Four, long weeks had passed since it had happened. Four terrible, agonising weeks, spent trying to work out why. Why had Albus Dumbledore let himself be murdered so brutally? How could he have left the world at the time it needed him most?
Harry sighed. And when will the pain go away?
He heard the doorbell ring downstairs “ probably one of Dudley’s gang looking for some of Aunt Petunia’s prize-winning Eccles Cakes; but Harry was surprised to find that, a few moments later, the door to his bedroom opened and in walked Arthur Weasley.
“Good to see you, Harry,” he said cheerily. “Time to go.”
Harry stared.
“Go?”
“Yes, Harry,” said Mr Weasley, looking at him strangely. “Time to go.”
“Go where?” asked Harry.
“Didn’t you get a letter from Ron?”
Harry shook his head. Since Ron had heard about how Harry had broken up with Ginny, letters from him had been rather few and far between.
“Ah well,” said Mr Weasley, looking slightly unsettled. “You’re coming to the wedding with us. It’s not for another few days yet, but we’re heading over there early to get everything ready. Let’s get you packed.”
He waved his wand and Harry’s trunk packed itself promptly and neatly. Mr Weasley took the handle.
“Off we go,” he said, taking Harry’s arm in a strong grip. “One, two, three “ “
Harry felt the slightly nauseating feeling of Side-Along Apparition, which lasted a few seconds, then left him standing in the kitchen of the Burrow.
“Come on!” Mr Weasley shouted up the stairs. “We’re going!”
There were heavy footsteps on the stairs, then Ginny appeared at the bottom, not noticing Harry until she was inches from him. They looked at each other for a few seconds; her expression was completely unreadable, as was her voice.
“Hello, Harry,” she said.
“Hi, Ginny,” replied Harry, sensing the atmosphere in the room tense painfully. “Good summer?”
“Fine,” said Ginny simply.
The moment ended as two more sets of feet reached the foot of the stairs.
“Harry!” said Hermione brightly, giving him a swift kiss on the cheek. “It’s so good to see you!”
Harry looked to Ron, but his friend merely said: “Let’s go,” to his father.
Harry glanced at Ginny, who looked from him, to Ron, and sighed.
“Where’s the wedding?” asked Harry, trying to make conversation out of an awkward silence.
“Hasn’t Ron told you anything?” asked Mr Weasley, and Harry saw Ginny glare at Ron. “We’re going to France! The wedding’s in Provence!”
Hermione grinned.
“It’s an awfully nice region on the Mediterranean Coast!” she explained excitedly. “The south of France is really beautiful “ just like Italy, it is “ “
“I think we’ve heard this all before, Hermione,” groaned Ron, catching Harry’s eye, and for a moment Harry thought that they might share a smirk on Hermione’s behalf, but Ron turned away quickly when he realised that he was angry with Harry.
“We’ve paid to join the French Floo Network for five trips to France,” Mr Weasley explained to Harry. “Molly’s already there and the others will be arriving in the next few days.
“Now,” he said to the four of them, “the house we’re going to is called Lou Bosco…”
When it was Harry’s turn to go, he called his destination and anticipated his arrival with impatience: he had never had the chance to go abroad before “ the Dursleys never took him anywhere. The Mediterranean sounded like Paradise compared to grey, old England. Once he had stopped spinning, Harry replaced his glasses on his nose and looked around. He and Hermione “ who had eagerly volunteered to go first “ seemed to be in an old-fashioned drawing room, with an age-worn grand piano and chairs which looked like antiques that had been reupholstered to their former glory.
“Mrs Weasley! Mrs Weasley!” they heard a throaty French woman call from another room. “Votre famille arrivent quand, exactement? Parce que “ “
“For goodness sake!” interrupted Ms Weasley’s frustrated tones. “I don’t speak French! I can’t understand a word you’re saying!”
By now, the three Weasleys had spun out of the fire behind Harry and were searching for the source of the noise. The door opened sharply and Mrs Weasley bustled in.
“Oh, thank goodness you’re here!” she said, hugging each of them in turn. “Giselle keeps hassling me about my famille, and she’s dying to meet you, Harry; keeps asking about ze boy oo leeved.”
She ushered them out of the drawing room and they found themselves in an elegant entrance hall, with a detailed painted ceiling and intricately carved, wooden banisters on the staircase. A tall, slender figure with a long mane of shimmering, silver hair glided out of a doorway on the other side of the hall. She looked exactly like Fleur, only her blue eyes were flecked with sparkling grey and there was more age behind them.
“Monsieur-dames,” she said to the new arrivals. “Je m’appelle Giselle Delacour, la mère de Fleur et Gabrielle. »
“Bonjour, madame,” said Hermione, after a short pause.
Ginny wrinkled her nose and jabbed Ron with her elbow “ he had been halfway into an elaborate bow before Ginny brought him to his sense. Harry tried not to gape, but if Fleur’s grandmother was a Veela, her mother was half-Veela, and therefore twice as enchanting as her daughter.
“S’il vous plait,” said Giselle, and Mrs Weasley scowled, “vos chambres…”
Fleur’s mother floated over to the staircase, but only Hermione followed her.
“Come on!” she hissed to the others. “She’s going to show is our bedrooms!”
They all traipsed up the stairs after the silk gown of Mrs Delacour “ all except Mrs Weasley who muttered something and disappeared “ dragging their cases behind them, until they got to a long landing, stretching to the left and right at the top.
“Monsieur Weasley,” she gestured to the room at the end of the corridor on her left.
“Er “ merci,” said Mr Weasley, in an embarrassingly English accent. “I’ll see you lot later,” and he hurried off down the hall.
“Les filles,” said Giselle, turning to her right and walking to the first door on the right, “et les garcons,” she gestured to the room opposite it.
“Merci, madame,” said Hermione, putting in a little more effort then Mr Weasley had on her pronunciation.
Giselle inclined her head slightly to Hermione, cast a disapproving glance at Ginny “ who was scowling like her mother “ then returned to the staircase and descended.
“God, would it kill her to speak in English?” burst out Ginny, as soon as Giselle was out of ear-shot.
“Maybe she can’t,” said Hermione, “and how is she to know that we can’t speak French?”
“You’d think the blank face might give it away,” said Ginny, “and you’re not helping with all you ‘bonjour’s and ‘merci’s.”
“I was only trying to be polite,” said Hermione briskly.
An awkward silence ensued.
“Shall we “ er “ go and unpack?” said Harry tentatively, picking up his trunk and opening the door to his and Ron’s room.
Hermione nodded quickly and disappeared into the other room, closely followed by Ginny.
Harry and Ron’s room was a rather vulgar green colour with two single beds and an old mahogany wardrobe. Sunlight streamed through the window at the far end of the room, through which Harry could see a large expanse of grass.
Ron claimed the bed nearest the door and began to take his things out of his case in silence.
“So…” began Harry, sitting on his own bed, “… good summer, so far?”
“It was all right,” mumbled Ron, with a shrug.
“Look,” said Harry, “I’m sorry about breaking it off with Ginny, but I was only trying to protect her “ “
“If you’d have wanted to protect her, you wouldn’t have used her the way you did!” Ron retaliated.
“Used her?” spluttered Harry, unable to believe what he was hearing.
“Yeah! Used her!” yelled Ron. “You were going through a rough patch and you needed some comfort, then, when you decide you’ve had enough, you ditch her “ “
“I DID NOT USE HER!” shouted Harry, pulling out his wand.
“What the hell is going on?”
Ginny was standing in the doorway, her red hair crackling with electricity, Hermione just behind her. Harry pocketed his wand embarrassedly but did not take his narrow-eyed glare off Ron.
“Nothing,” muttered Ron.
“Nothing?” asked Ginny, her eyebrows raised.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Harry, “it doesn’t concern you.”
“If you think for one moment that I’m going to believe that, you’ve got another thing coming,” said Ginny, a pang of her mother’s scold in her voice.
“Harry?” asked Hermione cautiously. “Ron?”
Ginny sighed. “I can’t be doing with this,” she said, and she turned to leave the room.
“Yeah, stay away from him,” murmured Ron under his breath.
Ginny stopped abruptly and turned.
“Pardon me?” she asked her brother dangerously.
“He’s not worth it,” said Ron, without looking at Harry.
“Ron, don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Hermione. “You’re not thinking straight.
“No, Hermione, he’s right,” said Harry, staring at Ron. “It was stupid of me to break up with Ginny. The right thing to do would have been to keep her close to me, then perhaps she could die trying to defend me like everyone else I love has.”
These last words rang around the ugly green room like daggers.
Harry sat on the end of his bed and put his head in his hands. These were supposed to be their last few days in the sun together before the unthinkable that lay ahead, yet here they all were, fighting with each other.
“Harry,” said Ginny’s voice, much softer than before, “no one blames you for Dumbledore’s death.”
“I do,” said Harry, between the gap in his hands.
“You don’t have to face this alone,” said Hermione. “We said we’d stick by you through all of this and we meant every word of it… didn’t we, Ron?”
Harry looked up at Ron, who was staring at the floor. He nodded.
“This past month has been hard on all of us,” said Hermione quietly. “Please let’s not take it out on each other.”
Ron stood up. “Sorry,” he said, offering Harry his hand. Harry shook it and smiled at his friend.
“Want to take a tour of the house?” asked Ginny, gesturing out of the door.
“Better than sitting here all day,” said Harry, and he, Ron and Hermione followed her out of the room.
Harry couldn’t sleep that night, despite the resolution of his problems with Ron. He sat at the open window, watching the summer stars, as a warm breeze blew in from the Mediterranean beyond the nearby town. The fake Horcrux was in his hands again, and he turned it over and over on his palm with habitual fingers. Now and then he would open the locket, close it, put it round his neck, take it off, running everything over time and time again in his mind.
Getting up with the decision that a stroll might help him think, he crossed the room to the door and tiptoed out into the hall. He went down the stairs, got cold feet on the marble in the entrance hall and opened the front door, which wasn’t locked due to the house’s somewhat remote location. Harry inhaled deeply and padded out onto the soft, dewy grass. He wandered all the way round to the back of the house, where the moonlight was not in shadow, then looked up to one of the upstairs windows.
A silhouette, still and clear in the light from the night sky, was watching him. It wasn’t obvious who is was, but it was definitely a girl. Harry moved slightly so that he could see the lit side of her face, but she disappeared behind what Harry believed to be a sheet of red hair.
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