A/N: I am sure those of you who have found my Mass Effect story will understand when I say that I am better at writing creatures and non-humans than I am normal humany-wumany people. Hence this story coming into existence because of all of the hyper-powerful Harry fics with him having control of fire, lightning, earth, spirit, mind, triple animagus with a magical form, weapon master(Exception being Harry Crow by robst, weapon master makes sense there), and whatever else there is. I wanted to be able to do a story where his blood is the reason for his abilities, but not because he is heir to all the houses ever.

That said, Harry Potter and all characters associated with the vast canonical world do not belong to me, only the play I have them act for you is mine. J.K. Rowling owns the rest, along with a piece of our souls for the childhood she gave us.

In the present segments of this chapter, italics are for French.

October 31, 1981

I sneer in satisfaction as I materialize out of the darkness in the square or Godric's Hollow. This quaint little town has no idea of what is coming, and for once neither do the people I have come to see. My most loyal spy, Severus Snape, has informed me of a prophecy stating that the one with the power to defeat me would be born as the seventh months dies, and that only two children were born to fit that profile. That their parents took them into hiding soon after seals their fate as it confirms that Albus believes in this prophecy and that one of these children will be the one to grow into that threat. It has taken me this long, but now I have found the one I believe has the better chance of being... problematic.

The Potter brat. A child born to Lily Jean Potter nee Evans and James Nathaniel Potter, two magicals who have caused me no end of problems. James is perhaps the best auror in the field, better in my opinion than even his mentor, Alastor Moody, and is dangerous for his talent with Transfiguration. I actually began using it in combat myself after I witnessed how effectively he wields it, and yet in that area he still outclasses me, the great Lord Voldemort. Lily on the other hand, while not a front lines fighter, is the foremost Charms Mistress alive and has created several spells for the Light that have turned the tide against my Death Eaters more than once. Never lethal, but always tactically used to great effect.

I step forward and over line of the wards surrounding the cottage and there it is, exactly where Wormtail said it would be. It is with glee that I silently cast an overpowered bombarda to rip it from the hinges, startling the tall dark-haired man just inside the parlor. For a moment he stands frozen in fear, then his wand is in his hand in that way that only experienced aurors are capable of accomplishing and he is transfiguring the walls and the furniture even as he bellows, "It's him! Run Lily, take Harry and run!" I attempt to banish his creations but as always, they are many and the spells are strong, with his unique brand of dueling woven through it all. I feel the ripping of a wolf clamping onto my calf and the sharp impact of a large elk colliding with my other side and I decide that I have had enough of the games, a spell I learned from my journeys through Asia rippling out as I hiss the incantation in Parseltongue. With a whispered spell I jab my wand at Potter and watch in satisfaction as he is halted momentarily by agony before his ribcage collapses and he falls to the floor with unseeing eyes.

A hasty pair of spells to stop the bleeding caused by his conjurations and I am on my feet once more, slowly stepping up the stairs with enough weight to make sure Lily knows I am coming for her son. The nursery is just in front of me once I reach the landing, and she has not even bothered to close the door. Instead she kneels in front of her whelp cooing and telling him that everything will be alright. She does not even look at me.

"Move aside, girl. I am not here for you, just the boy. Move aside and I shall let you live." She does not turn at my soft words, though I know she heard them. Instead she speaks just as softly and is as direct, "You'll have to kill me, you bastard. I will never stop defending him." I sigh at the foolish loss of talent that tonight has caused, but I have no regrets as I cast a Bubble Head Charm filled with muggle gas and leave her to convulse and die on the floor.

At last it is down to us, the child and I. I look at him, no more than a drooling thing barely a year old, and I see so much of the man and woman I killed tonight. He is dark of hair with his mother's green eyes, eyes that seem to stare into me and through me with far more intelligence than they should, and I feel that I truly have made the correct choice in killing this one now, before the prophecy can take hold. It is as I raise my wand to end this child that it happens, and just for a moment those green eyes fade into a pale and icy blue that sets a chill in my veins, and that fear fuels me into hating this child more than Albus, for even Albus has never made me feel terror that powerful. I cast with all of that darkness and the foul green light of the Killing Curse streaks through the short distance separating us, and it all goes wrong.

The child's skin pales and those eyes fade more until they are fields of white, his body absorbing the spell and holding it before with a wail of infantile emotion he releases it back upon me and I can feel my soul ripped from the tether that holds it. I know nothing more, nothing but pain, though I console myself with the thought that if I am in pain, then my preparations worked.

July 30, 1988

Vernon and Petunia Dursley strut through the brightly lit interior of Harrod's in London, their baby boy happily and loudly pointing to everything with the general exclamation being "I want that!" as they completely ignore the small, thin boy following them with their shopping loading down his frame. This is life as is always normal for one Harry James Potter, who is one day away from his eighth birthday and yet feels no excitement for it. He has never once had a birthday party, or been given a present, or indeed been given anything at all except beatings and half-eaten table scraps. What clothing he has, his cousin has either outgrown or no longer wants, leaving him with the rattiest and shabbiest of them while anything actually fit to be worn is donated to the poor. Of course the Dursleys make sure people see them donating to the less fortunate, just as they make sure that their dark-haired freak of a nephew is rarely if ever seen outside of their perfect little home in Little Whinging.

He withholds a sigh, cognizant of the fact that if he let it slip out, he would be beaten severely upon returning to the house and then locked in his cupboard, likely without meals. The reason would of course be his 'uppity, ungrateful attitude and poor behavior,' the same old line that they have always used to justify his ill treatment at their hands.

As his 'family' continues to walk ahead, his attention is drawn to a peculiar and rare sight for him: a pretty girl. It isn't that he is not used to seeing other people, as he does go to primary school, nor is it that all of the girls he sees in his classes are ugly. What makes this occasion different is the fact that this girl is startlingly pale in color, from her silvery blonde hair and light cerulean eyes to her creamy skin and impeccably dilute gray outfit. To make her more strange to him, she is speaking to a woman who is obviously her mother in rapid French(at least he assumes it's French, he has never actually heard any language but his own but it sounds like it might cause an accentuation of English that his uncle likes to make fun of).

There is something else about the girl and her mother, almost like a presence pressing against the edges of his mind, but he cannot figure out what it is. The girl turns her head and catches him staring at her, and at first her gaze turns cold, near angry even, but when that expression brings to mind the winter wind and causes Harry to smile, her gaze softens again and she looks confused.


Fleur is out shopping with her mother and father, Alain and Eveline Delacour, in the middle of London. This is her first time ever being away from France at all, which is somewhat surprising considering that her father is the the Deputy Minister to the French Ministry of Magic, yet she cannot help feeling almost disgusted with the English, even the vulgaire of this country seeming uncouth and uncultured.

Like that family over there, the elder male fat and round in a way she has never seen in her home country, face adorned with a mustache that makes him resemble a walrus. He obviously has delusions of importance if his tailored suit is any indication. The woman at his side could only be his wife, a tall and bony woman with a long, sharp face that brings to mind her old mare in the countryside in the Alps. The string of pearls around her neck looks like it cost more than her horrid designer dress and shoes, and the look on her face makes it clear that she believes herself better than anyone around her. Even their child thinks himself important, strutting about as if he owns the place, apparently attempting to make that a reality by acquiring everything in the store.

She almost misses the last member of their party until she feels a gaze on her. Flicking her eyes to the right, she wonders at first if she was wrong about them being vulgaire as they appear to have a house elf carrying their shopping. Then she finds the greenest pair of eyes she's ever seen staring into hers, eyes only a human could have as they are much too small for an elf. Anger and disgust rises like a tide within her, washing away rationality as she pulls on her frigid mask in an attempt to make the boy flinch and stop looking at her. The result however is very different. The boy smiles, and more than that, his eyes change color from green to a pale and icy blue that makes her think of frozen lakes, and in her confusion she takes a closer look at him.

His face is slightly discolored, likely healing a bruise, but the way the boy moves makes her wonder if the face is his only injury. There appears to be scarring around his... Fleur gasps as she gazes at his face, recognizing the scar pattern around his left eye as the supposed mark left on Harry Potter the night Voldemort disappeared. "Papa! Papa! Look at this boy!" she cries, one delicate finger pointing at the small person in front of her who is no longer smiling and instead looks frightened. Her father wanders over to see what her cry was about, words on the tip of his tongue, "What is it my flower, what do you- By Morgana!" Alain whips out his wand and does a quick scan of the boy, though the results confuse him more than he believed possible.

With great trepidation, he steps forward and goes to one knee to address the boy who looks more than frightened, but terrified and almost... resigned, as if he believes he is about to be hit. "Excusez-moi, but is your name 'Arry Potter by any chance?" he asks, keeping his hands flat and his voice calm. The boy does not speak, but after a moment nods his head minutely. Alain reaches out to brush the hair away from Harry's face, attempting to get a closer look at the bruising, only to notice that the air close to the boy is significantly colder than the ambient temperature even a few inches away from him. "What in Merlin's name...? Perhaps my spell was correct after all..."

Standing straight with determination on his face and steel in his voice, he clips out, "Where is your family, Mister Potter? I believe I have some... business to discuss wiz them." Curiosity and something akin to hope have replaced the fear on his face and he nods in the direction of the fattest man Alain has ever seen. He notices that those meaty hands have healing scrapes and slight bruising, as do the hands of his whale of a son, confirming that Harry Potter, hero of the wizarding world, The-Boy-Who-Lived, has been abused recently, and likely for a long time. "And what is zat cochon's name?" The light of hope dancing in the eyes of the lad before him tests his resolve not to hex the abusive waste into jelly as he hears the soft reply, "Vernon Dursley. My uncle's name is Vernon Dursley."


Harry cannot believe what is happening. First a girl points at him and yells something to her father, then when the man himself comes over, not only does Harry not get in trouble for looking at his daughter but the man seems to care about his health. A total stranger seems almost worried about him, and to complicate matters, he is going to go speak to the only relatives that Harry has ever known and leaving him with the pale princess who is looking at him almost reverently. Time passes awkwardly and silently for several minutes while he watches a man he doesn't even know confront his uncle about the bruises that must still be visible on his face.

He jumps when the girl touches his face gently, her voice just as soft as her father's was as she murmurs, "My name eez Fleur. I already know your name, but that eez not so important I am theenkeeng. Do not worry 'Arry, Papa weel take care of zis." Her touch burns, almost reminding him of standing close to a fire with its inviting and dangerous warmth. They remain in silence now, catching the odd word here and there from Harry's uncle and Fleur's father, at least until Vernon bellows out in the middle of the store, "Well if he means so much to you freaks, then have him! Take him away, we never wanted the ungrateful little shit anyway!" Alain says nothing, but he draws that length of wood again and wields it like a weapon, three quick twists changing all three of the Dursley family into more fitting forms. With that done, he turns back to the boy and barks out, "Drop zeir shopping, you will not need it. Come 'Arry, we are going away from here. You are going to my personal 'ealer in France, then you are coming home wiz my family. We will go to ze goblins as soon as you are 'ealed and take care of your accounts, as well as tell you of your inheritance. I think there is much you do not know."

Without another word, he takes hold of Harry's shoulder while his wife takes hold of her daughter, and they are gone.

Three years later...

"Harry, wake up! It's your birthday, you have presents!" A heavy impact on his mattress flings the startled boy several inches into the air before he lands on the giggling source of the disturbance, a dark blush creeping up his face when he realizes that his cheek is pressing down on a soft curve of flesh, a heartbeat sounding just under his ear. Though he is used to this form of wake-up call, it still has not changed the fact that though he may be immune to a Veela's allure, he is not immune to their bodies. That he has been living with this particular Veela and her family for three years does nothing to diminish the embarrassment of landing on the ample chest of a fourteen year old. "And how is my favorite freak today, hmm?"

"A lot better when you don't remind me that anyone ever called me that, thanks." Fleur, for her part, acts shocked at this reaction, drawing a smile out of the lad laying on top of her, the perfect white of his smile doing things to her insides. In the three years since his first visit to the goblins and the undoing of many glamours and subtle compulsions, not to mention proper food, Harry has changed quite a bit. Where once he was a scrawny and small boy with black hair and startlingly emerald eyes, he is now fairly tall for eleven years old and has a more filled out frame, in so much as he looks healthy and not starved. His hair has gotten somehow even darker black than it was, and his eyes show for the truth of his heritage, the glamour that kept them green with poor vision the first to go. Now they are the same icy blue that Fleur noticed that far gone day in Harrod's, and they seem to bring the distinctive snowflake scar to life around his left eye.

"I can't help it Harry, it's just nice to know that I have company who can stand to be around me without losing the ability to speak properly." The look in the beautiful buxom blonde's eyes is enough to melt Harry's heart, and in an effort to cheer her up, he brushes her silvery curtain of hair behind her ear, a delicate comb of ice sliding through it to hold in place. Though it is something he is capable of with fair ease, it still drains him a bit more than he would like to make something so fine and detailed, and grumbles about his control needing to be better escape his lips.

Fleur knows how insecure Harry remains about the truth of his blood, and the fact that he has once again used his gifts to make her happy warms her heart and slowly a cheery grin molds her lips. "Thank you, Blizzard. You will never know how much it means to me for you to create all these little things you give me." With a small peck on the cheek, she changes the subject for him, hoping he will relax and finally open his gifts, hoping more that he will like what she found for him. "So, have you decided where you will accept to go? I know that Madame Maxime would welcome you at Beauxbatons, it would be a definite coup for her."

Harry grins and silently unwraps his first gift, a demiguise leather wand holster from Alain. Though demiguise hair is used to manufacture invisibility cloaks, Harry knows from his lessons that leather from the same animal, if given willingly to a crafter it trusts to heal it properly, will never allow the contents to be summoned. In essence, it is loyal to only one person, the first person to touch it, and is never handled without gloves until received by the intended owner.

His clear eyes dance as they meet the Veela's gaze, impatience mounting as the Boy-Who-Lived still does not answer her. Instead, he opens the gift from Eveline and Gabrielle, the little girl only six years old and so happy to be included in the gift giving for Harry. Inside the package there are two journals, each with a pair of sapphires set in the leather spine, one a pale cream and the other a dark rusty brown. A soft gasp escapes from the pair in tandem as they recognize the set from their last shopping trip into Paris, a linked set meant to send messages back and forth between them. Harry looks up with a grin to see a faint blush dusting Fleur's face, the Chosen One chuckling as his friend grumbles to herself about suggestive mothers.

The last package sitting in his lap, Harry finally answers the beautiful girl with him. "If a Hogwarts letter finds me, I think I will go for at least my first year, as a tribute to Lily and James. They would have wanted their son to go there, and though I am not that child, I bear their last name to honor their sacrifice. It seems fitting. Also, I would like a chance to observe for myself the professors and students, perhaps make some friends and learn the truth of how the Potters came to die as they did, and why I was left with Lily's sister."

Fleur sighs, knowing he would say something like that, and gestures for him to open the small package in his hands. Pale fingers deftly unwrap her perfect paper and flick open the slender case, revealing the contents to a smiling boy. Harry strokes the golden band he wears on his right hand, the engraving a muggle imagining of elvish, and quotes from memory, "I asked for one hair from her golden head. She gave me three." Turning to look into the eyes he gets lost in so much, he gently inquires, "Is this for my wand? I know Alain wanted to have mine made custom for me today." Unable to answer, Fleur simply nods.

Harry is standing in La Rose Bleue on La Rue de la Magie in Paris, Madame Francine Blanc measuring him from the top of his head to the bottoms of his feet.

"And which arm is your wand arm?"

"Well, I'm right handed, so I guess that one."

"Is there anything specific you wish to use?"

"Only this." Harry pulls out the slender wooden case and flips the lid, revealing the faintly glowing strands of Fleur's hair.

"Oh my..." A quick and shrewd look passes between Harry and the Veela who donated his hairs, "Willingly given too, this should be interesting. However, as you are not Veela yourself, you will need a secondary core to stabilize it and bind it to your magic. Come, come."

Madame Blanc waves to her case and speaks with a professional tone, "Most wandmakers have you choose your wood first, and normally so would I, but since you came in with a part of your core already, I will need you to divine the rest of it while holding those hairs before he get into your wood. Please, close your eyes, take hold of Miss Delacour's hairs, and reach out with your magic. You should find one that calls out to you, twining to the hair."

Harry does as he is bidden, and his eyes slide closed with his hand stretched out in front of him, slowly calling up his magic. Madame Blanc gasps when she sees the effect that it always has on him, pale eyes glowing and whiting out between the cracks of his eyelids and a faint mist falling from his skin. It isn't until his hand passes over the case that she sees it is not mist but frost that falls from him, riming the containers holding the cores. It seems to take forever, at least to Harry, but eventually something calls out to him and his fingers come to rest on another slender box, marked with a 'Y' and carved of some wood very nearly white.

The wandcrafter reaches out reverently and takes the case, whispering to Harry, "To say that I am astounded would be putting it lightly Mister Potter. I have hoped to find someone who would be drawn to yeti hair, if only to prove it possible, but I must admit that even I never believed it would actually happen. This hair came from a rather large specimen I encountered in the mountains just outside of Prague in winter. He must have been about three-hundred seventy kilograms, and white as the driven snow. It will serve you well I think. Let us find your wood."

Harry steps over to her selection of blocks and reaches out again, a heavy and old-seeming wood speaking to him almost immediately. Once again, Madame Blanc is astonished, yet this time she seems exuberant as well. "I think we can expect great things from you Mister Potter, yes great things! Oak is a wood said to aid the wielder in their intuitive use of magic, something that very few are ever able to take advantage of fully. Merlin himself was rumored to use a staff carved from an oak tree, and there have been spellcrafters through the ages that have also had oak wands. This wand will be very attuned to you and your magic, I cannot wait to see what becomes of it, and of you!"

An hour later, Harry is returning home with a brand new wand.

A/N: Okay, so getting through the beginning of his story is causing a couple issues for me, but that was just this first chapter. I hope that I can make the next chapter flow better, and any after that as well. I would dearly love to have this story evolve as it should and be a free spirit. ^_^ Please read and review!