Chapter 3

"Here we are," Sirius said once they reached their seats.

The Delacours, as foreign officials, were seated just above the Minister's Box. Their seats were situated near the middle of the field and halfway up the stadium, giving them a perfect view of the entire game. They were in a pseudo-booth that separated their seats from everyone else. The booth had a single doorway as the only way in and out of it. On the other side of the entryway was a passageway for the VIPs to reach their seats.

There were only three seats pre-arranged for them. Clément, thoroughly enjoying Sirius' company, declared this as unacceptable and immediately conjured comfortable chairs for Sirius and Harry. They both accepted the gesture gratefully and took their seats, though Harry left an alert ward at the entrance to warn him of anyone approaching.

Sirius sat at one end and Clément immediately sat next to him, continuing to chat like friends seeing each other for the first time in years. Gabrielle pounced on the opportunity and claimed the middle chair. Fleur took the seat to her sister's left before Gabi could offer it to Harry, so he sat on the far end.

Fleur was still watching him warily, but it looked like she wasn't about to hex him at the first opportunity now. He took that as a sign of progress and smiled at the sisters, making Gabrielle beam at him.

Sirius then summoned the House Elf assigned to their booth. It appeared with a loud 'crack' and took their respective orders. Clément ordered a bottle of firewhiskey for he and Sirius; Fleur chose a salad for her and a water for Gabrielle; and Harry asked for a butterbeer. The elf came back with their orders a minute later. The elf then departed after telling them to call him for anything.

The two men immediately got to work on their liquor, each taking turns with the bottle when the other was talking. The bottle must have been charmed to never run out, since they'd soon drank far more than a standard bottle should have had. Fleur and Gabrielle ate their shared salad with delicate care, the elder sibling pointedly not looking at Harry. Gabi gave him an apologetic smile, which he answered with a shrug. Harry saw no point in speaking at the moment, so he uncorked his bottle and took a swig of butterbeer.

It still that odd, but delicious, liquid butterscotch. Harry asked for a hint of the firewhiskey from his elders and added a nice touch of alcohol to the bottle. It added a nice heat that Harry could feel go from his chest to his extremities. The new taste never disappeared, so it must have been a permanent mixture with the bottomless charm.

With a flick of his wrist, Harry left his bottle floating next to his armrest. Sirius and Clément hadn't seen him, but both girls did. Gabrielle gasped in wonder, and Fleur's eyes went from cold to calculating. Wandless magic was supposed to be difficult at best, and he'd just case a wandless hovering charm with nothing more than a simple gesture.

Before anyone could say anything though, Harry's alert spell warned him of someone's soon approach. Believing it to be Fudge, he stood and moved to the side, away from the family. Sirius notice him and whined. He handed Clément the bottle and walked to his post next to the door, informing the Frenchman of what was coming. Clément then stood from his chair and turned towards the entrance.

British Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge strode into their suit a scant moment later. His dark, beady eyes darted around the room, lingering on Harry a second longer than needed. Fudge's frown deepened only slightly, and Harry nearly smirked at it.

Fudge in this world was no different physically from the Fudge Harry's other self had dealt with. He was a small, rotund man who seemed to think himself another Churchill by how he dressed. Fudge always wore his traditional bowler cap and dinner jacket wherever he went, and now was no different.

Fudge was flanked on either side by his two bodyguards. Kingsley Shacklebolt, still as large and imposing as ever, stood just outside the door, and Rufus Scrimgeour, the Ministry's Head Auror, entered the room with his Minister. Scrimgeour was still a crotchety old wizard, but Harry had seen first-hand his ability with a wand. He had not become Head Auror through politics alone.

Scrimgeour's experienced yellow eyes flew around the room faster than a hawk's. His gaze lingered on Harry for a different reason than Fudge's—more analyzing than disgusted. His mouth turned into a stern, disapproving frown at Sirius, but he then went back to watching Fudge.

Sirius and Scrimgeour butted heads regularly. Primarily, the conflict came because Sirius often pulled stunts like this and didn't approve Harry's involvement in Auror affairs with him. Though Scrimgeour had, in private, acknowledged Harry's ability, the fact remained that he did not have the Ministry's approval.

"Ambassador Delacour," Fudge greeted politely, never getting closer than a few meters from the Frenchman. Everyone present knew Fudge had no love for the French, but Fudge was practiced at feigning politeness. "I see you arrived safely."

Clément nodded. "I did." He gestured to Harry and Sirius. "My bodyguards have proven to be excellent company. My commendations to the Ministry if every Auror is like these two. Care for a drink?" he asked, holding out the bottle of firewhiskey.

There was a brief flash of disgust, but Fudge hid it before most would notice. Though everyone present knew how to look for it. "I'm afraid I have pressing matters to attend to, so I can't. I hope you enjoy the World Cup." He then turned and made to leave.

With a silent incantation and a small twist of his wrist, Harry cast a breeze on Fudge's hat. The sudden gust took the Minister by surprise, unable to grab his bowler cap before it flew out of the booth and into the stands below. Fudge scowled as it vanished into the crowd.

Harry quickly brandished his wand and cast accio on the hat. It came back like it was on the other end of a fishing line. Harry caught it and called to Fudge, "Minister. I believe you lost this." He held out the hat but made no move to approach the toady man.

Fudge's face was carefully neutral, but there was fury in his eyes as he looked to Harry. Sirius was trying his hardest to stop from smiling with varying degrees of success. Scrimgeour's frown became more prominent, though satisfaction danced in his eyes. Kingsley gave Harry a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Fudge walked over and sole his hat back. "Thank you, Mister Potter," he almost spat.

Harry gave him his most annoying grin. Tonks had made him practice it for maximum effect. "You're welcome, Minister. Though I recommend using a sticking charm next time. It can get pretty drafty when you're up this high."

"I'll consider it," Fudge grinded out through gritted teeth. He then made a show of turning on his heel and leaving, trying to retain as much dignity as he could. Scrimgeour and Kingsley following him as he left.

Once they were out of earshot, Clément and Sirius burst into another laughing fit. Even Fleur had a few giggles as Fudge's expense, much to Harry's satisfaction. Gabrielle looked like she didn't know why everyone was so happy, but she giggled along too.

Sirius walked over and gave him a congratulatory slap on the back. "Well done, Harry. I haven't seen Fudge that embarrassed since you sent those Demetors packing last year."

"Oui," Clément added. "I must say, the gust of wind was a nice touch."

Harry smiled as innocently as he could manage. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Regardless," Fleur chimed in. "Zhe match begins soon." She gave Harry a small, brief smile. "Zhe real entertainment iz about to start."

Harry and the men returned to their seats with broad smiles. No one present liked Fudge at all; Harry and Sirius were vocal opponents of his after all. Seeing such a reprehensible man so embarrassed by someone young as Harry just enhanced the mirth even more.

Harry grabbed his enhanced butterbeer and took another drink, savoring the added heat. He then held it out to Fleur. "Care for a bit?" She raised a delicate eyebrow at him. "I know it's not wine, but it isn't half bad. Trust me, once you try it, you'll get hooked," he grinned at her.

"I have tried zhe…butterbeer before," she protested.

"I may have…added a little something to it. It is much better now."

Fleur snorted. "I highly doubt zhat. But," she added, "I suppose one sip won't hurt." She took it from him and pressed the bottle to her lips.

Fleur pulled the bottle away and swallowed. She didn't gag or cough, so that was a good sign to Harry. She handed the bottle back to him, and Harry could swear her face was tense, like she was holding back from smacking her lips.

At last she admitted, "Zhat was…not unpleazant. Not zhe best I've had, but zertainly not zhe worst either."

"Glad you like it." He called the elf and got her a bottle of her own. He then stole the firewhiskey – Sirius and Clément protesting all the while – and mixed it together as he did his. He tossed the liquor back to them and handed Fleur the new bottle. "Think you can handle it?"

Fleur's eyebrows rose to his challenge. "I azzure you, Monsieur Potter, zhat I can 'handle it' as you zay."

"Harry," he corrected as she grabbed her own bottle.

Fleur smiled. "Harry zhen." She then sipped from her bottle and looked to the field.

Harry nearly whooped when he realized the ice had left her. Now then, he thought as he took another drink. Let's see if this goes any different or not. He watched as both competing teams took the pitch.

The stadium was completely filled. The sound dampening barrier around the Delacours' suite dulled the deafening roar of the hundreds of thousands to a low buzz. The crowd seemed split down the middle with Irish green on one side and Bulgarian burgundy on the other.

The Bulgarian team was stoic and focused as they walked onto the pitch. They all walked to the white border on the pitch and stood shoulder to shoulder, each one wearing their burgundy and black uniform. One by one they mounted their brooms – all deep black – and took off to their positions. The Keeper, Andrei Uruk, was the first to take his place near the three hoop-goals on their side. Uruk was greeted by a tremendous shout from the Bulgarian fans that was loud even through the sound dampener. Victor Krum, the star of the Quidditch world, took flight last, and the cheer that met him was deafening even through the Delacours' barrier.

As the Bulgarians took their places in the air, the stadium lights suddenly went out. Everyone in the stadium was on the edge of their seat. The Irish were coming, and their famous introduction with them.

And it did not disappoint.

A giant, dancing leprechaun lit up the stadium at once. It was around fifty meters tall, as it was taller than even the Quidditch goal posts. Classic Gaelic music played throughout the entire stadium. The leprechaun riverdanced in perfect sync with the music. As soon as the song's first verse finished, the leprechaun exploded in a shower of sparks, and the Irish team soared through were its head had just been.

The crowd erupted louder than ever before. Gabrielle had jumped out of her seat with a cheer as well, prompting everyone else to chuckle. The sparks that had been the leprechaun then started coalescing together, morphing into a humongous copy of the Irish flag.

The Irish team must have practiced their entrance, because they started a series of intricate maneuvers and patterns in the air that matched the beat of the music perfectly. Even Harry had to admit that such a display was quite impressive.

But, he thought with a look at the unmoving Bulgarian team. The game isn't won by pretty designs.

Idly, he wondered how his mother and sister were enjoying the theatrics so far. Their seats were next to the Weasleys, so he had no doubt they would be entertained enough. The Weasleys were friends of his family, but they weren't anywhere near as close as they'd been for Harry's other self. They saw each other on holidays or at gatherings but rarely outside of that.

At last, the entrance festivities came to a close. The Irish players took their respective positions, mirroring the Bulgarians. The head referee, a German witch, set the box containing the bludgers and uaffle. She then explained the rules to everyone in the stadium with help of a Sonorous charm enhancing her voice.

The referee pulled a small box from her robe. She opened it and the small golden snitch fluttered out, both Seekers watching its path intently. The referee then opened the box on the ground and both bludgers shot out at top speed. She reached in and pulled out the quaffle. She gave everyone in the air a stern look. She tossed it into the air. The crowd roared.

The Quidditch World Cup had begun.

Immediately, the Irish took the quaffle and darted past the Bulgarian pitiful defense, creating a one-on-one with the Keeper right off the bat. Uruk, however, must have already predict that would happen, as he met the Chaser in the air. Uruk held out his arm and effectively clothes-lined the Irishman, knocking him from his broom. The Bulgarian fans cheered raucously while the Irish ones booed.

Harry's eyebrows shot up while the referee called a halt to the action. "Interesting," he thought out loud. "Not a bad way to start actually."

"How zo?" Fleur asked. "He haz already been given a warning and not five zeconds have passed."

"It stopped the run before it could get started," he explained. "Momentum is big for Chasers. If they get in a rhythm, the Keeper's done for. He just made sure they didn't lose right out the gate."

"Zhat was mean of heem," Gabrielle pouted from her chair.

Harry laughed a bit. "Indeed it was," he agreed. "But, at times, you have to be a little mean if you're aiming for victory."

When play restarted, Ireland retained possession of the quaffle, but that wasn't what was most important. Rather, Bulgaria now had time to set up their defensive formation. Now, three Chasers had to get by six Bulgarians to score instead of just one.

The Irish Chasers lived up to their reputation though. The weaved through the defenses with sharp movements and crisp passes. They had to dodge a few bludgers, even the Beaters tried to steal the quaffle away, but the Irish got behind the line soon enough. Uruk managed to deflect the first shot, but he couldn't reach the follow-up catch and shoot to the opposite hoop.

It had taken a little longer than expected, but the Irish drew first blood. Cheers came from the green half of the stadium while the burgundy half groaned. Uruk collected the quaffle and passed it to one of his Chasers, beginning play anew.

The Bulgarians moved the quaffle slowly forward, relying on their Beaters to keep away the bludgers and only passing when no Irishman was near. Eventually, the Irish Beaters pierced their shield with a move few pairs could. They both hit each bludger right after one another at the same Beater rather than the Chaser behind him. The Bulgarian was knocked out of the way, allowing the Irish Chasers, in a classic spearhead formation, to steal the quaffle and score once again.

When play resumed once more, the Bulgarians again went with their slow-moving formation, making little forward progress.

Sirius commented from his chair, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say they're not even trying to score."

Harry then figured out the Bulgarian strategy. "That's because they aren't!" he exclaimed.

Clément spoke up, "Up… isn't the goal to score?"

"In most cases, yes."

"Zhen what iz different zhis time?" Fleur asked.

"Bulgarian is playing to their strength." He looked at their Seeker. "Krum."

Sirius's eyes lit up. "Oh, I get it!" He barked a laugh. "Those clever little buggers."

Gabrielle said, I still don't get it."

Harry explained, "Bulgarian knows they don't have the offense to score on Ireland. So, instead, they're minimizing how much Ireland can score until Krum catches the snitch. If they can prevent Ireland from going up by one-fifty or more…"

"Then they'll win," Clément pieced together. He sat forward in his seat, watching even closer now. "It's certainly unconventional, but it's a good idea considering who they're up against. Probably the best they can do too."

"I zee." Fleur added, "Zhey are willing to lose a bit over time to win in zhe end. Risky."

"But could actually get them the win," Harry finished. He then abandoned watching everyone but the Seekers. They'll determine who wins this time.

Krum led the opposing Seeker on a few false dives over the next few minutes. Harry had to admit, his feints were really good. Each time, he blocked the Irishman's view ahead of him, preventing him from sniffing out the fake for what it was. Harry couldn't even be sure he wouldn't fall for them every now and again should they ever compete.

Every now and again, Krum would also help with his team's defenses. Usually, it was nothing more than occupying an open lane before the Irish could take advantage. He never got directly involved with the quaffle, but his position would delay the opponent a few seconds longer, buying every precious second possible.

The game continued on like this for the next hour or two. It certainly wasn't the most exciting Quidditch match of the century, but Harry knew it was only a matter of time until the endgame came around. He ignored everything else on the pitch. Harry, like Krum, was looking for the snitch.

He didn't doubt Ireland had scored quite a few goals by then. Every little while, he would hear the Irish fans go wild for a bit. The stadium would then resume its dull buzz until Ireland scored again.

It was after the latest Irish applause Harry saw it: a flash of gold near the Irish goals. Krum must have seen it too, because he leaned all the way onto his broom and took off after it. The Irish Seeker was two seconds behind, but that may as well have been two miles when dealing with Krum. Nobody on the pitch was faster than him with a broom.

The Irish Beaters sent both bludgers at him. Krum avoided them easily with a few spins in the air, not losing any speed at all. It was now a matter of when, not if, Krum caught the snitch.

The entire audience itself seemed to be waiting with baited breath. The snitch flew around the stadium, leading Krum for as long as it could, though Krum was always inching closer. It tried to lose him with turns that should've been too sharp for a broom to make, but Krum made the turns anyway.

To a Quidditch fan, watching Krum on a broom was poetry in motion. It was the most beautiful flying Harry had ever witnessed. He made impossible moves seem effortless in the air. Krum also never seemed to lose his sense of direction as he flew. It didn't matter if he was upside down or right side up. He never even flinched in the wrong direction.

He snatched the snitch from the sky right above his own Keeper. Nobody breathed for a second. Everyone looked to the scoreboard to see what the final score was. Did Bulgaria's strategy pay off?

The giant scoreboard read in both side's respective colors:

Ireland Bulgaria

150 150

For a moment, no one knew how to react. Bulgaria's fans then erupted into a chorus of cheers louder than any before. Shouts of "Krum! Krum! Krum!" echoed throughout the stadium from the burgundy side.

Krum though looked disgusted and disappointed that his efforts hadn't given them the win.

Harry was, for the first time, speechless after a Quidditch game. He didn't even know how to react to what he was seeing. He knew a tie was theoretically possible in the game, but he'd never even heard of one before. Especially not in the World Cup. But they couldn't leave the game tied like this. Not the World Cup. There had to be a single victor. There had to be some tiebreaker.

Gabrielle was the first in their suite to speak. "Wow!"

"That," Clément said, "was some of the beset flying I've ever seen."

"This," Sirius exclaimed, "is a great game! There's never been a tie in the World Cup before!"

"Zhat…was incredible," Fleur stated, awed at what she'd witnessed, and everyone else in the suite had the same look.

Harry sat forward in his chair. He reminded them all, "They can't have a tie tonight. Somebody has to win."

Everyone agreed with him and then watched the referee. She was conferring with a few official-looking people on the ground. After a brief discussion, she called both team Captains to her. Uruk went for Bulgaria and one of the Irish Chasers for them. The three of them talked for a few minutes until everyone nodded. The two Captains shook hands and then flew up on their brooms to their teams.

The referee's voice then boomed throughout the stadium so that she could be heard. "Ladies and Gentleman," she began, "you are about to witness the first ever sudden death round in Quidditch World Cup history!" The crowd went wild, making her yell on top of the Sonorous. "After a discussion with the international rules committee and both team Captains, it has been decided that the game will be decided with this!" She held up the quaffle. "It will be one on one. Only one Chaser and one Keeper will play.

"The game will end in one of two ways. One, the Chaser scores a goal. This gives the Chaser's team victory. Or two, the quaffle hits the ground. This means the Keeper's team is victorious. Both Captains have agreed that these are the roles. Bulgaria's Alexei Uruk shall be the Keeper." Bulgaria's fans screamed with a rabid fervor. "And Ireland's Sean Connor shall be the Chaser!" Now Ireland's cheers became deafening. "Now let the match begin!"

"Interesting rules," Sirius mulled. "Notice how she didn't say the Chaser only got one shot at it?"

"I did," Clément nodded.

"So long as the quaffle is in the air, the match is still on," Harry concluded. "In that case, I'd catch it if I were the Keeper."

"It seems…unfair to zhe Keeper," Fleur said.

"Unfortunately," Clément consoled, "those are the rules."

"And they both agreed to it," Sirius pointed out.

Harry didn't point it out to them, but the Bulgarian team – Krum in particular – did not look pleased by Uruk's decision. I can't say I blame them, he thought. Connor's arguably the best Chaser out there. You're up there, Uruk, but I feel you let your pride get the best of you here. And that may have just cost you the Cup.

Both team Captains mounted their brooms and flew to their positions: Uruk in front of his own goals and Connor to mid-field. The referee tossed the quaffle to Connor. He caught it, tucked it into his side, and took off.

Uruk, it seemed, wasn't content to wait. He leaned into his broom and flew at Connor to intercept him, shocking Harry at his brazen abandonment of the goals. If Connor got even a glimpse at the goals now, it was over.

Uruk was on top of Connor before anyone could blink though, cutting him off. Uruk was practically his shadow, staying perfectly between him and the goals no matter how he flew. Connor tried all number of maneuvers on Uruk but none shook him. It was a risky strategy, but it seemed to be paying off for Uruk so far.

Harry spotted Connor's opening just as he did. Connor initiated a dive bomb, the quaffle tucked away from Uruk's reaching hands. When they were about twenty feet from the ground, Uruk slowed down just slightly, and Connor seized the opportunity.

He tucked in tight and turned towards the goal, practically skimming the ground as he screwed himself around. Uruk reacted a hair later, but that was enough. Connor immediately cocked his arm and threw the quaffle at the lower-right hoop. Uruk put everything he had into his broom's speed to try and intercept.

No one dared breathe. The entire stadium was silent as death. Everyone was on the precipice of either sheer elation or depression, and it all depended on how fast Uruk could move.

It seemed to move in slow motion. The quaffle spun as it flew through the air. It was less than ten yards from the goal. Uruk reached out, stretching his long arms to their absolute max. The tip of his finger brushed the quaffle, slightly redirecting it. It collided with the outer edge of the loop. The Bulgarian fans cheered. Uruk hit the goalpost too, the metal ringing.

Connor then dashed over and caught the quaffle out of the air. He then flew to the hoop on the opposite side and leisurely tossed it through.

Half the fans went silent.

Ireland had won the Quidditch World Cup.

No one in the Delacour booth moved. They were too stunned to react.

The first to find their voice was Gabi. "Zhat…was…AWESOME!"

The silence broken, the others at last stirred. "Just…wow," Sirius breathed, awestruck. "That was, without doubt, the best game I've ever seen."

"I'm inclined to agree," Clément said. "This one will be talked about for a long time."

"What a game." Harry looked for Krum. He couldn't find him. He must have already left. Can't say I blame him.

"Zhat was…exhilarating, non?" Fleur asked them.

"Definitely," Sirius agreed. He looked at Clément and asked, "As much as I want to talk about the game, Harry and I are here to keep you and your daughters safe until you leave. Do you want to leave now? The crowds won't be thinning out for an hour at least. We will be holding a nice after party at the tent, and you're welcome to join us."

Clément looked to his daughters. "Girls? Would you rather use the portkey now or have a little fun before we go home?"

Fleur shrugged. "I am fine with eizher, Papa. Mozher isn't expecting us until zhe morning."

Gabrielle blushed and asked shyly, "Will you be zhere, Harry?"

Now the poor girl had a crush, and everyone knew it based on the looks they gave Harry. Fleur promised pain if he hurt her sister, and Clément and Sirius were failing to conceal their mischievous glee.

Harry held back a sigh. Now I can't go and disappoint the girl. He then smiled and answered, "Of course, Gabi."

Gabi's face nearly shined, her smile was so bright. She gave her affirmative to her father, and they started getting ready to leave. They would have to walk to the tent since no brooms or apparations were allowed under the wards covering the grounds.

At Harry's suggestion, they waited until the crowd had mostly filtered out of the stadium. This was to avoid possibly losing one another in the people. They waited close to an hour before they left.

In that time, the five of them talked about all kinds of things. Gabi was glued to Harry's side the entire time and wanted to know all about him and whether the rumors she'd heard in France were true—most were hogwash, as was usual. Fleur was glaring daggers at him all the while her sister was probing him. As they got to know one another, Harry couldn't help wondering why his other self never sought Clément out. He was personable, quick-witted, and was an excellent ally both politically and magically.

Regardless, he thought. I'm not going to let this chance slip by.

At last, the crowd had dissipated enough to safely travel. Harry silently conjured his Patronus, a stag in memory of his father, and sent it to Lily with a message to expect additional company.

This casual show left Fleur and Clément gobsmacked, their mouths hanging open. Gabrielle didn't yet understand the magnitude of what he'd done, so she looked at her family members, curious at their reaction. Sirius openly laughed at their expressions.

"I remember my first time I saw Harry do that," Sirius mused fondly. "I was like you, I think. Though I was a bit more vocal about it."

"Zhat," Clément regained his voice, his accent slipping briefly, "is…unbelievable. A full Patronus, and at such an age! It's unheard of!"

And silently, Harry silently bragged. He then shrugged, nonchalant. He'd gotten used to that reaction over the years. "It's never been hard for me."

Sirius walked over and smacked Clément across the back. "Relax, old man. Just trust me when I say Harry – and Jasmine too now that I think about it – defies all common sense. And he does it so easy you wonder why nobody else ever did it too. He jumps rope with the notion of limits."

Clément went contemplative. "I see."

It was Fleur's reaction he was curious for, so Harry looked to her. She'd since recovered from her initial shock, as she now regarded him with a mixture of curiosity, like she'd come across an intriguing puzzle. Harry, though, was apathetic to it.

Try if you want, he kept to himself. I can guarantee you won't figure me out. "Shall we go?" he asked them. "Mum's probably waiting for us by now."

They all then exited the booth. Sirius tried to take the bottomless firewhiskey bottle with him, but it disintegrated once it passed the stadium's exit. He and Clément mourned their loss briefly before walking again. Sirius and Clément led the way, with Gabi hanging back to be near Harry, though Fleur didn't let her get behind her. The youngest Delacour whined a little, but she stopped trying after the third failed attempt. So, with a huff, Gabrielle stomped forward to her father.

This time, Fleur never glanced at Harry behind her. He found it curious but didn't dwell on it. As he'd learned, there was no understanding a woman's motivations. Even with three brains melded together, he was no closer to solving the female conundrum. He simply accepted what was happening and kept his eyes peeled for anyone suspicious approaching him.

After a few minutes, Fleur slowed her walk – not enough to fall behind her father but enough to where Harry caught up to her. Harry almost slowed too, but he realized that she wanted to speak with him without the others hearing. He let her fall into step beside him to his left.

He turned and arched an eye at her. He didn't know what she wanted, so he let her start. She was the only one who knew her motivations, after all.

Fleur asked, "Are you aware of what is coming soon?" Her accent was almost completely gone now.

Curious, he noted. He didn't say anything. She probably had her reasons for keeping the accent up. People were likely to say things around you if they thought you wouldn't understand it. "You mean the Triwizard Tournament?" he asked, guessing what she meant.

She nodded. "Oui. My father doesn't know I know. Madame Maxime told me. How did you find out?"

He shrugged. "I have my sources," he answered vaguely. Everyone in his life had been careful to not mention it around him. Having a nearly parallel life in his head counted to him as a source.

Fleur was silent for a moment as they strode together. She then asked, "Do you plan to compete?"

He briefly considered whether he should be talking to Fleur like this or not. On the one hand, she was a potential future ally in the fight against Voldemort. She was a skilled duelist and strong magically if the Goblet chose her again. Her father also wielded considerable influence in France and, to a lesser extent, Britain as well.

On the other hand though, she was someone he had memories of. As far as he knew, she had lived a long and happy life after Voldemort had been vanquished. He also would feel dirty if he used his memories to manipulate her into doing what he wanted.

It was a difficult decision for him. He weighed the pros and cons carefully in his mind. Eventually, the pros won out.

"Yes," he at last answered.

Fleur went silent again. Harry could see the gears working in her head. She wanted to ask him something but wasn't sure how to approach it. He was content to let her stew, so he didn't say anything else.

"That Patronus of yours," she broke the silence. "It is complete?"

"All the way," he confirmed with a slight nod. "Dementors refuse to approach Hogwarts now because of it." He wasn't one to brag, but that day last year had been one of his proudest to date. He'd sent Fudge a resounding message that left him blubbering when no Dementor would dare risk facing Harry's Patronus.

"Impressive." She didn't challenge his boast, surprising him. It was rare when someone took him at face value. Fleur then said, "As you know, Beauxbatons will send our best to compete in the tournament. I will be there."

"So?"

"Would you…" she started, though she didn't finish. She glanced away nervously.

A small worry formed in Harry's mind. Please let me be reading too much into that. The last thing I need is a jealous Daphne this year.

Fleur at last got it out. "Would you…be willing…to…teach me?" She didn't look him in the eye.

Harry had to make a conscious effort to keep walking. That…was unexpected. "Why?" he blurted before his mind could catch his mouth.

Fleur hesitated to answer. She offered him, "I…need to learn the Patronus. And you are the first I've known to cast the final Patronus. Not even my parents can do it." She didn't explain further.

This development caught Harry's attention. Dozens of potential reasons flashed in his mind at once, ranging from the mundane to the fantastical. Could it have something to do with her Veela heritage? Maybe Dementors or Lethifolds were a problem in France? The corporeal Patronus was effective against most of the extremely dark magical creatures out there. This left Harry wondering what creature she'd encountered that required such a shield.

He soon left those ponderings. He could see that Fleur would provide him nothing else, so he didn't waste time asking. Instead, he focused on the logistics teaching her would require. He would easily have the time since he'd taken his N.E.W.T.s over the summer. He also doubted the tournament would eat up too much time thanks to his memories. He'd no doubt he could teach her either. Jasmine, Tonks, and Daphne's skills attested to his teaching ability. The needed privacy was easy to find as well. He could use the Room of Requirement or even the Chamber of Secrets if need be.

He would need to run it by his girls, but he saw no reason to deny her. Daphne may throw a tantrum but she'd come around no problem. Fleur seemed to believe she genuinely needed the knowledge too.

He reasoned, The more people who can do it, the less strength Riddle's dark allies will have. His mind made up, he nodded. "Sure. I can show you how to do it."

Fleur brightened so much she resembled Gabrielle in that moment. She sprouted a wide, joyful smile that would have floored a lesser man. "Thank you, Harry." She made to kiss his cheek, but he stopped her with a finger on her lips. She retreated. "I forget, at times, the British are…"

"Prudes?" he finished. She nodded. "A lot are," he said. "I'm not, I assure you. I would just rather not deal with Sirius if he saw that. He's insufferable enough as it is." And a pissed off Daphne, he added silently.

Fleur, unaffected, accepted his reasoning with an understanding nod. She said, "Papa can be so…agaçant as well."

"I'm going to assume that means 'frustrating' in French?"

"Close. 'Irritating' is the word I believe in English."

Suddenly, Harry felt a shift in the magic covering the fields they were walking through. He looked to the sky, focusing on the wards. They'd been altered. Tainted. He reached out with his magic and confirmed his suspicions.

The Death Eaters are here.

Harry fought back his desire for revenge on the Death Eater's he'd fought in Hogsmeade. Giving into that now would only put everyone in danger. Instead, he closed his eyes and felt the ambient magic shift dark to the west, far from the Potter campsite.

Harry stopped walking, surprising Fleur. She turned to say something but he cut her off. "Fleur." She froze at how cold he was. "Catch up with Sirius. Tell him I was right and I've gone to keep it contained. He'll see you three to safety."

He then turned and sprinted towards the Death Eaters. Fleur said something to him, but he didn't hear. He was focused on the task at hand.

With a flick of his wrist, his wand fell into his hand.

It's time, he grinned maniacally, to get started. Things won't go the same tonight, Tom.