Author's Note: Apologies; only one long scene in this chapter. Next one will go back to Harry and his exploration of Beauxbatons and getting to know the two French boys some more (yes, there will be more of Tristan since it seems that other people like him~ :D *pleased*). But, regarding this chapter… had to end things where I did with Chapter Four because… well. You'll see. :| Future chapters will be much longer, though, because the story kicks off from here.

Quatre

The rest of the conference between Harry and Headmistress Maxime did not last for much longer: embarrassment at his breakdown exuded off of Harry in waves, and the giantess was concerned for the boy's blood pressure levels since his cheeks remained at a bright, flaming red throughout the rest of their conversation. Finally deciding to send him off to meet with his classmates—since several more fifth years had arrived that morning to prepare for the start of the fall term that would begin in several days—the French Headmistress performed a quick language spell for the boy and shoo'd him away.

There were, after all, chores that she had to do once alone.

After the boy left, Headmistress Maxime settled back in her overly large chair for a long moment; ignoring the warning creaking from the structure and temporarily putting concern for good posture on hold, the woman tilted the seat back just enough to lightly rock back and forth on the latter legs. There was much to think about; there was much to mull over; and there was, most importantly, a great deal to feel enraged over.

I no longer think that it's worth facing some sort of danger each and every year that I've been at school: the Dark Lord, a basilisk, hundreds of Dementors and a rampant werewolf, and a tournament that I was forced to participate in unwillingly—which then ended in a friend's death and the revival of Voldemort.

The boy was but a child. A child!

Those in the wizarding world always treasured their children, whether their own or those who were the children of others. Families were blessed with so few children, the magic within a wizard or witch's body interacting in such a way that very few families ever managed to have more than two children—families such as the Weasleys were incredibly rare and were oftentimes held in awe over the fact that they had been thusly blessed. But that was rare, so very rare… no child should be put in danger when there was an adult present to protect him.

The British wizarding community had seemed to lose sight of this tenant that tied all international wizards together into one coherent whole: protect the next generation; cherish the children; coax a child's strength and watch them blossom beneath your tutelage. This law seemed to have been put aside to instead favor an icon: the Boy-Who-Lived, and the people had apparently—willingly—disregarded the fact that that icon was nothing more than a newly turned fifteen year-old boy. A child. A child.

If Harry Potter had been telling the truth about his escapades at school—and what reason did he have to lie?—then the British community had willingly turned their backs on him, forcing the child to fend for himself. He had been left without protection, had been attacked by those who were supposed to protect him: no sane adult would have willingly put a child in harm's way!

But, then again, the actions of the British wizarding population could never be truly labeled as "sane." And the more that Headmistress Maxime considered things, the more disgusted she became. It was no wonder that the boy finally decided to wash his hands of the lot of them—and it was her duty as an adult, as the person that he had turned to for help, to protect him. Protect him as the other adults in his life had not, renegading on their responsibilities towards him.

It was with a long sigh that Headmistress Maxime finally pushed herself up out of her comfortable chair to make her way towards the fireplace that was hooked up to the International Floo Network. Carefully, she settled her solid bulk upon the floor, tossing in some of the needed powder; once the green flames flared up, the woman called out in a firm, commanding voice, "'Eadmaster's Office, 'Ogwarts!"

There was no response for many long moments but, finally, Albus Dumbledore's face eventually was discernible amongst the acid-green flames. "Ah! Madame Maxime! This is a surprise; I hadn't expected to hear from you," the elderly wizard greeted, smile quick and eyes as twinkling as ever. Before the Headmistress had the chance to speak, however, Dumbledore continued, "Unfortunately, I don't have the time required to sit down for a pleasant chat—there are several issues that I'm currently dealing with at the moment, and I do apologize but they require my full attention. Would you mind terribly if we had a talk at a later date?"

Headmistress Maxime was silent for some seconds, but she did eventually speak, "Would I be remiss in guessing that these 'issues' are linked to the disappearance of 'Arry Potter, 'Eadmaster Dumbley-door?"

The Headmaster froze abruptly right before he was about to shut down the Floo connection, and his pale gaze sharpened as he turned his complete attention to Olympe Maxime. The half-giantess just smiled noncommittally and smoothed her black hair from her face with a graceful gesture.

The Headmaster and Headmistress had a stare down, but it was the British wizard who finally broke the silent competition between the two. "Is Harry there?"

"Yes," the Headmistress answered, gaze lowered in a demure manner—though Dumbledore was fully aware that it was nothing more than an act. The woman who had managed to claim Hagrid's heart had a fiery temper and, if nothing else, the elderly man remembered just how viciously protective she was of Fleur and her other students during their stay at Hogwarts. His stomach began to sink in trepidation. "He has transferred here to Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons."

Dumbledore seemed to age before her eyes. "You must send him back, Olympe."

Headmistress Maxime laughed softly at that, her voice amused as she looked at the Headmaster with dark, angry eyes. "I must do nothing, Dumbley-door. He has transferred here, with his guardians' permission, and you cannot retrieve him since our school is Unplottable."

The lines around Dumbledore's mouth tightened and deepened for a moment in silent fury, but his voice still remained courteous when he spoke once more. "Regardless of the fact that he has permission, you must send him back. He is required at Hogwarts—and England is in need of him, even if the people do not yet realize this."

Once more, the witch laughed gaily. "Why would I send back a boy whose people heap buckets of vitriol upon him and the adults in his life do nothing but stand by and watch? It is disgusting, the things that you and others have done to him!" It was then that all traces of superficial amusement dropped and the Headmistress' true fury emerged from where it had been carefully hidden.

"You know nothing—" Dumbledore began, his voice crackling like ice.

However, the half-giantess interrupted and her accent thickened in rage. "Nothing? I know nothing? How dare you, you manipulative old snake! He has told me about the Dementors, the basilisk, fighting against the Dark Lord—and I'm sure that there are plenty of other situations that he does not yet trust me enough to speak of, but those alone are enough! Nothing? NOTHING! How dare you place a child, one of our children, in such situations! I can only imagine the harm that you have done to him—he trusts no adult, that much is obvious—and you have beaten him down with your neglect! He had no proper clothes—clothes, Dumbley-door; items to wear that would make him look something other than a street urchin that has been ushered from off the streets—and I can see that he has not been fed properly! He is obviously malnourished and it may take years to get him up to a healthy weight! And after everything that he has done and lived through, after seeing a friend die before his very eyes this summer, you have never bothered to send him to a Mind Healer! He is damaged, you meddling, miserable old salaud, and you have betrayed one of the founding structures of our world! 'The Childe is Everything.' How dare you. How dare you, and how dare you accuse me of knowing nothing."

Dumbledore was silent for several moments before clearing his throat, though his eyes remained diamond-hard. "Regardless, Olympe, you need to send him back. I will make a Wizard's Oath to keep a better eye on him and rectify many of the issues that you have brought up—"

Headmistress Maxime laughed then, and the sound shattered through the Headmaster's words. "You are a fool if you think that I shall ever willingly give 'Arry back to you after what you have done to him. He will learn that you have refrained from teaching him, here at Beauxbatons. You were a fool to think that living with Muggles would prepare him for being the Boy-Who-Lived." The last was said with a sneer, and the Headmistress' eyes were as hard as onyx.

Dumbledore's reply was succinct: "I shall be bringing this up before the International Confederation of Wizards." It was both a warning and a threat—the last chance that the Headmaster would give to the half-giantess before bringing this into the world arena.

Headmistress Maxime smiled exceedingly primly, sweetly at the elderly wizard and reached between the two of them to finally shut down the Floo connection. Before she closed it down completely, however, the eloquent woman said something that had Headmaster Dumbledore's jaw dropping in utter shock, eyes wide at her uncouthness:

"Allez vous faire enculer, Dumbley-door."