CHAPTER 7: EXILED CURIOSITY
The sensation of cold, unyielding stone pressed firmly against Harry's cheek, while the faint, metallic taste of blood lingered on his parched tongue. A persistent, throbbing ache seemed to emanate from the very core of his skull. His vision was a hazy swirl of blurred colors, disorienting and unsettling.
With a squint, Harry surveyed his immediate surroundings. His distinctive round-framed glasses lay a mere few feet away from him, and he struggled to push them back onto his face, all the while grappling with the disorientation that clung to him.
Salazar, the founder trapped in the portrait, was in the midst of a deep slumber within his ornate frame. The stone floor beneath Harry bore the faint remnants of the purplish scorch marks, remnants of his ritual star and triangle, while faded indigo lines still traced the ghostly presence of the once-etched runes.
Harry nursed his throbbing head, his dry mouth yearning for moisture. In that moment, a desperate need for a drink seized him. He cast his eyes upon Salazar, who continued to snore peacefully, and then retrieved his wand.
Amidst the turmoil in his mind, Harry conjured images of clear, cool water flowing, pouring, and swirling. "Aguamenti," he incanted, his wand producing a spray of water that mirrored the gentle stream of tap water splashing off the inside of a spoon, ultimately soaking his chest.
He scowled as he felt the chill creeping down his front, contemplating the inconvenience of having to return to Gryffindor Tower for a change of clothes.
Salazar's snores abruptly ceased. "Oh, look. You survived," the founder quipped.
Harry winced, his discomfort evident. "I feel utterly awful."
Salazar, always quick to engage in conversation, raised an inquisitive brow. "Why are you wet? The ritual has nothing to do with water."
"I wanted a drink," Harry admitted, sticking his wand in his sleeve and using it to dry his other hand on a dry patch of his robes.
Salazar, in his portrait, looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. "Your magic came out more easily than you expected, then. Good thing the first spell you tried was quite harmless."
"I've got to go and change," Harry stated with a hint of resignation.
"Take me back into the study first. I've spent more than enough time near that basilisk already," Salazar requested.
"Fine," Harry agreed, lifting the portrait onto his shoulders.
Salazar couldn't help but offer some advice. "You should really make better use of her," he said, referring to the basilisk.
Harry hefted the painting back up onto the wall, puzzled. "Of who?"
"My basilisk, of course," Salazar replied, giving him a somewhat pitying look. "There's all sorts of useful stuff on that serpent."
Harry was skeptical. "Like what?" He glanced back through the door. "The impenetrable scales that can't be cut into anything useful? The meat that's probably so laced with magic that eating it would do some very nasty things to you?"
"The venom," Salazar snapped, his tone impatient. "The rest is meant to be useful when it's alive."
Harry shuddered at the thought. "I'm not going anywhere near that thing's mouth again. One dose of venom was enough for me. More than enough."
Salazar's curiosity piqued. "You were bitten?"
Harry nodded. "Phoenix tears."
"About the only things the ridiculous birds produce that's useful," Salazar grumbled. "Helga had one of the silly things; it never did anything except steal fruit and set fire to things. Snakes are far better."
Harry couldn't help but respond. "Because you're not at all biased."
Salazar chuckled. "I quite like phoenixes. Fawkes saved my life once. My wand even has a phoenix feather core."
Salazar, with his deep knowledge of magic, offered a unique perspective. "I'd bet it's a powerful, but rather limited wand. Phoenix feather wands don't excel at some of the more delicate aspects of magic."
Harry was genuinely intrigued. "Why not?"
Salazar pondered this. "Not sure. It might have something to do with their elusive but powerful and emotive nature. Helga and I studied hers for a bit, but we were mostly guessing." Salazar furrowed his brow. "You should get your wand checked, really. That ritual can sometimes have an effect on it."
Worry crept into Harry's voice as he clutched his wand to his chest. "It can?"
"That's why I told you to leave it outside of the runes. You've slightly changed your magic; inevitably, that will have some effect on the conduit you use to channel magic."
Harry couldn't help but ask, "What kind of effect?"
"Most of the time it's nothing. Neither I nor Tom Riddle ever noticed a difference, but I've heard of instances when the person needed their wand length changed, a different type of wood, or even a new core. I wouldn't worry about it. You could just have a new one made or, if you can't afford it, don't. The old one might not be a perfect match, but it will still work very well for you."
Harry nodded in understanding. "I see." He pulled the cold, wet front of his robes away from his skin, shivering as the chill lingered. "I should leave."
"Visit soon," Salazar said. "Take it easy for a day or two, though. Rituals can take some time to recover from."
Harry attempted to downplay any potential danger. "Well, it's not like I'm involved in anything dangerous."
Salazar, however, couldn't help but snort in response. He settled down in his frame and closed his eyes, signaling the end of their conversation.
As Harry continued on his way, he called out to Myrtle. "Hey, Myrtle."
Myrtle, ever-present in the gloomy surroundings, swooped out of her cubicle, her cheeks flushed with silver.
"Have you been down here all night?" Harry inquired.
"Yes, but you can't tell anyone," Myrtle replied. "I really need somewhere that's just for me at the moment."
Harry appreciated her discretion. "Thanks. I have to go change. I'm all wet."
Myrtle giggled, unable to hide her amusement. "I noticed." She zipped into her cubicle with her hands clasped over her mouth.
Harry found her reaction a bit odd but decided not to dwell on it. With a shrug, he continued his journey toward Gryffindor Tower. As he climbed the staircase to the Fat Lady's portrait, Professor McGonagall caught up with him.
"Mr. Potter," she said, her voice tinged with concern. "Where have you been?"
Harry held back the urge to reveal the true nature of his activities in the Chamber of Secrets as Professor McGonagall quizzed him about why he was wet. Instead, he replied, "I performed the water-summoning spell a little too proficiently."
"That's a sixth-year spell, Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall noted, her posture relaxing, and her eyes displaying a hint of admiration. "Very well done. It needs to be, too, since as the Triwizard champion, you're excused from all lessons you don't wish to attend."
Harry couldn't help but grin at the silver lining in this situation. "No more potions," he thought to himself. "Every cloud has its silver lining."
However, Professor McGonagall wasn't so easily convinced. "I hope that smile has nothing to do with not having to attend your lessons, Mr. Potter," she chided. "You've come forward in leaps and bounds from last year, but this tournament is still much too dangerous for any child, let alone a fourth year. I can't believe so many of the younger years would have the irresponsibility to try and enter their names." With that, she departed.
The Fat Lady, seemingly disapproving, gave him a cool look but swung aside to grant him entry into the common room. Harry couldn't help but think, "Really? Even the portraits?"
A tense, thick quiet enveloped the common room as he made his way upstairs to his dormitory, ignoring the stares of his fellow Gryffindors. Dull white hangings hung around his bed, and Harry found it to be an unnecessary and petty charm, which he promptly dispelled with a tap of his wand. He then checked for anything untoward, all while harboring concerns about the potential involvement of Ron's mischievous twin brothers.
Harry discarded his wet robes onto the pile of not-so-clean clothes and quickly changed into fresh ones. Just as he was settling in, a quiet shuffle came from the doorway of the dormitory.
"H-Harry," came the hesitant voice.
"Neville," Harry acknowledged, looking at his friend with a mixture of weariness and concern.
Neville steepled his fingers and pushed his hands together, a gesture that reflected his inner turmoil. "I'm sorry about the others, Harry. They're just angry that you told them you wouldn't enter, didn't want to, and still managed to come away with something they all wanted."
Harry probed further, "Do you believe I put my name in, Neville?"
Neville shuffled his feet, seemingly hesitant. "I don't think it really matters. I didn't ever want to take part, but everyone else, they were so hopeful."
Harry understood the weight of his statement. "Well, now they know where just hoping gets us."
He sighed and continued, "If I could've, I would've swapped with them, Nev."
"Yeah, I know, but that doesn't mean all that much when you can't."
Harry couldn't help but agree with Neville's assessment. "He's right. It doesn't matter what I say or what I wanted. I still have what they were after, and the fact I didn't want it probably makes it worse."
Seeking a more balanced perspective, he inquired, "Anyone share your opinion, or is it just you?"
Neville thought for a moment before responding. "Most of the younger students are annoyed you managed to get past Professor Dumbledore when they couldn't. The older ones are resentful, especially Angelina, and Ron, Seamus, and Dean were really angry."
Harry couldn't help but comment wryly, "I'll take that as a no, then."
Neville went on to explain, "Lavender, Parvati, and some of the girls in our year and below don't mind. Hermione seems more worried about you and wherever you're spending all your time than anything to do with the Triwizard Tournament. It's Angelina Johnson and the few who were tipped to be champion who you need to watch out for. They're really not happy you stole their place."
Harry felt the need to clarify, "I didn't steal anything, Neville."
"Well, I don't think you're going to be the Seeker next year," Neville spoke softly, his gaze fixated on his toes. "I don't think you're going to be very popular for a while."
Harry contemplated the potential consequences. "I've dealt with that before. Remember second year?"
Neville's voice remained low. "Gryffindor house stuck by you in the second year. Angelina's made pretty sure that won't happen."
Annoyance crept into Harry's thoughts. "Stupid bloody girl," he mused as he watched Neville shuffle away. "Is Angelina that upset she didn't get picked? Cedric got chosen over her anyway."
Harry felt the chill of isolation as he wandered back down to the common room. Lavender and Parvati giggled by the fire, casting him fleeting glances with sympathetic eyes before turning away. He slumped into a chair and stared into the flames, trying to find solace in their comforting dance.
Just then, a hand came down on either of his shoulders, and the Weasley twins appeared on either side of him.
Harry's wand slid down his sleeve into his palm, and he couldn't help but ask, "What do you two want?"
Fred and George exchanged mischievous glances and shared conspiratorial smiles. "No need for concern, Harrikins. We're not against you."
Harry's guard remained up as he cautiously inquired, "You believe me?"
Fred chuckled. "If we couldn't get past the age line, how could an ickle fourth year?" They both grinned and shook their heads. "That's not it at all."
"Besides, even if you did, then we'd only tip our hats to you for tricking the headmaster himself. Right, George?" Fred said with a sly grin.
"Right, Fred," George chimed in. "The problem we face is far more tricky. Fred and I, we're quite close to Angelina and Alicia. Girls, you know."
Fred chuckled and added, "Well, you don't, but you will one day, eh, Harrikins."
George shrugged. "We don't want to ruin that, so I'm afraid we'll have to be keeping our distance a bit. Ginny, too. Ron's already written home some garbled version of events and told her to stay away from you."
"Though she didn't look too happy about it, did she, Fred?" George teased.
"Indeed not, George," Fred agreed. "She hexed our littlest brother good, but she said she really wants to join the Quidditch team next year… and you know Angelina will hold a grudge, Alicia too."
"They haven't forgiven us for swapping on our double date with them yet," Fred reminisced. "And that was almost a year ago."
The twins patted Harry on the shoulder and left him by the fire, leaving him to contemplate his predicament as he stared into the flickering orange light of the flames. "Hermione better believe me," he mused to himself, "or I might as well just move in with Salazar."
Harry tossed another log onto the fire, observing the way the flames curled and danced over the fresh addition. The log cracked and popped, sending sparks scattering across the front of the grate, while ash trickled from the crevices of the log down into the cooling pile of embers.
Feeling restless, he suddenly pushed himself out of the chair and decided to head to Charms class. He knew Hermione always arrived early and hoped to catch her there. As he peered inside the classroom, he noticed empty chairs scattered between bare desks. Seizing the opportunity, Harry slipped into a seat in the back corner of the room.
It didn't take long for Professor Flitwick to bound into the classroom, his usual exuberance on full display. "Mr. Potter!" he greeted, sounding a bit surprised. "I was under the impression that you were excused from classes."
Harry responded with a hint of a grin, "I'm excused from the ones I don't want to attend, sir."
The professor's eyes lit up with recognition. "Oh! Your mother always loved charms; it must run in the family. You're almost as early as she used to be." Professor Flitwick teetered on the balls of his feet. "Do you have questions for me? Miss Granger normally comes early with questions."
Harry reassured him, "I'm keeping up fine, professor. I've actually gotten a little ahead."
The delighted expression that spread across Professor Flitwick's face was infectious. "That's great news! You'll need the time to prepare for the tournament. Where have you managed to get up to so far?"
A surge of pride and warmth filled Harry as he responded, a hot lump forming in his throat. "I've finished all of it."
"All of it?!" Professor Flitwick's jaw dropped in astonishment. "But... it's October!"
Harry shrugged, a modest smile playing on his lips. "I did some reading over the summer."
"Quite a lot of reading by the sound of it," Flitwick remarked, impressed. He reached for his wand, causing the cap of an ink bottle to unscrew itself and float over to him. "Can you demonstrate your banishing charm for me, Mr. Potter? It would certainly ease my worries about you being a champion."
Without hesitation, Harry flicked his wand, sending the cap hissing across the classroom until it pinged off the window.
"Excellent!" Professor Flitwick cried. "Non-verbal as well. I wonder why you even came to class today, Mr. Potter. You're well ahead of all your peers."
Just then, Hermione cleared her throat from the door to the classroom. "Professor?"
Professor Flitwick turned his attention to Hermione. "Miss Granger. Your friend has just been demonstrating his astonishing grasp of the banishing spell. Quite exemplary for a fourth year!"
Hermione's eyes darted to Harry's wand. "I had a question about our essays, Professor."
Flitwick's tone turned slightly regretful. "It's a bit late now, Miss Granger. I'm collecting them at the start of class."
"Oh," Hermione replied, looking a bit crestfallen.
With a sense of déjà vu, Harry decided to address Professor Flitwick. "Er, Professor Flitwick… I haven't got my essay."
Flitwick's response was reassuring. "Don't worry, Mr. Potter. You clearly are in no need of the revision that essay provides. You've been excused from classes regardless, remember."
Harry felt a weight lift from his shoulders and offered his gratitude, "Thank you, professor."
As the other students began to file in, looking rather unenthusiastic about class, Hermione leaned in close to Harry and whispered, "You can perform the banishing charm? You said it looked interesting, not that you'd already mastered it!"
Harry smiled and replied, "I thought it might come in useful. It's about time I took some of this stuff more seriously. There's only so many times I can luck my way out of life-threatening scenarios."
Hermione nodded approvingly. "That's probably wise of you. I'm impressed, Harry." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Is that where you've been disappearing off to then?"
A hint of mischief sparkled in Harry's eyes as he answered, "Yeah. I needed to practice somewhere."
Hermione's curiosity got the better of her. "How far have you got?"
Harry hesitated for a moment, his competitive spirit lighting up as he gauged Hermione's reaction. "I've reached a lot of the sixth-year material in both Charms and Transfiguration."
"That's amazing, Harry!" Hermione exclaimed with genuine admiration, keeping her voice low. "Seriously. I saw you trying to summon butterflies, but I thought it was a one-off attempt. You've gotten so good, so fast."
Harry felt a pang of frustration as he replied, "I've got the hang of that butterfly spell now. If it wasn't for this bloody tournament, I might've managed loads of new stuff this year."
Hermione crossed her arms, her competitive nature showing through. "I can't believe you're ahead of me in two classes now."
Harry detected a touch of envy in her eyes and decided to offer a reassuring comment. "You'll still be as good as me at Potions, our electives, and you're miles better than me at any essays."
"Charms and Transfiguration are my favorites after Arithmancy, though," Hermione sighed. "And now you're better than me at them. I'll have to get the hang of the banishing charm this week now, too."
Harry raised an eyebrow, contemplating Hermione's persistent need to excel. "Have to?"
Hermione's determination shone through. "Yes, Harry. I don't like being behind in anything."
Harry found himself slightly amused by her competitive spirit but appreciated that she wasn't dwelling on the Triwizard Tournament as much as some of their classmates. Instead, they focused on the charm that Professor Flitwick had handed them.
"Repairing charm," the professor squeaked. "A very useful one indeed."
As they prepared for the class, Harry leaned in to Hermione and asked quietly, "Do you think I put my name in?"
"Honestly? I don't think so, but I'm not certain. You've been different since the World Cup. Distant, withdrawn, but, I don't know, more driven. I don't know what you're thinking like I used to," Hermione said as she poked her clay tile around with her wand, forming a small, careful circle.
Harry paused, considering her words carefully. "You're my friend, Hermione," he reassured her. "If I just wanted someone to tell me facts, I'd go to the library or ask a teacher." He shook his head with a hint of frustration. "I didn't put my name in. I promise. You know how this stuff is for me, anything remotely weird, and I get sucked into it somehow."
Harry's mind couldn't help but drift to the ever-looming specter of Voldemort, and a chill trickled down his spine. He couldn't help but hope it wasn't Voldemort this time. A bitter twist of humor bubbled up inside him. "Yes, let's wish it's not him. That'll work."
Hermione acknowledged his point. "That's true."
With a hint of frustration and disappointment, she dropped her clay tile onto the desk, and it shattered into fragments that spilled over the ink-stained surface.
"But you're not acting like you did before," Hermione continued. "You used to get sucked into dangerous stuff and, well, play the hero, I guess. It was never about you. This isn't like that. It's dangerous, but it's a game. And it's all about the champions. About you. You can't pretend you're not competitive. I've seen you play Quidditch. You must want to win a bit."
Harry thought for a moment, reflecting on her words. "It's not worth winning. It's a stupid idea. A thousand Galleons and your name in a paper in return for a very high chance of being killed."
A hint of ambiguity lingered in Harry's response, and he couldn't help but wonder if, deep down, there might be something worth winning in this perilous competition.
Hermione flashed him a reassuring smile. "At least you aren't the Heir of Slytherin."
Harry couldn't help but agree with her silently. "Yeah, that would be terrible."
She continued with optimism, "I'm sure it'll all pass, just like things did that year."
Harry countered, his voice filled with frustration, "I had to kill a basilisk to prove my innocence! And nobody in Gryffindor listened to the rumors back then."
Hermione tried to comfort him, "It'll be fine." She tapped her tile with her wand, and it began to reform into a square, marred only by a few thin, dark lines. "Ron will get over it; he always does. When it becomes clear you didn't put your name in, everyone will feel rather stupid and come to apologize."
Harry, his emotions raw, whispered, "I'm not sure I want them back."
Hermione's own tile slipped through her fingers and shattered in response to his statement. She was clearly upset. "Harry, they're your friends."
Harry remained resolute. "They aren't acting like it, are they? You wouldn't see me acting like that if it was them."
Hermione tried to explain, "But it's not really their fault. You must realize what it looks like to them. You cast a bit of a shadow, Harry, and it just keeps getting bigger."
Frustration still tinging his words, Harry said, "If they want to be friends with me, then they should know me well enough to see me through it. If they don't know me well enough to get past that, then they can't really be my friends, can they?"
Hermione offered a more empathetic perspective, acknowledging her own struggles. "Just because they know better doesn't mean they can help themselves from reacting. Nobody can." She looked at Harry with a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. "Even me. Look at you, suddenly as good as me at everything, with all the popularity and fame I'll never have. Why would you need some Muggle-born girl hanging off your coattails? And I know that's not how you see it, but sometimes it's all I can think about."
As he listened to Hermione's words and her lingering insecurities, Harry couldn't help but feel a wave of frustration and discomfort wash over him. A whisper, smooth and insidious, bubbled up from the back of his mind, slithering through his thoughts like blood across his palm. It whispered, "So she has to be better than me. Because if she's better than me, I'll need her."
A shard of icy realization froze beneath his ribs. Did she not think I might stick by my friends just because they're my friends?
"That's stupid," Harry muttered, shaking his head and sweeping his bag back onto his shoulder.
Hermione chewed her lip, crossed her arms, and let out an exasperated huff. "What? I can't help it! None of the others are any better!"
Harry fought back a biting retort, biting his tongue to keep the words at bay. He walked away, hoping that if he proved himself to be better than Hermione often enough, she would realize that it didn't matter and they could just be friends.
As he strode down the corridor, he encountered Draco Malfoy, who sneered at him. "Shouldn't you be in lessons, Potter?"
Harry retorted, "Shouldn't you?"
Malfoy continued with a mocking tone, "I heard your housemates have finally realized what a pretentious, pathetic person you are. Even Weasley doesn't want anything to do with you. How does it feel to be ditched by a charity case?"
Harry glanced up and down the empty corridor, recognizing the opportunity for a confrontation. It was just the two of them now.
Harry slid his wand from his sleeve and held it between Malfoy's eyes. "Anything else you'd like to say?" he challenged. "I know a wonderful number of hexes now."
Malfoy, though defiant, couldn't help a flicker of unease. "You wouldn't dare."
Harry flashed his widest, brightest smile and emphasized, "Try me. Please, try me. Give me an excuse."
Malfoy snarled, "You think you're such a big shot, Potter. You're not. Everyone knows you're just a cheat and a liar now." He tried to push himself out from under Harry's wand. "Look at you, all alone. And no wonder—"
Harry, struggling to keep his emotions in check, smothered a twist of pain and forced the smile back onto his lips. "You've grown brave, Malfoy," he retorted. "Talking back to someone who has you at wand point and walking around the castle without your lackeys. Aguamenti."
He cast a Water-Making Charm, and a stream of water burst from his wand, drenching Malfoy.
Spluttering and enraged, Malfoy threatened, "Potter, I'll see you in so many detentions for this!"
Harry couldn't help but laugh. "No, you won't. Not unless you want to admit I bested you with a water-conjuring charm of all things. You probably should've kept your newfound bravado in check, Draco. It's really not done you any favors."
Malfoy seethed, "I hope you die in the tournament, Potter."
Harry's response was cold and unwavering, "I doubt you're the only one, but I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you."
He concealed his wand back into his sleeve, out of sight, and issued a final warning to Malfoy, "Oh, and Malfoy, if I find out you or your father have anything to do with my name coming out of the goblet, I'm going to make you wish you'd been competing in my place."
…..SCENE BREAK….
A deluge of students flooded the corridors, causing the tapestries and hangings to sway in response to their rush. Dormant portraits reluctantly opened their eyes, casting disapproving frowns at the cacophony below.
Fleur extended her fingers from the concealing shadows of her alcove into the brilliant stream of light cascading through the window. Her enchantment rendered her fingers imperceptible in the ambient air, an effective disguise she deemed satisfactory.
The formidable wooden door, situated opposite her covert refuge, let out a faint, eerie creak, announcing the emergence of a group of Hogwarts pupils. Fleur nonchalantly leaned against the wall, her gaze fixed on the youngest among them, who separated from the group. The fourth champion. With a toss of her silken hair over her shoulder, she stealthily ventured into the corridor, her mind abuzz with the absurdity of her participation in the Triwizard Tournament.
As the corridors gradually emptied, and the clamor receded, Fleur's newest competitor paused on the balls of his feet, taking in his surroundings. He pivoted on his heel, and in an unfortunate twist of fate, collided with her.
The boy's spectacles skittered across the polished floor, a chance encounter destined to reshape their destinies.
'Merde,' Fleur muttered under her breath. She dispelled her enchantment, retrieved his glasses from the floor, and cautiously withdrew from his outstretched hand. 'You are Harry Potter, aren't you?'
'So it seems,' the boy responded, squinting at her. 'Though you appear as a somewhat silvery-blue blur to me...'
"Oh? You can't see me?" Fleur smiled, relishing her advantage. "Perfect."
'How did you manage to bypass the age line with your magic?' she inquired.
A chill descended upon the boy's emerald eyes. 'I didn't.'
"Vraiment?" Fleur casually tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Your magic can't cross an age line if you're not older than the set age. It's a straightforward ward, though quite antiquated."
'If you had broken Albus Dumbledore's ward, the entire castle would've known,' he retorted, as she extended his glasses towards him. 'So how did your name end up in the Goblet?'
He reached for his glasses, but Fleur swiftly withdrew them from his grasp. 'Really?' Ice had crept into his voice. 'Why do you even care? You don't know me.'
'I can't figure out how to bypass the ward and still have my name entered into the Goblet,' Fleur explained. 'I have expertise in warding.'
'Well, if you come up with a solution, please do share. I'd be quite interested,' he replied, a hint of intrigue in his tone.
Fleur swiftly enacted the disillusionment charm, just as he lunged to reclaim his glasses from her fingers. She positioned herself against the wall, maintaining a discreet distance as he turned around, his eyes narrowed, and his wand seamlessly appeared in his hand.
"Weird girl," he mused, walking down the corridor. "Why are people so obsessed with this perilous tournament?"
The realization struck Fleur as she pondered the age line ward. The only way to pass it would be to entirely conceal one's magic, a feat unattainable for any fourteen-year-old. She pursed her lips in contemplation. "But that doesn't make sense because it would imply that Dumbledore staged the entire event. And that's just preposterous."
Harry Potter's footsteps gradually receded around the corner, prompting her to mutter, "Merde, he's getting away," and hasten after him.
Fleur silently shadowed him as he moved through the Great Hall and approached the bottom of the ever-moving staircases. She couldn't help but lament, "The only thing I like about this school, and they're entirely impractical."
Darting up the stairs as they shifted beneath her, Fleur couldn't help but wonder about Dumbledore's motives. "Maybe Dumbledore wanted another opportunity," she thought, still following Harry Potter. "But then why select a rather unremarkable fourth-year? Besides his resistance to my magic and that peculiar scar, there's nothing conspicuously special about him."
The boy slipped through a door near the end of the corridor, and Fleur silently followed him, only to discover that it led to a girls' bathroom. She couldn't help but exclaim inwardly, "What kind of fourteen-year-old is he?!"
From within the bathroom, she heard a girl's voice, and Fleur pressed her ear to the door, attempting to eavesdrop, but the words remained frustratingly muffled, including the boy's deeper voice.
A heavy silence blanketed the room. Fleur withdrew her head from the door, double-checked her disillusionment charm, then cautiously pushed the door open and slipped inside. The bathroom revealed itself as a row of vacant cubicles, a sizable central sink, and an extensive puddle of water spanning the white tiles.
"Merde," she muttered, scrunching her nose in distaste. "That's it. I won't waste another second on him. I have other competitors to keep an eye on, ones who actually stand a chance of winning. If there's anything remarkable about him, it'll become evident during the tournament tasks."
With that decision made, Fleur pushed the bathroom door open and walked out into the corridor. Beyond the small, high windows, a panorama of grey clouds stretched, and the carpeted pathway extended beneath portraits and tapestries featuring goblin warbands. She sighed and admitted to herself, "And now I'm lost. How irritating."
Fleur wandered the corridors, retracing her steps in the hope of finding her way back, but navigating magical architecture was often anything but straightforward. "Just my luck," she muttered under her breath.
As she walked, she overheard a conversation emanating from an empty classroom nearby. The voices were familiar, and she realized it was the bushy-haired girl she had seen with Harry Potter on occasion, together with a gangly redhead. Fleur double-checked her disillusionment charm and approached the door with cautious steps.
"Honestly, Ron," the bushy-haired girl was saying, her tone laden with exasperation. "This conflict with Harry is getting completely out of hand."
Ron, his fists balled, waved them on either side of Hermione's bushy hair, his eyes blazing with intensity. "I'm not the one who lied to his friends, Hermione!"
"We both know Harry's promise isn't what this is about," Hermione replied, unwavering. "He's either telling the truth, or he lied to spare your feelings, neither of which you can really blame him for, especially given how you've all reacted."
Ron's scowl deepened. "Then what's it about?"
"It's about you, and half of Gryffindor House by the appearance of it, taking out your frustration at being in Harry's shadow on Harry," Hermione explained. "He can't control his fame, Ron. You know that. Harry isn't taking this well. He's been acting differently since the World Cup. You've seen how distant he's become. You and Angelina are pushing him further away. I know you're angry now, but you'll regret losing your friend the moment you calm down."
Ron grunted, his stubbornness evident. "I won't lose him. This sort of thing happens between us guys sometimes. He'll apologize for lying, and I'll apologize for overreacting. The air will clear, and things will go back to the way they were. It's how we work."
Hermione's patience wore thin as she retorted, "That's how you and the old Harry worked. The new Harry is just as capable as me in half the subjects we take, better in a few, and he's seriously considering ending his friendships with all of you for good."
Ron's face turned a mottled red beneath his freckles, and he protested, "You can't be serious. He'd never say that. We argue, yes, and this time has been bad, but he'd never walk away from us. He can't. He's Harry, and even if I can't stand him at the moment, we're still friends."
Hermione's voice remained stern, emphasizing the gravity of the situation. "I'm not even sure I want them back. Those were his exact words. For pity's sake, Ron, swallow your pride, gather Seamus, Dean, and anyone you can with you, apologize, and hope the old Harry resurfaces to forgive you, because I'm afraid that if you don't, we won't ever see him again."
Fleur couldn't help but purse her lips, recognizing the cyclic nature of their conflicts. She thought, "They'll apologize, only to fall into the same pattern again. If the boy is wise, he'll learn from his mistakes instead of repeating them."
Ron hesitated for a moment, his feet shuffling. "I'll think about it. I didn't realize he took it so hard. Do you think something happened to him over the summer, or at the World Cup? Those blasted Muggles?"
"I don't know, Ron. I only have what he's told me, which isn't much. Maybe that Bulgarian Veela did something, or someone else did before she found him."
Fleur, who had been listening intently, was particularly intrigued by the mention of a Veela. "Veela? He's met one of us before?"
"You think he got cursed while he was out of it?" Ron inquired.
"He was quite vague about his story, Ron, and he's been keeping secrets since then," Hermione explained. "Maybe he wasn't even unconscious at all."
"He seemed pretty out of it in the hospital wing, Hermione. You can't fake magical exhaustion and a coma," Ron pointed out.
Hermione countered, "He said he doesn't remember casting any spells. Some things just don't add up about that."
Ron shot her a half-pitying, half-amused glance. "They don't!" Hermione huffed. "It doesn't matter. You need to fix this, then get Harry to play Quidditch, or cards, or whatever instead of studying. And then you'll need me to try to make you two actually do some work. It'll be like before."
"I'll try," Ron agreed, his expression showing reluctance. "Angelina Johnson is still on the warpath. Katie Bell was practically begging her to reconsider kicking Harry off the seeker position next year, and she wouldn't budge."
Hermione sighed. "She genuinely believes he entered?"
"Yeah," Ron confirmed.
"Professor Dumbledore seemed to think Harry entered as well; he looked very disappointed," Hermione added, her worry evident in her voice.
"You think he might've secretly entered himself using his cloak?" Ron speculated.
Fleur couldn't help but roll her eyes discreetly. "No fourteen-year-old's charmed cloak is going to get him past an age line cast by Albus Dumbledore."
"I don't know. I just don't know," Hermione replied, her voice heavy with concern. "He's changed. Professor Dumbledore looks troubled, too. Every time he sees Harry, he gets this worried, haunted look."
Ron made a reluctant commitment, saying, "I'll apologize. I won't like it because he's been a right git about the whole thing, but I'll encourage Ginny to speak to him again, and I'll try to convince Seamus, Dean, and the others to ease off a bit. It won't be any fun, though. Ginny's going to hex me again."
"Thanks, Ron," Hermione said with appreciation. "He flipped out on me and left Charms. I've barely seen him since."
Fleur, who had been listening attentively, couldn't help but think, "So I'm not the only one he's avoiding." She recast her disillusionment charm, concealing herself better. "I used to avoid everyone when I was younger. Everyone except Gabby."
Ron proposed a plan, "We'll have to find him to apologize. He comes back to the dormitory quite late most days. I'll gather everyone in the common room, and we can catch him then."
"That's a pretty good plan," Hermione acknowledged, nodding her approval.
Ron snorted, offering a self-deprecating smile. "Chess player, remember. Plus, if you haven't figured out where he's going in over a month, we won't do it in the next couple of days."
Fleur scowled, reflecting on Harry's ability to evade them. "He's good at vanishing, not that it will help him much in the tournament."
The two English fourth years departed the empty classroom, leaving Fleur to her thoughts as she made her way back to the Beauxbatons flying carriage.
Outside, the other girls were scattered across the grounds, wrapped in scarves and jumpers. Caroline, Emilie, and most of the girls her age were occupied with admiring the Durmstrang boys, who lounged shirtless on the deck of their ship.
Fleur continued toward her room but paused before her headmistress's office. "Madame Maxime?"
"Yes, come in, Fleur," the headmistress beckoned.
"Do you know anything about age lines, madame?" Fleur inquired.
Madame Maxime steepled her enormous fingers, looking somewhat intrigued. "Why do you ask? It cannot possibly be for the tournament."
Fleur maintained a composed expression. "I was curious. Albus Dumbledore used one. I've never seen the ward actually cast before."
Madame Maxime nodded, her vast frame lending gravity to her response. "They are indeed interesting but rather impractical. I doubt any of your other teachers know much beyond the enchantment's name. Age lines are designed to allow passage to magical beings provided their magical age meets the requirement. They are so straightforward that they can't be bypassed in the same way more conventional wards can, but they're also inflexible in their use. It's not a ward you'll ever really need to employ, Fleur."
"Thank you, madame," Fleur acknowledged with a respectful nod.
As she returned to her room and securely locked the door, Fleur's thoughts churned. "Harry Potter must've found a way," she pondered. "Perhaps someone older with the same name who didn't mind violating a magical contract allowed him to take their place."
She gazed into the mirror, her reflection's bright blue eyes locking onto her own. "It doesn't matter. I was chosen because I'm superior to all the other girls at Beauxbatons, and I'm certainly better than some fourth-year. I'm going to win, as always." Her determination shone through her resolute words.
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