Chapter two: Three years later.

Harry Potter groaned loudly as his eyes slowly opened. Of all the things that he had expected to dream of on the eve of a Quidditch world cup final, his first night at Hogwarts was not exactly on the top of that list. However, given that his dreams up until this point had largely consisted of unclear images – and most recently a muggle's murder by the rat-bastard known as Peter Pettigrew – he wasn't going to question his subconscious mind's choice all that much.

'Anything's better than looking at that bastard's face ever again.' Harry thought to himself grimly as he sat up in the bed that the Weasley's had given him and Ron in their rented tent for the world cup. Rubbing his eyes, the last surviving member of the Potter family took a moment to get most of the grogginess that came with sleep out of his system before finally focusing his attention fully on his surroundings. The 'room', as it were, was not a particularly spacious thing, being just about big enough to fit two single beds with enough room to spare for the occupants to stand up and not quite be within touching distance. It was a far cry from the lap of luxury that Harry was certain some wizarding families (like the Malfoys) would boast of enjoying, but having grown up with the Dursleys, Harry had learnt to appreciate the small things in life.

Like having a warm and safe bed to sleep in.

'Enough of that - bad enough my nap was interrupted by dreaming of that. No point getting mopier about the walruses and the horse. Today you get to see a live professional Quidditch match for the first time. A world cup final no less!'' Harry thought to himself with a wry smile, chuckling slightly as he stretched his arms above his head, allowing his excitement from the past few days of waiting to return and chase away the darker memories that were threatening to spoil his mood. After all, today was the day of the 422nd Quidditch World Cup Final - only an idiot or madman could not be excited by the prospect of watching it. Especially so this year as both Ireland and Bulgaria were coming into the final game off of amazing performances in the semi-finals, driving the expectations of the wizarding world through the stratosphere for the final game of what had been (apparently) the best tournament in living memory.

Clambering off of the simple but comfortable bed that came with the tent, Harry rolled his shoulder gently to work out the few remaining kinks in his muscles before he passed through the enchanted red and gold curtain that separated his and Ron's sleeping quarters from the rest of the tent. Stepping into the main body of the tent, Harry was assaulted by a cacophony of noise that caused him to wince every so slightly at the sudden shift from silence to what Harry was fairly certain would constitute an auditory attempt at assault in the muggle world.

And if Harry was being honest with himself, he wouldn't have it any other way.

The source of the noise was the result of 6 of the 7 Weasley children engaging in a game of exploding snap at an old but large table in the centre of the room, their playful banter and boisterous laughter filling the air with a loud but pleasant atmosphere. Off in the corner Harry could spy his second best friend Hermione grilling the last Weasley child, Percy, with questions - most likely about the latter's job at the ministry. Meanwhile, the Weasley patriarch, Arthur, was sitting comfortably in an old but well-made arm-chair, reading an article in a daily prophet that he had picked up on their way through the campsite.

Arthur was a tall but decently-built man of 44. With his family's characteristic red hair and lightly freckled face, the Patriarch of the Weasley family held himself with a surprising amount of underlying strength despite his jovial and warm nature. A family man through and through, it seemed like little bought him as much joy as watching his children live and enjoy life…. Well except for muggle gadgets.

'Even wizards have to have their eccentrics.' Harry thought to himself with a small smile as he began making his way over to the oldest Weasley present, though he did take a moment to glance to the central table and take stock of everyone sitting at it.

The most prevalent personalities sat at the table were, naturally, those of the nearly-identical twins: Fred and George. With their shocking red hair, bright blue eyes and sizable height at 6'2, Harry could understand how even their own mother, Molly, struggled to tell the pair of them apart. It was during the summer of Harry's first year when he figured out how to tell the pair of them apart: Fred had fewer freckles than his twin, but they were more evenly spread. When he correctly identified the pair during the summer, they had sworn him to secrecy over his knowledge, threatening to 'turn his trousers into Slytherin coloured knickers with Draco Malfoy's face embroidered on them' if he ever did so.

The scary part was that he couldn't tell if they were being joking or serious. With them, it was probably a mixture of both.

Though, if Harry was being honest with himself, he doubted they'd prank him in the manner they described.

After all, the twins were pranksters, not sadists.

And nobody - except Voldemort himself - deserved a picture of the blonde ponce on their underwear.

The next two loudest people at the table were the youngest children of the Weasley family: Ron and Ginny. Ron, Harry's best friend, had grown considerably since they had first sat down together at the Gryffindor table at the Hogwarts Welcoming feast three years ago. Now fourteen, the youngest male Weasley had shot up over the past 3 years, now standing at a rather daunting 6'0 flat - easily contending for tallest of the fourth years when they returned to Hogwarts this year. With a booming voice and a raucous laugh, Ron did have a tendency to speak before he thought, but his bright and cheerful nature ensured it rarely caused lasting offence.

This wasn't always the case, and it had gotten Ron and Harry into several scraps over their first few years at Hogwarts, particularly with Draco Malfoy and his goons. However, any opportunity to put the 'Peacock Prick of Slytherin' in his place wasn't something Harry was going to complain about so long as the blonde ponce came off worse than he did.

Ginny, on the other hand, was turning into what one could only really call something of a 'spitfire'. With a lithe build and a fiery temper to match her hair, the youngest Weasley child was already making a name for herself amongst Hogwarts' student body for her rather creative ability with curses (namely her favoured 'bat-bogey' hex) and striking features, which were sure to set hearts aflame as she got older. Catching the youngest Weasley's eye, Harry offered her a smile and nod, which caused the girl to smile shyly back and offer a small wave. Whilst Ginny got a little tongue-tied when she talked to Harry by herself still, she had practically come a million miles since they had first met in the Weasley home during the summer between Harry's first and second year. Had he even looked her way back then, she would flee the room in pure embarrassment.

'Actually the more I think about it, the more I realise how much of a miracle it is for her to stay in the same room as me.' Harry thought to himself with a wry smile. Turning his attention away from the youngest Weasley, Harry caught sight of the last two members of the family that were sat at the old table.

Bill and Charlie Weasley were several years Harry's seniors, having both already graduated Hogwarts by the time Harry started his first year at the illustrious school. In many ways, the pair of them took heavily after their father. Bill had inherited their father's height but seemed to pack on considerably more muscle and wild mane of hair. Meanwhile, Charlie had inherited their father's lithe build and infectious smile, resulting in his outward appearance more reflective of the Weasley family Patriarch than his brother. However, like the rest of the Weasley children sat at the table, Bill and Charlie had kind hearts and fantastic senses of humour - trading banter and jokes with their siblings as easily as breathing.

Turning his gaze away from the table, Harry found himself coming to a stop a foot away from Arthur.

"Mr Weasley, if it's alright with you I'd like to go out into the campsite for a bit and stretch my legs - make sure I'm fully awake for the game tonight." Harry said politely. The Weasley patriarch let out a soft chuckle as he folded the corner of the page he had reached in The Daily Prophet, closing the newspaper and folding it as he replied to the last Potter.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Harry? You don't have to call me Mr Weasley - you're family, and that means I am always Arthur to you." The red-headed man replied with a smile, earning a nervous chuckle from Harry as he scratched the back of his head.

"Sorry Mr - Arthur," Harry quickly corrected himself as the Weasley patriarch shot him an exasperated look, "Old habits die hard, remember?" Harry offered easily as he mentally cringed at his error, hoping to avoid yet another conversation with the man about calling him by his first name. Arthur Weasley had spent much of Harry's second and third year breaks trying to get the last living Potter to refer to himself and his wife by their first names - a request which Harry rarely gave in to.

When he had been asked by Ron about it at the dinner table one evening during the week he had spent with the Weasley's prior to the start of the new Hogwarts term, Harry had told him that his aunt and uncle had always raised him to refer to adults who were not family by formal titles in order to be respectful. When he saw the slightly confused (and in the case of the adult Weasley's, worried) frowns around him, Harry added that his uncle often had important people visiting his house from work, it had essentially become second nature to him and it was what he felt most comfortable calling people.

Thankfully, they had bought the lie and only bought him up on it every once in a while.

'Merlin knows what they'd think if they found out the truth.' Harry thought to himself, shaking his head slightly as he focused back on Arthur.

"Yes I suppose they do, but I do hope one day you'll break it - Mr Weasley makes me feel so old." Here, the older man leant forward, a knowing smirk on his face as he stage-whispered to Harry. "I should know how that feels - Merlin knows working for the ministry has probably aged me 10 years."

Smiling at the man's jab at his workplace, Harry chuckled lightly before speaking again.

"So, about going out?"

"Oh, of course you can my boy! I must say, you've looked thoroughly out of it for the last few days. I would have woken you up earlier when Ron, Hermione and Ginny went out but I decided it would be best to let you sleep for a while longer." Arthur responded cheerily, his comment about leaving Harry be causing the last Potter to look down slightly as he meekly thanked Arthur for his kind gesture. The truth was, he really did need the extra sleep - restless as it was. Between the strange dreams that had been plaguing him since his return to the Dursley's this summer and the stress of worrying about the condition of his godfather, Sirius Black, rest had been something the last living Potter had been sorely lacking.

'Like I'd ever admit to that. The last thing I need are my friends worrying about me even more and adding guilt to the stress.' Harry thought to himself, hiding his darker thoughts with the veneer of a cheerful smile and thankful nod of the head.

"If anybody asks, would you let them know I'm off out?" Harry asked Arthur, earning a nod of affirmation from the Weasley patriarch. Thanking the older man again, Harry strode towards the large flaps at the front of the tent, which would take him out into the madness that was the campsite for the Quidditch world cup. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught sight of Hermione looking at him with a slightly quizzical expression - her focus not taken by Percy as he had briefly left the 'Brightest witch of her generation' alone. The last Potter gestured his head towards the tent flaps and mouthed the words 'going out' to his bushy haired friend. The girl nodded her head and sent him a small smile after mouthing back the words 'be careful' to him.

Tilting his head to the side, Harry stopped himself before the exit from the tent as he shot his friend a look, as if to say 'Aren't I always careful'?

Her rather deadpanned expression and an utterance of the single word response 'Really?' bought a quiet but healthy chuckle out of Harry as he mock-sighed in defeat and offered the young witch a crooked smile, earning an equally quiet but healthy chuckle out of Hermione.

"Just be careful, will you?" Hermione said, her eyes alight with both amusement and concern. He knew she enjoyed their sardonic banter as much as he did, but Harry also knew she was being very genuine in her worry. Three years of life-and-death experiences had given Harry's friends a slightly grim but infectious sense of humour, as well as a healthy level of genuine concern for one another. Nodding his head once, Harry quickly stepped out of the tent and into the madness that was a Wizarding campsite.

'Damn it, I forgot how nice it is to just not be seen by people when I'm in plain sight.' Harry thought to himself with a satisfied smile as he wandered through the thousands of wizards moving between the stalls of the miniature market that had been set up at the centre of the campsite. Witches and wizards of all ages, ethnicities and backgrounds walked right past him without sparing him a single glance.

'Thank you very much for Potter genes.' Harry muttered to himself as he weaved past an older looking Wizard who was muttering to himself in a language he couldn't quite understand - though if Harry had to guess he was most certainly cussing if the emphasis he was placing on certain words was anything to go by. Not that Harry blamed him - after all, the prices for even something as simple as a scarf or jumper sporting the name and colours of the teams competing that evening were outrageous. He himself had bought a small model of a dragon painted in the colours of the Bulgarian national team and a set of Omnioculars for himself, Hermione and Ron for a grand total of around 35 galleons. Hell, Harry had seen some extremely unscrupulous merchants selling scarfs for ten Galleons a pop.

Ten.

'Merlin's saggy bollocks they must be raking it in.' Harry thought to himself, wincing slightly as he watched several people in quick succession drop very large amounts of money on various odds and ends. Eventually, after watching one particularly overly enthusiastic witch spend well over two hundred galleons on Quidditch-related paraphernalia, the last living Potter finally admitted to himself that maybe getting his hands on a Quidditch jersey was perhaps a more expensive endeavour than he was willing to partake in.

'I know I've got money to burn for the rest of my life, but like hell am I paying that much for a Jersey, it's a tenth of the cost in Diagon Alley at Quality Quidditch! I couldn't care if it won't be from the world cup itself, I'm not getting ripped off that badly. Merlin knows that Ominoculars were bad enough."' Harry thought to himself, irritated but ultimately not too surprised at the sheer ridiculousness of the prices around him.

For all the Magical world wanted to differentiate itself from the Muggle world, it seemed like sporting events and getting ripped off were synonymous with one-another if you could cast a spell or not.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Harry slowly began to meander his way through the crowd, taking care to avoid colliding with people or offer them a chance to peer at his forehead. It was bad enough getting gawked at by the first years who came to Hogwarts every year when they realised who he was, and to this day the last surviving Potter still remembered with perfect clarity how people reacted when he walked into the Leaky Cauldron for the first time. Thus, he dreaded to even think about what it would be like if the people around him realised just who he was exactly.

'I'd probably get mauled before I could so much as scream out for help.' Harry thought to himself with a wry smile as increasingly ridiculous scenarios of him being ousted and eventually losing the rest of his day to shaking the hands of wizards and witches till well past sundown. Chuckling to himself, the heir of the Potter family weaved his way in between the seemingly endless crowd that he was surrounded by, looking for a cut between the sea of tents stretched off into the distance so that he could move into a less crowded path and not have to worry about moving against the crowds.

Eventually, after a minute of delicately but swiftly maneuvering his way through the crowd, Harry finally found a route through the tents. Stepping through, the last living Potter felt himself let out a small sigh of relief as he noticed the substantially lighter foot-traffic down this particular lane. Letting out a small sigh of relief, Harry began slowly moving back towards the Weasley tent. Though he was keen to get back and talk to his friends, he hadn't been lying to Arthur when he said he needed to stretch his legs before the game that evening. Additionally, as much as Harry loved his friends, that didn't mean he wanted to spend every single waking second with them - especially seeing as he would not only be spending an evening watching Quidditch with them, but also sharing a school with them for some nine months of the coming year in a weeks' time.

If living with the Dursleys had taught anything useful to Harry aside from how to avoid being noticed - it was how to appreciate having time to yourself. Between his Aunts shrill screams, uncles' grating insults and cousins hard punches, Harry had learnt to value getting time to just be alone in order to enjoy the peace and quiet. Ron and Hermione understood Harry's desire to be left alone sometimes better than most of the other students in their year - albeit for different reasons.

Ron understood Harry's desire for alone time because he had six siblings and knew how dealing with people constantly could be rather taxing. Hermione, on the other hand, appreciated the personal space and protection a bit of alone time could bring thanks to her being bullied in muggle Primary school. Whilst their understanding and appreciation differed from Harry's own, he was thankful that the two of them both respected his desires to be alone sometimes.

It was a small thing, but one that Harry was infinitely grateful for - especially at times like this when he was still trying to keep his thoughts under control after a dream.

After half an hour or so of slowly meandering his way back towards the Weasley's tents, the boy-who-lived making sure to take as many side paths or longer paths as possible in order to draw out his time outside - eager to embrace the solitude and anonymity it brought him. However, in a fortunate twist of fate, his desire for solitude set the last surviving Potter on a path that no man could ever foresee….

And it all started with saving a little girl from the Platinum ponce of Slytherin himself.

It happened as Harry closed in on the Weasley tent. By his own estimates, Harry was around five or ten minutes out from the Weasley's campsite and all the mayhem and laughter that it would bring. Finding himself walking down a particularly empty pathway, the last surviving Potter was about to give a small sigh of relief until he heard a far too familiar mocking drawl cut through the relative quiet that the path offered from the hustle and bustle of the campsite.

"Listen here, girl, I don't know what they teach you in France, but it clearly can't be good manners. When you walk into your betters, you apologise and hope they are in a good enough mood to forgive you."

'Oh for the love of….. Really? HIM?' Closing his eyes for the briefest of seconds, Harry prayed to whatever deity or force of nature was listening that he had simply misheard the last 10 seconds and that his least favourite peer from school was not ten feet away from him, and was instead a hundred miles away with his head up his father's arse. However, it seemed that lady luck or whatever cosmic force that answered Harry's pleas was not in a giving mood, for less than ten feet away stood the literal incarnation of arrogance itself: Draco Malfoy.

The 'Platinum Prick', as Harry and Ron had nicknamed him thanks to his unusually pale-blonde hair, was a spiteful and ill-made boy of 14 who was about as dislikeable a human being as one could imagine. Had his face not been set in a perpetual scowl or twisted sneer, then Malfoy could have passed for a decent-looking young man. But his propensity for foul moods and his spiteful gaze (which was made more pronounced thanks to his unusually grey eyes) ensured that there was no danger of that ever happening.

Unsurprisingly, on either side of Harry's hated schoolmate, stood his two 'friends' - Vincet Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. The two boys were almost indistinguishable from one another, save from their eye colours - with Crabbe's being brown and Goyle's blue. Aside from this small detail, the pair looked almost identical to one another - giant, lumbering brutes with square faces, short black hair that had an ever so slight curl to it and significantly more brawn than brains. The pair looked so alike that Harry would concede that anybody who did not know them personally could easily mistake them for brothers.

Normally, Harry would have just attempted to sneak past the literal personification of Pureblood arrogance: after all, he had better things to do than be taunted by a moron who's best insults were about Harry's status as a half-blood and who's threats all started with 'when my father hears about this'. However, when Harry saw who it was that the Platinum Prick was talking to, he found his body freeze mid stride.

Sprawled out on the ground in front of Malfoy was a girl, no older than eight or nine wearing a blue sundress and sandals, who looked utterly terrified by the vicious look on Malfoy's face. She had nearly-silver hair that was long enough that, even sitting up as she was, a good portion of it was pooled on the floor behind her. She was not silent in her fear, either, as she was currently babbling away in what Harry quickly realised was French. He himself spoke a little thanks to six years of muggle schooling and occasionally practicing the language with Hermione when she prepared to go there on holiday with her family, but it wasn't enough to fully understand what the young girl was saying. Despite that, he could pick out enough to recognise that she was apologising for not watching where she was going and something about an older sister.

"I don't know what you're saying, girl, but you're not going anywhere until you apologise and get your parents to pay for ruining my shirt! Do you have any idea how much this cost, you stupid frog?" Malfoy seethed, pointing to a rather large stain down the front of the shirt he was wearing underneath some lightweight robes that were clearly meant for summer use. Casting his eyes down and spotting a bottle on the floor, Harry realised that the ass must have been drinking a bottle of butterbeer when the young girl had run into him and sent the contents of the bottle onto Malfoys shirt and herself onto the ground in a heap.

"Je suis désolée, monsieur, mais….."

"SPEAK ENGLISH YOU UNCULTURED LITTLE BI…."

Before he even consciously realised he was doing it, Harry had turned fully towards Malfoy and his goons. The moment he heard Draco raise his voice and start to call a young child such a vile word, Harry felt something in him snap. Flexing his right hand in well-practiced manner, Harry felt his ever reliable Holly and Phoenix-feather wand fly out of the wrist-holster that his former mentor had gifted him for Christmas in his first year. The moment the wand settled into his waiting hand, Harry gripped it tightly and aimed at the space between Malfoy and the girl.

"Expelliarmus!"

It was moments like this that Harry thanked his trips into the restricted section explaining how the use of underaged magic law functioned. First and foremost, the 'Trace' (as it was colloquially known), was not a spell tied to an under-aged Wizard or Witchs' wand - it was more akin to a ping system which could tell government officials the area in which a spell was cast by an under-aged magical. Deductive logic was then applied to the scenario, and the nearest under-aged magical could then be bought in for questioning as needed. However, there were also caveats to the law most children didn't learn until after their first few years of magical education – and few muggleborns ever learnt. If an underaged witch or wizard performed a spell in a predominantly muggle area, they would be disciplined for breaking the 'Reasonable restriction for Under-Aged Wizardry. What the majority of muggleborn magicals didn't realise was that this law only applied to such settings. If the area they cast the spell in was predominantly magical, the law didn't apply as it was designed to stop muggles learning about magic – hence why students could cast spells in Diagon Alley and the Hogwarts Express without getting into trouble. Granted, you couldn't go around casting spells left and right, but casting Lumos or Wingardium Leviosa wasn't going to get you expelled either.

The disarming spell raced forth from Harry's wand like a bolt of red lightning, slamming into the ground in front of Malfoy and dissipating in a small spray of red sparks as the spell struck the earth a scant few inches from Malfoy's feet. The Slytherin let out a yell of surprise as he fell backwards into his too goons, sending all three of them tumbling backwards as they fell into a pile of tangled limbs and loud cusses. Normally, Harry would have thought about his approach to dealing with this situation a little more carefully, but if there was one thing Harry hated more than the Dark Lord who had robbed him of a childhood - it was bullies, especially cowardly ones like Malfoy. 14 years and counting of living with his cousin had taught Harry to despise bullies, and Draco Malfoy was no exception.

However, in this particular instance, Harry truly felt beyond hatred for the Slytherin boy right now. He was a teenaged Wizard, and the young girl in front of him had likely not even started learning magic yet, and he was going to cast a spell at her.

'You're not getting away with cursing a child Malfoy, not when I am around.'

Marching forward, Harry made sure to keep his wand trained on the three Slytherin boys at all times, eventually coming to a stop in front of the small girl - who unbeknownst to Harry, was looking at the last surviving Potter with absolute awe and surprise at her apparent saviour. Gently rolling his shoulders, Harry's aim didn't waver once as he waited for Malfoy and his goons to get to their feet. As the trio managed to untangle themselves, Harry decided to finally speak.

"I knew you were a pathetic excuse for a human being Malfoy, but I think even by your standards, attacking a child is beyond low." Harry said in an ice-cold tone, barely managing to keep himself from raging at the pathetic Slytherin and scaring the young girl more than she likely already was. Upon hearing Harry's voice, the scion of the Malfoy family seemed to find another gear as he swiftly rose back up, his face now clearly conveying how apoplectic with rage he was. The moment his grey eyes met Harry's killing-curse emerald gaze, the Platinum Prick seemed barely able to keep his anger in check enough to speak.

"Potter," he spat venomously, "How dare you interfere! When my father hears of this, he'll…."

"Get his pathetic arse handed to him by another House Elf? Or do you think Hermione's left hook has improved enough to break that beak your father calls a nose? If not, I'm sure you wouldn't mind offering up your ugly mug as target practice again, would you Draco?" Harry responded, a mocking smirk making its way onto his lips as he watched the Malfoy heir's usually pale skin quickly take on a healthy flush that would have put a first year Ginny to shame.

"My father would never be taken down by a servant, you filthy half-blood! He is a wizard the likes of which you could only ever dream of being…."

"As shit as? Can't say I see the appeal I'm afraid." Harry responded glibly.

'Honestly Malfoy, with how subtle you are it's a wonder you're not a Gryffindor - Merlin knows Slytherin is probably rolling over in his grave knowing you're in his house.' Harry thought to himself with a small sense of amusement. Ever since first year, the heir to the Malfoy family had been a thorne in Harry's side - constantly trying to get into verbal spats with the heir to the Potter family or otherwise drag him into trouble. However, unfortunately for the Malfoy heir, Harry Potter had spent eleven years living under the tender mercies of the Dursley family. His insults and taunts were like water off of a duck's back. If the Dursleys could not longer mentally get underneath Harry's skin anymore, then Draco 'My Father' Malfoy had nothing he could even really irritate him with.

Harry's last verbal comment had clearly not been well received by Draco, however, as the blonde ponce was attempting to reach into his robes and pull out his wand. Sighing to himself, Harry waited until his Slytherin schoolmate had finished pulling his wand out before casting another disarming spell at him, knocking Draco's wand into the air and sending it flying several feet away. When mastered, the spell could send the target's wand arcing towards the caster, but Harry had yet to quite develop the fineness when casting the spell in order to pull this off.

He had, however, mastered the part where it blew the opponent off of their feet and knocked them out. Whilst he didn't put quite enough force into the spell to knock the Platinum prick out, Harry had certainly put enough force into the spell to send Malfoy flying into the middle of the pathway. Quickly changing target, Harry sent a disarming charm at Malfoy's two henchmen, who had yet to even begin pulling out their wands, sending the pair sprawling to the floor on either side of their 'friend' / boss. Harry waited several moments to let the three boys recover their wits enough before speaking.

"Listen here Malfoy, I don't know how they raise Purebloods in Britain, but where I come from, you don't threaten a child no matter the circumstances. But then, given your fathers track record for putting children in mortal danger, I honestly can't say I'm surprised." Here Harry paused for a moment as he bent down and picked up the Malfoy scion's wand and tossed it over to him so that it landed at his feet as he finally managed to stand up.

"Now jog on before I curse you from here to Hogwarts and then back again, or worse, before the girls parents turn up." Harry spat out, hoping that Malfoy would live up to his usually cowardly nature and run off. As talented as Harry believed himself to be, he didn't fancy duelling Malfoy and his two cronies whilst there was a child who could potentially get in the cross-fire. However, it seemed like Lad Luck had finally decided to stop ruining Harry's outing, because as Malfoy seemed set to pick up his wand and start trading spells, a third voice called out from behind Harry.

"Or me, you coward!" A heavily accented yet beautiful voice called out angrily from behind Harry. The speaker was definitely a young woman, as her voice lacked the gravitas of age or the high pitched squeak of youth. In many ways, her voice set Harry on edge slightly. For though she spoke no spells, the young woman's voice almost felt magical - as if she were weaving the very physics-defying force into her everyday speech…...

'Rule one, Potter, never take your eyes off the enemy.'

Shaking his head slightly, Harry bit back a snarl as the mocking voice of him reverberated around his head, fouling Harry's mood but (fortunately) sharpening his mind back up enough as to focus back onto Malfoy and his goons.

Even though that turned out to be wholly unnecessary.

Harry watched as Draco turned his gaze away from the last living Potter, and he couldn't help but feel his eyebrows raise in shock as the Malfoy heir lost any semblance of rage or anger in his expression. It was replaced with what could only be described as a look of awe, lust and greed all rolled into one as the Malofy heir looked at the source of the melodious yet furious voice. If Harry was being honest, it was slightly unnerving to see somebody's mental state change that quickly. Snapping his gaze to either side of Malfoy, Harry was shocked to see that both Crabbe and Goyle had similar expressions on their face - in fact, Harry realised with slight revulsion, Goyle was actually drooling slightly.

'Okay, I know Seamus says some women are 'drool-worthy' but I'm fairly certain that's him just being a randy bastard.' Harry thought to himself with no small amount of disbelief. Deciding to chance his luck further, Harry turned around to catch a glimpse of the young woman who could apparently stun Malfoy of all people into silence.

'Okay… I can see why even Malfoy is speechless. She's fucking beauitful.'

Looking back on that moment, Harry James Potter would fully admit that the word beautiful did not do that young woman justice. Hell, to his dying days the last Potter would firmly believe that there was no mortal language that could do justice to that woman…..

Not that it would ever stop him from trying.

The young woman in question looked to be no older than seventeen or eighteen, but she held the confidence and poise of an extremely successful woman twice her age. She stood no taller than 5'6, but her average height did not detract from the air of sheer intimidation she held. She wore a pair of dark blue jeans that were so tight they seemed to almost be painted on they showed off her legs and hips so well, and a pair of expensive looking leather ankle boots. She also wore a white blouse with short arms, with several buttons undone revealing a painstakingly small glance at an almost other-worldly amount of cleavage (causing Harry to briefly wonder if magical enhancement surgery existed). As gorgeous as just her body was, Harry only really understood why Malfoy froze up like he did when he caught sight of her face.

Even though her face was currently held in furious scowl, it did little to detract from just how other-worldly this woman's beauty was. Perfect, lightly tanned skin that seemed as smooth as silk and likely as soft to the touch. Delicate, rouged lips that looked so soft and inviting that they almost made Harry want to steal a kiss from this goddess there and then. Her high cheekbones, well manicured eyebrows and long, full eyelashes screamed of an aristocratic heritage, but amplified in a way that words simply failed to describe. And then there were her baby blue eyes - so enchanting and mesmerising in their colour and depth….

And yet so utterly terrifying in the fury that filled them right now.

'By Merlin … she's beyond perfect.'

'Wait, head out of the gutter, you idiot. Her sister is on the ground behind you right now after walking into that twat over there. Fantasize later - deal with Malfoy now.' The logical side of Harry's mind screamed, jolting Harry out of his slightly stunned state. As much as he didn't want to agree with it, the logical part of his mind was right. There was a time and place for fantasizing about beautiful women: and doing so with your back turned to your hated schoolmate probably wasn't it.

Half turning back to look at Malfoy, Harry was surprised to see the boy still utterly stunned into silence as he started at the buxom beauty that had now come to a stop next to Harry. Turning his gaze to his left, Harry caught the woman's gaze. Offering a tiny smile, Harry nodded his head.

"Thanks for the save, this idiot doesn't know when to call it quits - you'd think he'd have learnt better than to pick on people after three years of school but apparently it hasn't gotten through his thick skull yet." Harry offered diplomatically, his tone largely impassive, though he couldn't keep from letting a small amount of amusement creep in at the end of the sentence.

The young woman raised one delicate eyebrow at Harry's words, before a small smile tugged at the corners of her perfectly rouged lips, almost causing Harry's heart to skip a beat at the sight.

'Damn it, even her smile is fucking perfect!'

"Indeed, itz unfortunate Britain iz producing such shameful wizards, non? For the land that produced Albuz Dumbledoor, you'd zink it's people would be more like you and less like that cochon." She responded dryly, earning a faint chuckle from Harry.

"Indeed Miss….?" Harry trailed off, hoping to get the beautiful woman's name if only so that he didn't have to keep referring to her as 'the beautiful woman'. The moment he asked the question, the young woman's baby-blue eyes snapped away from Draco and locked straight onto Harry's own emerald gaze - eyes burning with a question which Harry couldn't even begin to fathom. Despite the sheer intimidating nature of her gaze and beauty, Harry held his gaze firmly with hers. After several seconds, the girl seemed satisfied with what she had seen in his resolve and offered a name….

One that would change the last living Potter's life forever.

"Fleur."

"Fleur Delacour."

A/N:

Okay so TLDR on the delay: I had a million pieces of paperwork to get done for my PhD and then I got buried by getting back into the swing of things academically. That's done now so, tada.

Going forward, I'm aiming to get a chapter out every Friday / Saturday a bit earlier than this, probably 7 PM GMT. Lemme know what you think in the comments: good, bad or ugly.

Till next time, stay safe and have a good week!

Edited 16/11/2020:

- Fixed a mistake which left the explanation of the 'Trace' unfinished due to formatting errors.