to Henri's room. His grandson, the only natural with a blade that he'd ever had the pleasure of teaching, would today receive the means to protect himself physically from those who would wish him harm. It was only a few duplicates from his collection... and one special sword. There was no guarantee that the sword would accept Henri, but he had a better chance of it than most. Wizarding collectors would pay a large fortune for the blade, but it had been a gift from one of the few Mortal friends that LaCroix had allowed himself.

He stopped at the door, knocked, and then entered without waiting for a response. He walked over to where Henri was carefully packing his things hand handed the boy the leather bundle. "Take this with you, Snack," he said.

Henri looked up at his grandfather as he took the bundle. He stood and bowed, then gave LaCroix a puzzled look. "What is it?" he asked.

"Open it," he said.

Henri placed the bundle on the bed, untied the leather straps, and unrolled it, his nose wrinkling at the pungent smell of the well-oiled leather. Inside were seven swords, with spaces in the leather for more. The swords themselves were of the best workmanship and varied in age from over two thousand years old to only a few hundred. But the gem of the collection was a silver-hilted sword with an emerald set into the pommel, and the name "Salazar Slytherin" engraved upon the spine of the sword. He looked up at LaCroix, his face shocked. "But Grandfather-"

"I believe the sword will accept you," he said stiffly. "If the heritage potion you took last year is correct, you will be recognized by it and by Gryffindor's sword, should it ever be found."

Henri hesitated, and then reached for the sword. He slid it out of its slot and lifted it from the case. The result was disappointing, at first. After a few minutes, his hand was bathed in a soft, white glow.

LaCroix gave his grandson a sharp nod. "Your biological mother was from a squib line," he said. "She was only muggleborn because her family had forgotten much of their heritage. Most muggleborns are."

Henri nodded. And put the sword back in the case. "You even put the gladius I've been using in here."

Though Henri didn't know it, the gladius he'd given the boy was the one he'd used as a brand new legionnaire. It was for luck, as the sword had never failed LaCroix. While he told people he didn't believe in superstitious nonsense, extra good luck never hurt anybody. Instead of answering, he stepped forward and gave Henri a hug so brief it almost didn't happen. Immediately afterwards, still without a word, he left the room and headed back to the library.

Henri followed behind his papa into Kings Cross Station, carrying Hedwig's cage. Tante Janette had declined to come, as had Grandfather and Miss Urs. Both Tante Janette and Miss Urs had cried over him before he left, making him have to go and change clothes so that the spots the blood tears had left on his clothing wouldn't be noticed. "The ticket said Platform Nine and Three-Quarters," he murmured.

Nicolas nodded. "It won't be visible to Mo-Muggles," he said.

"Yes," Henri agreed. Entrances to the Wizarding world were never visible to ordinary humans.

"Luckily, I know where to find it," Nicolas continued.

Henri shot his papa a puzzled look as they continued to walk. "How?" he asked.

Nicolas smiled. "I slipped a book into your stack at the book shop—So Your Child is a Wizard: A Muggleborn Parents' Guide to the Wizarding World says that the wall between Platforms Nine and Ten is a gateway."

"And to the Mortals, it looks like a brick wall?" Henri asked.

Nicolas nodded absently as he found a trolley and placed the trunk on it. Henri followed suite and put the cage on top of the large, heavy trunk. "Lean against the wall casually," Nicolas instructed. "Don't draw attention to yourself."

Henri nodded again, and they soon reached the entryway. After getting a firm grip on the trolley, both of them leaned casually against the barrier and passed through it, pulling the trolley with them. He almost fell down, but his papa caught him. Henri smiled his thanks and gave his papa a hug before pulling the trolley to the train. He grabbed Hedwig's cage and eyed the trunk, trying to figure out how to lift the trunk onto the train. Fortunately for him, he didn't have to, because Nicolas grabbed the handles of it and climbed onto the train.

They found an empty compartment, and his papa placed the trunk into one corner of it. Henri put Hedwig on the overhead rack and ran over to give his papa a hug. "Do I have to go?" he asked in thirteenth century French.

Nicolas hugged him firmly. "Yes," he said firmly in the same language. "Do you have everything? Your lunch? Pocket money?"

Henri nodded. "Yeah," he answered in English. "I do."

Nicolas kissed Henri on the forehead, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a brown paper-wrapped package. "This is a communication mirror. You are to use it if you need anything—is that clear?"

"Oui, Papa," he said soberly. His papa was not to be disobeyed when he used that tone of voice.

Nicolas cupped Henri's cheek in one hand. "I love you, mon fils," he said. "Never forget that you have given me hope." His lips quirked into a smile. "Though that won't stop me from punishing you when you do something wrong."

Henri grinned. He'd rarely been punished, but he clearly remembered the times he'd been spanked for one thing or another. "I love you, too, Papa," he said, and then hugged his father one more time. "Will you be all right in the sun?" he asked.

Nicolas nodded. "The potion should last long enough for me to get back in the limousine. Be safe, Henri. Don't take unnecessary chances, and don't ever compromise your principles," he said.

Henri nodded soberly. "Oui, Papa... I promise."

With that, his papa left. Henri sat down on one of the seats, pulled a book on basic potions ingredient reactions from his trunk, and settled in. It was a long way from London to the Scottish highlands, and he didn't know if anyone would join him in the compartment. It was twenty minutes before eleven when the door opened and a pudgy, sandy-haired boy entered. "Hi," he said.

Henri smiled at him. The boy seemed shy. "I'm Henri de Brabant," he said. "Harry to my friends."

The boy smiled tentatively. "I'm Neville Longbottom," he said, holding out his hand.

Henri took it and shook. "You're welcome to join me," he said.

Neville smiled shyly. "Really?" he said.

"'Course," he said. "I'm in here all by myself, and I could use some company."

Neville hesitated. "I'd like to," he said. "But first I have to tell Gran where I am, because she's going to help me with my trunk. Want to come?"

"Sure!" Henri said with a smile. He'd never had a friend his own age before, and so far he really liked Neville. He walked beside his new friend as they left the compartment and Neville hurried over to an elderly woman, who was wearing a tall hat with a vulture on top, a green dress with a fox fur scarf, and carrying a large, red handbag.

"Gran!" Neville called with a big grin. "I found a place to sit... and I made a new friend. This is Henri de Brabant."

Henri caught up and bowed. "Mistress Longbottom," he said with a smile.

She looked him up and down, and then nodded. "Just like your father," she said approvingly, "making friends before the train leaves the station. Now, where are you sitting, Neville?"

With a big grin on his face, Neville offered to show her. The trio started back to the train, but Henri had to stop when he, literally, bumped into a young red-haired girl. He bowed a little. "Pardon me," he said.

"It's all right," she said. She held out her hand. "Ginny Weasley."

He took it and smiled, leaning over to place a small kiss on it. "Henri de Brabant," he said, straightening up. "If you'll excuse me, Miss Weasley, I need to catch up to my friend." He was in such a hurry that he missed the flash of anger that had passed over her face at the mention of his name. He raced back to the train and climbed inside, bumping into a set of red headed twins. "Sorry," he said.

"No problem," one of the twins said with a friendly smile.

Henri cocked his head to the side and studied them. "Y'know, if I were you two, I'd be playing pranks all the time, 'cause one of you could always pretend to be the other to give both of you an alibi."

The twins both gave him identical mischievous grins. "It looks like," one said.

"We've been caught," the other said.

"Brother dear," said the first twin.

"Best thing we can do," said the other.

"Is recruit this one," said the first.

"As our new apprentice," said the second one. "I'm George."

"And I'm Fred," the other one said.

Henri grinned and held out his hands. "Harry," he said. "At least to my friends."

The twins took his hands and shook them vigorously. "Hope to see you in Gryffindor, Harry," Fred said.

Henri nodded. "Maybe," he said. "Depends on where I'm sorted, I suppose." He smiled at them. "I'd better go back to my compartment."

"See you," George began.

"Later," Fred said. "Our friend Lee..."

"Has a tarantula we want to see..."

"Anyway..." With that, the twins left and Henri made his way back to his compartment.

He went inside to find another red haired boy who looked quite a bit like the twins sitting with Neville.

"Hi," he said with a smile. "I'm Harry." He sat down just in time so as not to be thrown back when the train started going.

The boy's head shot up. "Harry Potter?" he asked hopefully.

Inwardly Henri winced. The hero worship on the boy's face was why he was glad that his scar and birth identity were both hidden. He was quite used to wearing the blood-based glamour, and didn't even notice it anymore. He smiled instead. "Henri de Brabant, actually," he said. "My friends call me Harry, though. It's what my mother called me, I'm told."

Neville gave him a sympathetic look. It was then Henri remembered from his history and politics lessons what he'd been told about the Longbottoms. He gave Neville the same look.

"What happened to her?" Ron ventured to ask.

When constructing his cover story, they'd stuck as close to the truth as possible, as it would be easier to remember. "My mother was British," he explained. "And she was murdered during the last war."

Ron looked sorry that he'd asked. "I'm sorry," he said. "Do you remember her at all?"

Harry shook his head. "Not much," he said, telling the truth. "I hear her screaming in my nightmares sometimes. I was there when they killed her, but they missed me. My Papa was away at the time, or I probably would have been orphaned." He turned to Neville. "I'm sorry about your parents," he said. "I know they were... hurt, and you're pretty much an orphan, too."

"Too?" Ron said.

Henri shrugged. "I'm half-orphaned," he said. "I was just lucky that I still had Papa."

Neville was quiet for a few minutes, and then he changed the subject. "Gran was surprised when I got my letter," he said. "My family thought I was a squib for a long time, because I didn't show any signs of magic."

"My mother placed blocks on my magic because it was a bit out of control," Henri said. "Papa found out when I was four and had them removed. Maybe we should go to hospital and ask the mediwitch to check you, yeah?"

Neville looked thoughtful, and finally nodded. "Yeah," he agreed. "Maybe that's it."

Ron seemed to be deep in thought. "Did you say your name is de Brabant?" he asked finally.

Henri nodded. "Yeah..." he answered cautiously. "And your name is Weasley. Grandfather said that they've arranged a betrothal contract between our two families, so I'm to marry your sister."

The look on Ron's face cleared. "I knew I'd heard your name before," he said. "I think we're all on scholarships from the de Brabant Foundation, too."

Henri nodded. "It's possible," he said. "The Foundation funds lots of scholarships for magical children from impoverished families. Papa says that children shouldn't be denied an education just because their families don't have a lot of money." He shrugged. "It wouldn't be right."

Ron looked astonished at the concept that anyone could just give away that much money based upon principle. "You're lucky," he said. "I'm the sixth boy in my family, so I get all the hand-me-downs."

"I get some, too," Neville said. He pulled a wand out of his pocket. "This was my dad's."

Henri shook his head. "No, I'm not," he said. "I bet the two of you had other kids to play with."

Both Neville and Ron nodded.

"I didn't," he said. "I'm an only child, and Papa moved us back to our ancestral home after Mother's murder. It's isolated, so I grew up without anybody else to play with."

"But hand-me-downs," Ron said in a complaining voice.

"Are lots better and more comfortable than what I'm stuck with," Henri said with a sigh. "I'd love to wear jeans, jumpers, and trainers. Instead, I'm stuck with this," he said disgustedly, gesturing towards his white silk poets shirt, black linen trousers, and black lambswool cloak. "My family is cursed with really sensitive skin, so even though I'm not, I still have to wear what Papa buys. I've never been allowed out of a grown-up's sight much, so I can't buy my own, either."

Ron looked sympathetic. "Sorry, mate," he said.

"Me, too," Neville echoed.

"Bet you don't have a hand-me-down pet, though," Ron said with a smile. "I've got Scabbers—he used to be Percy's—and he's pretty useless." He pulled a fat, grey rat from his pocket and showed it off.

Hedwig opened one eye and hooted. "Better put him away," Henri advised. "Hedwig thinks that rats are delicious."

Ron paled and tucked Scabbers back into his pocket.

"Uncle Algie was so pleased when I got my letter that he bought me my toad," Neville said. He pulled a toad out of his pocket and showed them. "I named him Trevor, but he keeps running away."

Henri looked thoughtful. "Maybe he's looking for something different to eat," he suggested.

Neville nodded. "I thought of that," he said. "I'm going to take him to the Magical Creatures teacher and see if he has any suggestions."

They were quiet for a little while, watching the fields and hills slip past. Around half past twelve, they heard a loud clank and clatter outside in the corridor, and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said, "Anything off the cart, dears?"

Henri knew he had a substantial lunch in his trunk, but he'd never been able to share food before, so he jumped up and went over to the cart. Neville followed him. "Three pumpkin juices, um... pumpkin pasties, a few chocolate cauldrons, and some frogs, please," he said.

The witch smiled at him. "Hungry, dear?"

He nodded in agreement and handed over a galleon and five sickles to cover his order. She handed him his items, and he took them back into the compartment. He put them on his seat, and dug his lunch out of his trunk.

Neville returned a few minutes later carrying cauldron cakes, a few licorice wands, and some Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. He put them down before digging a brown paper bag out of his own luggage.

"We should pool our lunches," Henri suggested. "That way, we'll get more variety."

Ron hesitated. "I only have corned beef sandwiches," he said. "And they're a bit dry. With seven of us, Mum doesn't have a lot of time..."

"Come on," Henri said encouragingly. "We can all share."

Neville grinned and pulled roast beef sandwiches, biscuits, and what looked like a large, wax-paper packet of crisps out of his bag. "Our House-elves made it," he said.

Henri contributed his sweets, the juice, and some carrot sticks, some chicken salad sandwiches, and some apples to the pile. "Papa convinced ours a long time ago not to feed me sweets," he said.

Ron looked horrified at the thought as he put his corned beef sandwiches into the pile of food. "Why?" he asked.

Henri pulled a face. "They used to like to stuff me with them, and I kind of got sugar highs and drove Papa barmy. Now I only have them on special occasions. I just hope that our House-elves haven't spoken with the ones at Hogwarts."

The three of them happily dove into their shared feast, with Henri ending up with all the chocolate frog cards, as his were all in French and Dutch, not English, so he didn't have any of the British cards. The first packet he opened had a Dumbledore. Henri quickly put it away without reading it; he'd been warned to be wary around Dumbledore. His papa had told him that there was something he just didn't like about the old man.

He also got several other cards, including a Morganna, a Merlin, and a Godric Gryffindor. Just then, Trevor made a bid for freedom, but was stopped when Henri caught him and handed him back to Neville.

Ron pulled Scabbers out of his pocket, and absently fed him a bit of bread and chicken from the sandwiches. "Not sure I'd want to keep a toad if I had one," he commented.

"I didn't really want a toad, either," Neville said. "But he was a present, and I've grown fond of him." He stuffed Trevor back into his pocket and buttoned it.

Ron gave Neville a little smile. "Well, it's not like I have the right to talk." He poked the fat, gray rat who was asleep in his lap. "I did bring Scabbers, after all." The rat didn't wake at all. "I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but it didn't work." He looked doubtful. "'Course, it could be the spell what was wrong; Fred and George gave it to me, and they love to prank people."

"You could show us," Henri suggested. "Grandfather taught me a bit of Old Magic; I might be able to see if it's a spell at all."

Ron simply nodded, and dug around in his trunk. He emerged a few minutes later holding a battered wand. He sighed. "The unicorn hair's almost poking out," he said, then pointed it at Scabbers.

"It's okay," Neville said comfortingly. "I've got my dad's and I can barely get any sparks out of it at all."

Ron brightened a bit at that. "Mine used to be my brother Charlie's, and I can at least get a decent reaction out of it."

He leveled the wand at Scabbers again, but just as he was about to begin, the door banged open. Standing in the doorway was a young girl with bushy brown hair who was already wearing her Hogwarts uniform. "Have you seen a little black kitten with white socks?" she asked. "A girl named Hannah lost hers when it escaped from its basket." She had a very bossy sort of voice, large front teeth, and her arms were crossed over her chest.

"No, we haven't," Henri said. "The only pets we've seen are ours."

She must have caught sight of Ron's drawn wand, because her lips tightened a bit. "Are you going to do magic?" she asked. "Let's see it, then."

Ron grimaced, rolling his eyes at Neville and Henri. He waved his wand over Scabbers, and then jabbed the point of it at the rat. He took a deep breath and then started to recite.

"Sunshine, daisys, butter mellow,

Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow!"

Scabbers stayed grey, and just turned over, snoring. "That wasn't very good, was it?" the girl asked. "I've tried loads of spells since I got my letter, and they've all worked for me. I was ever so surprised when I got my letter. There's nobody magical in my family at all, so my parents were shocked as well. I've already almost memorized my textbooks, I hope that's enough. I'm Hermione Granger, and you are..."

"Ron Weasley," Ron said.

"Neville Longbottom," Neville said.

"Pleasure," Hermione said. She turned to Henri.

"Henri de Brabant," Henri replied. He stood and bowed slightly. Tante Janette had been a stickler for manners and made sure that they'd almost become automatic for him. If the girl had been holding out her hand, he probably would have kissed it.

"Are you really?" Hermione asked. "My parents received a letter from The de Brabant Foundation, offering help if they couldn't afford tuition, fees, and books for Hogwarts. They're dentists, though, so it wasn't a problem." Before any of them could say anything, she turned to leave the compartment. "I need to go look for Hannah's kitten. Oh, and did you know that you have some dirt on your nose?" she asked Ron, and then laid her finger on the right side of her nose. "It's right there." She shut the door on her way out.

"Girls," Henri said in disgust. He'd never quite gotten over the idea that girls were icky, and after his Papa had showed him some classic, black-and-white horror movies, he was convinced that they came from the Black Lagoon.

Neville nodded. "Are they always that weird?" he asked.

"Always," Ron said with a firm nod. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and scrubbed it at his nose. "I have a little sister, I should know."

"Yes, and I," Henri paused for dramatic effect. "...have to marry her."

"Hey!" Ron protested, and then smiled. "I don't think I'd want to marry her, either."

Henri laughed. "I don't know her," he said. "Papa told me that part of the reason why they chose to send me to Hogwarts was so that I might be able to get to know your sister. Really, we don't have to marry when we grow up if we don't want to. There are a whole bunch of out clauses in the contract."

"There always are," Neville said. "Gran told me. Mum and Dad were negotiating a contract for me with the Boneses when they were... hurt."

Henri nodded. "I was four when Papa, Tante Janette, and Grandfather set mine."

Ron looked cheerful. "Except for Ginny, none of us have contracts," he said. "I think Ginny only has one because she's the first girl in seven generations. When I grow up, I can marry who I like."

"See?" Henri pointed out. "You're lucky."

"Maybe," Ron said. "But there are lots of expectations for me. Bill's a cursebreaker, Charlie works with dragons in Romania, Percy is a prefect, and the twins are really popular and funny."

"Forge your own way," Neville suggested. "I have to. Gran is always comparing me to Dad... and somehow I always come up short."

"That's because you're not him," Henri said wisely. "You're a different person and I bet you're good at different things."

Neville nodded. "I like Herbology," he said.

"You'll probably be good at Potions, too, then," Henri said. "They're related a good bit."

"The Potions professor is the meanest teacher in school," Ron warned. "My brothers all think so."

"Professor Snape?" Henri asked.

Ron nodded. "Yeah," he said. He was about to say something more, but the door opened and the pale blond kid from Madam Malkin's walked in. He was alone, which struck Henri as odd, as he seemed the type to be backed up by thugs.

"I'm looking for Henri de Brabant," he said. "Father told me he'd be on the train today."

Henri crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow. "I'm Henri de Brabant," he said.

"I'm Malfoy, Draco Malfoy," the blond said.

Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been hiding a snigger. Draco Malfoy turned to look at him. "Think my name's funny do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me that all Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."

Ron turned bright red.

Malfoy held his hand out to Henri. "You'll find that some British wizarding families are better than others. You wouldn't want to make friends with the wrong sort."

Henri eyed him as Neville put an arm across Ron to keep him from hitting the blond. "You know, I was taught to have better manners, breeding, and class than to insult someone based upon how much money their family has." He paused, watching as Malfoy turned a pale pink. "Obviously, some people who are currently in this compartment uninvited haven't learned about grace and class."

"I'd be careful if I were you, de Brabant," Malfoy said. "Father told me about what happened to your mother-consorting with mudbloods, she was, and that's why she's no longer here. You wouldn't want to end up like her, would you?"

Henri made a show of examining his fingernails, and then buffed them on his shirt. "Some people obviously haven't paid their tutors any mind," he said. "Because some people who are supposed to know better are acting like common guttersnipes."

Malfoy's blush deepened and rather than respond, he turned around and left. Ron burst out laughing. "Way to go, Harry!" he said.

Neville shook his head slowly. "You've made an enemy, Harry," he said. "Though I should congratulate you for your good choice in enemies."

Henri smiled. "I ran into him at Madam Malkin's. He doesn't seem the kind of person I want to be friends with... though we're only eleven, and people can change," he shrugged.

"My dad says that the Malfoys are all dark wizards, and that they followed You-Know-Who," Ron said. "They got off, though."

"Bought their way out of Azkaban," Neville chipped in. "At least that's what Gran says."

Henri opened his mouth to reply, but the door opened again, revealing a fat boy with thick blond hair and small watery blue eyes that honestly reminded Henri of a pig in a wig. "I'm Dudley," he said self-importantly, "Dudley Dursley."

The boy crammed his right hand into his pocket self-consciously and Henri caught a flash that he recognized—it was the Traitor's Mark. The name rang a bell, too, but he just couldn't place it. "And you're barging into our compartment because..." Ron said.

The boy's piggie eyes roamed the compartment until they lit upon the small pile of sweets that the threesome hadn't gotten around to eating yet. "I'm here to take a toll," he said. Dudley reached for the pile of sweets, exposing the Mark on his hand again.

"No, you're not," Neville said, standing up. It seemed as if making some friends so soon had bolstered the boy's courage.

Henri stood and joined his friend, his arms folded across his chest. "I bet you were a bully at your old school," he said. "You won't do that here."

Ron stood up, too. "Dursley isn't a wizarding name," he observed. "And that means that you're just like anybody else, because your parents won't have much in the way of pull."

Dudley started to bluster, and it was then that Henri remembered where he'd seen him before—he was the prat who'd pushed him down at the fun park. Another memory surfaced. Dursley. He'd heard the name because it was his former Aunt's and Uncle's surname. "Wait... that's why you have the Mark. Your parents were the ones who sold Harry Potter." He exchanged a glance with Neville and Ron.

"Out," Ron ordered. "We won't take any of your bullying, traitor."

"And you'll find that no one else in the school will, either," Neville added.

Together, the three of them pushed the boy out of the compartment and closed the door. As they sat down, Ron said, "So, do either of you like Quidditch?"

The three of them spent the rest of the trip talking, laughing, and playing exploding snap until just before they reached the station. Henri peeked out the window, and seeing the station approaching, told the other two boys that they needed to change into their uniforms. A voice echoed through the train: "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train; it will be taken to the school separately."

The three boys packed up the lunch leftovers and disembarked from the train. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students, and Henri heard an unfamiliar voice. "Firs' years! Firs' years over here!" the biggest, hairiest man Henri had ever seen called. "C'mon, follow me- any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"

Slipping, sliding, and stumbling, all of them, as a group, followed the man down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. It was so dark on either side of them that Henri was forcibly reminded of the forest near his home where his papa had taught him how to hunt. Nobody spoke much, he decided it was because they were just as apprehensive as he was.

"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o'Hogwarts in a sec," the man called over his shoulder, "jus' round this bend here."

There was a loud "Oooooh!

The narrow path had opened into what appeared to be a huge black lake. The water glimmered slightly in the light from the lantern. Perched upon a mountaintop on the other side of the lake was a huge castle with many turrets and towers, its many windows glinting and glimmering in the light from the windows. As Henri eyed the building set against the starry sky, he wondered what had happened to the castle's fortifications. His castle still had the walls and battlements—why didn't Hogwarts? After all, the Wizarding World, according to his grandfather, was still mired in the past, so why hadn't they kept the fortifications that would protect the school against attack?

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of small boats in the water by the shore. Harry, Neville, and Ron were followed into their boat by Hermione.

"Everyone in?" shouted the man, who had a boat to himself. Henri privately though that anyone else in the boat with the man would be sure to founder it. "Right then—FORWARD!"

The fleet of small boats moved off all at once, gliding across the surface of the lake with nary a ripple to disturb the smooth surface. The first years were still silent, staring up at the huge castle overhead. It towered over them, making Henri feel very small and awkward as they moved closer and closer to the cliff on which the castle stood.

"Heads down!" the big man yelled as the first boats reached the cliff. They all bent their heads so as not to knock them on the top of the opening as the boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid the opening from casual sight in the cliff face. Henri looked overhead and wondered if there was a grate or something that would come down in case of attack to block entryway into the castle. The boats took them along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of underground harbor, where they clambered out onto the rocks and pebbles.

They climbed out of the boats and followed the big man up the passage, climbing what seemed to be millions of steps until they reached a large door. "Everyone here? Everyone got everything?" When there was no answer, the man raised a large hand and pounded three times on what must have been the castle door.

Henri held his breath as the door swung open, revealing a stern-looking woman. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight bun and a tall hat was perched on top of her head. She was wearing full, emerald green robes with a swath of tartan across them, and his first thought at seeing her was that she wasn't someone to cross.

"The Firs' Years, Professor McGonagall," said the big man.

"Thank you, Hagrid," she said. "I will take them from here."

She opened the door wider and led them through the entrance hall towards a small antechamber right off the entrance to the main hall. Henri looked around with avid interest; there had to be secret passages around somewhere. There ceiling was too high to see, and the entrance hall was huge! They passed a large, white marble staircase on the way to the antechamber, too. As they came to a halt, he examined the flagged stone floor. He turned his attention to the Professor; there would be time to ferret out the secret passageways later.

The antechamber was small, and all the first years stood, crowded rather closer together than they would usually have done, peering about nervously. Henri, himself, wasn't that nervous—he'd never heard of students being sent home their first day, nor had he heard of first years students being sent to hospital on their first day, so he figured that whatever qualified them for the Houses wouldn't be painful.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rulebreaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."

Her eyes lingered on Dursley's cloak, which was so turned around that it was almost backwards, and one boy's hair, which looked as if he'd taken a weed whacker to it, and then slept on it funny. Henri resisted the urge to check his own hair, as he'd tidied it before he'd left the train.

"I shall return for you shortly, when we are ready for you," Professor McGonagall said. "Please wait quietly."

She left the chamber. Beside Henri, Neville swallowed. Henri glanced at his friend—the boy looked terrified. "Relax," he murmured. "It can't be that bad."

"Let's make a pact," Neville said in a high, unnatural voice. "That no matter what houses we get sorted into, we'll stay friends."

"Agreed," Henri said instantly.

"But, what if one of us ends up in Slytherin?" Ron said uncertainly. "I mean, Slytherins are evil..."

"Not all of them are," Henri said, remembering stories his grandfather had told him about the founder. "It's true that a lot of them followed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in the last war, but the house has been around for a long time before that, and not all of them have been dark wizards."

Neville was nodding, but Ron looked unconvinced. Henri tried again. "Would you really stop being friends with either of us if we happened to be sorted into Slytherin?"

Slowly, Ron shook his head. "No," he said finally. "I'm not sure how we're even sorted. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was having me on. Maybe it's some sort of test?"

Hermione Granger must have heard him, because she immediately began whispering very fast about all the spells she'd learned and wondering which one she'd need. "I doubt it," he said. "Wouldn't be fair to the muggleborns and squib borns, now would it?"

"No, it wouldn't," Neville's voice had returned to almost normal. "But life isn't fair... Dursley's Mark proves that. His parents were the ones who sold the Boy-Who-Lived, not him. He's our age, so he was just a baby at the time."

"I bet he ends up in Slytherin," Ron muttered. "Anybody whose parents would sell their own blood for dirty money will come to a bad end."

As it happened, Henri almost agreed with Ron, so he kept his silence. He knew how lucky he was that his papa had found him that night. Had it been a Death Eater, he would most likely be dead. As it was, he'd grown up in a family, that while odd by some standards, had loved him, and did love him, very much. Aside from Hermione's whispering, the entire group was quiet, waiting to be called.

Several people behind him screamed, making him jump. Some people gasped as about twenty ghosts streamed through the back wall. Pearly-white and slightly transparent, they glided across the room talking and arguing about the fate of someone named, "Peeves". One ghost, noticing them, swept her skirts aside in an elegant curtsy, then seemed to sit down, still hanging in midair, and pulled out a spectral book and started to read.

"Oh, hello there," A fat ghost dressed as a friar said. "Are you waiting to be Sorted?"

A few people nodded without speaking.

"Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!" said the Friar. "My old house, you know."

"Move along now," said the semi-familiar voice of Professor McGonagall. "The Sorting Ceremony is about to begin." The ghost all floated through the wall. Even the lady ghost who'd been reading pocketed her book and followed the others.

"Form a line," she requested. "And follow me. Your name will be called to be Sorted into your house."

Staying as close to his new friends as possible, Henri lined up with the others and made his way into the main hall, his legs feeling a bit like jelly. It wasn't the largest room he'd ever been in, but it was close. Instead of the torches and Mortal lighting he was used to, thousands upon thousands of candles were lit and floating all by themselves to light the room. He looked up to see a starry sky, as if they were standing outside. Briefly, he remembered his Grandfather telling him that it was charmed to look like the weather outside, and his thoughts were echoed by Hermione's whispers.

Henri looked down again as Professor McGonagall set down a three-legged stool with a patched and frayed black hat on it. He eyed the hat, distractedly thinking that there must be more magic holding it together than fabric. Part of his mind noticed that everyone was staring at the hat, so it must have something to do with the Sorting. Perhaps they had to try it on? He soon found out that he was right as a rip in the brim opened itself up and the hat began to sing:

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,

But don't judge on what you see,

I'll eat myself if you can find

A smarter hat than me.

You can keep your bowlers black,

You top hats sleek and tall,

For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat

And I can cap them all.

There's nothing hidden in your head

The Sorting Hat can't see,

So try me on and I will tell you

Where you ought to be.

You might belong in Gryffindor,

Where dwell the brave at heart,

Their daring, nerve, and chivalry

Set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff,

Where they are just and loyal,

Those patient Hufflepuffs are true

And unafraid of toil;

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,

If you've a ready mind,

Where those of wit and learning,

Will always find their kind;

Or perhaps in Slytherin

You'll make your real friends,

Those cunning folk use any means

To achieve their ends.

So put me on! Don't be afraid!

And don't get in a flap!

You're in safe hands (though I have none)

For I'm a Thinking Cap!"

Henri darted glances at his friends, who looked relieved. "Fred was having me on," Ron muttered. "He said we had to wrestle a troll!" He took a deep breath and let it out as Professor McGonagall started calling names.

"Abbott, Hannah!"

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails sat on the stool and the hat was placed on her head. A few moments later, the rip opened again, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Bones, Susan!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat again, and the girl, who must've been Susan, hurried off to sit next to Hannah.

"Boot, Terry!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

The table second from the left clapped and several Ravenclaws stood up to congratulate the boy. Henri settled into just listening for his name as "Brocklehurst, Mandy" went to Ravenclaw, but "Brown, Lavender became the first new Gryffindor.

"Bulstrode, Millicent" became a Slytherin, and a few minutes later, Henri heard his name.

"de Brabant, Henri!" McGonagall called.

Henri made his way up to the stool and sat down. The Slytherins were whispering and staring at him as the hat descended over his head and blocked out the rest of the room.

"Hmmm..." a small voice said in his ear. "This is interesting. I've never seen shields so tight on one so young. Would you drop them, please?" Henri didn't want to; Grandfather had told him that he should never, ever drop his guard. Apparently, the hat caught that thought, because it said something. "I won't spill any of your secrets, young de Brabant. I'm magically bound not to. You're safe with me, now please drop your shields so that I may Sort you."

Henri sighed and complied. "Difficult," the hat said. "My, I've rarely seen a head like yours in all my thousand years, Mr. de Brabant—or should I say Mr. Potter?"

"I don't use that name!" Henri protested silently.

"True, but it is your name young one, it's all in your head. Three parents? And one of them a vampire? Yes, I see why you would want to keep your secrets."

"Can we just get on with this?" he asked.

The Hat laughed. "My, you are impatient, aren't you? I suggest that you come to the Headmaster's office to speak with me sometime. Now, let's see. My, my, my," it said. "The Founders would come to blows over you. I've rarely seen such a balanced individual in all my years of Sorting. You'd do well in any House, young one. Courage you have in plenty, though it's tempered by a desire to always think things through before you act. There's strategy and tactics stuffed into your head with a great desire to prove yourself and make your family proud. And a love of learning I see, though you like your learning to be for a purpose. And loyalty, my, what loyalty you have to those who have raised you. So where to put you..."

"Not Slytherin, please" Henri requested. "Grandfather says we won't be able to keep my birth name a secret forever, and Slytherin would not be safe for me then because it has the highest concentration of Death Eater's children."

"That is valid reasoning," the Hat said. "Slytherin though it is. You could do very well there, but you would do equally well in any House. Remember that not all children are willing to follow in their parents' footsteps, and not all Death Eaters were Slytherins."

"I know," Henri said.

"Well then," the Hat said.

"Maybe he's a squib," a first year yelled.

"Not a squib," the Hat corrected. "He's very talented, just hard to sort. He'd do well in any of the Houses!" The hall fell silent, as if everyone was holding their breath.

"I see your family in here, and a great love and loyalty to them. Ah, your Grandfather was a Roman General and taught several warlords how to wage war... And your Aunt was a French noblewoman forced into prostitution... Your nanny a pool hall girl with much loyalty to those she cares for... And your father, ah, the father you adore and idolize was and still is very much a Crusader. Yes, you would do well in the House he would have belonged to, had he attended here. It had better be-GRYFFINDOR WITH THE RIGHT TO RESORT AT ANY TIME!"

The Great Hall was silent as the Hat was removed and Henri dazedly put his shields up and made his way to the table that Lavender Brown had gone to earlier. He was sitting before he noticed the absolute silence, and then the Gryffindor table erupted into cheers. "We've got de Brabant!" the Weasley twins cheered.

Another red-haired boy, wearing a prefect badge, came over and shook his hand. "Good to have you here," he said pompously. "I'm Percy, Percy Weasley."

The Hall slowly quieted down as "Dursley, Dudley" was called. He, too, sat a long time under the hat until, "SLYTHERIN" was called. The fat boy wobbled his way to the correct table and sat down with the other first years, who moved away from him.

"Granger, Hermione," was sorted into Gryffindor, as was Neville, who came to sit next to him. "Potter, Hadrian!" was called, to absolute silence. Part of Henri wanted to answer, but he firmly clamped down on the urge until it passed. The Hall was silent for a moment, and then the Sorting continued.

From where he was sitting, he could see the High Table properly. He recognized Dumbledore from the card, and the impression of not being able to trust the man increased as he saw him in person. He did, however, recognize the Potions Master and gave the man a smile and a little wave. It was acknowledged with a small nod.

When his eyes swept over a man wearing a purple turban, he felt a sharp pain in his scar that he did his absolute best not to show. It would look far too suspicious if he were to clutch his forehead when as far as anyone at school knew, there was nothing there. There were only four people left to be Sorted. "Thomas, Dean," joined Henri at the Gryffindor table. "Turpin, Lisa," became a Ravenclaw and then it was Ron's turn. From the way his lips were moving, he was begging the Hat to put him in Gryffindor, and he looked a little sick. He was pale and pasty by the time the Hat announced, "GRYFFINDOR!" As Ron's brothers congratulated him, "Zabini, Blaise" was sorted into Slytherin.

Henri was looking at his empty plate, realizing how hungry he was, as Dumbledore stood up. He was beaming, and his arms were spread wide, which conversely, made Henri mistrust him more. "Welcome," he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts. I trust that your minds are currently as empty as your stomachs! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

"Thank you!"

Dumbledore sat back down and everyone clapped and cheered. Henri was thoughtful. It was obvious to him that the man was putting on an act. He was pretending to be a harmless, slightly barmy old man in order to better manipulate the populace. He shook himself out of his reverie as the tables suddenly filled with food. He'd never seen so many things he liked to eat before in one place, as the House-elves at home usually only prepared enough for just him. They'd kept the portions sizes to just enough for one, too, after his papa had given them books on nutrition a few years ago.

He ignored most of the chatter around him as he strengthened his shields and concentrated on putting food on his plate. He started eating when his shields were sufficiently strong, enjoying the flavors of the food. He glanced up at the table again to see the purple-turbaned man talking to Professor Snape. "Who's the man wearing the purple turban?" he asked.

"Oh, that's Professor Quirrell," Percy said. "He's the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Just back from sabbatical to Albania to study vampires. He's a bit of a nervous nellie, but not a bad teacher. A bit short on practical, though."

Henri nodded as the plates cleared, leaving them sparkling clean, and desserts appeared. He tried a bit of treacle tart, only to find it far too sweet, before settling for a bit of strawberry ice cream. He loved strawberries, and the ice cream had large chunks of the fruit in it.

At last, the desserts disappeared, and Dumbledore got to his feet again. The hall fell silent, for the man had a way of catching the attention of a crowd.

"Ahem—just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do to remember that as well."

Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins. That made Henri smile, because he figured that the twins would be prime candidates for helping him look for secret passageways in the castle.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch.

"And finally, I must tell you that, this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

"Is he serious?" he heard Neville ask.

"Must be," Percy said. "Though he usually gives a reason why something isn't allowed."

To Henri, it seemed as if the old man was daring someone to go there, announcing that there was something valuable there to be stolen.

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried Dumbledore. Henri noticed that the other teachers' expressions glazed over and their smiles looked forced.

Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he were trying to get a fly off the end, and a long ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words. "Everyone pick their favorite tune," he said, "and off we go!"

Henri picked a song that his papa had written and the school started to bellow:

"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,

Teach us something please,

Whether we be old and bald

Or young with scabby knees,

Our heads could do with filling

With some interesting stuff,

For now they're bare and full of air,

Dead flies and bits of fluff,

So teach us things worth knowing,

Bring back what we've forgot,

Just do your best, we'll do the rest,

And learn until our brains all rot."

Everybody finished the song at different times, with the Weasley twins being last, because they'd chosen to sing it to a slow funeral march. Dumbledore conducted the last few lines with his wand, and when they finished, he clapped the loudest.

"Ah, music," he said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"

The Gryffindor first years followed Percy and his female counterpart through the chattering crowds, out of the Great Hall, and up the marble staircase. Although Henri was sleepy, he paid close attention to where they were going, unsurprised at the sight of moving and whispering portraits, and noting the hidden doorways they were led though. They stopped as a floating bundle of water balloons accosted them, and as they prefects took steps forward, they started throwing themselves at the group. "Peeves! Show yourself!"

A loud, rude sound was all they heard. Henri could have sworn that someone was blowing raspberries at them.

"Do you want me to go find the Bloody Baron?" Percy asked.

There was a loud pop, and a little man with wicked, dark eyes and a wide mouth appeared, floating cross-legged in the air, clutching the water balloons to his chest. He was dressed in clothing so bright and in such conflicting patterns that it hurt one's eyes to look at. In short, he looked like every sufferer of coulrophobia's worst nightmare.

"Ickle firsties!" he said with an evil cackle. "What fun!"

"Go away, Peeves, or the Baron'll hear about this, I mean it!" Percy yelled.

He swooped suddenly at them, chucked the water balloons at the prefects, stuck out his tongue, made a rude noise, and vanished. They all heard him rattling suits of armor as he passed.

"You want to watch out for Peeves," Percy said as they started walking again. "He only ever listens to the Bloody Baron. Here we are."

At the very end of the corridor hung a portrait of a fat lady in a pink silk dress. As they drew closer, Henri noted that she mustn't be very old, as she was painted on canvas, and the acrylic gesso necessary to paint on that material was a fairly new invention.

"Password?" she said.

"Caput Draconis," Percy said, and the portrait swung forward to reveal a circular hole in the wall. They were led through a red-themed room kitted out as a large sitting room, complete with a huge fireplace and cushy armchairs through a door to their dormitory, while the girls were led through another by the female prefect. At the top of a spiral staircase—they were obviously in one of the towers—they found five four-poster beds hung with red velvet curtains. The five of them were too tired to talk much, as it had been a long day. Henri, Neville, and Ron took the first three beds, changed into their pajamas, and collapsed into them, immediately falling asleep.

That night, Henri dreamed of Other Harry's trip on the Express, his Sorting, and even saw the dream that his counterpart had. After dreaming of the Other Harry for so long, it took quite a bit more than that to disturb him, so he simply rolled over and didn't even remember the dream in the morning.

Directly after his Slytherins were settled, Severus made his way to the Headmaster's office for the meeting the old man had 'requested' the Heads of House attend after they'd seen to their Houses. "Minstrels," he said when he reached the gargoyles. They sprang aside and he hurried up the moving spiral staircase and entered the office without knocking. He made his way over to the bookcase and pulled out the copy of Hogwarts: A History. The bookcase sprang aside, and he entered the conference room. Filius, Pomona, and Minerva were seated along the length, while the Headmaster sat at the head of the table. He nodded to the other Heads of House, completely ignoring the batty old man, and seated himself in one of the empty squashy chintz armchairs. The room was usually used for full faculty meetings, but the Headmaster also used it to call them together for InterHouse meetings.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "I have consulted the records," he began, "and there has not been a sorting like de Brabant's in almost eight hundred years."

Severus couldn't stop himself. "The Sorting Hat made something like that clear," he said dryly. He pretended not to notice Filus's hidden smile, the twitch of McGonagall's lips, and the way Pomona mysteriously began a coughing fit.

"Nevertheless, we must keep a close watch on young Mr. de Brabant," Dumbledore said. "Please notify me if he shows any... unusual abilities."

Privately, he thought that the Headmaster meant that they should notify him if the boy showed any abilities that could be preempted for the war effort once the Dark Lord returned.

Pomona stopped coughing and straightened. "We try and bring out all of the gifts in our students, Headmaster," she said cheerfully. She brightened up. "Perhaps he will have a talent for Herbology and," she nodded to Severus, "potions. I have already asked my Badgers to try and befriend the boy."

"Quite right," Filius said with a nod. "I have told my Ravens the same." The little man almost fell off his chair in excitement. "He's a Ravenclaw as far as I'm concerned."

The last sentence gave Severus an idea and he favored Minerva with an evil smirk. "Then I shall give him points to Slytherin for things he does right," he said, knowing it would wind her up.

"And deduct points from Gryffindor for what he does wrong?" she inquired.

"Well, he's a Gryffindor, too," he said slyly. "My Snakes already know that they are to cultivate alliances with him. The de Brabants are a very old family and as close to royalty as the Wizarding World has these days."

Minerva gave Dumbledore a sharp look. "You should remember that, Albus. Take into consideration that his family is powerful and not one to cross."

Dumbledore waved away the warning. "He has chosen to attend Hogwarts," he said. "That means that he has chosen to follow our rules."

Severus's smirk widened. "He has diplomatic immunity. Please remember that as well, Headmaster. He's a foreign national and a guest in our country."

Dumbledore waved that warning away, too. Severus briefly wondered what the man had planned, and from the looks on the faces of the other Heads, he knew that he wasn't the only one. He exchanged glances with them that promised a private meeting later, once they'd all had a few classes with the boy.

"I'm sure my Lions will have no problems befriending him," Minerva said, "especially since they'll be sharing the same dorm and common room. I noticed at the Feast that he's already made friends with the youngest Weasley boy and the Longbottom boy." She gave Severus a sweet smile. "Augusta says that her grandson is rather dangerous around a cauldron, Severus. Good luck!"

Severus groaned softly and pinched the bridge of his nose. "There's one in every year," he said. "Perhaps I'll be lucky this year, and he'll be the only disaster." Everybody laughed. It was true that they all had at least one problem student in every year. Considering the hundreds of students to pass through their classrooms every year, one or two out of every age group wasn't that much. The only problem was keeping disasters to a minimum and surviving said accident prone students.

"Are there any concerns among your students?" Dumbledore asked. "It's a bit early, but..."

Filius cleared his throat. "Sally-Anne Perks," he said. "I'm far from imposing, but she flinched when I brushed by her."

"There's something... off about Blaise Zabini," Severus said, his voice measured and slow. "I'm not yet certain what it is, but there's something not quite right about the boy. And Dudley Dursley concerns me."

Pomona looked curious. "I haven't heard anything about him," she said.

Severus leaned back against the padded back of his chair. "He must be at least squib born," he said. "He has the Traitor's Mark, but I don't think he knows what it means. Sooner or later, it will cause problems."

Pomona gasped when she heard that and shook her head. "The poor boy," she said. "I wish there was something we can do, but other than making sure he's not bullied..." she trailed off.

Severus snorted. "You haven't seen him, have you?" he asked dryly. "He's more likely to do the bullying than be bullied. I've informed my first years, as usual, that they're to report to Pomfrey for examinations. The Dursley boy will end up on a strict, house-elf controlled diet, and I'm sure that will cause problems as well."

Dumbledore twinkled at him. "Are you sure it will be necessary?" he asked.

Severus repressed the urge to laugh. "He looks as if he's well on his way to achieving his greatest ambition—to become as wide as he is tall." Plump was one thing. As grossly overweight as the boy was, if he continued on, he'd drop dead by the time he was twenty... even with a Wizard's metabolism.

"Pomona?" Dumbledore asked.

She shook her head. "It will take a few weeks, yet, if any of my Badgers have problems at home to come to me or Severus."

"The rumors have been put out, as usual," Minerva added. "I haven't noticed any signs of distress among my Lions yet, either."

Severus rather thought that Minerva, for all of the reputation of her animagus form, wasn't all that perceptive when it came to sniffing out abuse cases. Perhaps she simply had too much to do with her dual roles as Head of House and Deputy Headmistress.

"Very well," Dumbledore said, standing up.

Severus took that as a dismissal and left as soon as he could. He disliked faculty meetings mainly because he disliked socializing. He was primarily a solitary person by nature, and the only person who'd ever really slipped past his walls was Lily Evans. There was something about the way the de Brabant boy looked that reminded him of her. Oh, the resemblance wasn't close enough for Henri de Brabant to be Harry Potter, but it was entirely possible that he was a distant relation. He could vaguely recall Lily, in later years, telling him that she'd discovered that her parents were squibs, which meant that it was slightly possible that there were Wizarding relations of hers out there. He missed her, and the ache of missing-Lily had never faded. It was made all the worse by the fact that it was his own damn fault that she was dead.

He made his way out of the tower that housed the Headmaster's office and started to go downwards, towards the dungeons and his quarters. He needed to check on his Snakes. He had to make sure that the Dursley brat was still alive. Even as a Slytherin, the boy wouldn't have an easy time with him. Currently, the only person he hated worse than the Marauders, the Dark Lord aside, was Petunia Dursley. She'd sold his Lily's baby, and that he could not forgive. Not that he forgave people much, anyway; he was a master at holding grudges and waiting until the opportune time to get his revenge. It was more his nature to hold to a grudge until after the object of his ire died and then go dance on their graves... and come back every once in a while for another jig. It was also true, he probably wouldn't have been nice to Lily's boy—he couldn't afford to be—but it would have been a relief to watch over him and make sure he was alive and healthy... for Lily. After all, he wasn't Dumbledore's man and never would be; he was Lily Evan's man and always would be.