The Great Hall of Winterfell had been transformed for the evening's entertainment, its ancient stones warmed by the glow of countless candles and the great hearth that dominated the far wall. Tapestries bearing the direwolf of House Stark hung between tall windows, while servants moved efficiently between the long tables, ensuring that guests and family alike had everything needed for a proper Northern feast. The very air seemed to hum with anticipation, though whether for the promised entertainment or simply the pleasure of a warm meal shared in good company remained to be seen.
Hadrian entered with the confident stride that had become his trademark over the past week, every movement speaking of aristocratic breeding combined with the sort of lethal competence that made seasoned warriors take notice. Fawkes perched regally on his shoulder like some herald of legend come to life, the phoenix's magnificent plumage catching candlelight and throwing it back in patterns that seemed to shift and dance with their own inner fire. Conversations paused and heads turned to acknowledge their arrival—by now, the sight of Winterfell's mysterious guest and his extraordinary companion had become familiar enough to avoid causing general pandemonium, though the whispered comments and admiring glances suggested their presence remained a source of considerable fascination.
"Hadrian!" Lord Stark called out with genuine warmth, rising from the high table with the sort of unconscious dignity that marked someone born to command. His weathered face—lined by years of responsibility and hard choices—broke into one of his rare, genuine smiles as he gestured toward their approaching guest. "Come, join us at the high table. I trust your accommodations continue to meet your needs? Though I suppose after a week of Winterfell's hospitality, you've either grown accustomed to our Northern ways or developed an impressive talent for polite forbearance."
"More than adequately, my lord," Hadrian replied with precisely calibrated courtesy, inclining his head respectfully to both Ned and Lady Catelyn while somehow managing to suggest that he considered himself their equal rather than their subordinate. His emerald eyes held that particular sparkle that suggested he was thoroughly enjoying himself despite the formal nature of the occasion. "Your hospitality remains exemplary, and I find myself daily impressed by Winterfell's... character. Though I must admit, there's something rather charming about a castle that's managed to maintain its structural integrity for eight millennia without once feeling the need to apologize for its architectural choices."
"Character," Lady Catelyn repeated with a slight smile that suggested she found his diplomatic phrasing both amusing and slightly suspicious, her sharp blue eyes—Tully blue, unmistakable and penetrating—studying their guest with the intensity of someone who'd learned to read people quickly and accurately. "An interesting way to describe eight thousand years of accumulated history, much of it rather violent. Though I suppose 'character' sounds considerably more diplomatic than 'bloodstained and occasionally haunted by the ghosts of poor decisions.'"
"Ah, but my lady," Hadrian replied with that devastating charm that had once made professors question their vocational choices while simultaneously wondering if they should be taking notes on his approaches to complex social situations, "the best sort of character is invariably earned through adversity. Comfort rarely breeds the kind of strength and resilience that I've observed throughout the North. Besides, any castle worth its salt should have at least a few ghosts—otherwise, how would one know it has proper historical significance?"
Sansa leaned forward from her position at the high table, her copper hair catching candlelight as her blue eyes fixed on their guest with obvious fascination. At fifteen, she possessed the kind of earnest romanticism that found everything about their mysterious visitor absolutely compelling, from his perfect manners to his obvious aristocratic bearing to the legendary creature that accompanied him everywhere.
"Do you really think castles should have ghosts?" she asked with the sort of breathless interest that suggested she was storing away every word for future romantic daydreaming. "That sounds terribly romantic. Like something from the songs about ancient knights and lost loves and tragic beauty."
"Well," Hadrian mused with obvious amusement, his tone taking on the sort of theatrical gravity that suggested he was thoroughly enjoying the opportunity to indulge romantic notions, "I've always found that the most interesting buildings are those with stories to tell. And ghosts, properly speaking, are simply stories that refuse to stay buried. Rather like persistent relatives who insist on offering unsolicited advice long after they should have developed the courtesy to remain quietly deceased."
"Hadrian," Ned interrupted with the sort of paternal authority that suggested this conversation was approaching territory he'd prefer to avoid, particularly given his daughter's tendency to romanticize everything she encountered, "perhaps we should focus on the living rather than dwelling on the dead. Please, take your seat. The performers will begin shortly, and I suspect tonight's entertainment will prove quite memorable."
There was something in his tone—a note of anticipation mixed with what might have been concern—that suggested the Lord of Winterfell knew more about their evening's guests than he'd initially revealed. Hadrian filed that observation away for future consideration while making his way toward the table where Robb, Jon, and Theon had saved him a place.
"About time you showed up," Theon called out with the irrepressible good humor that had marked his recovery from the afternoon's training session, his sea-green eyes dancing with mischief as he gestured grandly toward the empty chair beside him. "We were beginning to think you'd gotten lost in those fancy robes of yours. Very impressive, by the way—do they come with their own portable sunbeam, or is that just natural magnificence at work?"
"Natural magnificence, obviously," Hadrian replied with shameless confidence as he settled into the offered chair with fluid grace, Fawkes transferring to the back of his chair with the sort of regal dignity that made ordinary birds look like poorly executed rough drafts. "Though I appreciate your recognition of obvious excellence. Not everyone possesses the refined aesthetic sensibilities necessary to properly appreciate superior tailoring."
"Superior tailoring," Jon repeated with the sort of dry amusement that had developed considerably since their guest's arrival, his dark eyes holding the particular gleam that suggested incoming wit at someone's expense. "Is that what we're calling 'clothes that probably cost more than most people see in a lifetime' now? Very diplomatic."
"I prefer to think of it as 'investment in appropriate presentation,'" Hadrian clarified with mock solemnity while accepting wine from a passing servant with casual elegance. "One never knows when proper attire might prove the difference between diplomatic success and international incident. Though I suppose in my case, the incidents tend to happen regardless of what I'm wearing."
Robb leaned back in his chair with obvious amusement, his auburn hair catching firelight as he studied their guest with the sort of appreciative assessment that spoke to his growing understanding of Hadrian's particular brand of controlled chaos. "International incidents? Do we want to know what sort of international incidents someone our age manages to generate through clothing choices?"
"Probably not," Hadrian admitted cheerfully, swirling his wine with the unconscious expertise of someone who'd attended far too many formal occasions where the primary entertainment often involved people trying to kill him in creative ways. "Though I will say that my reputation for causing diplomatic complications has been somewhat exaggerated. Most of the time, people were already planning to cause problems—I simply provided them with convenient excuses to act on their existing intentions."
"Most of the time?" Theon pressed with obvious fascination, clearly recognizing the sort of calculated understatement that suggested considerably more interesting stories than were being shared.
"Well," Hadrian mused with the kind of theatrical consideration that suggested he was weighing exactly how much truth to reveal, "there was that unfortunate business with the French Minister for Magic and his wife's rather inappropriate advances during a state dinner. And the incident with the Bulgarian delegation and their curious ideas about appropriate diplomatic gifts. Oh, and that memorable evening when the German Ambassador decided that dessert was the perfect time to discuss his country's historical grievances regarding British foreign policy."
"What happened?" Arya demanded, having appeared at Hadrian's elbow with the stealth that regularly gave her parents premature grey hair and coronary complications. Her grey eyes were bright with the sort of anticipation that suggested she was hoping for stories involving violence, preferably of the creative variety.
"Arya," came Lady Stark's voice from the high table, carrying the particular tone that mothers everywhere used when they suspected their children were about to hear things that would give them ideas, "perhaps you should return to your proper seat rather than interrogating our guest about his past diplomatic adventures."
"But Mother," Arya protested with the wounded dignity of someone whose educational opportunities were being unfairly curtailed, "he promised to provide technical commentary on sword fighting if the opportunity arose. I've been looking forward to learning about realistic combat all day."
"And you shall have your opportunity, assuming the evening's entertainment provides appropriate material," Hadrian assured her with obvious fondness, his voice carrying the sort of patient warmth that suggested genuine affection for the youngest Stark daughter's bloodthirsty enthusiasm. "Though I suspect this evening's performances may prove less educational and more... revelatory than any of us currently anticipate."
"Revelatory how?" Jon asked with the careful attention that had served him well throughout his life as someone who existed on the margins of legitimacy, his bastard's instincts picking up on subtleties that others might miss.
"I'm not entirely certain yet," Hadrian admitted, his emerald eyes scanning the hall as the performers finished setting up their instruments and prepared to begin their first song. There was something in his tone—a note of focused intensity that suggested his casual observations weren't nearly as casual as they appeared—that made Jon pay closer attention. "Call it intuition based on extensive experience with seemingly ordinary situations that prove to be anything but ordinary. In my experience, when traveling entertainers appear with remarkably convenient timing and demonstrate coordination that suggests considerably more training than most professional performers typically possess, the evening rarely proceeds according to anyone's expectations."
"You sound like you're expecting trouble," Robb observed with growing interest, his tactical mind already beginning to catalogue potential threats and defensive positions with the instincts of someone who'd been trained to think strategically since childhood.
"Not expecting, precisely," Hadrian clarified with characteristic precision, though his hand moved unconsciously toward his sleeve where certain defensive implements remained readily accessible despite the formal nature of the occasion. "More like... preparing for interesting possibilities. Because in my rather extensive experience with chaos theory and the perverse nature of dramatic timing, evenings that begin with mysterious entertainment rarely conclude with everyone retiring peacefully to their chambers after polite applause and pleasant conversation about the weather."
His attention was drawn to the small group of entertainers as they arranged themselves for their opening performance—five individuals who moved with the sort of unconscious coordination that spoke of considerable experience working together, their instruments and staging materials organized with the kind of efficiency that suggested professional competence combined with something else that he couldn't quite identify.
But it was the blonde woman who held his focus, something about her triggering recognition patterns that his conscious mind couldn't quite access despite the growing certainty that he should know exactly who she was and why her presence was making every combat instinct he possessed hum with anticipation.
She stood at the center of their formation, clearly the lead performer, her beauty striking even across the crowded hall. But it wasn't merely physical attractiveness that caught his attention—it was something about the way she held herself, the graceful movements as she prepared for their first song, the subtle confidence that marked someone accustomed to commanding attention through more than mere appearance.
There was something hauntingly, impossibly familiar about her that tugged at memories he couldn't quite access, like trying to recall a dream that faded the moment he attempted to focus on its details.
"She's quite beautiful," Sansa observed from the high table, her voice carrying the sort of dreamy appreciation that suggested romantic notions stirring like flowers in spring sunshine. "Like someone from the songs about distant kingdoms and fairy-tale princesses. Do you think she's from the Summer Isles? Her coloring is so distinctive—that hair looks like spun gold in the candlelight."
"Could be from anywhere beyond the Narrow Sea," Robb replied diplomatically, though his own eyes were fixed on the performers with obvious interest. "Traveling entertainers collect companions from all sorts of places. Though I'll admit, she does have the sort of presence that makes one think of legends and ancient stories about beauty that launched ships and started wars."
"Beauty that started wars," Theon repeated with obvious appreciation, his voice carrying the sort of theatrical admiration that suggested he was already composing increasingly elaborate compliments for potential future use. "Now there's a romantic notion worthy of the songs. Though I suppose the people who actually lived through those wars might have had somewhat different opinions about the whole business."
"Most people who live through wars have different opinions about everything than the people who write songs about them," Hadrian observed with characteristic dryness, though his attention remained fixed on the blonde performer with laser-like intensity. "Songs tend to focus on the glory and romance while carefully omitting the more practical details like dysentery, supply shortages, and the extraordinarily tedious nature of siege warfare when you're actually participating rather than hearing about it secondhand from minstrels who've never spent three months eating nothing but stale bread and whatever passes for preserved meat."
"Speaking from experience again?" Jon inquired with the sort of careful neutrality that suggested he was beginning to understand that their guest's casual references to warfare might be based on considerably more practical knowledge than his age would normally suggest.
"Speaking from observation," Hadrian replied vaguely, though something in his tone suggested that the distinction between observation and participation might be rather more nuanced than his words implied. "Though I will say that reality tends to be considerably messier and significantly less romantic than artistic representations would have one believe."
The hall gradually quieted as the performers took their positions, conversations fading to expectant murmurs as guests settled back to enjoy whatever entertainment had been prepared for their evening. Servants moved efficiently through the space, ensuring that wine cups remained filled and that everyone had clear sightlines to the performance area.
"Any predictions about what we're about to hear?" Theon asked with the irrepressible curiosity that marked his approach to most situations, particularly those that promised to be more interesting than the usual routine of castle life. "I'm hoping for something more exciting than the usual songs about noble lords doing noble things nobly while noble ladies wait nobly for their noble return from noble quests of noble purpose."
"Your grasp of musical taxonomy is truly impressive," Jon replied with devastating deadpan delivery that had become his trademark since their guest's arrival had provided him with such an appreciative audience for dry humor. "Though I suspect you've just described approximately ninety percent of all songs written in the past century, so your chances of avoiding noble nobility acting nobly are probably rather limited."
"Harsh but accurate," Robb agreed with obvious amusement. "Though perhaps tonight's performers will surprise us with something more... creative."
"Oh, I'm quite certain they will," Hadrian murmured, his voice carrying a note of anticipation that somehow managed to sound both eager and wary simultaneously. "Though whether their creativity proves to be the entertaining sort or the sort that requires immediate tactical response remains to be determined."
The opening notes were soft, melodic, carried by what appeared to be a harp-like instrument though its construction seemed somehow different from traditional Northern instruments—the sound was clearer, more complex, with harmonics that seemed to resonate in ways that ordinary harps couldn't achieve. The melody was hauntingly beautiful, with a sophistication that suggested musical traditions far removed from anything commonly heard in Westeros.
And then the blonde woman began to sing.
The voice that filled Winterfell's Great Hall was extraordinary—crystal clear, perfectly pitched, carrying harmonics that seemed to resonate in the very bones of everyone present while creating the sort of ethereal beauty that belonged in legends rather than reality. It was the kind of voice that made hardened warriors forget their own names and caused poets to abandon their craft in despair of ever creating something equally perfect.
But for Hadrian, the impact was far more profound than mere aesthetic appreciation.
The melody was impossible. The words, though sung in what appeared to be the Common Tongue, carried meanings and memories that belonged to another world entirely, to moments stolen between battles and promises whispered in the darkness when the future seemed uncertain and the present held nothing but desperate hope.
It was their song—his and Fleur's—the melody that had played during their first dance at Bill and Fleur's wedding, the words they'd sung to each other during quiet moments when the war seemed endless and their love was the only certainty in a world gone mad with violence and loss.
*"Heart beats fast, colors and promises..."*
Every word was exactly as he remembered it, though somehow translated into a language that shouldn't have existed when the song was originally written. Every note perfect, every inflection carrying the weight of memories that seemed to crash over him like a tidal wave of recognition and impossible, desperate hope.
His emerald eyes fixed on the singer with the sort of laser intensity that he'd once reserved for identifying threats and targeting spells, really looking at her for the first time rather than simply noting her presence as part of the evening's entertainment.
The bone structure was different—sharper, more defined by years of hard living and circumstances far removed from the privileged existence of a French magical aristocrat whose greatest hardship had been surviving a war that had tested everyone's limits. The hair was styled differently, braided in patterns that spoke of practical necessity rather than fashionable elegance. The clothing was that of a traveling performer rather than a Triwizard champion and veteran duelist whose wardrobe had once been the envy of half the witches in Europe.
But the eyes...
The eyes were the same brilliant blue that had haunted his dreams for a full year since her death, the same eyes that had looked up at him with perfect trust and infinite love as she lay dying in his arms after the Death Eater attack that had torn his world apart. The same eyes that had sparked with competitive fire during their first meeting at Hogwarts when she'd been Beauxbatons champion and he'd been the unwilling fourth champion in the Triwizard Tournament. The same eyes that had held fierce determination and boundless courage as she'd fought beside him through the darkest days of the war against Voldemort's forces.
*"...how to be brave, how can I love when I'm afraid..."*
The recognition was mutual and immediate. Even across the crowded hall, even with years of separation and the apparent impossibility of the situation challenging every assumption about reality and death and the spaces between worlds, their eyes met and held with the force of destiny reasserting itself after being temporarily derailed by forces beyond anyone's control.
Fleur Delacour—somehow, impossibly, miraculously—was alive, was here, was singing their song in Winterfell's Great Hall while he sat frozen in shock that felt like lightning and salvation combined into a single moment of perfect, impossible recognition.
"Bloody hell," he whispered, his voice barely audible even to himself but carrying the weight of a year's worth of grief, guilt, and the crushing burden of loss that had shaped every decision since that terrible night when he'd held her as she died and sworn to make her killers pay for what they'd taken from the world.
"What did you say?" Arya demanded with the sharp hearing that had served her well throughout her young life, leaning closer with the sort of intense curiosity that suggested she'd caught something significant even if she couldn't identify what it was.
But Hadrian couldn't answer, couldn't look away, couldn't do anything but stare as the woman he had loved more than life itself continued singing their song in a voice that was unmistakably, impossibly hers, despite every rational argument his mind could construct about the absolute impossibility of what he was witnessing.
*"...I have loved you for a thousand years, I'll love you for a thousand more..."*
The performance continued around them, other voices joining the melody in harmonies that seemed to lift the ancient stones of Winterfell itself, instruments weaving complex patterns that filled the hall with music that belonged in dreams and legends rather than in the everyday reality of Northern castle life. But for Hadrian, the world had narrowed to a single point of perfect, impossible recognition that shattered every assumption he'd made about death, loss, and the finality of endings.
She was alive.
After a year of grief that had nearly destroyed him, after months of hunting down every Death Eater who'd been involved in her murder and making them pay in ways that would have horrified the woman he'd loved, after learning to live with the crushing weight of survivor's guilt and the certainty that he'd never again find anything worth living for beyond simple duty and revenge, she was alive and looking at him with eyes that held the same recognition, the same desperate hope, the same love that had survived death itself to find expression in this strange new world.
"Hadrian?" Jon's voice seemed to come from very far away, though he was sitting right beside him, his concern evident in the careful way he leaned closer while keeping his own voice low enough not to draw unwanted attention. "Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost, and not the friendly sort that might offer helpful advice about hidden treasure."
"Not a ghost," Hadrian managed, his voice rough with emotions too complex for simple expression, too overwhelming for anything approaching coherent explanation. "Something far more impossible than that. Something that shouldn't exist but apparently does anyway, presumably just to demonstrate that the universe has a sense of humor about cosmic justice that borders on the actively malicious."
Theon shot him a sharp look, his sea-green eyes narrowing with the sort of calculating assessment that suggested he was beginning to understand that whatever was happening was considerably more significant than their mysterious guest simply being moved by particularly beautiful music.
"You know her," he said quietly, and it wasn't a question but a statement of fact delivered with the certainty of someone who'd learned to read people through years of existing in political situations where misreading motivations could prove fatal. "That singer—you know her from somewhere. From before you came here."
Robb leaned forward with obvious concern, his tactical mind immediately shifting into the sort of alert assessment that had been drilled into him since childhood, cataloguing potential threats and complications while maintaining the appearance of casual conversation.
"Should we be concerned?" he asked with the sort of careful neutrality that suggested he was prepared to take immediate action if their guest's recognition of the mysterious performer represented any sort of danger to his family or their household.
"I don't know," Hadrian replied with devastating honesty, his emerald eyes still fixed on the impossible vision of the woman he'd thought lost forever. "I genuinely don't know whether you should be concerned, relieved, or preparing for the sort of dramatic complications that usually require emergency evacuation procedures and possibly divine intervention. All I can tell you with absolute certainty is that tonight's entertainment just became infinitely more interesting than anyone anticipated, and when things become interesting in my vicinity, they tend to become interesting very quickly indeed."
As the song reached its soaring conclusion, as the final notes faded into respectful silence before enthusiastic applause filled the ancient hall, as the performers acknowledged their audience's appreciation with graceful bows that somehow managed to be both humble and confident, Hadrian felt something fundamental shift in his understanding of fate, destiny, and the persistence of bonds that some forces in the universe considered stronger than death itself.
The evening was definitely going to prove interesting.
In all the best and most complicated possible ways.
And for the first time in a year, Hadrian Potter found himself looking forward to complications rather than simply enduring them.
—
As the final, crystalline notes of the song faded into the warm air of Winterfell's Great Hall, Val felt as though she were suspended between two worlds—the one where she was a wildling performer named Val, entertaining Northern lords with traveling songs, and the one where she was Fleur Delacour, singing the melody that had defined the most precious moments of her first life.
The applause that erupted around her was thunderous, enthusiastic, the sort of genuine appreciation that spoke to the power of her performance and the beauty of the song itself. Voices called out compliments in the Northern fashion—honest, direct, unadorned by the flowery language of southern courts but carrying a sincerity that was somehow more meaningful for its lack of artifice.
"Magnificent!"
"Beautiful as summer morning!"
"Never heard the like!"
But Val heard none of it. Every sense she possessed, every fragment of attention she could command, was focused entirely on the young man seated at one of the lower tables, his emerald eyes wide with shock and recognition and something that looked devastatingly like hope.
He was older than she remembered—not physically, for he appeared to be roughly the same age she was now, but there was something in his bearing that spoke of experiences that had aged him in ways that had nothing to do with the passage of years. His dark hair still fell in those same unruly waves that had once made her want to run her fingers through it just to see if she could make it behave properly. His features had matured, losing the last traces of adolescent softness to become something that belonged in Renaissance paintings—classical, aristocratic, devastatingly handsome in the way that made sensible women forget their own names.
But it was his eyes that confirmed what her heart had known the moment she'd caught his scent on the wind days ago. Those impossible emerald eyes that had looked at her with such love, such fierce protectiveness, such absolute certainty that she was worth fighting for, worth dying for, worth living for.
Her Harry. Her beloved, impossible, brilliant, stubborn, wonderful Harry.
Alive. Here. Staring at her with an expression that suggested he was seeing the resurrection of everything he'd thought lost forever.
The other members of her troupe were taking their bows, accepting the crowd's enthusiasm with practiced grace, but Val found herself frozen in place, her eyes locked with his across the crowded hall as if an invisible thread connected them through space and time and the impossible circumstances that had brought them both to this moment.
*How?* The question blazed in both their minds simultaneously. *How is this possible? How are you here? How are you alive? How did we find each other across worlds and years and death itself?*
But even as those questions swirled through her consciousness, Val felt something else rising within her—a joy so pure and overwhelming that it threatened to make her burst into tears right there in front of the assembled lords and ladies of Winterfell. The careful control she'd spent days building around her veela allure wavered dangerously as emotions she'd kept buried for seventeen years suddenly blazed to life.
The magical signature she'd been sensing all afternoon was his—unmistakably, impossibly his. The power that tasted of lightning and determination and fierce protectiveness that would burn down the world to save the people he loved. He had his magic, his memories, probably that ridiculous phoenix that had helped save her life during the Chamber of Secrets incident all those years ago.
He was whole. He was himself. He was here.
Mance's hand on her elbow was gentle but insistent, reminding her that they were still in the middle of a performance, still maintaining their cover as traveling entertainers, still surrounded by people who knew nothing of their true identities or the cosmic impossibility of this reunion.
"Val," he murmured quietly, his voice pitched for her ears alone, "breathe. Stay in character. We'll figure this out, but not here, not now, not in front of everyone."
She nodded shakily, finally managing to tear her gaze away from Harry's beloved face long enough to acknowledge the applause with a graceful curtsy that was pure Fleur Delacour despite the wildling performer's costume she wore. Her voice, when she finally found it, carried only the slightest tremor.
"Thank you," she said to the assembled crowd, her accent carefully modulated to suggest foreign origins without being too specific about geography. "You are most kind. The song... it comes from far away, from a place where love stories are believed to transcend even death itself."
The words were for everyone, but her eyes found his again as she spoke them, and the slight intake of breath she saw him take suggested he'd caught the deeper meaning intended solely for him.
*I found you,* her gaze seemed to say. *Somehow, impossibly, we found each other again.*
*I know,* his expression replied, wonder and disbelief and desperate hope warring across features that had haunted her dreams for seventeen years. *I know, and I still can't believe it's real.*
The moment stretched between them like a bridge across impossible distances, until the practical demands of maintaining their respective covers forced them both back to the present reality of their situation.
But the connection had been made. The recognition was mutual and absolute.
After years of separation, of believing themselves permanently lost to each other, of learning to live with grief that felt like carrying stones in their hearts, they had found each other again.
The performance would continue. The evening would proceed. Their respective missions and responsibilities would demand attention.
But nothing would ever be the same.
Some bonds, it seemed, really were stronger than death itself.
---
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