Once inside Viktor's weapons room Harry, to Fleur's amusement, proved himself to be a typical boy. It was a lovely room, probably the nicest in the house, with a set of huge bay windows giving out onto a view of a lake, and a ceiling enchanted to show the movement of the stars as streaks of silver against a coal-blue night sky. But Harry ignored all that; he went across the room immediately to the rack of swords that hung against the far wall, and ran a hand reverently along the gleaming blades.
'Can I take one out?' he called over his shoulder to her.
Fleur draped herself on the arm of a blue leather sofa and nodded.
'Viktor said you could have anything here you liked, you heard him.'
Harry nodded, and promptly seemed to forget that she was there entirely.
He took down one of the swords — a slim-bladed one with a chased silver hilt — and began to examine it. Weapons bored Fleur; she sank back onto the sofa and began to read Viktor's latest chapter. It was, as usual, full of spelling errors. She frowned, and Summoned her red-feathered quill.
At least twenty minutes had passed when she looked up again. The light in the room was not good, and at first all Fleur could see of Harry at the far side of the room was his shadow, and the blade crossing his shadow as he moved, a silver streak against the dimness. She set her stack of parchments down and got to her feet. She was halfway across the room to him when he caught sight of her coming towards him and paused, lowering the sword he'd been holding. 'Hey,' he said. 'I was just fooling around.'
She waved her right hand absently at the unlit torches on the walls and the room filled with a diffuse golden glow that lit each of the individual dust motes in the air. Harry was suddenly standing under a rain of particles of light, like Danae under her shower of gold. Fleur smiled at him. 'Just fooling?' she said. 'You are very good.'
'Good with this?' He glanced at the sword in his right hand. The sleeves of his jumper were rolled up and over several times so that they bulked out over his slender arms. His damp hair curled in dark tendrils over his forehead and at the nape of his neck. 'I'm not, really,' he said, 'it's just Draco. He's good at this.'
'It was you I was watching just now, was it not?'
Harry gave a little shrug. 'He taught me,' he said. 'I fight like he does.
And I'm not bad. But just like I'll always be a little better at Quidditch than he is, he'll always be a little better at this than I am. I mean, he started learning when he was about eight. I just started in June.'
'In that case I retract the compliment,' she said in a dry tone.
For a moment she thought he was going to be angry, but he just smiled wryly. 'I believe in credit where it's due, is all,' Harry said. He leaned the sword against the wall behind him and glanced around. 'Viktor has an awful lot of weapons for a Quidditch player,' he remarked.
'But not a lot of weapons for someone in the resistance movement,' Fleur said. 'Quite a few are enchanted, although Viktor believes it is worthwhile for wizards to learn to use some Muggle weapons. He's been working on convincing the others in the Order to use them — oh, come, Harry you did know Viktor was in the resistance movement, didn't you? You're a bright boy.'
'Not really,' Harry said. 'Hermione's the smart one.'
'You miss her,' observed Fleur.
Harry said nothing, but reached out and picked up the jewel-hilted dagger that sat on the nearby mantel. The blade was sheathed in tooled leather into which the initials VK had been burned. 'Nice knife,' he said.
'It's a throwing knife,' Fleur said, and held out her hand. 'Give it to me.'
Harry handed it over and watched as she unsheathed the blade and took aim at one of the circular targets against the far wall. It resembled a standard dartboard: a ring of concentric circles on corkboard, the largest blue, then red, then black. The knife left Fleur's hand with a faint hissing sound, flew through the air, and stuck firmly in the red circle, its hilt vibrating with the force of impact.
'Nicely done,' said Harry, sounding as if he really were impressed. 'You must have trained to do that.'
'Not really,' Fleur replied. 'I only had Viktor show me how to do it about a month ago. The first time I almost took off his ear. After that…' she shrugged. 'Easy.'
'I guess you just have a knack.'
'No,' Fleur said crossly. 'It's nothing like that, Harry. It's because I am a Magid. And so are you, although you hardly act like it.'
'What, because I got kicked out of Magid school? That wasn't my fault.'
Fleur made an exasperated noise. 'Idiot! That's not what I meant.' She snapped her fingers, and the knife flew back to her hand, the hilt smacking her palm. 'How did you think you got so good with that sword in just a few months? Did you think it was because Draco was just such a wonderful teacher?'
Harry looked slightly baffled. Obviously he had thought something very like that. 'Well,' he said hesitantly. 'Ever since the Polyjuice mixup, I can feel some things he feels, and I know some things that he knows — '
'Yes, and that does account for some of it.' Fleur relented slightly. 'But of course, that connection is because you are both Magids as well. It is an important part of you, Harry, this quality of yours — this talent you possess.'
'I don't possess any talents,' Harry said flatly. 'Except for Quidditch and not dying. I'm good at not dying.'
Fleur handed him the knife. 'Throw it,' she said.
He took it, but stared at her blankly. 'I don't know how. I'll just break a window or something.'
'Then I'll reparo it,' Fleur snapped. 'Really, Harry. You know what Magids are? They are not just talented wizards, although they are that. They are warriors. Why do you think you're so good at Quidditch? Speed of flight, agility, swiftness and fierceness and strategic thinking, that is what makes an exceptional Seeker. And many can train to do it, like Viktor did, but you can do it naturally. It came to you as simply as breathing, didn't it?
And so did the sword, the first time you picked it up. You were born to stand up and fight, Harry. Not to drown your talents in self-doubt and waste your spirit in flying around on broomsticks.'
'I like Quidditch,' was all Harry said, but there was a certain gleam in his eye as he looked at the knife in his hand.
'Throw it,' Fleur said.
Harry threw it. It sailed across the room and stuck in the very outer part of the corkboard, at the edge of the red. 'Bugger,' Harry said. He snapped his fingers as Fleur had done, and the knife returned to his grasp. 'I told you I wouldn't be any good.'
'You are trying the wrong way,' Fleur said severely. 'Remember the first time you got on a broomstick and flew? It was easy, wasn't it?'
'Well, I wasn't thinking about whether it would be hard at the time,'
Harry said. 'I was thinking about — '
Fleur cocked an eyebrow curiously. 'What?'
'Malfoy,' Harry said, and smiled as if he couldn't help it. He drew his hand back, ready to throw the knife again. 'I was thinking about knocking Draco off his broom.'
'He is all right, isn't he, Harry?' Fleur asked, her tone serious. 'Draco, I mean.'
Harry didn't look at her. 'Why do you ask?'
'Well, I couldn't imagine that if he were all right he would have let you go off to kill the Dark Lord on your own,' Fleur said, 'nor would Hermione.
Since they care for you so much.'
The knife flew out of Harry's hand, sailed across the room, and hit a small Tiffany lamp. It went over in a shower of shattered multicolored glass. 'I told you,' Harry said, looking aggrieved.
'Oh dear,' said Fleur. 'Viktor's favorite lamp.'
Harry snapped his fingers and the knife flew back to him; he caught it gingerly this time. 'I'd rather not talk about Hermione or Draco,' he said, 'if you don't mind.'
'Well, I do mind,' said Fleur. 'I have not sat beside your bed for three days and listened to you raving in your sleep for nothing. Why are they not with you when you need them so desperately? I cannot imagine anything you
