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SIYE Time:10:14 on 28th March 2024
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Birds of a Feather
By DukeBrymin

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Category: Alternate Universe
Characters:Harry/Ginny
Genres: Romance
Warnings: None
Rating: G
Reviews: 337
Summary: A little girl, kidnapped from her loving parents and found by someone else. A little boy, rescued from those who didn't want him. When they meet, something wonderful happens.
Hitcount: Story Total: 90992; Chapter Total: 7037
Awards: View Trophy Room




Author's Notes:
Once again, a special thanks to my betas, rosiekatriona and sandyrah. They beta'ed this more quickly than normal--so you get it faster than expected. Please review!




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Birds of a Feather, Chapter 4, Bloodlines

Albus Dumbledore was happy.  This is not to say that there were no regrets in his life--after all, he had lived quite a long time, and seen many things come to pass that he would not have wished for.  But, all in all, things seemed to be going well. 

He was seated in his regal chair at the teachers' table in the Great Hall, watching the Halloween Feast take place.  Doing so caused him to reflect on last year's Halloween, which was a night of great sorrow, but great joy as well.  Lily and James Potter had been betrayed by one of their best friends, and murdered by the self-styled Lord Voldemort.  But, in trying to continue his horrible work, he had made the mistake of trying to kill young Harry, and that was his undoing.  For some unknown reason, the dreaded Avada Kedavra had backfired, and destroyed the mortal body of the evil man.  Dumbledore wasn't foolish enough to believe that Voldemort was gone for good, but he welcomed the reprieve.

His thoughts drifted to the poor little boy who had lost his parents.  Trying to come up with a reasonable plan for the child on the spot had been rather difficult.  His godfather was guilty of having sold out the Potters, his other honorary uncle was a werewolf, and the third possible man had been murdered by the aforementioned godfather.  Of course, at the time he hadn't known all that, but he thanked his blind luck for not having placed young Harry with Sirius Black.  No, it was all for the best that he'd remembered Lily's Muggle sister, Petunia, and had been able to persuade her to take the boy in.

Minerva had been furious with him for that.  He still winced when he remembered the tongue-lashing she'd given him at his supposed poor choice.

"How can you live with yourself having put that poor child with those Muggles?  I've been watching them all day, and they are the worst sort!  The child is a spoiled, obnoxious ball of lard, and the man is the same thing writ larger!  The woman is just the kind of person you'd expect to be peering over hedges trying to get good gossip on other people, then maliciously using it to enhance her own perceived rectitude!"  And from there she had gone on to discuss Albus' ancestry, habits of hygiene, and probable future lifestyle, with a vigor and vocabulary that astonished and, frankly, impressed him.

Of course, after only two months of Harry being with the Dursleys, he was able to prove to her that everything was okay.  When he had left Harry with the Dursleys, and what a dull-sounding name that was, he had cast a ward around the house, tied to the blood that Petunia had shared with Lily.  The ward would protect the occupants of Number 4, Privet Drive, from any witch or wizard who would want to cause harm to Harry.  He had also cast a monitoring charm, linked to the beautiful silver Moodoscope on his shelf, that allowed him to easily gauge Harry's happiness level.  Even now he liked to sit and watch the silver wheel spin, reeling off the minutes of Harry's happy existence.

He had had a bad couple weeks there when it had showed Harry to be rather unhappy, but then it had changed and hadn't shown any inclination to revert back to its previous state.  Albus figured that any young child would suffer at least some distress at having their parents taken from them so violently, and having to adjust to a new way of life.  But, he seemed to have adapted wonderfully, and that was all the vindication that Albus needed.

Minerva also had castigated him for his lack of foresight, quite vehemently, but he had told her of his backup plans for the boy, and that had served to mollify the volatile Scottish witch, barely.  That had been a much less explosive conversation, although he, in a small way, lamented the loss of opportunity to admire her true mastery of the English language.

"But, Albus, what if he continues to be unhappy?  What will you do then?"

"Don't worry, Minerva, I have contingencies in place to deal with that.  The first is that I happen to know that Arabella Figg lives in the neighborhood of Little Whinging.  If young Harry had continued to be unhappy, I would have asked her to keep watch over him, report to me any problems, and try to help him improve his mood."

Minerva had been less than overjoyed at this.  "Well, I suppose that's something, but honestly, Albus, she's a Squib!  How would she have been able to help if there were any problems?"

"She's on the Floo network, Minerva.  She could have called me for help anytime.  And besides, I had also planned on adding more wards to the property if necessary.  The protection ward that's there isn't really keyed to Harry, but rather to the family blood.  There's another ward, harder to implement, but more attuned to Harry--it would have prevented any sort of physical damage to him.  But I certainly don't see that as a necessity now, do you?"

Minerva had grimaced and shook her head.  "I guess not.  I just can't seem to shake this little worry that I have about him.  I guess that he'll be okay--I just wish we could have taken him in here."

Albus had smiled gently down at his Transfiguration Professor.  "He'll be okay, Minnie, he's happy there."  Ignoring the glare she had sent him for the nickname, and her muttered "I am not a mouse", he had continued on.  "He'll grow up happy and well-adjusted, and his aunt will be able to explain his bursts of accidental magic.  Then, when he turns eleven, we'll visit him, and he'll be so happy to have the opportunity to learn more about magic!  And when he comes to Hogwarts he'll be able to fit in beautifully."

Professor McGonagall had looked up at the ceiling, thought about it, and sighed.  "Well, I suppose that will have to do.  You say he's happy there?"

"Yes, the monitoring charm shows him as being just about as happy as a two-year old can get."

"Did you set up any tracking charms, so we can tell where he is?" Minerva had queried.

"No, Minerva, I didn't see the need.  If Harry's loved and cared for, and enjoying life, there's no need to implement them.  If I had done so, then I would have been alerted every time he left for school, or went on a vacation.  This saves me from the constant interruptions, and allows me to focus more on what's going on in the school."

Shaken from his reverie by a gentle pressure on his arm, he looked to his left, where Professor McGonagall's seat had always been.  She indicated to him that it was time for the Halloween Speech, as most of the food had been eaten, and the students had moved into the pudding portion of the meal.

The Headmaster arose, and tapped on his glass.  Silence fell amongst the chattering students, and all eyes turned towards him.

"After that excellent repast, I'm sure you are all stuffed, and happy, and ready to head off to your beds.  However, I must take a little of your time to share some thoughts.  As this is Halloween, we must take a moment to remember the Potters, and the sacrifice that they made for us.  Lily and James Potter, two of the brightest students to have graduated from here, and may I say, two of the most entertaining to watch, especially when James would try to ask Lily out, and she'd turn him down.  I remember one time--"

He was interrupted by a cough from the stern Deputy Headmistress, and, reminded of where he was, got back on track.  "Well, that's not important now.  What's important is that we remember that the Potters died protecting their son, so that he could defeat Lord Voldemort."  He paused now, for the obligatory gasp as the feared name was said, then continued, "Let us raise our glasses in a toast, to young Harry Potter!"

The assembled students each raised a goblet, most willingly, but a few in obvious reluctance, and chanted, "To Harry Potter!"

oooooooooo

Fleur Delacour ran into her parents bedroom.  "Mama, 'arry is not feeling well!"

Giselle looked up from where she was cuddled up next to Pierre.  Thankfully, they hadn't been doing anything too scandalous, although Fleur was young enough that she probably wouldn't have noticed even if they had been.

"What's the matter with him, ma cherie?"

"He just threw up in his bed."  Fleur wrinkled her pretty nose at this statement.  "And it smells awful!"

Giselle sighed in resignation, kissed Pierre on the cheek, and started to get out of bed. “Okay, Fleur, I’ll come take care of it. Is there anything else I should know about?”

“Well, he’s a really pretty orange too, but mostly he’s just standing there looking sad. I tried to give him a hug, but he didn’t even want me to do that. What’s wrong with him?”

“It sounds like he’s got poxie flu, sweetie. You’ve already had it, so you probably won’t get sick.”

“Will he be better soon? I don’t want him to feel so bad.”

“Yes, dear, we’ll take him to the Healer and she’ll give him a potion, and he’ll be just fine tomorrow.”

“Good,” was Fleur’s determined response. “I want to play Popscotch with him.” The little girl turned to her father, and started trying to persuade him to get out of bed and make her breakfast, while Giselle went off to clean up the little boy.

As she Vanished the puddle of sick, and started taking his fouled clothes off of him, she reflected on how much this one little boy had brightened up their lives. She had been afraid, when they had rescued him, that he would continue to be quiet, depressed, and cold towards everyone, but the opposite was true. He had won Giselle’s heart completely, and Pierre was no different. After only a few days of his living with them, he had shown a noticeable increase in the number of smiles he showed them. Pretty soon thereafter, the sounds of children’s laughter started to become commonplace, as he played with their older daughter, Fleur.

Fleur herself was another convert. She had been, initially, rather standoffish to the young boy.  But just as his bright green eyes had worked their magic on her parents, she had come to love him as the little brother that she had never known she wanted. It was a very common sight, now, to see them cuddled up together on the sofa, where Fleur would be reading Harry a book.

She still felt a pain in her heart for her little lost girl, but the Investigators hadn’t been able to find hide nor hair of a little blonde girl of the right age, no matter how hard they looked, and they were starting to lose hope. Pierre was unwilling to call off the search, of course, and since they didn’t lack for money, the firm that they had employed was certainly willing to continue looking.  But as time had gone on, they had come closer to resigning themselves to the loss.

“Harry, would you like to take a bath?” she asked. She didn’t want to Scourgify the little boy–that cleaning spell was rather harsh for his soft skin, and she knew that he loved playing in the tub.

“Oui, Mama! Play with mermen?”

It was interesting to see how rapidly he was picking up the occasional French word. The whole Delacour family was completely fluent in both English and French, which meant that they were interspersed quite randomly in their conversations. Harry didn’t seem to notice a difference between the two languages; probably, Giselle thought, due to his young age.

“Of course you can, my dear. They’re there to have fun with, after all.”

Pulling out her wand and whispering a quick spell, she heard the water start to run into the bathtub.

“Come on, then, let’s get you in there and make sure you get all cleaned up.”

“Okay, Mama!” he agreed happily.

Every time she heard him call her Mama, a curious feeling swept through her. She knew that he wasn’t really hers, but since, according to him, his parents had died, she didn’t feel bad about taking him in. But did she really want him to think of her as his mother? She had wrestled with this same question for quite some time. It wasn’t out of the question that she and Pierre should have another child, but since Veela offspring usually ran to females, it wasn’t very likely that they’d have a boy.  All in all, she decided, she liked the situation, and that maybe there was more that could be done to make him her child.
“You swim down, and you be wescued,” Harry was explaining the rules of his game to his toys, and Giselle spent a minute considering whether there really was a down side to adopting the boy. Obviously his former guardians didn’t care for him, not anywhere close to what she and Pierre felt for him. And they had scanned the papers, both the French “Le Maison Magique” and the pathetic English “Daily Prophet”, for notices about lost children. Of course, they had been on high alert for mention of a little blonde girl being found, but they also looked for any reports on a missing black-haired boy, with a curious lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. For almost a year, they hadn’t been able to find any mention of the wonderful child whom they had taken from his abusive home environment.

Coming to a conclusion, she resolved to broach the subject with Pierre as soon as he came home from the Consulate that evening. There was no reason to not make him an official part of the family, and they should start the proceedings at once.

oooooooooo

“Madame Delacour, you didn’t tell me you had another child!” The Healer was well-acquainted with the Delacour family, having taken care of them for what seemed like forever. She had been Giselle’s Healer when she was a child, and had taken on Pierre and Fleur as they had joined the family. With the accustomed pang in her heart, Giselle remembered that she had helped deliver Madeline too, but pushed that thought aside with a long practiced mental shake.

“Well, let me tell you how that happened. . .”

After hearing the complete story, Madame Etchechury shook her head and sighed. “And have you heard anything about Madeline? Is she still missing?”

Giselle didn’t answer, but the look in her eyes was enough.

“I’m so sorry for you and Pierre.  How are you holding up?”

“It’s hard, at times, but with little Harry here to take care of, I find that I can keep the heartache at bay most of the time.”

“His name’s Harry?” Madame Etchechury got a thoughtful look on her face, and reached over to where Harry was sitting next to Fleur, quietly looking at yet another picture book. “Harry, can I look at your head, please?”

Harry ducked down shyly behind Fleur and peered out at the strange woman. Fleur giggled, and turned to Harry.

“Come on now, Harry. She just wants to see your mark. You let me look at it all the time; you need to let the nice Healer see it too.”

Harry though about it for a bit, then reached up and moved his fringe out of the way so that the Healer could see the lightning bolt mark clearly.

A look of recognition passed over her face, and she stood back up and motioned for Giselle to follow her over to a corner of the room.

“Giselle, do you know who this is?” she asked, in a completely atypical, breathless way that surprised the other woman.

“No, just that his name is Harry, and his parents died.” Giselle was concerned–what if they found out that little Harry needed to be returned to some unspecified person? Visions of having to give him up into the care of yet more abusive relatives flashed across her mind, and her stomach twisted itself into knots.

“Well, I can’t be sure, but I think it’s Harry Potter! The scar matches what I’ve heard about him, and the ages seem to be close. You could do a blood-line check, if you want, although that can be rather expensive.”

Giselle was stunned. How could they not have figured that out? She looked at her friend with wide eyes, and couldn’t think of a thing to say. Finally, she managed to choke out, “I think you might be right. How could we have missed that?”

“Oh, Giselle dear, you’ve been rather distracted. He only became famous after you lost little Madeline, and you were understandably preoccupied with that. But, what are you going to do? Are you going to find out for sure?”

Giselle didn’t know what to think. This rather threw a spanner into her plans of adopting the little boy. Little Harry Potter was known far and wide as The-Boy-Who-Lived, the one who had defeated Voldemort. Even in France, where news of the disquiet caused by that horrible man was muted and distant, people would be able to discover the truth, if they searched hard enough and kept their eyes open.

“Lydia, I need you to keep this quiet for me. Can you do that?”

The Healer nodded. “Of course, Healer-Patient confidentiality certainly covers this situation, but I’m not the only one who will come to the same conclusion.”

“Well, there’s some things we can do, but I need to discuss them with Pierre before we make any plans. Merlin, we have to go home–we can’t let anyone see him until we make some decisions.”

She turned to her daughter. “Fleur, pack up your things, we have to go home!”

Fleur, a little taken aback at this uncharacteristically flustered behavior from her mother, started to put her book back in her bag, but then she thought of something. “Mama, did the Healer fix Harry so he won’t be sick anymore?”

Giselle hadn’t even remembered their reason for visiting the Healer. “Merlin, no! How could I have forgotten that?” She turned to Madame Etchechury, and started to tell her what had happened, but was interrupted.

“Don’t worry Giselle, the bright orange skin is rather hard to miss, and he’s been vomiting in the night, right?” At Giselle’s nod, Lydia continued. “Well, it’s a typical case of poxie flu, but you probably already knew that. He just needs to take one dose of this potion now,” she turned to a cabinet on the wall and extracted a phial from it. She poured out a dose of the bright yellow liquid into a goblet and handed it to Giselle. “And one more dose tomorrow morning, and he’ll be just fine.” She handed the phial, with the rest of the potion, to Giselle, and gave her a bright smile. “Now, go home and discuss your little boy with Pierre, and give him my best wishes, okay?”

After handing the goblet to Harry, and helping him swallow down the contents, Giselle thanked her friend and gathered up her children and their toys. She had managed to calm down a bit, so was able to use a packing charm to fit everything into the pink bag that Fleur had brought.

“Thanks, Lydia, I’ll let you know what happens, okay?” And with that, the three left the office, to head back to the Delacour estate.

oooooooooo

The Harry Potter? She thinks he’s the Boy-Who-Lived?” Pierre had a rather higher pitch to his voice than normal, and Giselle was tempted to tease him about it, but figured that he wouldn’t appreciate her attempt at humor right then.

“Yes, she looked at the scar, and told me that the ages matched. She mentioned something about a blood-line check, but said that it was rather expensive.”

“I don’t care about the money, Giselle, you know that. But we need to make sure that we can do this in the strictest confidentiality. Where can we go for this test?” Pierre seemed excited about the idea that they might be harboring the famous Harry Potter. Giselle hoped that his excitement didn’t eclipse the need to continue to act as his parents, but wasn’t too worried. He really was a wonderful man–she thanked her lucky stars that her Veela Bonding Drive had brought her to him, someone who was so kind and thoughtful, rather than to an arrogant prat, like the one her sister had almost Bonded with.

“Gringotts has a strict confidentiality policy–you know they’re the soul of discretion, dear. And if they don’t have the facilities to do a test like this, although I can’t see why they wouldn’t, they could certainly recommend someone else. We can go into Paris tomorrow to the bank and get this all taken care of. Is that okay with you?”

“Yes, dear, that sounds great! Oh, I hope we can find out who our wonderful Harry is. And,” he got a thoughtful look on his face, “it doesn’t really matter, does it? Even if he’s not really Harry Potter, we will love him just as much, right?”

“Ah, there’s the man I know and love. I’m glad I married you.”

“Yeah, like you had a choice, my sweetheart.” Pierre smirked at his good fortune in having been the Mate intended for this beautiful woman. He knew that he was lucky beyond measure that she had fallen in love with him. He, of course, had noticed her when they were attending school together, but although he thought she was very pretty, he didn’t seem to be as distracted by her as the other boys did. Honestly, some of them spent their days thinking of all sorts of outlandish ways to draw her attention. He had given up any thoughts of even talking to her, but then, one day, she sat down by him at dinner, and struck up a conversation with him. The rest, as they say, was Fate. After getting to know her, he found himself head-over-heels in love with this beautiful creature, and hardly able to believe it when she confessed that she loved him back.

Drawn out of his reverie by a most unladylike snort from his wife, he looked at her questioningly.

“Oh, you forget, dear heart, that I did have a choice. I could have refused my Bonding drive, and made a life for myself, just like my sister has done. I’m just so happy that I didn’t have to do that; I know Marie isn’t very happy being alone like she is. Of course, it’s better than being married to that cretin that her Drive selected for her.”
“Well, be that as it may, we should be getting the children to bed. I want to go as early in the morning as possible, so that there’s less chance of interference from anyone else.”

Giselle looked at her husband, thought a bit, and put on a sultry smile. “Are you absolutely sure you want to go to bed now?”

Pierre glanced at his wife, then looked again, and smiled. “Of course, dear. But I never said I wanted to sleep.”

oooooooooo

The next morning, Harry came running into the Delacours' bedroom. “Mama, Papa, I no fro up!” He was obviously very excited about this accomplishment, and Giselle breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently the potion was doing its job.

“That’s wonderful, darling! We still have one more dose of potion, though.”

“Okay, Mama. Tastes good!”

“I’m glad, dear, potions should taste good. Otherwise it’s too hard to drink them.” Picking up her wand, she waved it and said, “Accio Harry’s potion!” A clinking sound came from the bathroom, where the phial was, and soon it came flying into the bedroom, where it landed neatly in Giselle’s hand. “Okay, Harry, open up!”

Harry obediently opened his mouth, and Giselle tipped the last of the potion into it. Harry gulped, and smiled. “Bekfast, Mama?”

“Yes, Harry, it’s time for breakfast, but you forgot what day it is.”

Harry scrunched up his face, then smiled up at her. “Saturday?” He questioned.

“Yes, it’s Saturday. What does that mean?”

Harry thought for a while, then looked up beaming.  "Daddy home!" he yelled.

Pierre, who had been lying there listening to the interchange, sat up, beaming at the boy's obvious joy.  "That's right, Harry, I get to spend the day with my family!  And today is extra-special.  Do you want to know why?"

Harry jumped into the bed, Giselle hurriedly moving her legs so he'd have a soft place to land, and clambered over to where Pierre was sitting.  "Yes, Papa."

"We get to go visit Gringotts."

The little boy's face registered confusion.  "What's G'ingotts, Papa?"

"Do you remember the really big white building, where the goblins are?"  They had taken Harry with them the last time they had gone, and he had been very impressed with the goblins.  A little frightened, of course, but, since they were very close to his height, he was fascinated.

"Yay, goblins!  And get money?"

"Yes, Harry," Pierre answered, "we'll need to get some money too.  There's another thing we need to do while we're there.  We are going to talk to one of the goblins and find out your name."

"Me Harry!"  The indignant look on his face was rather comical, and Giselle had to turn away quickly so he wouldn't see her snickering.

"Yes, you are Harry.  But we want to know who your parents were too.  Don't worry about it, Harry.  This is just something we need to do so we can help you grow up and be a big boy."

Satisfied with that answer, Harry turned his attention to other things.  "Mama, me get Fleur up?"

Giselle nodded her permission, and watched in amusement as the little black-haired boy, who had so worked his way into their hearts and lives, jumped off the bed and raced from the room, yelling at the top of his lungs.

"Fleur, Fleur, get up!  We go G'ingotts!  Get up!"

Turning to her husband, she leaned over and gave him a slow, lingering kiss.  "Thanks again for being so wonderful, my love.  Thanks for letting us take care of Harry."

Pierre put his arms around his beautiful wife, and sighed.  "I'm glad we took him in, sweetheart.  He needed someone to love him, and we needed someone to love."

Both of their faces showed a flash of pain as they were reminded, as always, of their poor missing Madeline.  With an effort, Giselle changed the subject.  "What will we do if he really is Harry Potter?  Should we still adopt him?"

Pierre grimaced.  "I don't think we should, Giselle.  If we do, then the Ministry will have to record it, and you know those idiotic reporters keep nosing around there, trying to come up with something newsworthy.  If he isn't the real Harry Potter, then no-one will care, but if he really is, then we need to ensure he remains anonymous.  I'm sure there are other steps that we'll need to take to ensure his safety if it turns out that he really is the Boy-Who-Lived, but we can worry about that if and when it happens.  For now, let's just enjoy the day with our children."

"Well, okay then.  Let's get to the kitchen before Harry and Fleur convince the house-elves that they really are supposed to have ice cream for breakfast."

oooooooooo

Gringotts Paris was a rather imposing building. It was white marble, as were all the Gringotts branches, but the architectural style was more reminiscent of a fairy-tale castle, than the staid office-building look of the London edifice. Fleur loved the building, and imagined that it was filled with princesses and kings and gold and jewels and crowns and ladies-in-waiting. She was partially right, at least about the more valuable items, but had never gotten to see any princesses. She had seen some beautifully-dressed women that she believed had been ladies-in-waiting, but had never seen anybody wearing a tiara, or a crown, or anyone resembling what she thought royalty should look like. But, that never impeded her curiosity. And now that she had a little brother to share it with, and he was getting old enough to participate in her games, she was even more excited for the trip. Maybe they’d get to go down to their vault and see the huge pile of gold and silver that dominated the large room.

Harry walked in holding Giselle’s hand, head swiveling back and forth as he inspected the goblin guards stationed by the front door. Once inside, he sidled closer to his Mama, slightly nervous at the bustling crowds. Fleur came up beside him and took his other hand, for which he was exceedingly grateful. He loved his big sister, and had no doubts that she loved him back.

This visit, however, was a lot different than the previous times they’d been able to come. Instead of going to a cart and riding down to the vault, they were ushered back through a rich oaken door, down a hallway with subdued lighting and magnificent portraits of past goblin leaders, and to a door. On the door was a nameplate that read, Gaptooth, Head of Lineage.

“Fleur,” Harry whispered. “What’s that?” He pointed at the gold nameplate.

Fleur, who was just beginning to read, peered up at the door, and started to sound out the letters. “G, a, p, t, oo, th. . . Gaptooth. I think that is the goblin’s name that we’re going to see. Head, I know that word. It means he has a big head, ‘cause he’s so important. Of line age. That means he’s the goblin in charge of telling us how old lines are.” She was very happy to be able to show off like this in front of her little brother.

Harry looked at Fleur in confusion. He had understood about the big head, but the rest of it was rather less clear to him. But, he decided, that didn’t matter. He trusted Pierre and Giselle with all his heart, and knew that whatever they were doing was important for them, otherwise they wouldn’t have brought the whole family.

The door swung open, and they heard a gravelly voice issue from inside the somber office. “Come in, Madame and Monsieur Delacour. I have been expecting you.”

Pierre and Giselle looked nervously at each other, tightened their grip on their children, and slowly stepped inside the office. Sitting behind a large desk was the biggest goblin Harry had ever seen; bigger even than the guards outside the front door. Harry looked at his head, but was disappointed to see that it wasn’t as big as he was expecting. In fact, it looked rather normal for that size of body. But before he could tell Fleur how wrong she had been, Pierre spoke up.

“Forgive me, Monsieur Gaptooth, but why have you been expecting us?”

“Please, Monsieur Delacour, call me Gaptooth. There is no need for a title for me. As to your question, let me tell you about goblins. First, you must know that we keep a close eye on anything that might affect our biggest depositors. We feel that we have a duty to be informed of any eventualities that might cause them harm, or make them have to withdraw their money, or interfere with their lives in a, shall we say--less than pleasant way. As such, we have been keeping a close eye on the search for your missing daughter, for which you have my condolences. I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you. I know that I would sorely miss the presence of my little Snifflehump if she were to go missing.”

As always, the Delacours became rather pensive at this reminder of their misfortune, but before they sank too far into the morass of their thoughts, Gaptooth continued.

“Now, we have also been informed of your acquisition of a new member of the family. As we had had no indication that Madame has been in a family way, we made some discreet inquiries. We found out that you had, in some manner, become the de facto guardians of a little boy, about the same age as your missing daughter, who looked rather similar to the Potter heir.”

Astounded at the knowledge that the goblins seemed to have acquired with such relative ease, the Delacours held a silent conversation with their eyes. Pierre turned to the goblin and asked, “How many people know of this?”

Gaptooth smiled, although it didn’t convey quite the feeling of reassurance that he had hoped, as little Harry gasped and shrank behind Giselle. His grasp of Fleur’s hand also tightened enough that she let out a little yelp.

“Monsieur Delacour,” the goblin continued, “please understand that we at Gringotts take our client confidentiality very seriously. Obviously, taking in a little boy carries with it some risks on your part, and we would never think of exacerbating the problem by sharing this with anyone not concerned with your well-being. I, being the Head of Lineage of Gringotts Paris, of necessity needed to know this, and your account manager, Dryrott, knows of this too. No-one else has been permitted to keep this information. Now, what can I do for you? Might you have come here seeking confirmation of the identity of this child?”

Shuddering at the implications of the goblin’s penultimate statement, Giselle looked up at Gaptooth. “Yes please. We have heard of a blood-line check, but weren’t sure where we could have it done. We had hoped that maybe Gringotts had facilities to do so.”

At this last implied question, Gaptooth smiled again, provoking another gasp from both Harry and Fleur. “Of course we can do that. We wouldn’t be a very trustworthy bank if we didn’t have a way of verifying identity, even for orphans and wayward black sheep. Now, the cost to do this is 13,200 galleons. Shall we transfer this out of your account? Or did you wish to pay some other way?”

Pierre shook his head and said, “No, just take it out of the account; I don’t usually carry that much with me.”

Gaptooth lifted an old-fashioned telephone handset, spoke a couple of sentences in quick Gobbledegook, and then looked back to the Delacours. “Very well, let us go to the Testing Lab, and we will see if our suspicions are true.”

Unfortunately for Fleur, who enjoyed the cart ride almost as much as Princess-Hunting, this trip was very short, and consisted of a short walk down the hall.

Inside the Testing Lab, a short and exceedingly skinny goblin, dressed in a long white coat, came over to the group. “Well, where is this child?” he asked, in a somewhat nasal tone, with overtones of a Spanish accent. “The potion and parchment are already prepared, and we need to get this done before the potency expires.”

Pierre squatted down next to Harry, and lifted him into his arms. “Harry, we’re going to follow this goblin, is that okay?” Harry just nodded his head at that, and they all walked over to a table on which rested a stone basin with an oily pink liquid in it, and a large sheet of parchment, which was glowing a pale yellow.

“Give me the boy’s hand,” the goblin brusquely directed.

“Can you please explain what is involved in the test?” Giselle asked. She was the picture of propriety, but a steely note in her voice indicated that she wasn’t pleased with the rudeness of the goblin in the lab coat.

The skinny goblin snarled slightly but Gaptooth stepped forward. “Bunsen, I’ll take full responsibility if the potion goes bad.  Now please, remember whom you are talking to, and explain the procedure.”

Chastened, Bunsen looked apologetically towards the adults, and started to explain. “We need to collect two drops of blood from the person in question. This blood will be mixed into the Lineage Potion. After it turns white, I will place five drops onto one end of this piece of parchment. The magic in the parchment will interact with the potion, and will draw out the family tree of the named individual. The tree will extend back as far as the first appearance of the given individual’s surname. Do you have any questions?”

Pierre looked at his wife, then turned back to the goblin. “What do you do with the parchment when the testing is over?”

Gaptooth interrupted Bunsen at this point, and said, “That is yours to do with what you want. I would suggest storing it in your vault, if our suspicions are correct, so that you have incontrovertible proof of lineage. This way it’ll be safe from prying eyes, and when the boy is old enough, you can show him who he is.”

Giselle was pleased that the procedure wouldn’t be an ordeal for Harry, but realized she needed to let him know what to expect. “Harry, dear, this nice goblin--”

Pierre snorted at this, and tried to cover this by faking a cough. Thankfully Bunsen hadn’t heard, and Gaptooth just smirked.

“--needs to poke your finger just a bit. It’ll hurt a little, but as soon as it’s over, I’ll make it all better. Okay?”

The look on Harry's face indicated that he wasn't too sure it was really okay, but he trusted his Mama, so he held out his hand.

Bunsen grabbed the finger, and in a quick motion, pricked it with a silver needle. Squeezing out two drops of blood into the basin, he let Harry’s hand go, and started stirring the potion, while saying what sounded like an incantation in Gobbledegook.

Giselle took her wand and pointed it at Harry’s finger. Casting a small healing charm took care of the pricked finger and a mild water spell cleaned off the blood.

“Mama, have a bandage?” Harry asked.

“Of course, dear, you may have a bandage for your finger. What kind do you want? Vampires or Centaurs?”

Harry thought hard for a moment, and then said, “Bampires, ‘cause dey like blood.”

Fleur looked disappointed–she always chose centaurs, ‘cause they were like horses. But the last time she had tried to get Harry to choose what she had wanted had precipitated a rather violent screaming match, and an accidental magic burst that had turned her hair purple.

Bunsen had finally ceased the incantation, and the fluid was showing clouds of white mixed in with the pink. As they all watched, the clouds became bigger and bigger, until finally there was no pink at all in the basin. Bunsen siphoned out a small amount of the liquid and very meticulously placed five drops onto the parchment. As the last drop landed, the parchment flashed a brilliant white, and black letters and lines started to form.

This was the moment they had all been waiting for. Pierre and Giselle bent over the letters, anxious to find out who this little black-haired child was. Slowly, more and more letters appeared, until the name was visible in all its glory: Harry James Potter, b. 31 July, 1980.

oooooooooo

“Well, I guess that’s that, then. We can’t adopt him.” Giselle was almost crying at the perceived loss. She had tried not to get her hopes up, but couldn’t help wanting to have little Harry as part of the family legally, as well as in love.

The family had decided to go to McMerlin’s for lunch. The children loved going there, because they catered to families with children, and had a magical play structure. Part of it contained a castle, with a dragon that would breath smoke at them and roar convincingly if they tried to climb the tower it was guarding. Fleur, of course, loved that part, and liked to pretend she was a princess in the top of the tower, and imagine someone rescuing her. Some prince would come along and defeat the dragon and carry her away to his castle, where she could eat as much ice cream as she wanted, and the prince would spend his time playing with her, even if she wanted to play Tea Party.

Harry liked the slides best. There was a set of stairs that changed their configuration depending on who was on them at the time. When Harry climbed them, the risers were spaced very closely, and helped to carry him to the top. When older children played, they became, by turns, rope ladders, the branches of a tree, or even stones in the side of a mountain. The slides themselves were charmed to allow varying speeds of descent. Harry came down gently and smoothly, and stopped at the bottom without ever falling off.

“I know, dear, I’m so sorry.” Pierre was rather sad too, but was trying his best to accept the circumstances with a willing heart. “But we can still raise him and love him just as if he were ours. It doesn't matter that he's--" and his voice dropped into a whisper, "--Harry Potter. We’ll call him Harry Delacour, and perhaps start doing a glamour charm to cover his scar, since that is rather too noticeable, and nobody will know the difference.”

“That’s not the only reason I’m sad, Pierre dear. Of course I wanted him for my own, but I also wanted him to be able to have some Veela blood in him. The potential benefits are nice.  Even if he just had an avian Animagus form, it would have been a great help to him."

Giselle was happy to have been born a Veela, Pierre knew. He himself was just a wizard, albeit one of high standing and magical power, but sometimes he envied her the abilities that she was blessed with. Although, the casting of fireballs from bare hands was something that he hoped never to see again, or at least, not directed at him. His left leg still twinged every time he thought about that horrible evening.

“Well, dearest, I don’t know what else we can do. I’m sorry that this dream didn’t come true for you, but I’m sure he’ll have other wonderful talents that we can help him develop.”

Giselle only looked slightly mollified, although he knew it was just because of the freshness of the disappointment. She’d come to accept it like he did, and they’d be able to be happy for the things they did have, rather than perpetually saddened by what was missing.

Soon enough it was time for the family to go, and with a minimum of fussing from Harry, and slightly more from Fleur, they went back to Chateau Delacour.

oooooooooo

The next day, being a Sunday, was really a day of rest for the Delacour family.  They usually tried to sleep late, although Harry's addition to the family tended to cut short that time, and breakfast was a leisurely affair, more often than not held in the sunroom.  Peti, the house-elf most often tasked with making their meals, had been strictly commanded not to go all out in preparing Sunday breakfast, but often found ways to skirt that restriction, and this was one of those days.  Harry, who, from the looks of him, had been up for quite some time, had a face smeared with chocolate from the freshly-made croissants that he loved so much.  Fleur, who enjoyed sleeping in, hadn't shown up yet, and Pierre, bless his heart, was still snoring.  That left Giselle to spend some quality time with Harry, something that she greatly enjoyed.

Currently, she was trying to figure out what was going on in Harry's head.  He kept wrinkling his nose and sneezing.  She devoutly hoped he wasn't getting sick again.  She didn't mind caring for her children, but admitted to herself that illnesses really affected her.  The caring-for wasn't so bad, except for the smells, but seeing her children in such distress was horrible.  She felt Harry's head, but he didn't feel warm.  She sniffed, experimentally, and detected a faint whiff of a very unpleasant odor--it smelled something like a mixture of dirty socks and the really disgusting kind of mold that grows underneath shower mats that aren't cleaned regularly.  But the only reason she could smell it was due to her Veela heritage, so she discounted that as a possibility.  Finally, she decided that she'd ask him to see if he could tell her.

"Harry, what's the matter?  You keep sneezing.  Are you sick?"

"No, Mama, sumting smell bad." 
"What does it smell like?"  Giselle wondered if he was just reacting strongly to one of the aromas currently wafting in from the kitchen, products of her ever-so-politely uncooperative house-elf.

"My feet!" he proudly proclaimed.

Giselle was shocked.  There was only the one odor she had detected that was anywhere close to what Harry had said.  But, that would mean. . .

She got up from her seat more rapidly than was usual, managing to bump the table and slosh some tea out onto the saucer.  Ignoring the minor spill, she hurried to the office desk where they had placed their copy of Harry's genealogy.  It went back for quite a few generations, apparently the Potters were a rather ancient family.  She didn't know exactly where to start, nor what to look for, but placed the roll on the floor, truly the only place big enough to hold the whole thing, and started reading names, starting with Harry's grandparents.

An hour later, Pierre, Fleur, and Harry were startled out of their game of gobstones by a most unladylike shriek from the office.  Rushing in, afraid of what he might find, he was certainly unprepared for the sight that was presented to him.  His beautiful, calm, regal, elegant, and oh-so-well-mannered wife was dancing in a circle, waving her arms, and laughing.

"Mumpty!" Pierre called for a house-elf, who arrived with a small 'pop'.  "Get me a calming draught, I think there's something wrong with my wife."

The poor little house-elf took one look at the Madame and disappeared again.

"Giselle!  Giselle, honey, what's wrong?"  Pierre was rather worried, as he'd never seen her act this way before.  Sure, she had been exceedingly happy each time she had gotten pregnant, and there was, of course, the night they got engaged, which he still remembered very fondly, but this was too much.

"He is!  Pierre, he already is!!" Giselle just about shouted this, although even in her heightened state of . . . whatever it was, she managed to not sound too unrefined.

"What?"  Pierre couldn't for the life of him figure out what was going on.  "Calm down, dear!  Mumpty has a calming draught for you, why don't you go ahead and drink it, and then we'll discuss whatever it is that he is, okay?"  Unfortunately, he said this in a somewhat patronizing tone, and the look that Giselle shot him made him rather uncomfortably aware of her abilities.

"I do not need a calming draught, dear, and I'll thank you to not talk to me like I'm some idiotic teenager!"  Thankfully, by this time, she had stopped dancing, and seemed to be a little more in control of her emotions.  "Harry, dear, can you come here for a second?"  The disparity in the tone of her voice when talking to Harry as opposed to when she had said 'dear' to Pierre was rather stunning, and served, more than anything else, to impress upon her husband that she was really in full control of her faculties, and that he should be a little more careful in how he treated her, even if she had been capering like a drunken niffler.

Harry, who thought that Mama was just having a good time dancing, ran over to her and jumped into her arms.  "Dance wif me, Mama?"  he asked, a pleading look on his little face. 
"Of course, dear, I'll dance with you, but I need to talk to Papa for a bit first, okay?"  Harry nodded his acceptance of this, and squirmed around so he could see Pierre more clearly, obviously looking forward to seeing what they were going to talk about.

"Sit down, Pierre."  Giselle's tone of voice had gotten much less icy, but he knew he wasn't fully forgiven for jumping to the wrong conclusion.  He sat, quickly, feeling quite lucky that he had managed to sit in a chair--he must remember to thank Mumpty for putting one behind him, as he was sure there hadn't been one there before.

"Now, Pierre, I noticed something interesting with Harry this morning, while you and Fleur were sleeping.  Harry complained of smelling something that, he said, smelled like his feet.  Now, I could smell the same thing, but it was rather faint, and had come from far away."

Fleur interjected at this point, "Yes, Mama, I smelled it too.  It was rather icky, and made the food taste gross.  Well, until Mumpty did a spell for us and then it just smelled like roses."

Giselle smiled at her little Veela daughter, and continued her explanation.  "Quite so, my dear, and thank you for sharing it with us.  Now, as you know, Veela blood enables one to have a very acute sense of smell, much more capable than regular human olfactory senses.  So, I came in here and started looking at Harry's genealogy.  After all, we really didn't take the time yesterday to examine it in detail."

Pierre was starting to see where this discussion was headed, and was rather excited to find out the final destination.  Sure, it wouldn't be the same as magically adopting little Harry, but it would mean yet another link between them.  And it gave them another solid reason for taking him from those dreadful Muggles--they never would have been able to understand him if what he suspected was really true.

"Well?  Woman, don't make me drag it out of you!"  Pierre knew that he didn't have a very good chance at doing anything of the sort, and Giselle was more inclined to laugh at his threats than anything--after all, he didn't really cut an imposing figure.  Usually this was a good thing, as it tended to cause his associates to underestimate him, to their detriment, but sometimes it would be nice to look just a little more impressive, and less like a teddy bear.

"He's got Veela blood, Pierre, from his maternal grandmother's line!  It's rather far back, seven generations, and I don't know why it's manifesting in him now, but he really is one of us."  Giselle could hardly get this last out, she was becoming rather choked up, and her eyes were filling with tears.

"Mama, why crying?" Harry asked.

"I'm just happy, Harry, because I love you so much."

Pierre stood up and walked over to his wife.  He wrapped his arms around her, and she lay her head on his shoulder.  "Come here, sweetheart," he said to Fleur, beckoning her to join them in the family hug.  She did so, and they stood like that for quite some time, at least until Fleur got bored and wormed away from them.

Harry didn't know why his family was crying--he was certainly happy being with them, happier than he could ever remember being.  He just accepted it as one of those things--after all, his Mama had told him that she was happy.  But he did have one question.  "Mama?  What a beela?"

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