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Nymphadora Tonks
Nymphadora Tonks had spent the past hour doing what she did best at formal events—making herself strategically invisible. Not literally, though that would have been useful, but by positioning herself near refreshment tables and architectural features that didn't draw attention. Her burgundy-brown hair remained frustratingly stable despite her best efforts to will it into more interesting colors, a side effect of her mother's earlier lecture about "appropriate presentation at international gatherings."
The ballroom was a sea of elegant robes and diplomatic smiles, everyone performing their carefully rehearsed roles in the grand theater of magical politics. Tonks had watched Harry get swept from conversation to conversation like a particularly valuable piece being moved around a chessboard, and she'd seen Crystal-Harmony hold court from her wheelchair with the sort of regal composure that made Tonks feel like an awkward baby giraffe by comparison.
She was contemplating whether sneaking off to find the guards' salt water pools would be considered diplomatic abandonment when a voice with a distinctive accent interrupted her thoughts.
"You are metamorphmagus, yes?"
Tonks turned to find a young man, perhaps nineteen, looking at her with a friendly smile. He was handsome, with dark hair and bright ice-blue eyes that were warm and kind.
"That obvious?" she asked, unconsciously touching her hair.
"To another metamorphmagus, always obvious." His smile widened as he offered his hand, and Tonks almost gasped upon hearing his words. Her first time meeting another one like her. "Demir Yilmaz, representing Turkish Ministry. I saw your hair flicker pink at the edges—very subtle, but I notice these things."
"Nymphadora Tonks," she replied, shaking his hand and feeling her own smile widen. "Though please, call me Tonks. And yes, the hair has opinions about staying one color for extended periods."
"I understand completely," Demir said with obvious sympathy. "My eyebrows keep trying to become more interesting shapes."
Tonks laughed, feeling some of her tension ease. "Finally, someone who understands! Everyone else just thinks it's all effortless control."
"Nothing about metamorphmagus abilities is effortless," Demir agreed. "It is like... how do you say... spinning many plates while also juggling and possibly riding unicycle."
"That's the most accurate description I've ever heard," Tonks said with genuine appreciation.
Demir gestured toward the dance floor with an easy, friendly manner. "Would you perhaps like to dance? I have been standing alone watching diplomats make uncomfortable conversation for past hour, and I think I am going mad from boredom. Fellow metamorphmagus conversation would be welcome relief."
"Are you here alone?" Tonks asked, glancing around. "I mean, no delegation or—"
"Oh, my girlfriend is with me," Demir said naturally. "But she is not here right now—she may appear later. For now, I am free to rescue beautiful British witch from architectural features and refreshment tables, yes?"
Tonks was sure his girlfriend would not be happy to see him dancing with another girl, but this was just a friendly dance, nothing more. Tonks let herself be pulled onto the dance floor. The orchestra had shifted to something with a faster tempo, and Demir moved in a way that made it clear to Tonks that he knew how to dance.
"So," Demir said as they began to move, "you are the one who helped create revolutionary talisman coordination system. This is impressive work."
"Harry did most of the actual work," Tonks protested, though she felt pleased by the recognition. "I just let him study my magical signature during transformations."
"And provided theoretical framework for entire communication system," Demir countered. "Do not diminish contribution. In Turkey, we have saying: 'The foundation stone deserves same honor as the roof.'"
"That's... actually quite nice," Tonks admitted, feeling her hair flush pink at the edges before she caught herself. "Though I'm beginning to suspect Turkish sayings are more poetic than British ones. Ours are mostly about weather and tea."
"Ah, but weather and tea are very important British cultural foundations," Demir said seriously, though his eyes were laughing. "Cannot build empire without proper tea service."
They moved through several more turns, and Tonks found herself genuinely enjoying the conversation. It was refreshing to talk with someone who understood the peculiar challenges of metamorphmagus abilities—the constant low-level concentration required to maintain a chosen appearance, the way emotions bled through into physical changes, the occasional identity crisis when you could be anyone.
"Do you ever wonder," Tonks asked suddenly, "who you really are? I mean, when you can look like anyone, how do you know which face is actually yours?"
Demir's expression grew thoughtful, and something flickered in his eyes. "I think perhaps we are all of our faces. The one we show family, the one we show friends, the one we wear for formal events like this. Metamorphmagi just make the transitions more literal." He paused, then added quietly, "Though sometimes, we hold onto faces that mean most to us. Faces we cannot bear to lose."
"That's surprisingly philosophical for a dance floor conversation."
"Dancing makes people honest," Demir replied, his smile returning.
They continued through another turn, and Tonks noticed how easy the conversation felt—like talking with an old friend rather than a stranger at a diplomatic event. Demir asked about her Auror training ambitions, shared amusing anecdotes about Turkish magical bureaucracy, and generally made her feel less like an awkward appendage to Harry's international fame.
"Your girlfriend," Tonks ventured after a moment, "she's also metamorphmagus? That must be... interesting. Having someone who truly understands."
"Yes," Demir said, and his voice carried such warmth that Tonks wished that someday, her relationship with Harry would become like that. Romantic and no longer dancing around a bush. "She understands in ways no one else could. We are... very connected. She knows when I need her."
"That sounds lovely," Tonks said sincerely. "You're lucky to have found someone like that."
"I am," Demir agreed simply. "Though luck is perhaps wrong word. We found each other when we both needed understanding most. That is not luck—that is fate being kind."
As the dance wound toward its conclusion, Demir's attention went somewhere else. His eyes seemed to focus on something, and his smile turned gentle.
"Speaking of which," he said, "I believe my girlfriend is calling me. The connection between metamorphmagi who are very close—it is hard to explain to others. But I hear her, and I should go."
"I understand," Tonks said, though she glanced around instinctively and saw no one trying to get his attention. Perhaps it was some kind of magical communication she wasn't aware of, or maybe metamorphmagus couples developed their own subtle ways of staying connected.
"Thank you for dance," Demir said, stepping back with a slight bow. "And for conversation. Perhaps we meet again at future international gathering, and you can tell me if British tea really is superior to all others."
"It is," Tonks assured him. "Though I'm willing to be convinced otherwise with sufficient evidence."
Demir's laugh was warm and genuine as he moved away, disappearing into the crowd with purposeful steps. Tonks found herself standing alone on the edge of the dance floor, feeling slightly more confident than she had before.
At least some people at international events could be genuinely pleasant.
Harry Potter
The evening had become a blur of diplomatic conversations and political maneuvering, and Harry felt like he'd aged several years in the span of a few hours. He'd met Italian professors, deflected German skepticism, and somehow acquired a Russian pure-blood family's contact information, all while trying to remember which fork was appropriate for which course and whether bowing or handshaking was more appropriate for each introduction.
He was contemplating whether hiding in a closet would be the better choice when Fleur appeared.
"You look exhausted," she observed, her pale blue eyes studying him with concern. "Too many people wanting pieces of 'Arry Potter for zeir political collections?"
"Something like that," Harry admitted. "Though I'm learning that international diplomacy is essentially an endurance sport disguised as a party."
"Zen perhaps you need rescue," Fleur said with a slight smile. "I believe you owe me a second dance? Unless you 'ave forgotten our agreement?"
"I haven't forgotten," Harry assured her, offering his hand with more confidence than he'd had during their first dance. "Though I should warn you—my diplomatic exhaustion might affect my footwork."
"I will risk it," Fleur replied, her hand slipping into his with familiar warmth.
The orchestra had shifted to something slower, more intimate than the opening waltz. As they found their position on the dance floor, Harry became acutely aware of how much closer this formation placed them—her hand on his shoulder, his on her waist, their joined hands held at shoulder height.
"So," Fleur said after a moment, "now zat you 'ave met 'alf of magical Europe, what do you think? Still prefer your Scottish castle and British rain?"
"The Scottish castle has its charm," Harry said diplomatically. "Though I admit, French hospitality is rather more... elaborate than I'm used to."
"Elaborate," Fleur repeated with amusement. "Such a polite way to say 'overwhelming and possibly excessive.'"
"I was trying to be diplomatic."
"You were succeeding. Though I suspect you are also being 'onest—zis must be very different from your normal life."
Harry thought about Hogwarts, about classes and homework and worrying about passing exams. "It's like living in two completely different worlds. At school, I'm just another student trying to get through Potions without melting my cauldron. Here, I'm apparently an international magical prodigy who needs to be introduced to every dignitary in Europe."
"And which world do you prefer?" Fleur asked, and there was genuine curiosity in her voice.
"The one where I can be myself," Harry said honestly. "Though I'm not entirely sure which world that is anymore."
Fleur's expression softened. "You know, when I was younger, I 'ated being part Veela. Everyone always staring, always wondering if zeir feelings were real or just magical influence. I wanted to be normal, to be seen for who I was rather than what I was."
"What changed?" Harry asked.
"I realized zat normal is boring," Fleur replied with a slight smile. "And zat being different meant I could do things others could not. Like beat every boy in my year at dueling, or master charms zey said were too advanced, or dance with interesting British wizards at diplomatic balls."
"I'm interesting?" Harry asked with mock surprise.
"Very interesting," Fleur confirmed. "Most boys your age talk about Quidditch and complain about 'omework. You talk about basilisk skin integration and international magical cooperation."
"That probably says something concerning about my social development."
"It says you are remarkable," Fleur corrected firmly. "Though I think you do not fully believe zat yet."
They moved through another turn, and Harry found himself studying her face in the soft ballroom light. She really was beautiful—not just in the obvious way that made people stare, but her intelligence in her eyes when she was genuinely interested in something, the smile, that bloody smile.
"You're staring," Fleur observed, though she didn't sound displeased.
"Sorry," Harry said, feeling his ears heat. "I was just thinking."
"About?"
"About how you're right—being different isn't necessarily bad. It's just... complicated."
"Simple things are rarely interesting."
"Speaking of complicated," Harry ventured, "your father's ball has been quite the political education. I've learned more about international magical relations in four hours than in twelve years of living."
"And what 'ave you learned?" Fleur asked.
"That everyone wants something," Harry replied. "Italy wants innovation, Germany wants structure, Russia wants... I'm not entirely sure what Russia wants, but it involves multiple centuries of family history and perhaps to have more influence."
Fleur laughed. "You are not wrong about Russia. Zey play very long games wiz very complicated rules. Though I think Miss Belikova's interest was not entirely political."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, 'Arry," Fleur's smile turned knowing. "You really do not see it, do you? Beautiful Russian witch gives you 'er family's private contact information, tells you she respects independent thinking, looks at you like you are fascinating puzzle she wishes to solve? Zis is not just professional networking."
"She was just being friendly. Professional courtesy between international representatives."
"If you believe zat, zen you understand women even less zan you understand international politics," Fleur said with obvious amusement. "Though I suppose it is charming, in a way. Most boys your age are very aware of when girls are interested. You seem genuinely oblivious."
"I'm not oblivious," Harry protested. "I'm just... focused on other things."
"Like saving people and creating revolutionary magical devices," Fleur agreed. "Yes, I 'ave noticed zis about you. You see big pictures and miss small details right in front of your face."
"That sounds like a criticism."
"It is observation," Fleur corrected. "Not good or bad, just... very you."
They moved through another series of turns, and Harry became aware that the dance was approaching its conclusion.
"Fleur," Harry said suddenly, "thank you. For the dances, for the tour of Beauxbatons, for making all of this less overwhelming than it would have been otherwise."
"You are welcome," Fleur replied, her voice softer than usual. "Though I think you would 'ave managed without me. You are stronger zan you give yourself credit for."
"Maybe," Harry allowed. "But it's easier with very good friends."
Fleur seemed pleased by his answer.
The music ended, and they came to a stop with the other dancers. Applause rippled through the ballroom, though Harry suspected it was more for the orchestra than for any particular dancing pair.
"I should let you return to your admirers," Fleur said. "Zough I expect we will speak again before ze evening ends?"
"Definitely," Harry confirmed. "I still need to hear more about how terrible British education is compared to French sophistication."
"Oh, zat will take hours," Fleur assured him with a grin. "Perhaps several days. Possibly weeks."
As she moved away, Harry caught her glancing back once, her expression thoughtful.
"Well, well. Potter."
Harry turned to find Draco Malfoy approaching with his characteristic sneer.
Draco Malfoy
Draco Malfoy had been watching Harry Potter all evening with the sort of burning resentment that came from seeing someone you despised succeed at everything you'd been taught to value. The diplomatic conversations, the international recognition, the easy confidence Potter displayed despite being the same age as Draco—it was all deeply, profoundly unfair.
And now Potter had just finished dancing with Fleur Delacour, who was possibly the most beautiful girl Draco had ever seen, and she'd been smiling at him like he was interesting rather than just famous.
"Potter," Draco said again, his voice dripping with aristocratic disdain. "I'm surprised you had time to attend the ball, what with all your important international business to conduct."
"Malfoy," Harry replied, looking at him as if he was not worth the time to talk. "I was hoping to avoid meeting you. I am surprised they invited your family."
"My family has deep connections to French magical society," Draco said with obvious pride. "We've been attending Ministry events here for generations. Though I suppose you wouldn't know about that, being raised by blood traitors and all."
Several nearby conversations paused, and Draco felt a surge of satisfaction. Finally, he was commanding attention rather than watching Potter receive it.
"The Tonks family has been very kind," Harry said quietly, though his green eyes had gone cold. "I'm grateful for their support."
"Support," Draco sneered. "Is that what we're calling it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks more like exploitation. They're using your fame to elevate their own status, parading you around like a trained monkey at these international events."
"That's enough," Harry's voice made Draco feel a cold in his stomach, but he ignored that.
"Is it?" Draco pressed, trying to recover his momentum. "Because I think someone needs to point out that all your so-called achievements—the talismans, the international contracts—they're built on blood traitor connections and luck. You're not special, Potter. You're just lucky that people are too impressed by your scar to see how ordinary you really are."
"You're right," Harry said, and Draco blinked in surprise. "I am lucky. Lucky to have friends who support me, lucky to have guardians who care about my wellbeing, lucky to live in a family that values kindness over blood purity. If that makes me ordinary, then I'm quite content being ordinary."
Draco opened his mouth to deliver another cutting remark, but a new voice interrupted.
"Mister Malfoy."
Minister Delacour was approaching them. His expression was pleasant, but his eyes held steel.
"Perhaps," the Minister continued in flawless English, "you would be more comfortable rejoining your parents? I believe they are in the diplomatic reception area, and I'm certain they would appreciate your company."
It was a polite dismissal that somehow felt more cutting than any insult Draco could have delivered. He was being sent away like a misbehaving child, in front of Potter and half the ballroom.
"Of course, Minister Delacour," Draco managed through gritted teeth. "I was just leaving."
As he retreated toward where his parents stood, Draco caught his father's disapproving glare. That would mean an unpleasant conversation later about proper diplomatic behavior and not embarrassing the family name.
Perfect. Potter had managed to make him look foolish without even trying.
Andromeda Tonks
Andromeda Tonks had been navigating the ballroom like a ship avoiding icebergs all evening, each elegant cluster of guests potentially hiding the collision she knew was inevitable. The Malfoys had been prowling the edges of her vision for the past hour—Lucius with his theatrical cane and calculated charm, Narcissa gliding through conversations like poison through water.
When the moment finally came, Andromeda was almost relieved.
She stood by the refreshment table, watching the enchanted wine decanters pour themselves with French precision, when the temperature seemed to drop several degrees. The scent of expensive perfume announced Narcissa's presence before she spoke.
"Andromeda." The name fell from her sister's lips like a snowflake, beautiful and cold. "How... unexpected to see you at an event of this caliber."
Andromeda turned slowly, using the moment to armor herself. Narcissa stood there like a portrait of everything their mother had wanted them to become—pale blonde hair woven into a crown of braids, robes of deep burgundy that cost more than most wizards made in a year, diamonds at her throat that caught the light like trapped stars.
She was breathtaking. She was also hollow.
"Narcissa," Andromeda replied, her tone as if greeting a stranger. "Still opening conversations with thinly veiled insults, I see. Mother would be so proud."
"I'm simply observing that your usual social circles are somewhat... modest compared to this gathering." Narcissa's pale eyes—so like their mother's, so like Bellatrix's—flicked toward where Harry stood in animated conversation with Minister Delacour. "Though I suppose your ward's recent fame has opened doors that were previously closed to you."
"Harry is my son in all but blood," Andromeda said, her voice gaining an edge of steel. "Not a 'ward,' not an investment, not a tool for social advancement. I realize the concept of loving a child for who they are rather than what they can provide might be foreign to you."
"How passionate," Narcissa murmured, accepting her own wine glass from a floating tray. "Though one does wonder about the timing. You take in an orphaned boy who happens to be the most famous child in Britain, shower him with affection, ensure your presence at every significant moment of his rising career..."
"Careful, Narcissa," Andromeda warned softly. "Your projection is showing."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You're describing exactly what you and Lucius do with Draco. Except we actually love Harry, while you've turned your son into a perfect little mirror of yourselves—all ambition and no soul."
Narcissa's fingers tightened imperceptibly on her wine glass. "My son—"
"Is a cruel, jealous boy who torments anyone he perceives as inferior," Andromeda interrupted smoothly. "Harry's told me enough. The constant bullying, the blood purity obsession, the way he hides behind his father's money and influence. You've created exactly what the Black family always produced—another generation of beautiful monsters."
"At least Draco knows who he is," Narcissa's voice had gone dangerously quiet. "He hasn't abandoned his heritage to play house with a Mudblood and pretend—"
The slap of Andromeda's hand against Narcissa's cheek echoed through their corner of the ballroom like a thunderclap. Several nearby conversations stuttered to a halt.
"You will not," Andromeda said with lethal calm, "use that word in reference to my husband. Not here. Not ever. Ted is worth a dozen of Lucius, and you know it."
Narcissa touched her reddening cheek, genuine shock flickering across her features before her mask slammed back into place. "You always were too emotional. It's what made you weak."
"No," Andromeda corrected. "It's what made me human. Something you and that monster traded away for the illusion of superiority."
A strange expression crossed Narcissa's face at the mention of their eldest sister. "Bella made her choices."
"Choices you supported. Choices you still support, given that you married one of her fellow Death Eaters." Andromeda studied her sister's face, searching for any crack in the perfect facade. "Tell me, Narcissa, do you ever wake at night and wonder what we could have been? If you had chosen differently?"
"I sleep quite well, thank you."
"Liar." The word was soft, almost gentle. "I know you, Narcissa. Or I knew you, once. Before you decided that being a Black was more important than being a sister."
For just a moment, something flickered in Narcissa's eyes—a ghost of the girl who used to braid flowers into Andromeda's hair, who'd held her hand during their mother's worst rages, who'd whispered promises that they'd always protect each other.
Then it was gone.
"That girl died the day you chose a Mud...Muggleborn over your family," Narcissa said coldly.
"No," Andromeda replied. "She died the day you chose to stay silent while Bellatrix sent me letters describing in detail how she would torture my unborn child."
Narcissa went perfectly still. "What?"
"Oh, she didn't share that particular correspondence with you?" Andromeda's smile was sharp as broken glass. "When I was seven months pregnant with Nymphadora, our dear sister sent me a lovely note. Would you like to know what it said?"
"Andromeda—"
"She described, in her beautifully elaborate script, exactly how she would make my baby scream. How she'd keep Nymphadora alive for days, maybe weeks, testing the limits of infant endurance under the Cruciatus. How she'd make me watch every second before finally—"
"Stop." Narcissa's face had gone paper-white.
"Why? Too much reality for you?" Andromeda's voice remained clinically detached. "This is who Bellatrix is, Narcissa. This is who you chose over me. A sadist who fantasized about torturing babies for the crime of impure blood."
"I didn't know—"
"Because you didn't want to know. It was easier to pretend I was the traitor, that I'd betrayed some noble cause, than to acknowledge what that cause actually meant." Andromeda set down her untouched wine. "That monster at least owns her monstrosity. You hide yours behind silk robes and proper etiquette."
They stood in silence. Around them, the ball continued its glittering dance, oblivious to the chasm between them.
"You look well," Narcissa said finally, the words emerging stilted and strange. "Marriage... motherhood... it suits you."
Andromeda studied her sister's face, searching for the trap. "Being free suits me. Loving who I choose, raising my daughter without poison in her veins, building a family based on joy rather than fear—yes, it suits me perfectly."
"And you're happy?" The question seemed to surprise Narcissa as much as it did Andromeda. "Truly?"
"Happier than I ever was as a Black." Andromeda's voice gentled slightly. "Ted makes me laugh every day. Nymphadora is brilliant and kind and everything our parents would have crushed. And Harry... Harry proves daily that family isn't about blood. It's about choice."
"Choice." Narcissa repeated the word like it was foreign. "We didn't have choices."
"We always had choices. You just chose the familiar prison over the uncertain freedom." Andromeda straightened her robes. "I should go. My actual family is waiting."
"I should have—" Narcissa started, then stopped. "Good evening, Andromeda."
It was dismissal and goodbye.
Andromeda walked away without looking back. She'd mourned her sisters years ago—Bellatrix to madness, Narcissa to cowardice. The ghosts wearing their faces held no power over her now.
Ted's laughter reached her from across the ballroom, warm and real and alive. Nymphadora's hair was cycling through happy purples as she spoke with Harry. Her family. Her choice. Her freedom.
Behind her, Narcissa Malfoy stood alone among the glittering crowd, as trapped in her silk and diamonds as Bellatrix was in Azkaban's cells where she was rotting away where she belonged.
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