Girl Most Likely

He often dreamt of Voldemort, especially in the summer months. He had once asked Hermione about it, and she suggested that it was close to the anniversary of Voldemort's rebirth in 1995, and that his subconscious was recalling the summer that followed, when he had ridden at Voldemort's side in his dream state, while the Dark Lord assembled his forces for the coming war. Harry had pointed out that he never dreamt of the Third Task, or of that summer, specifically, but changed the topic when Hermione suggested that he see a psychologist.

Post-traumatic stress disorder is nothing to be ashamed of, she had lectured to his retreating back. And you have better reason than any of us.

That, he knew, was a lie, and her advice was hypocritical in the extreme. Hermione had been Lucius Malfoy's prisoner, and as far as Harry knew, had spoken of her experiences to only two people: Ron and Molly Weasley. Sciences of the mind weren't especially advanced in the wizarding world, and no one he knew cared to see a Muggle counsellor. Neville Longbottom was changing that, would change it in the next decades. But for now, he was just an apprentice mediwizard with an eccentric interest in Muggle psychiatry, whose connections and background had allowed him to run unusual research projects in the course of his apprenticeship.

Anyway, if Harry wanted to spill his guts, Neville wouldn't have been his choice of … victim. Ginny, now, Ginny had known all his secrets, but then, she knew his dreams better than anyone. They had shared a bond, with each other, and with Voldemort.

Voldemort had claimed Ginny in the end.

Harry lay awake in the early hours of the morning, turning these thoughts over in his mind. He had dreamed of Snape, pouring blood into a cauldron from Tom Riddle's diary, while Lucius Malfoy held a knife to Hermione's throat and Eugenia Lestrange tore slivers of skin from Ron's face. Snape had been lecturing him on the uses of blood, pure and Muggle-born, in Dark potions, but everything had felt subtly askew, and it wasn't until after he'd woken up that he'd realised that Snape was speaking Parseltongue. And all the while, Voldemort skirted the edges of his awareness, seeking weaknesses, an entry into the waking world.

The room grew warmer as the sun rose, the temperature increasing far beyond the norm. Harry cast Cooling Charms and tried to get back to sleep, but that was impossible. The College of Aurors had it wrong, he decided; putting a Coterie on desk duty between arrest and trial would lead to death by inactivity, instead of protecting them from attack. He'd go mad, lying here in the heat, while his mind turned in pointless circles…

In the end, he grabbed his broom and went flying, far above London. The echoes of the dream faded, but the heat remained.

Two days later, the heatwave had worsened. The Daily Prophet landed the scoop of the year when it published a series of confidential letters to the Minister of Magic, in which a team of unnamed weather wizards demanded the release of certain Azkaban prisoners in return for the resumption of normal weather patterns.

Harry was only mildly surprised when he learnt that Hermione was co-ordinating the Ministry's response. The heat was accompanied by the sort of humidity that Harry associated with the hideous summer he'd spent in Singapore when he was 25, and almost overnight, the cost of Cooling Charms cast by Charms Masters tripled.

Harry cast his charms himself, finding that they were strong enough that he didn't even need to change his usual mode of dress. Ron complained that seeing him wander around in long pants and worn sweatshirts was almost worse than the heat itself.

With Borgin's case stalled until his Inveritas Potion wore off – or until one of the College's resident Potions Brewers found the antidote that had eluded modern wizardry for centuries – the First Coterie had a lot of time on their hands. Harry spent long hours sparring with his colleagues in the College gymnasiums, practising the difficult co-ordination of movement-enhancing spells with the movement itself. Sore and exhausted – for his sleep remained disturbed – he escaped into Diagon Alley one Monday, muttering vague excuses about necessary errands. He wasn't the only one; Michael had gone to Brighton, citing family duties, and Marion was visiting a certain magical library in the Cotswolds, seeking an obscure cross-reference for the evidence against Borgin.

Even with the heatwave, the Alley was crowded. Florean Fortescue was offering discounted ice cream to anyone who could bolster his Cooling Charms; that elderly wizard could no longer maintain long-term spells on his own. Harry's charms earned him a boysenberry swirl and a grateful handshake. He managed to escape before the crowd at large caught a glimpse of his scar. In safe obscurity, he made his way through the Alley, finishing his ice cream and remembering summer shopping trips of his adolescence. The people around him moved with a sense of security that had been missing in his last years of schooling. Even with the threat of magical ecological terrorism (as the Prophet termed it, and he knew exactly which Muggle-born journalist was responsible for that phrase, thank you, Colin Creevey), there was laughter and open movement in the streets. Harry's Auror-instincts twitched, but he forced himself to relax. He'd bought this safety, had paid for it in blood.

Now, he should enjoy it.

"'Arry!"

Harry swung around at the familiar voice. Heads turned as others recognised the tall, beautiful blond woman, and the man she was addressing.

"It's him," he heard someone say, "Harry Potter!"

"Where?"

"Over there – the scruffy little fellow in Muggle clothes."

"That's him? He looks so … weedy."

"Sorry about that," said Gabrielle as she finally pushed through the crowd.

"It's okay," he said. "But let's go inside." He grinned, with only a touch of bitterness, "unless you don't want to be seen disappearing into a private corner with Harry Potter."

"Harry, if I didn't want to be seen with you, then I wouldn't have called out." In a normal speaking voice, her French accent was almost unnoticeable, a result of the three years she'd spent at Hogwarts, and her years in England since she got married.

"It's not so much you," he said as he steered her down a small alley, "as your husband."

"What about him? And where are you taking me, anyway?"

"I know a place."

The Gryphon had a tendency to move around, but it was currently situated in what Harry suspected was an old cellar. Not that it was obvious; the interior decorations remained the same regardless of location. According to Sirius, the polished cherry tables and dark-red stained glass windows had been there since the dawn of time; 1975 at least.

Gabrielle wrinkled her perfect nose as Harry drew his wand and pointed it at a pile of garbage, but she smiled when the garbage resolved into a doorway, and Harry led her into the small club.

"I've never been here," she said.

"No, you wouldn't have. It's for Gryffindors only -- and their guests, of course."

"It's lovely."

Despite himself, Harry was gratified to hear this praise from the most beautiful woman of his acquaintance. He'd never had any romantic interest in Gabrielle -- he'd known her since she was eight, after all -- but unlike many, he respected her.

"Private, too," he said. "Journalists have to turn their quills in at the door."

"Harry..."

He shook his head. "Don't try to apologise for him, Gabrielle. That's not your job." He examined the menu that had appeared on the table. "You should try the fish--"

"Harry." Her voice was very firm. "If you don't want to discuss Draco, then don't bring him up."

"I just wondered if this would create problems for you, meeting me in public like this."

"As opposed to meeting me in private?" If her sister's laugh was silvery and delicate, then Gabrielle's was a low, golden chuckle. "Draco would never allow anything that reflected badly on him to be published."

"That's ... not precisely what I meant."

A house elf appeared by their sides, wearing the neat red and gold livery (it clashed with his socks, which were an unfortunate shade of mauve, but Harry knew better than to criticise a house elf's clothing) of the Gryphon.

"Is sir and madam ready to order?" it asked.

They ordered quickly: the fish and a Gillywater for Harry, spiced milk for Gabrielle.

"Interesting choice," Harry said.

"I'm pregnant."

"Ah."

Their drinks arrived; Harry took a gulp of his. Gabrielle smiled slightly and sipped her milk.

"Does he know?"

"Of course."

"And..."

She rotated her glass between her fingers, and Harry was reminded of Lilith Borgin. Children, he thought, procreation, futures, offspring... Good God, Malfoy is going to be a father.

"He's pleased," she said finally. "And proud ... he wants to do better than his own father. He's ... taking a great deal of interest." She smiled ruefully. "I liked it better when we largely ignored each other."

"Proud papa Draco."

"Don't laugh. He might be a good father. He's not a bad husband, you know."

"Just a bad person."

"Harry..."

He leaned back in his chair. "I never wanted you to marry him, Gabrielle, you know that."

She smiled slightly. "You were most insistent on the subject, yes. I was really afraid you were going to embarrass me at the wedding."

He snorted; only Ginny's restraining influence had kept him from sweeping the bride-to-be out and locking her in an attic until she came to her senses. "I don't like him. I don't trust him. And I truly don't want my friends to end up married to him."

Their food appeared, and they ate in silence for several minutes.

"Are you happy?" Harry asked.

"In my marriage, or about my pregnancy?"

"Don't they come together?"

Gabrielle giggled. "You're very sweet, Harry. I've never met a naive Auror before." With a pang, Harry remembered the angelic, delicate nine-year-old he'd once known. There was no strain in her Veela-perfect face, but her laugh was suddenly brittle.

So. Another thing Malfoy had damaged.

"I have to admit," said Gabrielle softly, "I find myself hoping that the baby will ... improve things."

"What's he doing?" asked Harry. "If it's Dark, I can try to -- hell, we've had Borgin in custody for nearly three weeks, haven't we? Why can't we try Malfoy?"

"Harry. There are no Dark Arts involved here. Amazing as it may seem, a marriage can fail without the involvement of Dark magic." She shrugged. "We're just different people ... I was so young when I married him, and I thought that ... some things didn't matter."

"Like the fact that your husband's a manipulative arsehole?"

"Like the fact that I was marrying him for all the wrong reasons." She sighed. "I loved him ... I still do love him. And I know you don't believe it, but he does love me."

Harry snorted.

The conversation turned towards lighter topics: the grand transcontinental romance of Bill and Fleur (whose latest break-up had taken place only six days ago, in the wake of the family barbecue; the twins were taking bets on the likely duration), Harry's upcoming birthday (Ron and Hermione were planning a surprise birthday party; Harry was busy preparing to act surprised) and names for the baby. (No, Gabrielle did not think it would be a good idea to name it after Harry. Or Hermione. Or any Weasleys.)

"Listen," Harry said as they made their way back towards Diagon Alley proper, "I know what Malfoy marriage contracts are like. If you want to get out, and you can't--"

Gabrielle touched his arm and said, "I appreciate the offer, but ... look, you can't save everyone, alright? And not everyone needs saving."

"What do you mean, save everyone?"

"Just that you think it's your duty to run around rescuing everyone around you."

"That's not true."

"If you say so." Harry opened his mouth to argue, but she went on, "Draco wouldn't invoke the contracts. He loves me."

"People can fall out of love." You certainly have, he didn't say.

"Harry. The Delacours are one of the most powerful families in France, and we are Veela. Not full Veela, but -- we stand by each other. Draco won't invoke the contracts."

It might have been a trick of the light, but suddenly, her face seemed oddly avian and dangerous, and Harry reluctantly remembered that Gabrielle Delacour Malfoy wasn't completely human.

They made a striking pair as they pushed through the Diagon Alley crowds: the Boy Who Lived and a quarter-Veela. Harry ignored the gasps and avoided making eye contact, until he spotted a pair of familiar figures.

"Have you met Professor Snape's daughter?" he asked impulsively.

"The Dementor Baby? No."

"Well don’t call her that," he said as he pulled Gabrielle towards Lilith and Mrs Figg. He introduced everyone properly, only stumbling over Mrs Figg's title. She'd been Professor Figg as well, after all, and as nasty a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher as he'd ever had. Oddly enough, that was what had led him to trust her: everyone else, from Quirrell to 'Moody', had gone out of their way to be nice to him, and only Remus Lupin had been genuine.

Still, trustworthy or not, Mrs Figg had never been a friend to Harry. Oh no, she'd been right along Snape whenever he was calling for Harry's expulsion, and now she was raising his daughter. Charming, the way these Slytherins stuck together…

"I'm surprised to see you out here, Potter," she said now. "What on earth do they teach Aurors these days?"

"You're out here."

"I'm retired. Whereas you are a target for every Dark wizard who wants to make a name for himself."

"No one is going to attack me," Harry said, and turned to Lilith.

As if on cue, the world exploded, and whatever Mrs Figg was going to say was lost in the screams. Harry managed to throw Lilith away from the centre of the blast. Then everything went dark, and he collapsed.