Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction based on the Harry Potter universe. All recognizable characters, plots and settings are the exclusive property of J.K Rowling. I make no claim to ownership nor do I make any profit.

Acknowledgments: Thank you to my betas James Marx and mineng101 for their work on this story.

Self Promotion: I have a discord server where you can chat and read all of my chapters early. If you would like to join, simply copy the link on my profile and for . I had to write it in that format for the site to allow it on my profile.

Authors Note:

I know, I'm weird, but I've always really enjoyed this pairing and always wanted to write a story for it. To do so, I did sort of have to bypass the age difference, which I have seen other authors go about doing a number of different ways. I have simply chosen to use the power of AU to change her age, since I dislike the idea of using "veela maturity" as an excuse.

For those of you who will see the age switch and go "oh, why didn't you just use Fleur?" I was never a huge fan of her characterization in canon, and she would never work with Harry. I will be writing her a bit OOC, but keeping her pretty consistent with canon for the most part in terms of characterization. The difference is, I will at least attempt to justify it. As such, I don't like her dynamic with Harry, hence Gabrielle.

Also, apologies for the errors early on in this story. I started writing this when I was 16 and very new to writing. I am greatly improved now, but you will see a dramatic increase of quality as the story progresses. I will be revising the early chapters, but I have not found the time as of yet.

Chapter 1 Visions and Lost Souls.

Frank Brice was old, in fact, he was very old. He hadn't been young when he had returned home after serving Great Britain in the Second World War. And that had been nearly fifty years ago now. On this warm, summer night, his aching body was reminding him just how old he really was. As the aches awoke him he stood shakily, wincing as his knee almost buckled underneath him. That knee had never been the same after taking a bullet on the beaches of Normandy.

Frank slowly limped out of his room and made his way towards the kitchen, figuring that maybe, some warm tea would ease his old joints. As he was gathering sugar though, Frank looked out the window and cursed.

"Damn the youth, why can't they let the old place be."

Outside he could see lights staring back at him. Lights that should not be on.

Years ago, Frank Brice had been the caretaker for a manor and its grounds. The manor belonged to a very wealthy family that seemed to own most of the small village of Little Hangleton.

Frank had enjoyed the job back then, the Riddles had payed him well. He certainly could not complain. That had all changed though, when one warm summer morning the made had ran out from the manor, screaming that the Riddles were dead.

Frank had seen the bodies, there hadn't been a scratch on them. The Riddle men looked just as ruggedly handsome as ever, and the beauty of the Riddle women remained untouched. There could be no debate though, they were dead.

Frank himself had been blamed for the murder of the Riddles. Luckily for Frank though, these allegations had been proved unjust only weeks later, when the autopsy had revealed that all three of the Riddles had died of natural causes.

That hadn't made Frank Brice any less of an outcast though. The town folk still believed him to be a cold blooded killer. Even now, fifty years later, the grandchildren of those who had been around then still cried obscenities at him.

Frank had learned to just tune it all out a long time ago. The town had allowed Frank to stay in his small home on the Riddle property and maintain the grounds. No one cared about the house. No one seemed to want to live in a place where three people had mysteriously dropped dead of unknown causes, no matter how nice it was. This worked fine for Frank. He could do his work, live comfortably, and stay away from those who would vilify him.

He had hoped he would never have to re enter that house. He had been disappointed though. In the last few years especially, today's youth seemed to have a fascination with the old manor, and Frank frequently had to chase kids and teenagers away, threading to call the police if they didn't get out of there ASAP as the youth would say.

He sighed, seeing the lights on at three in the morning wasn't the most surprising thing to Frank, though it was irritating, he really was in pain, and he wasn't sure how easily he would be able to chase off the brats tonight.

Resigned to his fate, Frank made his way into the sitting room and fished in a drawer for an old, gold, key. After a few minutes of digging through years worth of randomness, he found it. The key, though very old, was in pristine condition, a stark contrast to the doors of which it unlocked.

After retrieving the key, Frank made his way to the front door and gratefully clutched at his walking stick.

"Little brats might just get a smack off this." He murmured to himself.

And he was off, he began to make his long, slow, ascent up to the decrepit, beaten down old home that had once belonged to a rich, just, and fair old family.

After a walk that was entirely too long for Frank's liking, and a good amount of protesting from his aching joints, he finally reached the door. With a sigh, he slipped the key into the opening and heard the lock click.

Stepping inside he looked around, and strained his hearing aid, trying to pick up any sound of disturbance. He couldn't find any though, and he figured the kids had saw him coming and hid, or at the very least, retreated to one of the upper floors.

"Making me walk up the bloody stairs too, oh, you wait you little bastards." Frank was more than a bit annoyed at having to climb the old, creeping steps. He leaned heavily on his walker, trying to make as little noise as possible.

He searched a few floors before he came to a hallway. At the end of the hallway was a door, the door was cracked open the finest bit. Frank slowly made his way towards the door, intending on throwing it open suddenly and scaring the living day lights out of the brats. What he heard though made him stop dead. It was not a child's voice that spoke. The voice was shrill and pathetic yes, but definitely adult.

"Do you require more food master?"

The second voice though, the voice of this man's so called "master," this is what really made Frank Brice freeze. The voice was quiet, and slightly feeble, but it was high, and cold, more so than any voice Frank had ever heard. It sounded like someone had given a human voice to a snake, as it practically hissed out it's words.

"No Wormtail, I require no nourishment at the moment. I grow cold though, move me closer to the fire."

The voice spoke lazily, but with authority. Frank heard scurrying footsteps and the grinding of a chair against the floor.

"Is this close enough master?" The first voice asked, slightly out of breath.

"Yes, yes, this will do."

There was a pause, before the snake like voice spoke up yet again.

"Wormtail, where is Nagini?"

"I think she went exploring master?"

"You think, Wormtail? Do you not realize her significance to me?"

"Yes my lord, I'm sorry my lord, but she just. Slithered away and…"

"Silence Wormtail, I did not ask to here petty excuses. When she returned you will need to milk and feed her once again.'

"Y-yes my lord."

The man's voice shook a bit, and Frank found himself slightly confused, she had just "slithered" out of the room. So, they were talking about a snake? Than why did the other man speak of her like a person. Like he had far more of a connection to it than he did the man who was currently with him.

"How long will we stay here my lord?"

"As long as we must Wormtail. At the very least, we will be here until the conclusion of the Quidditch World Cup. The ministry has tripled security around the country. Every conceivable hiding place is being monitored, it would not do for the aurors to get wind of my return, not yet, it is far too soon. We must wait until the World Cup has been concluded. Then, and only then, can the plan begin, then, and only then can we take advantage of the tournament.' The man paused for a moment, and Frank imagined he was smiling an evil smile.

"Then, and only then, can Harry Potter be mine."

"Why must it be that boy my lord? You could use almost anyone, and the boy is better protected than the stone was."

"This is true, the old fool has done an admirable job protecting his weapon, but no matter, even Albus Dumbledore is not invincible, even he must bow to the best laid of plans. And as for your question Wormtail, I would not see any other wizard take the boys place. Sure, I could use any that hated me, as so many witches and wizards did. But I want the boy, it is a statement, it is beautiful revenge, and it will be a perfect image to symbolize my ultimate victory."

"Yes my lord." The other man's voice was quiet, and to Brice he sounded defeated.

"Do not tell me you have developed feelings for the boy Wormtail? After all, it was truly your hand that left the boy orphaned, not mine."

"N-n-no, my lord, of course not, I wish only to see you rise as fast as possible, and Harry Potter will greatly delay that process."

"Patients is a virtue Wormtail. I have waited twelve years now, twelve long years, to see the boy dead at my feet. With only one other slaughter to tide me over. Surely I can wait one more."

Frank had to get out of here, he had to call the police quickly. This was not something for a broken old man to try and fix. This man was a menace, a murderer. Yes, he had slaughtered at least once, and he planned to do it again, and to a boy by the sounds of it. Harry Potter, whoever that poor soul was.

Frank was about ot turn and leave when something stopped him cold.

At that moment, something else caught Frank's attention. A hissing noise from behind him. He spun far too fast and almost cried out in terror, he could've if he could speak. His blood had frozen, and his cry had died in his throat. Slithering towards him was twelve foot long, venomous green serpent. The thing lashed it's tongue at him, but did not attack, instead, it slithered straight passed him and into the study.

Frank head a hiss again, except this one was different. The tone of it, it sounded as if the murderer was hissing to the snake. This man really was insane after all. Frank was about to make his way back to his house to phone 911, when he heard the snake hiss backs as if, as if it understood.

"Wormtail," the man spoke in the same lazy tone as earlier, but Frank could practically here the smirk on his face. "Nagini tells me we are not alone on this fine, summers night, she tells me that the old caretaker is eavesdropping, just outside the door. Please Wormtail, turn me around, so I can give our guest a proper greeting.

Frank tried to move but he couldn't, his limbs seemed stuck together. And then the door opend, and Frank faced a fat, squat little man, with mousy brown hair, and watery blue eyes. Frank would have just struck the excuse for a man over the head with his walker if he could move. Then he looked to the chair and he wanted to vomit.

Sitting in the chair was a disfigured, something. It looked almost like a deformed baby, but it didn't. It was almost like what Frank would imagine is the halfway stage between a fetus and a child. The difference though, its skin was slimy and green, and it's eyes were void of pupils and completely scarlet.

"Surprised old man?" The thing taunted and laughed.

"Having trouble moving are we? Magic, as you muggles will never know, can do many great things. Allow me to give you a taster."

With this, Frank watched as the thing raised a deformed looking arm. In it's hand was a long, pale, wooden stick. Frank only had time to think it looked like a wand before the thing smiled a disgusting smile and cried to the heavens.

"Avada Kedavra!"

As the jet of green light sped towards Frank, he had only one thought, good luck Harry Potter, you're going to need it, and then he was enveloped by the blinding light, and a sudden rushing sound was the last thing Frank Brice would ever here.

Halfway across the country, a small, slightly frantic almost fourteen year old boy snapped awake with a gasp.

This was no ordinary boy, Harry Potter was a wizard, but beyond that even, Harry Potter was no ordinary wizard. He was different in more ways than one. For one thing, he hadn't even known he was a wizard until three years ago. For another, he was unbelievably gifted. Currently, Harry Potter was thirteen years old, he could cast any familiar spell non verbally, he seemed to pick up any new spell very quickly, and his memory was near flawless. On top of all of that, he was a phenom on the Quidditch pitch, having only lost one game in his entire life, and had that Ben a pro match, it would have been declared a no contest due to the circumstances.

And then there was the whole Voldemort thing.

Lord Voldemort, or if you'd like to know his real name, Tom Riddle, was the most feared dark sorcerer in a millennia, rivaled only by the likes of Morgana and Grindelwald. It was Voldemort's combination of raw power, as well as a thirst for domination, and a ruthless attitude to match his spell bank that made him so dangerous.

For eleven years Lord Voldemort had terrorized the wizarding world, seemingly killing anyone who stood in his path. For the longest time it was believed that there was only one wizard alive who could best him. Though, this had turned out to be true, the world had the wrong wizard in mind.

Everyone had, justifiably assumed that Albus Dumbledore would be the one to best Voldemort. After all, Dumbledore was thought of unanimously as the greatest, and most powerful wizard alive, with some even going as far as calling him the greatest wizard since Merlin. And on top of all of that, he had bested Gellert Grindelwald only a few decades earlier, a man, who before Voldemort, had been given the title of the most feared dark lord since Morgana.

So yes, it was only natural to assume that Albus Dumbledore would be the one to best The Dark Lord. Fate though, fate had a different idea.

One night, Lord Voldemort had showed up at the home of the Potter in Godric's Hollow, and attacked the family of three. He had murdered both James and Lily Potter, two of the most gifted young sorcerers in magical Britain. Then, he had turned his wand on their fifteen month old son, and it had all fallen apart. The suppositely unblockable, Avada Kedavra curse had seemingly struck the boy and rebounded. The killing curse having never been survived before made this unprecedented. As The Dark Lord fled the country, no more than a spirit, Harry Potter survived with no more than an odd, lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead.

And that's where the plot thickens, the world believed Lord Voldemort to be gone forever, as Harry Potter had found out at the age of eleven, the world was wrong.

Voldemort was weak, his power had been broken, but he was still very much alive. And that, mixed with the odd vision he had just seen, was what was currently leaving Harry Potter breathing heavily, and trying to control his racing heart beat as he sat up in his bead, sweat dripping off of him as if he had just ran a marathon.

Could the image be real? Harry had just seen Voldemort, or at least, he thought he had. Voldemort had not been a mere spirit possessing some poor soul this time. He had a body, well, a disgusting excuse for a body would be more accurate, but a body nonetheless. He had to have a body, because he had cast a curse, a curse Harry knew to be the killing curse.

If Harry's vision was correct, and he had just heard Voldemort discussing the plans for his murder, while he had clearly had the power to murder, Harry knew that did not bode well for him. He was very gifted for his age yes, but he figured that his skill would pale in comparison to that of his adversary.

Harry had promised himself long ago that he would be the one to finish off Voldemort for good. The problem was, Harry had thought he would only have to destroy a spirit. If Voldemort truly could get his power back, Harry was unprepared. He was not ready for a final confrontation with The Dark Lord, he knew that one day he would be, but now was not the time.

Harry debated writing Hermione, she was brilliant, and was good with this stuff, but he figured if he couldn't think of a solution, or answers, she would not have any better luck. Against his will, Harry's mind drifted to Sirius and he instantly regretted it.

Harry had been supposed to have a home, for a fleeting few moments he had thought that he could escape the cell that was the home of his abusive and neglective relatives. But it wasn't to be. Sirius had been a glimmering hope in Harry's life for a few short moments, and then he had it all taken away from him. Sirius hadn't made it out of that night alive, and Harry hadn't forgiven himself since. Harry knew that if he dwelled on this, the loss would overwhelm him, and he needed his mind in a right state right now so he decided to move on.

His mind than drifted to the man he viewed as the greatest wizard alive, Albus Dumbledore. Dumbledore was not perfect, and Harry had more than a few issues with the old man. But if nothing else, Dumbledore had also treated Harry kindly when dealing with him directly, he was probably the most brilliant wizard alive, and Harry was sure he would have answers. The problem was, would he share them?

Harry admired Dumbledore more than he would care to admit, and he liked the man on a personal level. The problem was, Harry thought that Dumbledore was, sometimes too focused on the bigger picture. The man had destroyed Harry's childhood by placing him with his satanic relatives, even if Harry was sure it was unintentional. And there was also his annoying habit of withholding information that Harry suspected to be very valuable.

Despite all of this though, he did trust him, not blindly trust him, but trust him nonetheless. If nothing else, Harry was a very good judge of character, and for all of the old wizards flaws, Harry was certain that Albus Dumbledore had nothing but the best of intentions in mind.

So, Harry stood, as quietly as he could manage and made his way over to the loose floorboard, underneath which, he kept his quills and parchment, among other things. He withdrew a piece of said parchment, and a quill and began to write.

Dear Professor Dumbledore.

I'm sorry to bother you over the summer vacation, and I hope this letter finds you well, but, something happened, something which leaves me with a lot of questions, and I feel you would be the best, if not the only person who may be able to answer them.

I know we have briefly spoken about my scar in the past, and I know you said it was some sort of connection between me and Voldemort. Well, this summer, ever since Pettigrew escaped, it's been bothering me more than I can ever remember. As we speak right now, it's red, and stands out terribly on my forehead and is quite painful.

I think this is due to the vision I just woke up from. Some may call it a dream, but I'm fairly certain it was no dream. In this vision I was seeing from the point of view of a muggle, I think he was a caretaker for some run down mansion but that's not what's important. What's important is he saw lights on in the mansion at night. When he went to investigate he heard voices from behind a door and I recognized them. The voices belonged to Pettigrew and Voldemort.

Voldemort said that they would not move until after the Quidditch World Cup. They also mentioned something about exploiting a tournament, and that even you are vulnerable to the best laid of plans. Voldemort also mentioned something about me, not killing me exactly. Pettigrew asked him why he needed me, why he couldn't just use any other witch or wizard. Voldemort just said something about having it no other way, and than followed it up with some philosophical nonsense.

The vision ended with the muggle man being found and murdered by Voldemort. Yes, he cast the curse, the Avada Kedavra. He's not a spirit anymore, but he's not human either. I don't know exactly what he is, but it's not pretty.

Do you think this is real sir? And what do you think it could mean? Can you shed some light on anything specific, and what should I do about my scar?

I'm really sorry to disturb you sir, and for asking so many questions, but I have a feeling this may be important.

I hope your summer has been enjoyable, and that it continues to improve, I look forward to seeing you again on September the 1st.

Sincerely,

Harry James Potter.

Harry let out a deep breath and put down his quill. The letter had taken him a long time to write, he had tried to remember every detail, and not to come across as whiny, he was reasonably happy with the final draft. Seeing as Hedwig was still out hunting, Harry would have to wait to send the letter.

Writing it though, hadn't accomplished what he was hoping for. He still felt slightly panicked, and beyond a little anxious. That was until suddenly, a wave of calm washed over him. It was odd, Harry could not fathom what brought it on, but he was grateful for it nonetheless. With the help of whatever force had smiled down upon him, Harry laid back down, and fell into the most restful sleep he had had, perhaps in years.

That same night, Harry Potter was not the only one to be rudely awakened. Across the continent, inside the walls of a beautiful estate, a young woman snapped awake, not long after Harry himself had.

She looked around for whatever had woken her, and was surprised to find it was still dark outside. As she spun quickly to each side, her long, silvery blonde hair flowed across her face, but never lay flat across it, as if some ethereal wind was preventing that very thing from happening.

The Veela pushed herself up into a sitting position. Gabrielle Delacour knew that something had awoken her. In her sixteen years of life, Gabrielle could not remember ever being anything less than a heavy sleeper. Though she usually awoke early, it was not this early.

And then she felt it, a wave of emotion ran through her mind that was not her own. It was not strong, or overwhelming, but it was there.

Gabrielle had known for some time this might happen. Being Veela, there were bound to be some, complications in her life. Veela had a sort of internal compass that would lead them to a soulmate.

This didn't mean they would always live happily ever after with perfect relationships. The word soulmate is often taken out of context. A more accurate description would be the person who was most compatible to the Veela if everything were to play out perfectly. After all, for all Veela could do, seeing the future was not one of them.

It was an odd thing, from what Gabrielle had read, the compass did not make it obvious. It wasn't like you knew as soon as you saw the person. You had to get to know them, and then, there were a number of things that could alert the Veela.

This inner compass, for lack of a better term, usually kicked in sometime after a Veela's sixteenth birthday. Usually it started like this, and that was all the Veela would experience for a long time. Random bits of emotion. It was said that at long distances, the Veela would only feel their mates emotions when they were at their strongest. Once they got closer though, all bets were off. This was no surprise to Gabrielle, she could pretty much read anyone's emotions that were around her anyways, so she imagined it would only be easier to do so once she met her "mate."

This wasn't the first time she had felt emotion from him. She had felt loneliness, frustration, and even depression before. This though, this was the most strong, the best thing she could compare it to was panic. Not fear, not really, dread, would also be accurate.

Gabrielle bit her bottom lip. It was said that if the Veela was of considerable skill and power, as well as possessed a good grip on her magic, than she could project emotions over the link. She didn't know why she did it. She didn't love this person, at least not yet, how could you love someone you've never even met? She supposed it was out of curiosity, she wanted to test herself.

Gabrielle was very talented both as a Veela and as a witch. She was the top of pretty much all of her classes, except for potions, for some reason, she never really was good with them. She had been told she was quite intelligent as well. Her Veela side, that was a bit complicated.

Her and her sister Fleur were what most people would call, "quarter Veela" Gabrielle scoffed at the notion. You were either Veela or you were not, well sort of. She, was undoubtedly Veela. Her sister, well, she had inherited some of the Veela traits, but she was not Veela. She had inherited the beauty yes, but that was a guarantee if one had Veela blood in their family. She did have the allure in a sense. Males were drawn to Fleur, but it was week, and her sister could not control it.

Gabrielle had it as well, but it was far stronger, and she could switch it on and off at will. Fleur's though weaker, could not be turned off. This was because in order to turn it off, one had to have control over it. And in order to have control over it, you had to have been blessed with all of the Veela traits, which Fleur was not.

Despite this, Gabrielle loved her sister, they got on very well, and were best friends. Gabrielle had helped Fleur with the allure. Though she couldn't shut it off. With Gabrielle's help she could tone it down a little bit, giving her a bit of a break. Not that either of the sisters would ever have a break. They were ogled even without an allure.

This was the only bit of her Veela heritage that Gabrielle treated more of a curse. It had gotten her an extremely high paying job as a supermodel, so that was fine. But money wasn't a huge factor to her. Her family was extremely wealthy as it was. Perhaps the richest family in the wizarding world, even though they did not go around advertising that.

Her father Jean, was an international ambassador in the French Ministry of Magic after serving for years as an auror. He was intending to run in the election for French Minister of Magic that would happen at the turn of the Calendar year.

Her mother also worked as a supermodel, which yes, paid \ very well. Despite all of that though, that wasn't where most of their fortune came from. The Delecour's were a very old family with Veela lineage. In fact, her father had taken the name, not her mother. This wasn't overly unusual when humans married Veela. Especially considering that her mother was Heirace to the Veela throne. As her grandmother was the current queen of their nation. So, that side of the family had pretty much an unlimited amount of resources to draw from.

Back on topic though, Gabrielle, unlike her sister, had been blessed with every bit of Veela power. And being the granddaughter of the queen, made her quite powerful.

So, in this moment, Gabrielle closed her eyes and focused on her magic. She found it quickly enough, it was a golden aura that surrounded her, focusing hard, she imagined another aura far away, connected to her own by a fine strand of magic. And then she saw it, because, that was what it looked like. She couldn't follow it, not until she bonded with the person, but it was useful for things like this. She then forced herself to be calm, which, thanks to her Occlumency techniques, was not difficult. She then held on to this feeling, and imagined the emotion traveling across the branch of magic.

She felt, over the bond, the panic wash away, and then she could feel nothing, even when she focused on the connection. She smiled to herself, he must be asleep once again.

Quite proud of herself, Gabrielle stood and reached for her clothes. It was past five as it was; no point in going back to bed. She turned to grab her things before going to the bathroom connected to her room so she could shower.

Before leaving the room she spoke very quietly and softly.

"De beaux rêves mon amour."

Authors Endnote:

So, what do you guys think?

Also, me from the future again, this story does improve greatly, and it is not nearly this cliche for the most part.

"De beaux rêves mon amour." = Sweet dreams my love.