lomonaaeren (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lomonaaeren) wrote2024-07-18 09:19 am
lomonaaeren) wrote2024-07-18 09:19 am
Entry tags:
[Songs of Summer]: Her Reflection In His Eyes, gen, one-shot
Title: Her Reflection In His Eyes
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Content Notes: AU starting pre-Hogwarts, angst, mentions of violence, character deaths, and corruption
Wordcount:
Summary: AU. Éléonore Zabini sees a young boy at King’s Cross with a familiar resentment in his eyes.
Author’s Notes: This is one of my “Songs of Summer” stories that I’m posting between the summer solstice and the first of August. Pyro5408 asked for Mrs. Zabini recognizing a kindred spirit in Harry Potter, due to his anger at the Ministry taking his money to use for its own purposes and having to live in the magical world as a charity case. Hope you enjoy.
Her Reflection In His Eyes
“Look at that boy, Mother.”
“Do not be so loud, Blaise,” Éléonore murmured, one hand touching her son’s shoulder for a moment.
“But he looks strange, Mother.”
Éléonore turned and looked, with some reluctance. She could not teach Blaise to use his eyes and ears and then be angry when he observed something strange. And he would not have pointed her attention at a mere child in Muggle clothes, which he was used to seeing.
The boy who stood hunched over near the end of the platform was in fact wearing robes, but patched and secondhand ones, nearer grey than black. A battered trunk sat beside him. A snowy owl in a magnificent cage was a discordant note in the poverty of the scene and probably what had drawn Blaise’s attention, although he might not have been able to explain that.
Éléonore narrowed her eyes. This could be an orphan of the war raised by reluctant relatives who had nonetheless decided that the boy needed an expensive pet, or sent him off with an owl they already owned. Or a boy who had spent all his money on the owl and cage and needed to beg or borrow the other material.
But there was something odd, something familiar, in the black, ragged hair. Éléonore found herself walking in that direction without planning on it. Blaise followed her, bouncing a little at her side.
Éléonore smiled down at her son. Blaise had learned all the proper manners he needed. Sometimes he was allowed to be a child.
It was good that she had taught him to be one, in fact. For all that Blaise could be polite to people who disliked her, had immense ambitions, and would have powerful magic, he did not have the streak of violence that would have been necessary to follow Éléonore in her chosen profession.
They came to a halt by the boy, who did not turn to regard them until Éléonore cleared her throat. Then he spun around and stared at them.
Éléonore caught her breath.
“Mama,” Blaise said at the same time, a name he hadn’t called her by in a few months.
Éléonore let her hand rest on Blaise’s shoulder, and nodded to the boy, who stared at them with the bright green eyes that could only make him Harry Potter. “How do you do, Mr. Potter?”
The boy nodded to them and then just stood there.
It wasn’t the color of Mr. Potter’s eyes or the jolt of who he must be that had caught Éléonore’s attention, however, the way they had for Blaise. It was the lack of radiance in those eyes, the carved-out, hollow hatred.
Such hatred in the eyes of one so young. And—well, she might be mistaken, but Éléonore thought not, not when her life had often depended on judging the flickers of emotion in the eyes of the person facing her. This child, for all his interesting gaze, did not have the talent in hiding his true feelings that many of her targets had.
This child looked like her. Not as to the color of her skin or eyes, but the most important part, the part that lay within the soul.
“I’m Blaise Zabini,” Blaise said, holding out his hand. “Are you Harry Potter?”
Potter stared blankly at him for a moment, then lifted his hand and shook Blaise’s a little limply. “Sure,” he said.
“Why do your clothes look the way they do? Why are you so ragged?”
Éléonore concealed a wince. On the other hand, Blaise’s chatter was going to mean they could find out what had truly happened to Mr. Potter much more easily than if she had tried to be the one to diplomatically phrase the question.
“I don’t have any money.”
“Oh. But I thought the Potters had money?” Blaise tilted his head back to seek Éléonore’s gaze. “Mother, didn’t you say that Fleamont Potter invented an important hair potion?”
“Who’s Fleamont Potter?”
Éléonore caught her breath again. She could imagine someone reckless and irresponsible raising Potter, or someone who had thought there would be plenty more money coming in and spent Galleons like water. But she couldn’t imagine someone raising Potter who wouldn’t tell him the story of his parents and grandparents.
“Your grandfather,” Blaise said slowly. Relatives were important to him, given what had happened to his father. “He invented a hair potion. For hair like yours. There should be plenty of Galleons left in your trust vault.”
Potter laughed, a sound that cracked like a bone. “The Ministry took all the Galleons I had. They claimed it was necessary for the upkeep of the memorial they made out of the house where—my mum and dad died.”
Éléonore shook her head. “That is disgraceful.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
Éléonore caught Potter’s gaze again. Yes, hatred there. Potter hated the Ministry right now, and probably other people who hadn’t protected him, although he might not have been able to define that.
“Who gave you the money for your robes and things?” Blaise asked. “And your owl?”
“The owl was a birthday gift. The robes and wand were charity. And the books. Everything other than my owl.”
It might seem childish to some people, Éléonore supposed, that Potter hated people so much because of his lack of money. But the origin of the emotion was less important than the fact that he had it.
Most people in Britain would be expecting Potter to step into their world as a pampered prince. A few would be expecting someone who had been trained in fighting and dueling from the time he was a child. No one would see the truth of him, Éléonore suspected, not even the ones who had given him the money for his school supplies.
And if they did not…
That meant she could help train him, as the only one who knew.
“Mama?”
“I need to speak with Mr. Potter, Blaise,” Éléonore said, her eyes locked on Potter. “Please go up the platform and spend a few moments greeting Draco Malfoy.”
Blaise looked up at her skeptically. Éléonore was not a great ally of the Malfoy family, although they had used her services. But they both knew that Blaise would be in Slytherin, and Draco would be sleeping in the same dormitory as he was.
“Yes, Mother,” Blaise said, and turned and trotted away.
“What do you want with me?”
Éléonore didn’t hide her smile, her true one, as she turned around. “You are clever to figure out that I am not attempting to comfort you.”
“You don’t seem like the kind of person who would do something so useless.”
Éléonore had to stifle a laugh, and it had been years since anyone but Blaise had caused her to do that. She tilted her head at Potter. “Why useless?”
“Hagrid—the person from Hogwarts who got me my owl—said a lot of people cared about me. But they left me with Muggles for ten years and took my money and everything I could have used to pay for school. They say they cared, but they didn’t do anything. That’s useless.”
Éléonore choked. “I am—did you say you were raised by Muggles?”
“Yeah. If you’re going to hate me because of that, go ahead.”
“I am well-aware of who your mother was, Mr. Potter. I am here to make you an offer.”
“No money, remember?”
“Not that kind of offer.”
“What, then?”
“I am in a rather specialized profession, and unfortunately, I find myself without an apprentice to carry it on. It seems to me that because of your hatred, you would be perfect, if you decided to become my apprentice.”
Potter stared at her. The astonishment in his eyes made Éléonore relax a little. Of course, she wanted him to feel that hatred, or he would indeed be useless to her, but if he could feel nothing else, he would never be able to learn most of the skills of the profession.
“I don’t even really know what being an apprentice means,” Potter whispered. “And you want me as one?”
“I will tell you more in due time, but for now, you should know that being an apprentice would mean receiving training from me. I would teach you things that you will not learn in Hogwarts, or anywhere outside a formal apprenticeship with a Breaker like me. You would be expected to complete a great deal of reading and extra spellwork, You wouldn’t have to write essays, but you would have to write me letters discussing what you read, since I live in Italy rather than Britain.”
“What’s a Breaker?”
Éléonore smiled. He had asked the most important question. “Someone who finds the weak points in the world, and breaks them to her—or his—satisfaction. To create a world she or he likes.”
“How?”
“By killing people, often.” Éléonore kept her voice low, but she said it, in the middle of King’s Cross, and saw the way Potter registered that. He must want, know, crave that kind of power. “By sabotaging others, and bribery, and persuasion. So many different ways.”
“Why would my hatred help you with that?”
“Because a Breaker must not falter, or his or her reputation will suffer. And anyone who is too kind, too gentle, will be near-useless for this work.”
Potter looked towards Blaise.
“Yes. My son is precious to me, but precisely because of the way that I have reared him and tried to keep him safe, he would not be a good apprentice.”
Potter turned back towards her. Now those green eyes held an expression of sharp interest. “And you think I could be a good one.”
“I think you could be a great one.”
Éléonore didn’t bother to hide her glee, and Potter started and clenched his fists. For long moments, his attention was all locked on her. Then he said, “You just met me. You don’t know anything about me, except the bollocks that everyone thinks they know.”
Éléonore laughed softly at the sharpness in his voice, and then looked up when she heard the train whistle blow. The Express would be leaving soon, and she must make sure that she didn’t lose Potter to the pressures of Hogwarts, which might include enough hero-worship to lessen his hatred.
“I think that you are the best prospect I have seen for an apprentice. If you are going to reject the chance, please let me know now, so I can choose someone else.”
Panic flared through Potter, illuminating his face like a light beneath his skin, and he shook his head wildly. “No! I’ll—I’ll accept.”
“And will you feel the same when you are at Hogwarts and making friends and are part of Gryffindor? Or Hufflepuff?” In truth, Éléonore didn’t see Potter as likely to enter one of those Houses, but she had to make him aware of the possibility.
“They aren’t friends, the people who did this to me. And I don’t want to be in Houses with them!”
In truth, it was just as likely to have been a Slytherin or a Ravenclaw who had helped the Minister make the decisions to seize the Potter money for “memorial upkeep,” but that didn’t mean their Houses were less suitable for Potter. Éléonore helped him complete the thought. “Gryffindor is where everyone would expect you to go, so that you were a hero. And Hufflepuffs would expect you to be friendly to them.”
Potter nodded.
“Then choose carefully when the Sorting Hat tells you that you have traits of several of the Houses—as I think it will do.”
“Sorting Hat? The—the books said that they keep the method of the Sorting secret.”
“And now I have told you.”
Potter eyed her. He was too clever not to realize why she would have done that, but Éléonore didn’t care. It was a gift as much as it was a means of binding Potter more closely to her. But it didn’t come with pity, the way his charity gifts did.
“May I—can I owl you?”
“Yes. Please owl me with news of your Sorting tonight.”
Potter took a deep breath and then turned away from her without a farewell and climbed onto the train. Éléonore simply smiled. One day, she would be one of the people he said farewell to, and a Breaker had more need of other virtues than she did politeness.
“Mama?”
Éléonore turned around and bent to run her hand gently over Blaise’s hair. “Are you ready for your adventure at Hogwarts, my darling?”
“Yes, Mama.” Blaise stepped close to her, looking for a moment in the direction that Potter had gone. “What—what were you doing with Potter?”
“He is going to be my Breaker apprentice.”
Blaise’s eyes widened. Éléonore waited for a flash of jealousy. Blaise had known since he was eight that he couldn’t be a Breaker, and he had pouted for a solid month after that. Éléonore would have put her foot down if it had gone on longer, but since Blaise wasn’t to follow her in her profession, he was allowed some indulgences.
Instead, Blaise said, “And Potter will protect me when you’re gone?”
Éléonore blinked. “I—didn’t know that you were worried about that.”
“People hate you, and I’m your son.” Blaise had a very old look in his eyes at the moment that Éléonore would have preferred he go more time without attaining. “I think I have to have a protector. And since I’m magically weak—”
“Your strength lies in Potions and Astronomy, Blaise, not wanded magic. That is all.”
“Still.”
Éléonore reluctantly nodded. She understood what Blaise meant, why he was worried. Potions and Astronomy were strong enough to keep people safe, but they were delicate in a way that something like wards weren’t. One had to read carefully in the stars to know what enemies might attack one in the future, and potions had to be brewed ahead of time. Ideally, Blaise would threaten people who wanted to hurt him with poison, but, well.
Éléonore was not sure that her son had even that level of violence in his soul.
So she made a promise that she was sure she could keep, despite Potter not having agreed to it yet. “Yes. He will protect you, my own.”
Blaise beamed and threw his arms around her, and then turned and flung himself and his owl, Pierre, at the train, with a call over his shoulder of, “I love you, Mother!” A moment later, the Express moved off.
Éléonore stood watching it depart with less sadness than she had thought she would feel. She had a source of joy singing like a dragonstone under her breast, and that was all she needed for the moment.
*
She received two letters a few days later, at the magnificent Italian villa that had belonged to her late husband. One was carried by Pierre, and one by the snowy owl who had been in the cage at Potter’s side. Smiling, she opened Potter’s first.
It said only, I got into Slytherin. And yes.
Éléonore closed her eyes and leaned back against the stone chair behind her for a moment. Alessandro’s ancestors had had a ridiculous sense of drama, but at the moment, she could appreciate that.
She opened Blaise’s letter next, and smiled to see that the first line was, Harry Potter got into Slytherin, and he wants to be my best friend! And he snubbed Draco Malfoy when Malfoy tried to ask him about his clothes!
Éléonore read through the rest of the letter, still smiling. It seemed her son was having a grand time at Hogwarts, and Harry was staying close at his side. Good. The boy was smart enough to realize part of the price that would be demanded from him for his teaching, and to accept it without an argument.
She stood and walked over to the edge of the balcony, watching as restless vines danced and coiled beneath her. Alessandro had had the idea that he would improve Veritaserum, creating a potion that would not only force the drinker to tell the truth but would be permanent, and make them volunteer the truth to everyone they met.
Éléonore could not stand the thought of a world where her every thought would spew out of her mouth. So she had taken action, and Broken the world into a new pattern.
Idly, she considered the vines that were growing strong from the spilling of Alessandro’s blood, and wondered what book she should set Harry to read first. Then she laughed at herself.
Of course it would be Merlin’s Breaking the World. It was a classic text for a reason, and one that British wizards and witches had chosen to forget. Harry would certainly not encounter it in the hallowed halls of Hogwarts. With that, she would gain his trust even further, because he would see that Éléonore was not trying to keep him chained to outdated knowledge.
She went to the shelf and scooped up the book, then waved her wand to make a copy. When she turned around, it was to the snowy owl that she went to first, stroking her back for a moment.
“Will you wait while I prepare the letter for your boy?” she murmured. “I shall not be long.”
The owl bobbed her head. Her golden eyes were as fierce as nightfall. She would make a fitting companion for the wizard that Harry would turn into.
Smiling, Éléonore sat down to write two letters, humming under her breath as she worked. The world was full of joy and possibilities, for those who could see them.
The End.
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Content Notes: AU starting pre-Hogwarts, angst, mentions of violence, character deaths, and corruption
Wordcount:
Summary: AU. Éléonore Zabini sees a young boy at King’s Cross with a familiar resentment in his eyes.
Author’s Notes: This is one of my “Songs of Summer” stories that I’m posting between the summer solstice and the first of August. Pyro5408 asked for Mrs. Zabini recognizing a kindred spirit in Harry Potter, due to his anger at the Ministry taking his money to use for its own purposes and having to live in the magical world as a charity case. Hope you enjoy.
Her Reflection In His Eyes
“Look at that boy, Mother.”
“Do not be so loud, Blaise,” Éléonore murmured, one hand touching her son’s shoulder for a moment.
“But he looks strange, Mother.”
Éléonore turned and looked, with some reluctance. She could not teach Blaise to use his eyes and ears and then be angry when he observed something strange. And he would not have pointed her attention at a mere child in Muggle clothes, which he was used to seeing.
The boy who stood hunched over near the end of the platform was in fact wearing robes, but patched and secondhand ones, nearer grey than black. A battered trunk sat beside him. A snowy owl in a magnificent cage was a discordant note in the poverty of the scene and probably what had drawn Blaise’s attention, although he might not have been able to explain that.
Éléonore narrowed her eyes. This could be an orphan of the war raised by reluctant relatives who had nonetheless decided that the boy needed an expensive pet, or sent him off with an owl they already owned. Or a boy who had spent all his money on the owl and cage and needed to beg or borrow the other material.
But there was something odd, something familiar, in the black, ragged hair. Éléonore found herself walking in that direction without planning on it. Blaise followed her, bouncing a little at her side.
Éléonore smiled down at her son. Blaise had learned all the proper manners he needed. Sometimes he was allowed to be a child.
It was good that she had taught him to be one, in fact. For all that Blaise could be polite to people who disliked her, had immense ambitions, and would have powerful magic, he did not have the streak of violence that would have been necessary to follow Éléonore in her chosen profession.
They came to a halt by the boy, who did not turn to regard them until Éléonore cleared her throat. Then he spun around and stared at them.
Éléonore caught her breath.
“Mama,” Blaise said at the same time, a name he hadn’t called her by in a few months.
Éléonore let her hand rest on Blaise’s shoulder, and nodded to the boy, who stared at them with the bright green eyes that could only make him Harry Potter. “How do you do, Mr. Potter?”
The boy nodded to them and then just stood there.
It wasn’t the color of Mr. Potter’s eyes or the jolt of who he must be that had caught Éléonore’s attention, however, the way they had for Blaise. It was the lack of radiance in those eyes, the carved-out, hollow hatred.
Such hatred in the eyes of one so young. And—well, she might be mistaken, but Éléonore thought not, not when her life had often depended on judging the flickers of emotion in the eyes of the person facing her. This child, for all his interesting gaze, did not have the talent in hiding his true feelings that many of her targets had.
This child looked like her. Not as to the color of her skin or eyes, but the most important part, the part that lay within the soul.
“I’m Blaise Zabini,” Blaise said, holding out his hand. “Are you Harry Potter?”
Potter stared blankly at him for a moment, then lifted his hand and shook Blaise’s a little limply. “Sure,” he said.
“Why do your clothes look the way they do? Why are you so ragged?”
Éléonore concealed a wince. On the other hand, Blaise’s chatter was going to mean they could find out what had truly happened to Mr. Potter much more easily than if she had tried to be the one to diplomatically phrase the question.
“I don’t have any money.”
“Oh. But I thought the Potters had money?” Blaise tilted his head back to seek Éléonore’s gaze. “Mother, didn’t you say that Fleamont Potter invented an important hair potion?”
“Who’s Fleamont Potter?”
Éléonore caught her breath again. She could imagine someone reckless and irresponsible raising Potter, or someone who had thought there would be plenty more money coming in and spent Galleons like water. But she couldn’t imagine someone raising Potter who wouldn’t tell him the story of his parents and grandparents.
“Your grandfather,” Blaise said slowly. Relatives were important to him, given what had happened to his father. “He invented a hair potion. For hair like yours. There should be plenty of Galleons left in your trust vault.”
Potter laughed, a sound that cracked like a bone. “The Ministry took all the Galleons I had. They claimed it was necessary for the upkeep of the memorial they made out of the house where—my mum and dad died.”
Éléonore shook her head. “That is disgraceful.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
Éléonore caught Potter’s gaze again. Yes, hatred there. Potter hated the Ministry right now, and probably other people who hadn’t protected him, although he might not have been able to define that.
“Who gave you the money for your robes and things?” Blaise asked. “And your owl?”
“The owl was a birthday gift. The robes and wand were charity. And the books. Everything other than my owl.”
It might seem childish to some people, Éléonore supposed, that Potter hated people so much because of his lack of money. But the origin of the emotion was less important than the fact that he had it.
Most people in Britain would be expecting Potter to step into their world as a pampered prince. A few would be expecting someone who had been trained in fighting and dueling from the time he was a child. No one would see the truth of him, Éléonore suspected, not even the ones who had given him the money for his school supplies.
And if they did not…
That meant she could help train him, as the only one who knew.
“Mama?”
“I need to speak with Mr. Potter, Blaise,” Éléonore said, her eyes locked on Potter. “Please go up the platform and spend a few moments greeting Draco Malfoy.”
Blaise looked up at her skeptically. Éléonore was not a great ally of the Malfoy family, although they had used her services. But they both knew that Blaise would be in Slytherin, and Draco would be sleeping in the same dormitory as he was.
“Yes, Mother,” Blaise said, and turned and trotted away.
“What do you want with me?”
Éléonore didn’t hide her smile, her true one, as she turned around. “You are clever to figure out that I am not attempting to comfort you.”
“You don’t seem like the kind of person who would do something so useless.”
Éléonore had to stifle a laugh, and it had been years since anyone but Blaise had caused her to do that. She tilted her head at Potter. “Why useless?”
“Hagrid—the person from Hogwarts who got me my owl—said a lot of people cared about me. But they left me with Muggles for ten years and took my money and everything I could have used to pay for school. They say they cared, but they didn’t do anything. That’s useless.”
Éléonore choked. “I am—did you say you were raised by Muggles?”
“Yeah. If you’re going to hate me because of that, go ahead.”
“I am well-aware of who your mother was, Mr. Potter. I am here to make you an offer.”
“No money, remember?”
“Not that kind of offer.”
“What, then?”
“I am in a rather specialized profession, and unfortunately, I find myself without an apprentice to carry it on. It seems to me that because of your hatred, you would be perfect, if you decided to become my apprentice.”
Potter stared at her. The astonishment in his eyes made Éléonore relax a little. Of course, she wanted him to feel that hatred, or he would indeed be useless to her, but if he could feel nothing else, he would never be able to learn most of the skills of the profession.
“I don’t even really know what being an apprentice means,” Potter whispered. “And you want me as one?”
“I will tell you more in due time, but for now, you should know that being an apprentice would mean receiving training from me. I would teach you things that you will not learn in Hogwarts, or anywhere outside a formal apprenticeship with a Breaker like me. You would be expected to complete a great deal of reading and extra spellwork, You wouldn’t have to write essays, but you would have to write me letters discussing what you read, since I live in Italy rather than Britain.”
“What’s a Breaker?”
Éléonore smiled. He had asked the most important question. “Someone who finds the weak points in the world, and breaks them to her—or his—satisfaction. To create a world she or he likes.”
“How?”
“By killing people, often.” Éléonore kept her voice low, but she said it, in the middle of King’s Cross, and saw the way Potter registered that. He must want, know, crave that kind of power. “By sabotaging others, and bribery, and persuasion. So many different ways.”
“Why would my hatred help you with that?”
“Because a Breaker must not falter, or his or her reputation will suffer. And anyone who is too kind, too gentle, will be near-useless for this work.”
Potter looked towards Blaise.
“Yes. My son is precious to me, but precisely because of the way that I have reared him and tried to keep him safe, he would not be a good apprentice.”
Potter turned back towards her. Now those green eyes held an expression of sharp interest. “And you think I could be a good one.”
“I think you could be a great one.”
Éléonore didn’t bother to hide her glee, and Potter started and clenched his fists. For long moments, his attention was all locked on her. Then he said, “You just met me. You don’t know anything about me, except the bollocks that everyone thinks they know.”
Éléonore laughed softly at the sharpness in his voice, and then looked up when she heard the train whistle blow. The Express would be leaving soon, and she must make sure that she didn’t lose Potter to the pressures of Hogwarts, which might include enough hero-worship to lessen his hatred.
“I think that you are the best prospect I have seen for an apprentice. If you are going to reject the chance, please let me know now, so I can choose someone else.”
Panic flared through Potter, illuminating his face like a light beneath his skin, and he shook his head wildly. “No! I’ll—I’ll accept.”
“And will you feel the same when you are at Hogwarts and making friends and are part of Gryffindor? Or Hufflepuff?” In truth, Éléonore didn’t see Potter as likely to enter one of those Houses, but she had to make him aware of the possibility.
“They aren’t friends, the people who did this to me. And I don’t want to be in Houses with them!”
In truth, it was just as likely to have been a Slytherin or a Ravenclaw who had helped the Minister make the decisions to seize the Potter money for “memorial upkeep,” but that didn’t mean their Houses were less suitable for Potter. Éléonore helped him complete the thought. “Gryffindor is where everyone would expect you to go, so that you were a hero. And Hufflepuffs would expect you to be friendly to them.”
Potter nodded.
“Then choose carefully when the Sorting Hat tells you that you have traits of several of the Houses—as I think it will do.”
“Sorting Hat? The—the books said that they keep the method of the Sorting secret.”
“And now I have told you.”
Potter eyed her. He was too clever not to realize why she would have done that, but Éléonore didn’t care. It was a gift as much as it was a means of binding Potter more closely to her. But it didn’t come with pity, the way his charity gifts did.
“May I—can I owl you?”
“Yes. Please owl me with news of your Sorting tonight.”
Potter took a deep breath and then turned away from her without a farewell and climbed onto the train. Éléonore simply smiled. One day, she would be one of the people he said farewell to, and a Breaker had more need of other virtues than she did politeness.
“Mama?”
Éléonore turned around and bent to run her hand gently over Blaise’s hair. “Are you ready for your adventure at Hogwarts, my darling?”
“Yes, Mama.” Blaise stepped close to her, looking for a moment in the direction that Potter had gone. “What—what were you doing with Potter?”
“He is going to be my Breaker apprentice.”
Blaise’s eyes widened. Éléonore waited for a flash of jealousy. Blaise had known since he was eight that he couldn’t be a Breaker, and he had pouted for a solid month after that. Éléonore would have put her foot down if it had gone on longer, but since Blaise wasn’t to follow her in her profession, he was allowed some indulgences.
Instead, Blaise said, “And Potter will protect me when you’re gone?”
Éléonore blinked. “I—didn’t know that you were worried about that.”
“People hate you, and I’m your son.” Blaise had a very old look in his eyes at the moment that Éléonore would have preferred he go more time without attaining. “I think I have to have a protector. And since I’m magically weak—”
“Your strength lies in Potions and Astronomy, Blaise, not wanded magic. That is all.”
“Still.”
Éléonore reluctantly nodded. She understood what Blaise meant, why he was worried. Potions and Astronomy were strong enough to keep people safe, but they were delicate in a way that something like wards weren’t. One had to read carefully in the stars to know what enemies might attack one in the future, and potions had to be brewed ahead of time. Ideally, Blaise would threaten people who wanted to hurt him with poison, but, well.
Éléonore was not sure that her son had even that level of violence in his soul.
So she made a promise that she was sure she could keep, despite Potter not having agreed to it yet. “Yes. He will protect you, my own.”
Blaise beamed and threw his arms around her, and then turned and flung himself and his owl, Pierre, at the train, with a call over his shoulder of, “I love you, Mother!” A moment later, the Express moved off.
Éléonore stood watching it depart with less sadness than she had thought she would feel. She had a source of joy singing like a dragonstone under her breast, and that was all she needed for the moment.
*
She received two letters a few days later, at the magnificent Italian villa that had belonged to her late husband. One was carried by Pierre, and one by the snowy owl who had been in the cage at Potter’s side. Smiling, she opened Potter’s first.
It said only, I got into Slytherin. And yes.
Éléonore closed her eyes and leaned back against the stone chair behind her for a moment. Alessandro’s ancestors had had a ridiculous sense of drama, but at the moment, she could appreciate that.
She opened Blaise’s letter next, and smiled to see that the first line was, Harry Potter got into Slytherin, and he wants to be my best friend! And he snubbed Draco Malfoy when Malfoy tried to ask him about his clothes!
Éléonore read through the rest of the letter, still smiling. It seemed her son was having a grand time at Hogwarts, and Harry was staying close at his side. Good. The boy was smart enough to realize part of the price that would be demanded from him for his teaching, and to accept it without an argument.
She stood and walked over to the edge of the balcony, watching as restless vines danced and coiled beneath her. Alessandro had had the idea that he would improve Veritaserum, creating a potion that would not only force the drinker to tell the truth but would be permanent, and make them volunteer the truth to everyone they met.
Éléonore could not stand the thought of a world where her every thought would spew out of her mouth. So she had taken action, and Broken the world into a new pattern.
Idly, she considered the vines that were growing strong from the spilling of Alessandro’s blood, and wondered what book she should set Harry to read first. Then she laughed at herself.
Of course it would be Merlin’s Breaking the World. It was a classic text for a reason, and one that British wizards and witches had chosen to forget. Harry would certainly not encounter it in the hallowed halls of Hogwarts. With that, she would gain his trust even further, because he would see that Éléonore was not trying to keep him chained to outdated knowledge.
She went to the shelf and scooped up the book, then waved her wand to make a copy. When she turned around, it was to the snowy owl that she went to first, stroking her back for a moment.
“Will you wait while I prepare the letter for your boy?” she murmured. “I shall not be long.”
The owl bobbed her head. Her golden eyes were as fierce as nightfall. She would make a fitting companion for the wizard that Harry would turn into.
Smiling, Éléonore sat down to write two letters, humming under her breath as she worked. The world was full of joy and possibilities, for those who could see them.
The End.