"…So?"
Monsieur Delacour did not rush to answer this question. Turning away from his companions and looking off into the distance, he thought things over. Unfortunately, it didn't look too picturesque because it was already half past one in the afternoon, so his "mysterious gaze into the sky" looked more like a squinting attempt to avoid Potter's intense, demanding stare.
Of course, in theory, there wasn't much to think about. If the boy had asked for this a year ago, the minister would have agreed without hesitation. But…
Dominique was unsettled by the new Harry. The last time they saw each other was a year ago at Fleur's wedding, and back then he was just a young man with an enormous burden on his shoulders. But now… slippery, dangerous, cynical. Yet despite all that, there was a feeling that he wouldn't abandon "his own," and apparently Delacour and his family counted as such. It wasn't a clear conviction on the man's part, just a quiet whisper inside telling him this wizard could be trusted.
But what could have changed the twenty-year-old Boy Who Lived so drastically? One could blame a year of adventures, yet Fleur herself seemed somewhat shocked by Potter's behavior, and that was strange. After all, she saw him regularly. Although, on the other hand, the "Harry from the newspaper" looked even less like himself from a year ago. Whatever else he might have been, the Boy Who Lived was never a self-satisfied peacock.
"You've… changed a lot, Harry," Delacour finally spoke after finishing his cigar. "I don't know if it's for better or worse—I didn't know the old you well enough, nor have I studied the current you enough—but you have changed. Honestly, it worries me enough to think about whether helping you is the right choice. But, you know, I think I'm fairly good at reading people. I know it sounds like a cliché, but overall, I believe you. Though some details bother me a bit. But in the grand scheme of things, I'll be frank: these details likely won't affect France or my family. So, I'm ready to grant you political refugee status… I need just a couple of days, and everything will be ready."
"Thank you," the wizard simply replied.
"I think I know what he wants to talk about next," Potter thought, gently nudging Malfoy with his foot and nodding toward the balcony exit.
Malfoy understood perfectly and stopped loafing around, pondering the meaning of life.
"I guess I've smoked enough. I'll go check… on how Bellatrix is doing," the Death Eater said, proudly raising his head and leaving.
"He's 'smoked enough,' my ass," Harry mentally facepalmed, outwardly only shrugging slightly. Well, at least Malfoy said it in such a tone that any words sounded weighty.
"And we'd also need a place to discreetly wait for a day or two," the young man said, hinting.
Monsieur Delacour again paused briefly in thought, then asked:
"If it were only about you personally, I would again say yes without hesitation, but… your subordinates, as I understand, worry me a lot. Can you guarantee they'll behave absolutely normally in my home?" the minister asked, meeting Harry's heavy gaze.
"Of course," Potter answered without hesitation, turning away. "Lucius is fully sane, a wizard who joined the Death Eaters in youthful folly. His freedom and family are his top three priorities. Bellatrix is definitely unhinged, and she might bark, but she won't dare bite. And honestly, lately she's become more reasonable. I'm not sure why. In any case, we just need a couple of days. We won't drag it out—we have all the evidence in hand. As soon as we can approach the court, we'll go there at once, and after that we'll return to England."
"Alright…" Dominique answered reluctantly. "… stay here… I have no parting words. You won't harass my wife and daughters—you're immune to that idea. And as I understand, you have someone else to focus on," the man smirked slightly. "For everything else—you personally promised. Although, honestly, Lestrange scares me."
"Black," the young man corrected. "Lestrange was her husband's surname, so Black it is. She has loads of mental issues. I'll look into that. Probably can't be cured, but we can do some preventive measures so she stays in a stable state. Anyway, thank you. For the status and for the shelter. I owe you one."
Delacour merely snorted, like "deal with your problems first, then promise things," pushed off the railing, patted the wizard on the shoulder, and went back inside.
Harry, still smoking the cigar, fell into thought.
"There shouldn't really be any problems… but better safe than sorry, I guess…"
***
"It's so bo-o-oring here," Bella drawled.
It was happening on the same balcony, only a few hours later. It was now completely dark outside. The young man decided he wanted to smoke and look at the cloudless night sky. Perhaps he wanted the first more than the second, but at least the second sounded more poetic, if only to himself.
Potter didn't smoke often, but if he was going to inhale this crap, better to do it in a beautiful setting, pondering eternal things.
But the lunatic ruined it all. For her stated reasons… she constantly hovered around Harry and pestered him.
"They look at me like I'm some sort of beast. If I say something, they all flinch," the woman said half-jokingly, but actually complaining. "You're the only one I can talk to normally."
"What did you expect?" the wizard was surprised. "Your reputation is no better than Voldemort's: racist, terrorist, crazy bitch, a Black—which in this case is more a character trait than a name—murderer, blah-blah-blah. And you want French ladies to discuss fashion with you as equals? I guess you were once one of England's most eligible brides and know something about fashion, though probably a bit out of date," hearing her snort to the side, he continued. "This is France… Paris is the fashion capital. Even someone like you might find it interesting."
"The fashion capital is Milan, for your information," Black retorted, mostly just to correct him. He was right about everything else, not much to argue with.
"If you want to fit in even a little, stop acting like… your usual self," Harry warned.
Suddenly, he jumped over the balcony railing in a single swift movement. Former Lestrange was a bit frightened and jerked toward him, but Tom, levitating himself, just hovered at the same level near the railing, lying down as if on an invisible bed.
He simply wanted to lie down, but not on the floor, so he levitated himself.
"Wha-? You can fly? Potter, teach me!" the witch found a new toy to amuse herself, quickly recovering from surprise. "Teach me! Te-each me!"
"What? No, of course not! Do you know how hard it was for me to get this spell? I spent three months persuading monks on Mount Shao—"
"Oh, don't bullshit me," his lover interrupted. "Dumbledore probably taught you in half an hour, spending ten minutes lecturing you that it should serve the greater good."
"She's partly right," Voldemort smirked mentally. "Dumbledore did teach me that back when he was just the Transfiguration teacher, telling some story about how he acquired it. Probably a lie he got from Flamel. Albus had been many places, mostly in America and Europe, I think. In Asia, not so much, while Flamel had traveled everywhere."
"Not the point, Bella, not the point. The main thing is the cost!" still lying in mid-air, Tom concluded. "And no, I'm not hinting at sex. I really won't teach you."
"Aw…" she pouted, lying her stomach on the railing and hanging her arms down. "Then let's—"
"No, we won't have sex in mid-air either, you lunatic!" Harry cut her off before she could finish the thought.
"Why not?! Half-blood, just imagine how cool it would be!"
"No, it'd be cool for you, while I'd be exhausted having to both fuck you and maintain the spell. Thanks, but not tonight."
The wizard often used this spell for comfort. Though it was widely recognized as the "signature" spell of Voldemort, that terrifying dark figure flying with a billowing cloak. Indeed, he used to apply it for sex and leisure… kind of silly.
"C'mooon…" she drawled.