4. Wounded Wings Still Beating

Henri didn't resist when Eldridge grabbed his arm and apparated away. The cake threatened to make a return, but he forced the bile down and waited for the dizziness to pass as Eldridge forcibly dragged him along.

It was silent. They were away from the port, away from the city. This place was nothing like the busy streets of London. They were standing in front of the gates of a mansion bigger than grandmother's chateau, surrounded by fields of green as far as he could see.

A house-elf, skinnier than any of its kind he'd ever met, ran out of the building and opened the gates. 'Good afternoon, sir. Lord Potter is waiting for you, sir,' she said.

Eldridge strode on without as much as a nod, the grip on his arm loosening. The eternal runner in Henri urged him to take the chance and make a dash for the exit. Yet when the gates closed behind him with an iron rattle, he was filled with relief. Finally, he could give up. The voice of his guilty conscience could rest with the knowledge that there was nothing more that he could do. He had given his everything, and what was left was an exhausted shell of a person.

The doors opened to an elderly man standing at the entrance. His silver hair and countless frown lines only added to the graveness he exuded. Yet he held himself like someone less than half his age, back straight, shoulders broad, his form slim, but not lanky.

Henri was baffled when the man ignored Eldridge in favour of holding his hand out for Henri to shake. Unsure, Henri put his hand limply into his. The man's grip was strong and warm.

'I'm Richard Potter,' he said, the crowfeet near his grey eyes deepening as he smiled. 'But you can call me Grandfather, Henri.'

Henri stiffened. With held breath, he stared at the silver hair, so unfittingly messy for a person of his obvious standing, and the straight-bridged nose that enforced the man's serious, sombre features, but had always looked a little strange on Henri's delicate ones.

Eldridge coughed. 'Once again, Lord Potter, we are very sorry about what has transpired. You must know this is not normal procedure.'

The man's gaze moved to Eldridge. His eyes were unnerving, the type that'd make your neck prickle and fidget in your seat.

'Thistle,' he said to the house-elf, 'accompany Mr. Eldridge out.'

Thistle grinned, a grotesque expression on her bony face. 'After you, sir. The anti-apparation wards in the mansion will not allow you to disapparate from inside the gates.'

The doors were shut, leaving Henri with the strange man standing in the large, chandelier-lit hall.

'May Millie take your coat, sir?'

Henri startled. A big-eyed house-elf was staring expectantly at him, her hands stretched out. His heart rate picked up, rousing from its drowsy state. Dizziness was muddling with his vision, threatening to make his knees buckle.

He wondered how much longer he had to force his body and spirit to continue functioning until he could finally rest. This lunacy should've been over by the time he'd left France. Yet somehow, the hospital, the streets of London and this ridiculously opulent mansion overwhelmed him more than fleeing from the ruins of his home country had.

'Prepare lunch, Millie,' Lord Potter ordered. 'Tell Thistle to lead Henry to the drawing room once he arrives.'

A big hand landed on Henri's shoulder. The fingers, long and thin, curled around Henri's slim joint with ease. 'Come,' he said, softly pushing him along.

Richard Potter had to be the richest person he'd ever met. Golden-framed scenery portraits decorated the tall crème walls of the halls they strode through. Henri searched for any discoloration in the paint, but every square centimetre was perfectly unmarred. Chrystal chandeliers hung from the intricately patterned high ceiling. Unlike the weathered floors in Henri's childhood home, the dark, varnished wood panels remained silent when you walked on them.

When they arrived at the drawing room, Richard sat on the leather sofa, staring at him expectantly. Henri sank into the buttery-soft space at the other end.

'Are you cold?' Richard asked, motioning to the flickering fireplace.

Henri followed Richard's gaze and realized that his hands were trembling. He formed fists, forcing them to still. 'No, I'm fine.' In fact, he was uncomfortably hot. The sweat pouring down his back had seeped through his old, ratty sweater.

If the man was affected by the tension hanging in the air, he didn't let it show. There was an air of unbending confidence about him, as if he'd never once been proven wrong in his sixty-something year old life.

'What do you want from me?' Henri croaked. His throat was sore, swallowing hurt.

'You aren't one for niceties, are you?' Richard said, an amused grin spreading over his face and softening the lines on his forehead. 'I like that. You know, Henri, there's nothing I hate more than beating around the bush. You are here because you are my grandson.'

Henri exhaled audibly. Maman's father, a useless excuse of a man as she had liked to refer to him, had died of some ailment when Henri was little. They hadn't attended his funeral, not that they had been invited. Richard Potter claimed to be his unknown father's father.

He met the man's unwavering gaze. 'I don't know you.'

'That does not change the fact that you are a Potter. As a direct descendant of my lineage, you are my responsibility.'

Henri laughed humourlessly. 'Responsibility?' He didn't say any more, he didn't need to. Funny that folks gathered some sense of responsibility after fifteen years of nothing to show for. Where was his father's sense of responsibility when he left Maman pregnant and poor to fend for herself? She used to struggle putting bread on the table while little Potter was living lavishly amidst all this opulence.

He was glad to catch Lord Potter finally shift in his seat. But the satisfaction of making the confident man uncomfortable was quickly replaced by the realisation of what he sounded like.

Like he cared. As if he gave a fuck about a man he'd never even known. And after everything that happened? What did an absent father matter after what he'd experienced in the past months? Ridiculous.
He wanted to voice his thoughts, but that would only make it look like he cared when he really didn't. Before he could make the mistake to blurt it out anyway, someone knocked on the door.

'Enter.'

Thistle peeked her misshapen head through the crack.

'Thistle is sorry for interrupting, sir, but Mr. Henry Potter has arrived, sir.'

Richard nodded. 'Let him in,' he said, seemingly unaffected. But Henri was gradually getting used to the old man's presence and caught the light flaring of his nostrils when he took a deep breath.

Henri found out why the moment Henry Potter passed the threshold. The black hair, the strong brows, the jutting cheekbones – all of Henri's features that he'd never managed to find on his mother. He knew before the man even opened his mouth and said, 'Good afternoon, father.'

'Good afternoon, Henry.'

Henry Potter walked to the sitting area with slow, measured steps and sat on the couch. He raised his brows when he spotted Henri who'd previously been hidden by the back of the sofa.

'I see you have a guest.'

There was wonder in his voice. Someone like Henri, half-starved and in torn clothing, didn't belong amidst all this wealth and fortune. Richard, Henry, and even Thistle knew that.

'Is he sick? You seem a little pale, son.'

Henri lifted his gaze to Richard, pleading. But Richard soldiered on.

'The journey from France to England is quite stressful. Being interviewed by ministry officials at his arrival has left him shaken as you can imagine.'

Henry threw his hands in the air. 'Unbelievable! I've been telling Spencer-Moon that our treatment of war-refugees is inhumane. It was bad enough when they were harassing regular folk, but now they're bothering children, too? Without a legal guardian at that? It has to be brought to discussion at the Wizengamot.'

Henri sat frozen, listening to the man get angry on his behalf.

Richard crossed his long legs. 'The latest topics revolve around curbing Grindelwald's influence in British circles. War-survivors have lost priority, since many of them don't even manage to escape anymore. Our Henri is an exception.'

Henry turned to Henri, a bright smile on his boyish face. 'The Henri to my Henry,' he joked.

'Yes,' Richard snorted, a strange sound coming from someone so dignified. 'You must've left quite the impression on his mother.'

If Henri hadn't been so horribly uncomfortable, he would've laughed at the way Henry's face fell. His skin prickled as the man's stare pierced through him.

Unperturbed, Richard continued. 'Calvert Eldridge always liked to push the boundaries of our poorly upheld legal system. After Henri refused to comply, he took his blood samples from St. Mungo's and compared them with the Ministry records. He'd hoped to find a familial connection to Grindelwald's supporters. I can only imagine his surprise when they matched him with the Potter line. I know for a fact that I didn't have an extramarital affair fifteen years ago. Fleamont had just started working full-time at the ministry. Charlus was staying at Hogwarts.' Richard smiled coldly. 'Our limited numbers leaves me with only one possible outcome. And imagine my surprise when he arrived at my doorstep! He resembles you more than Fleamont does, I must say.'

Henri pressed his hands together, trying to suppress the violent trembles that became stronger by the minute. His body felt foreign. The glass table reflected blue eyes and blonde hair. He didn't stray his gaze from the familiar stranger for the fear of seeing the blood dripping down his torn thigh.

'What is your mother's name, Henri?' Richard asked.

Henri leapt to his feet, swaying slightly, with his hand pressed against his mouth. Without waiting to be excused he strode out towards the hall. After opening half a dozen doors, he finally found the bathroom. He leaned over the toilet and threw up. The sharp smell of half-digested carrot cake and sour Earl Grey made him gag even after the meagre contents of his stomach had left.

Leaning his back against the cool porcelain tub, he listened to his loud gasps echo off the walls. Behind his lids, the world was red. He preferred the white of the tiles. He was so cold.

The door opened. From Henri's position on the floor, Richard seemed impossibly tall. Distantly, he wondered whether he would ever grow to be as big.

Richard crouched down and held the back of his hand against Henri's sweaty forehead. This close Henri could distinguish a frown drawing even more lines into his skin. 'You're running a temperature. Can you stand?'

Henri nodded weakly and rinsed his mouth in the sink before following Richard down the hall and up the stairs. Amidst trying not to tumble down from dizziness, he didn't keep track of where he was walking to. Only Richard's steady hand on his back was steering him along.

When he sank into soft sheets, he was nearly unconscious. It was only Richard's powerful presence that kept his eyes at half-mast. Then, the man did something that shocked him out of his daze. He sat on his bedside, pulled Henri's feet onto his expensively clad thighs, and pulled his dirty boots off.

'Don't you know who I am?' he slurred, his voice strained.

Richard pulled the comforter up to his chest. 'Yes,' he said, his face calm and relaxed. 'My grandson.'

Henri blinked. 'You asked for my mother's name.'

Richard stilled, staring at him expectantly. So Henry hadn't told him. Did Henry even know? Was his mother the only woman he cheated on his wife with? The thought of Maman being one of many didn't sit right with him. The least she'd deserved was a love-filled, if tragic, romance.

'Nicolette Durant. She usually went by Colette.'

'That's a beautiful name.'

'She was born out of wedlock after her father, some French wizarding nobility, had an affair with a witch on her summer break from Beauxbatons. The pregnancy was kept secret and the witch married someone else the following year. The only thing she gave my mother was her maiden name, the remnant of a forgotten French wizarding house.'

'So you are the last Durant?'

'Yes.'

Richard smiled. 'A pity. I had hoped you wouldn't be too attached to it. Henri Potter has a ring to it. I suppose Henri Durant Potter will have to do.'

Something clogged Henri's throat, making it hard to swallow. This man was offering him his family name, a part of his nobility. 'You're strange.' Richard laughed at that. 'You must know that my entire existence is a shameful stain on your family tree.'

Richard's laugh died down. 'Is that what you've been told? I suggest you forget that nonsense immediately.' His voice low, leaning forwards, he said, 'You will soon find that people will think twice before saying that to the face of a Potter.'

'Henry didn't seem too happy to see me,' Henri deflected weakly.

'How good then,' Richard said, his lips quirking into a satisfied grin, 'that he has no say as long as I am the head of the House of Potter.'

Those were the last words he heard. He melted into the mattress, relaxed and calm. It was the first time in months he felt safe.

.

He startled awake, sensing the presence of a stranger before he could open his eyes. The faint smell of potions lied in the air, sour and bitter.

Standing at his bedside, was a middle-aged woman wearing dark robes and a pair of square glasses. 'Just in time,' she said neutrally, her face impassive. The look of a scientist dissecting her subject, curious, yet distant and cold. Henri knew that these people were of the more dangerous kind. They were like snakes, stalking their prey with silent tenacity and were very hard to distract.

Henri sat up slowly, hands gripping the sheets. 'Who are you?'

'Isolda Wright.' She opened her leather briefcase on the nightstand, exposing a ray of tins and potions. 'Private healer of Lord Potter since 1922.' A trace of sentimentality passed over her face. 'How time flies! Back then, Henry's first was your age.'

'We are on a tight schedule, Isolda.'

Wright nodded stiffly. 'Yes, of course, Lord Potter.'

She pulled her wand out. As she raised it, Henri backed further against the pillows in small, slow slides. His lips were pressed close, trying to silence his treacherously loud breathing. His eyes flitted around the room. A window to his left, guarded by a tall, dark figure. The door to his right, blocked by the woman. He was trapped.

A loud gasp escaped him when a heavy hand gripped his shoulder.

'Henri,' the man said.

'Who are you?' Henri whispered.

Carefully, the man sat at his bedside. Henri leaned further back, trying to keep both strangers in his field of vision.

'It's me, your grandfather. Don't you remember? You arrived here two days ago.'

Henri eyed him dubiously. 'My grandfather died more than a decade ago.'

The man's gaze moved to the woman. She closed her bag with a loud click. 'I think that we might need the expertise of a different kind of healer.'

There was a knock on the door before it opened to a skinny house-elf. As Henri saw its bald, misshapen head, he suddenly remembered. The hospital, the ministry officials, the mansion, his grandfather. His father. 'Thistle.'

Grandfather turned. 'Henri, are you back?'

Henri nodded, not daring to meet his gaze. What was happening to him? Was he finally starting to lose his mind? After the constant fear and paranoia, was it the semblance of safety that'd made him break down?

'Henri,' Grandfather stressed, 'this is my personal healer, Isolda Wright. I trust her with my health and yours. Do you feel well enough to let her run a diagnosis spell on you?'

No, he didn't. He felt very shaky, as if he'd fall into shards at any given moment never to be made whole again. But he didn't want to show just how unstable he was and concern Grandfather any further. He nodded hesitantly.

He closed his eyes tightly, feeling cold as Wright said, 'You won't feel anything.'

The seconds passed like syrup, Henri awaiting pain despite Wright's assurance.

'All done,' she quipped, her voice forced into a cheerful pitch that sounded painfully faked. 'Would you like to discuss the results in private, Lord Potter?'

Grandfather hesitated. 'No. Obviously, they concern Henri, too. You can be candid.' He turned to Henri. 'Unless you wouldn't like to hear them.'

Actually, Henri didn't want to hear them. He already knew what was wrong with him. In the past months, he'd almost been beaten to death, cursed with unspeakable spells, starved, and nearly driven out of his mind. He didn't need a healer's diagnosis to confirm that. Shrugging, he avoided their gazes.

Grandfather sighed. 'Thistle, serve Henri some breakfast. Any wishes, Henri?'

He shook his head. 'I'm not picky.'

Grandfather smiled fondly and brushed through Henri's messy hair before leading Wright out of the room.

A room, a bed, all for him. It felt foreign after all this time on the run. Pulling the blanket aside, he noticed that he was wearing clothes that didn't belong to him. A shirt and a pair of soft cotton trousers that felt new and expensive.

He stood up and his vision went dark. Clinging to the bedpost, he waited for the dizziness to pass. When he was finally seeing clearly again, he walked over to the window and nearly fell into the nearby couch.

Outside, the sun was shining weakly through the thin mist. It'd be raining soon. There was a large garden outside, at its centre a pond with petals of delicate spring flowers swimming on the clear, still surface.

Henri turned. Thistle was standing at the doorway, holding a tray with various dishes. It looked very different from what Maman used to prepare every morning. Henri recognized the bread, the fried tomatoes, the poached egg, the jam and the honey, but he stared quizzically at the bowl of brown-orange sludge.

'Porridge prepared with cinnamon pumpkin juice,' Thistle explained. 'Very nutritious. I wouldn't miss out on it, Mr. Potter. Millie is a very capable cook.' At last, the elf placed a glass of juice and a cup of steaming Darjeeling on the table. She left as silently as she'd come.

Curiously, Henri dipped the spoon into the sludge and watched it dribble down. It looked strange. He stared at the warm, fresh array of food. He picked up the bowl and smelled at it. Cinnamon and pumpkin. The jam, strawberry. The honey, clover. The juice, oranges. All for him?

His hand was trembling as he dipped the spoon into the porridge once again and led the sludge to his mouth. He moaned quietly. It had so much flavour and settled into his stomach so nicely. From there on, he dipped into each plate. One roasted tomato, half a poached egg, a bite of toast and a spoonful of jam so sweet it was almost impossible to swallow. He dribbled some honey into his cup of tea and let the hot brew soothe his sore throat.

'I see you're enjoying the British cuisine.' Grandfather was smiling gently. His expression, thank Jeanne, was unreadable.

Henri nodded. 'It's different.'

Grandfather sat on the coach next to his and looked at the dishes. 'It seems that Millie was careful not to give you too big of a culture shock. There is a lot more for you to explore.'

'I would love to, but,' he sighed, spreading his palm over his stomach, finding it a little harder to breathe, 'I don't think I can eat any more.'

'Take it easy. We wouldn't want you to get sick again. Isolda has me worried about you being dehydrated.'

Henri smiled at him gratefully and forced himself to finish his tea. The dehydration was not even the tip of the iceberg of his issues, but it was the easiest to focus on. When his eyes began to droop, Grandfather helped him back to his large bed.

In his dream, Maman was sitting in the clover fields with a basket full of strawberries. There was a childlike smile playing on her features. 'Look, I found one with four leaves.'

A/N: Ok, so I thought how about I'll make something revolutionary and end a chapter on a happy and hopeful note for once? Mind-blowing, I know.

Anyway, I know this late update is annoying but I ran out of steam when I finished the third chapter. I was so focused on the plot point of getting Henri to where he's now, I was at a loss of what to do once he arrived there (although I do have a rough plan of this story). I wrote like six versions of this chapter, but I'm finally happy with the end result.

What about you? How did you like this chapter? Honest feedback is appreciated! Your critique is helping me improve my writing, whether it be positive or negative, as long as it constructive.