The Portkey yanked them through space, slamming them into reality with a jolt. Harry's boots skidded against cobblestone as he fought for balance, the world still reeling around him. The cool Parisian air hit him like a slap, bringing with it the scents of stone, roses, and smoke.

The stones beneath Harry's feet were worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, their pale, sun-bleached hue like weathered parchment. The air carried the sweet perfume of honeysuckle and the earthy breath of weather beaten stone.

Golden phoenixes perched atop marble pillars, their wings spread wide, shimmering under the fading light. Their pearl eyes seemed to glow as dusk painted the sky in strokes of molten gold and deepest violet.

A fountain stood at the heart of the courtyard, shaped like a winged horse rising toward the heavens. Its waters sparkled like liquid crystal, catching the last light of day and scattering it into shards clattering beneath the floor. Twisting blue blossoms clung to the walls of the academy, their velvety petals swaying in the breeze, their colour so vivid they seemed almost aflame.

'A castle drowned in azure fire'

Beauxbatons rose beyond the fountain, a château of marble and glass, crowned with silver spires that caught the dying light and reflected it like mirrors. Wide arched windows gazed solemnly across the courtyard, their glass stained with hues of emerald and sapphire, glowing faintly as though lit from within by some secret fire. Ivy heavy with blossoms curled around the pillars and balustrades, weaving the present into the past, a living thread of memories that had been preserved within those walls.

It was not an unpleasant thing to look at— far from it. There was something almost dreamlike about Beauxbatons... unblemished almost But it didn't stir the same warmth that Hogwarts did.

'Never will compare to Hogwarts' Harry mused.

Yet this place made you keenly aware of your position in something far bigger than yourself—a living embodiment of perfection. Even the sweet air seemed to demand that you rise to be able to breath: that you become more.

Students drifted through the courtyard like shadows, their indigo robes whispering softly with their movements. A few stopped to glance at Harry and the other champions, their voices hushed, their eyes wide with curiosity.

Harry ignored the stares, his eyes drawn instead to the intricate carvings winding up the walls—words etched in a language far older than French.

"Empty words," Grindelwald's voice whispered in his mind, smooth and biting. "Carefully chosen to say everything and nothing at once."

Harry froze mid-step, his pulse quickening.

"Fuck," his thoughts snapped like a whip. "You're back? Why now?"

Grindelwald chuckled softly, the sound curling through Harry's mind like smoke. "Back? My dear boy, I never left."

Harry clenched his jaw, nausea clawing at his stomach. Not here. Not now. He took a steadying breath, forcing his expression into something neutral.

"You're awfully quiet, Mr. Potter," Grindelwald taunted. "Kneazle got your tongue? Or perhaps you're wondering which of these lovely people wants you dead."

Harry swallowed hard and refocused on Antoine Delacour, who had appeared at the front of the plaza. His sharp blue eyes swept over the delegation with practiced ease, his words polished to perfection.

"It is a new age of diplomacy and mutual respect," Antoine said, his voice carrying over the crowd. "One where our shared future will be forged."

"Forged in blood, more like," Grindelwald drawled, his voice tinged with dark amusement. "They speak of peace, but their hearts beat for conquest. This entire city is built on it."

Harry kept his eyes fixed on Antoine, refusing to flinch. "Why don't you just piss off?" he thought bitterly. "I'm not interested in your commentary."

"Oh, but you should be," Grindelwald replied almost affectionately. "You're standing in the heart of their empire—a stage dressed in finery, but the bones beneath it tell a much uglier story."

Antoine continued, his tone steady. "It is our belief that cooperation, not competition, will lead us toward a brighter future. Britain and France stand together at a critical juncture—ready to forge something new."

"They're not forging unity," Grindelwald purred, "They're forging a cage. A beautiful one, lined with silken bars and whispered promises."

Harry's grip tightened around his wand as his gaze flicked to Chancellor Auguste Beaumont, who stood beside Antoine. His expression was calm, almost pleasant—but his eyes gleamed like polished steel. His smile was perfectly curated: wide at the mouth, dead at the eyes.

"There's the real architect," Grindelwald murmured. "Beaumont—the master economist. His family controls the flow of galleons in and out of France like blood through a body. You'd do well to watch him."

Beaumont bowed slightly, turning to Harry. "Mr. Potter, a pleasure to finally meet you." His voice was warm, but his words felt anything but casual. "We've heard much about your... unique talents."

"Careful," Grindelwald whispered, his tone almost a warning now. "This one plays the long game."

Harry inclined his head. "Likewise," he said, his voice steady. "It's always an honor to meet those who... shape nations."

Beaumont's eyes narrowed slightly, though his smile didn't falter. "Indeed. There are few things more powerful than shaping a nation's destiny."

"Did I not tell you this would be entertaining?" Grindelwald's voice was like velvet, laced with amusement. "What will you do now, Harry Potter? Play the polite guest, or learn the rules of the game?"

Antoine slithered across, his eyes landing on Harry. "And you especially, Monsieur Potter. It is a rare pleasure to meet one whose legend precedes him."

"Ah, there it is," Grindelwald murmured. "Polite lies dressed as compliments, like little knives wrapped in silk."

Harry gave a polite nod. "The pleasure is mine," he said smoothly.

Beaumont's voice seemed to have turned to the rest of the delegation. "Beauxbatons has long been a beacon of unity and progress—a place where the brightest minds converge to shape the future of our world."

"Unity and progress," Grindelwald murmured. "History has always had a funny way of defining those."

"Ah," Delacour said warmly, "What a shame you didn't come to Beauxbatons, Monsieur Potter. I'm sure you would have thrived here, perhaps even more than at Hogwarts."

Harry inclined his head. "I'm sure Beauxbatons has much to offer. But fate had other plans."

"Fate," Delacour mused. "It does have a habit of choosing its champions, does it not?"

"Careful," Grindelwald whispered. "He's testing you. Every word is a step in the dance—one wrong move, and you'll show him your hand."

Harry gave a small shrug. "It's true. Fate does like to surprise us."

Delacour chuckled softly. "And yet, despite everything, you've risen to the occasion. Your performance in the First Task was... extraordinary."

"They're watching you," Grindelwald murmured. "Every move you make, every spell you cast. They want to know what kind of player you are—whether you'll burn bright or be snuffed out before you reach your peak."

Harry met Delacour's gaze steadily. "It's hard to ignore a dragon."

"Indeed," Delacour said with a knowing smile. "A dragon... and a serpent of fire. It was quite the display."

"First the Boy Who Lived. Now the Dragon Slayer," Grindelwald mused. "Soon, they'll want to make you something else entirely. A weapon. A symbol. Or a threat."

Cedric nudged him. "You alright?"

Harry forced a breath. "Yeah. Just..." His gaze swept over the watching faces—Delacour, Beaumont, Dumbledore—"taking it all in."

The ballroom buzzed with laughter and murmurs, a sea of refined, glittering faces, but none caught Harry's attention more than the two figures who strode through the crowd. Gabrielle Delacour, young, fierce, and full of fire, moved with the unmistakable elegance of someone destined for greatness. As the French champion, she was the embodiment of their magical prowess, their pride—yet Harry couldn't shake the sense that she was also something more dangerous, an unpolished gem hiding a sharp edge.

"Why do I feel like I'm being hunted?" he muttered, glancing over his shoulder at Susan and Su, who kept an awkward distance behind him. Susan was pretending to be absorbed in the crowd, but Harry knew better—she had been trailing him, subtly weaving him through politicians ever since Cedric had gotten caught up with a particularly persuasive French diplomat.

"Because you are," Grindelwald said dryly. "Keep walking. They'll catch you eventually."

A flash of silver caught his eye.

Gabrielle Delacour was weaving her way through the crowd, her icy blue eyes locked on him. Her movements were deliberate, her expression calm but calculating.

Gabrielle stopped a few feet away, tilting her head in greeting. "Potter," she said, her voice cool and polished. "Finally, we meet properly."

Harry raised an eyebrow, offering a slight nod. "Delacour. I've heard a lot about you."

Gabrielle's lips curved into a faint smile. "And I've heard more than enough about you. Quite the dramatic entrance you made at the First Task."

Gabrielle moved before he could brace for it.

One step—no more than that yet the space between them thickened. Turned against him.

Heat pulsed where there should have been none, pressing against his skin like a strand of fire licking at his throat. It wasn't magic, not the kind that could be blocked with a wand. It was older, carved into bone and blood, a power that demanded something before the mind even knew it was bending.

She leaned in. Too close. The kind of close that had nothing to do with casual conversation and everything to do with pushing boundaries. A rogue lock of blonde hair slipped free, dangling over her small nose as if gravity itself had been caught in her pull. Hot air rushed against his ear.

"I wonder…" Her voice almost absent.

Harry's muscles locked. Every instinct screamed at him to move, to shove her back—but that was the trick, wasn't it? Veela allure didn't force. It invited.

Come closer. Listen. Fall.

His Occlumency slammed into place like a blade cutting through fog. No.

The world sharpened. The pressure eased. The warmth flickered out like a snuffed candle.

Gabrielle's lips curved—not a smile, not really. Something smaller. Sharper.

"Oh," she murmured, tilting her head. "Interesting."

Not a girl. Not a competitor. A predator watching to see if the prey would bite back.

Harry exhaled slowly. Smiled. Bared his teeth.

She studied him with those bright blue eyes- and then stepped back. Graceful. Unhurried. As if she hadn't been waiting to see if he'd break.

"Good," she said lightly. "It would be such a shame if you were disappointing."

And just like that, the moment passed. But Harry could still feel it. The echo of heat where there should have been none.

He had been tested.

And Gabrielle Delacour had taken note.

"Don't engage," Grindelwald warned, "She's testing you."

Harry ignored him. "Dragons tend to bring out the dramatics in everyone," he replied casually.

Before Gabrielle could speak again, an older girl, nearly a reflection of Gabrielle herself, stepped forward. Her eyes flicked between him and Gabrielle, an amused smile playing on her lips. "Gabrielle spoke highly of your performance," she said smoothly. "Though she did wonder… whether your control over that spell was entirely intentional."

Gabrielle's eyes gleamed with faint amusement. "Was it?"

Harry fought to keep his expression composed. "Magic's a little unpredictable in life-or-death situations," he said. "You learn to trust your instincts."

"Instincts like that must come from somewhere," The girl said, studying him closely. "Talent, certainly. But also... experience. I wonder which you rely on more."

"Testing your story, They want to know how much of what you are is skill and how much is luck."

Before Harry could respond, Gabrielle offered a more formal smile and gestured to her. "Allow me to introduce my sister—Fleur Delacour. Heir to the Delacour family and recently appointed as Ambassador for Magical Relations between France and Britain."

Fleur inclined her head gracefully. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter. I've heard much about you."

"The pleasure's mine," Harry said politely, his mind racing to adjust. An ambassador No wonder Fleur moved with such ease among the political elite.

Susan, who had been standing silently beside Harry, crossed her arms. "Funny how people who weren't in the arena always seem to have the most opinions about it."

Gabrielle's smile sharpened. "Opinions make the world go round, Miss Bones."

"Careful," Su Li said softly, her eyes never leaving Gabrielle. "Some opinions cut deeper than others."

Gabrielle's eyes flicked between Harry and Susan, her expression neutral but her head tilted slightly—as if cataloguing every word. A strategist, Harry thought, already playing a game before the real one began.

"But that's the beauty of the tournament," Gabrielle said, her tone light but edged with steel. "It reveals things about us we might not even know ourselves. Surprises are... inevitable."

"Surprises," Grindelwald chuckled. "Ah, they make life so thrilling, don't they? Especially when they're aimed at your back."

Harry gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Surprises can be useful. Keeps things interesting."

Susan, catching the edge in Gabrielle's voice, glanced at Harry, then turned back to Gabrielle with a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I suppose that means we'll be seeing a few surprises from you as well."

Gabrielle smiled sweetly. "I do enjoy keeping people on their toes."

Fleur's soft laugh broke the tension. "And she's quite good at it. Though perhaps not as good as you, Mr. Potter. My sister hasn't stopped talking about your... unconventional approach to the First Task."

Harry took a breath, weighing his response. He couldn't afford to show too much, but neither could he back down. "Instincts," he repeated. "They have a way of taking over when you need them most."

Gabrielle's gaze didn't waver. "Instincts like that are honed through experience. Not everyone has that kind of experience at our age."

"Careful, Harry, they're digging deeper." The dark lord drawled.

The tension was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Cedric, his expression politely curious. "Everything alright here?" he asked, slipping into the conversation with practiced ease.

Fleur smiled. "Of course. Just getting to know your fellow champion a little better."

Cedric's eyes flicked between Harry and Gabrielle. "I'm sure you are."

Gabrielle nodded at him, but there was a flicker of something in her expression—a cool appraisal. "Mr. Diggory, always the diplomat."

"Someone has to be," Cedric said lightly, then turned to Harry. "Dumbledore's looking for us. Said it's time for introductions to some of the Ministry heads."

"Right," Harry said, giving a polite nod to the Delacour sisters. "Gabrielle. Fleur. I'm sure we'll cross paths again."

Gabrielle's smile returned, faint and deliberate. "I'm counting on it."

As they walked away, Harry could still feel the weight of Gabrielle's gaze on his back.

"Interesting, isn't she? Focused. Hungry. But not cruel. She's not the one you should be watching."

"Then who?" Harry bit back, forcing his expression to stay calm as they moved through the crowd.

"Patience, Harry. They'll reveal themselves soon enough. You'll see."

The air in the ballroom was heavy with the scent of fine wine and polished marble, the hum of conversation threading through the atmosphere like an intricate spell. Harry and Cedric approached where Dumbledore and Flitwick stood in conversation with the Rosiers, their presence commanding the space with an air of pureblood prestige.

Harry recognized them immediately. They had the same aristocratic sharpness he'd seen in pureblood families before, but unlike the Malfoys, they didn't feel the need to flaunt their power. It was simply there, embroidered into the way they carried themselves—as if the world had always belonged to them, and they were merely waiting for everyone else to realize it.

"Ah," Grindelwald sighed, sounding almost amused. "The Rosiers have finally made their move."

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Diggory," Auguste Delacour greeted smoothly, his voice warm but his eyes watchful. "It is an honour to formally welcome you both to France."

Cedric, ever the diplomat, bowed his head slightly, offering a charming smile. "The honour is ours, Minister Delacour."

Harry followed Cedric's lead, offering a polite nod, but his expression remained unreadable. He could already feel the scrutiny pressing in from all sides.

"Minister Delacour, Chancellor Beaumont," Cedric continued, tone measured, "And, if I'm not mistaken, Lord and Lady Rosier?"

Lady Rosier's lips curled faintly, amusement flickering in her eyes as if Cedric had just passed an unspoken test. "You are well-informed, Mr. Diggory."

Cedric chuckled lightly, though Harry could see how carefully he held himself—poised, but never at ease. "It's always wise to know the key players in any game."

Lady Rosier turned her gaze to Harry, dismantling him.

"And you, Mr. Potter?" she questioned, "Do you also believe this to be a game?"

Harry met her gaze without flinching. "No," he said simply. "But I do know that every room has a hierarchy."

A moment of silence.

Then—Lady Rosier smiled. Slowly. Pleased. Like she had just uncovered something interesting.

Beaumont let out a quiet snigger. "Oh, I do like him," he murmured, more to Auguste than anyone else.

"Interesting," Grindelwald mused in his temples, his tone unreadable. "I wonder if you even realize the answer you just gave them."

Susan, standing slightly behind Harry, shifted uneasily.

"They like you," she murmured under her breath. "That's either very good or very bad."

Harry wasn't sure which yet.

Evangeline's attention turned back to Harry. "Tell me, Mr. Potter. Your display during the First Task—was it intentional? Or did instinct guide you?"

Harry's fingers flexed slightly at his side.

"Ah," Grindelwald whispered, "the game begins."

Susan, perhaps sensing the trap, spoke before he could. "Magic under pressure is unpredictable," she said smoothly. "Especially in life-or-death situations. The important thing is, he succeeded."

Evangeline's eyes flickered to Susan. "A loyal defender. Admirable."

"Amusing," Grindelwald murmured. "They're testing her, too. Seeing if she is a shield or a sword."

Harry exhaled slowly. "Control comes with time," he said finally. "But some spells... require something more."

Damien hummed. "Indeed. Power is rarely simply talent. It requires understanding. Intention. A clear vision."

"And there it is," Grindelwald whispered. "The invitation."

Harry's gaze sharpened. "And what do you think my vision is, Lord Rosier?"

Damien smiled faintly. "Ah, but that's the question, isn't it? What is it you see, Mr. Potter?"

Evangeline lifted a delicate, gloved hand, and a waiter materialized from the crowd, setting down a folded note onto the edge of Harry's plate.

"Perhaps we can speak more of visions another time," she murmured. "Over a more... private conversation."

Susan's breath hitched beside him.

Harry's fingers brushed over the note, but he didn't pick it up just yet. Instead, he met Evangeline's gaze.

"Perhaps," he said simply.

"A most interesting move," Grindelwald mused. "Let's see how you play the next one."

Evangeline smiled. "I do look forward to it."

The Rosiers turned away, slipping effortlessly back into the crowd, leaving behind only the weight of their invitation.

Harry exhaled slowly.

Susan turned to him immediately. "You're not going, are you?"

Harry lifted the note, flicking it open. A location. A time. No name.

He glanced at her, then back at the note. "I haven't decided yet."

Susan made a frustrated noise. "Harry, this isn't Hogwarts. This isn't sneaking into the Restricted Section for extra spellwork."

Su Li, who had been silent, finally spoke. "That's exactly why he has to consider it."

Susan looked at her incredulously. "You're saying he should go?"

Su's gaze flickered toward Harry, then back to Susan. "I'm saying he should think before he decides. A meeting like this isn't just about him—it's about what the Rosiers want."

Harry looked at the note again.

His eyes flicked up to meet blue.

"Remember, Harry, that you are the master of your own fate." The words were clear, as if Dumbledore stood right beside him. "No matter the path you choose, it will be your choice. And I have every faith that you will choose wisely."

Dumbledore's voice, like a warm hand on his shoulder, filled his mind, gentle and full of quiet assurance.

Harry's breath caught, and the tension that had been knotting his chest slowly unraveled. For a moment, the note in his hand felt lighter, as though Dumbledore's words had helped him shoulder the burden of his decision.

He glanced over at Susan and Su Li. His fingers tightened around the note.

"I will decide when I'm ready," Harry said, his voice steady, "And whatever happens next, I will face it. On my own terms."

Grindelwald's voice seemed to linger in the background, faint and distant

"A fork in the road, choose wisely, Harry. There's no going back."

The cool night air wrapped around them as they stood on the *balcony, the distant hum of the ballroom fading into the background. Below, the Beauxbatons gardens stretched in intricate terraces, the moonlight casting silver across the hedgerows and the lake beyond. The reflection of the academy shimmered against the water's surface, an image too still, too perfect—a mirror world untouched by the chaos inside.

Harry exhaled slowly, hands braced against the railing. The weight of the evening pressed heavily against his shoulders—*the politics, the maneuvering, the quiet battles fought with words instead of wands. But here, away from the prying eyes and careful smiles, he could finally breathe.

And for once, he wasn't alone.

Susan stood beside him, arms crossed loosely over her chest. She wasn't watching the scenery—she was watching him.

"Thanks," Harry said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Susan arched a brow. "For what?"

"For guiding me through all of this," he admitted, glancing at her. "Politics isn't exactly my area of expertise, and you didn't have to step in, but you did." He hesitated, then added, "It helped."

Susan let out a quiet breath—not quite a laugh, but close. "Wow. Harry Potter, actually saying he needed help. Will wonders never cease?"

Harry rolled his eyes, but there was no bite to it.

Susan's smirk faded slightly, something more thoughtful settling in her expression. She shifted, her fingers tapping lightly against the railing.

"I should be the one thanking you," she said eventually. "Or… maybe apologizing first."

Harry frowned. "For what?"

Susan chewed on the inside of her cheek, as if debating whether to continue. "For the way I acted before," she admitted. "At the start of the year, I wasn't exactly subtle about how I felt about you being in this tournament. And before that… well, I never really tried to see who you actually were."

Harry didn't respond immediately. He had grown used to it—the stares, the whispers, the assumptions people made before they even spoke to him.

"It wasn't personal," Susan added quickly. "Or at least, I didn't think it was. Cedric's my friend, and—" She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "No, that's an excuse. The truth is, I believed what everyone else did. That you were just… some arrogant Gryffindor throwing yourself into the spotlight again."

Harry let out a small, amused breath. "And now?"

Susan's lips quirked, but there was something serious in her voice when she answered.

"Now," she said, "I think you got thrown into something much bigger than any of us realized. And you're handling it a hell of a lot better than I would."

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the rawness in her tone.

"You're different from what I expected," she admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're not playing a role, not trying to impress anyone. You just… survive, and somehow, that's enough to make people watch you. Whether they admire you or fear you, they can't look away."

Harry didn't know how to respond to that.

"It's strange, isn't it?" Susan continued, voice quieter now.

Harry tilted his head. "What is?"

Susan gestured toward the moonlit gardens below. "Standing here. Watching everything from a distance. The whole world keeps moving, keeps going, and yet, for just a moment, we're outside of it. Like none of it matters."

Harry turned his gaze toward the lake, where the water shimmered under the stars. "Wish that were true."

A dry chuckle escaped her. "Yeah," she murmured. "Me too."

The wind played with the edges of her dress, strands of red hair catching the moonlight. There was something about this version of Susan—not the sharp, defensive girl from Hogwarts, not the wary heir of a powerful family, but just... Susan.

And for once, she wasn't looking at him like an enigma she had to solve.

"You really don't let anyone in, do you?" she said suddenly, her voice thoughtful.

Harry glanced at her, brow furrowing slightly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Susan's lips pressed together, as if choosing her words carefully. "Everyone has an idea of who you are. Or who they think you should be. I know I did." She exhaled, shaking her head slightly. "Back at Hogwarts, I thought… well, it doesn't matter. But after watching you tonight? You're different."

Harry leaned against the railing. "Different how?"

Susan hesitated before answering.

"You're not playing a part," she said simply. "Most people here, they're... rehearsed. They know exactly who they're supposed to be. How they're supposed to act. But you? You're just... figuring it out as you go."

Her eyes met his, searching. "And honestly? That scares them more than anything."

Harry huffed a small laugh. "You make it sound like I'm some wild variable."

Susan smirked faintly. "Aren't you?"

Harry shook his head, amusement flickering across his face. "Maybe."

The silence stretched again, but this time, it was comfortable.

Then, Susan's gaze flicked down to the small, folded note still resting in Harry's hand.

"Are you going to go?"

Harry didn't answer immediately. "Haven't decided."

Susan frowned. "It's a risk."

"Everything is."

She studied him for a moment before sighing. "You're going, aren't you?"

Harry smirked faintly. "I really haven't decided yet."

Susan gave him a look. "Right. And I suppose you weren't planning on sneaking into the Chamber of Secrets in second year either?"

Harry didn't even try to hide his grin. "That was different."

Susan rolled her eyes but didn't press. Instead, she leaned against the railing beside him, the tension between them easing gradually.

"You know," she mused, "if you ever do let people in… you might find it's not the worst thing in the world."

Harry turned his head slightly, watching her. There was no expectation in her voice, no push. Just... an invitation.

Susan shifted under his gaze, exhaling softly. "I mean—" She hesitated, fingers drumming against the railing. "Not that you need to or anything. I just—" Another pause, and this time, she rolled her shoulders like she could physically shake off the awkwardness. "Look, I know there might not be much of an... incentive, with me being the one saying this, but—"

She stopped herself, visibly frustrated, before huffing and looking away. "...You get what I mean."

Harry's lips twitched. "I think so."

Susan groaned, burying her face in her hands for a brief second before muttering, "Great. Fantastic. That wasn't embarrassing at all."

Harry chuckled, and when she shot him a glare, he held up his hands in mock surrender.

"Relax," he said, still amused. "It was... nice."

Susan huffed. "You're just saying that."

"Maybe," Harry admitted, smirking. "But I'll think about it."

Susan eyed him suspiciously, but there was something softer in her expression now. She shook her head, muttering, "Sure you will," before nudging his arm lightly.

The wind carried their laughter away, and for the first time that night, Harry felt just a little bit lighter.

Harry sat by the window of his chambers, the cool night air brushing against his face through the half-open window. The breeze stirred the curtains, sending them swaying like soft hands reaching out to touch the night. Dark green eyes were lost in the dark sky above. Thoughts, as scattered as the stars, seemed to swirl.

A faint glow spilled across the room, forming stretching shadows. His wand, resting against a marble desk with a white fire still burning at its tip, bathing the space in pale silver light His fingers absently played with the small music box that hung around his neck. His thumb gently traced the edges of the miniature box, feeling the delicate grooves on its surface.

'I wonder what song it'll play this time' Harry mused.

He tugged the chain, pulling the box from beneath his shirt and holding it in his hand. The moment it expanded, his fingers were met with a slight resistance, the box widening into a hand-sized object, its weight shifting, expanding to something tangible, solid.

He could feel the weight of it as he turned it in his hand, the cool metal smooth against his fingertips. He turned it over, noting the faint engravings in the metal that matched the rhythm of his heartbeat, its soft lines curling inwards as it moved indefinitely each groove the same yet simply not.

There was a slight click as he twisted it, The ornate, gilded hinges creaking slightly as the lid is opened and a soft melody began to play. Inside, silver mechanisms gleamed under the soft glow of his wand light. A single delicate metal cylinder turned, plucking at fine pins to produce a melody that drifted through the room. It was not the mournful strains of Lacrimosa, but something softer—lighter.

Harry frowned. He didn't recognize it.

But it felt like it belonged to this moment.

Perhaps Emily had listened of it somewhere, her words seeping into his mind as if they had always belonged there. With a deep breath, Harry set the music box down gently on the marble desk, replacing it with Emily's notebook. The smooth surface gleamed in the dim light, the embossed initials catching and holding the glow as if etched in silver. He lingered for a moment, fingers resting against the notebook's worn cover. Exhaling, he turned away, making his way back to the bed.

He found himself half-reclining against the bed, his back sinking into the plush blankets. One arm draped loosely over the sheets, the other resting against his stomach. His legs remained on the floor, knees slightly bent, as his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, the quiet glow of Lumos flickering against the ceiling.

The pages crinkled slightly as he flipped through, the weight of its history heavy between his fingers. His thumb brushed over the inked scrawl of Emily Riddle, her script meticulous yet strangely fluid, as though her thoughts had poured directly onto the page without hesitation. He had no idea what he was looking for, only that he'd know when he found it.

The pages crinkled slightly as he flipped through. His thumb brushed over the inked scrawl of Emily Riddle, her script meticulous yet strangely fluid, as though her thoughts had poured directly onto the page without hesitation. He had no idea what he was looking for, only that he'd know when he found it.

And then—

The first step is not to listen, but to watch.

Harry's brow furrowed. He hadn't been expecting a lecture.

Emily's words stretched across the page, the ink pressed deeper here, as if she had written them with intent.

People think Legilimency is about hearing thoughts. It isn't. It's about seeing.

The way their lips twitch before they lie. The flicker of hesitation in their eyes. The way their fingers tap when they're restless, the way their throat tightens before they deny something. Thought is movement. And movement is the mind speaking before the mouth does.

Harry traced the edge of the page, mind turning over the words

Not hearing—seeing.

His grip tightened

They will call it cheating. But cheating implies a broken rule. And what rule exists against knowing someone better than they know themselves?

A cold prickle ran down his spine.

The ink was older now, the words bleeding faintly into the parchment, yet Emily's voice in his mind was sharp as ever. He could almost hear her saying it—low, confident, edged with amusement.

Was this why she had been feared? Not just for the spells she cast, but for the way she saw people? For the way she turned knowledge into a weapon sharper than any wand?

His fingers lingered over the next passage.

A good duellist knows the battlefield.

A great duellist knows their opponent.

A true victor knows what their opponent will do before they do it.

His pulse thrummed.

This wasn't a lesson on duelling.

It was a lesson on reading people

Legilimency wasn't just about breaking into minds—it was about watching, predicting, anticipating. Emily hadn't just fought her opponents. She had unraveled them before they could even lift their wands.

The realization settled, heavy and cold.

He knew why this was here.

Emily had written this because she had been at a disadvantage. No matter how powerful she was, she had still been a student against grown witches and wizards. So she had tipped the scales in her favour in the only way that couldn't be countered.

By knowing them better than they knew themselves.

The moment they think, they have already lost.

Harry shut the notebook.

His heart was hammering.

He could still hear the music box playing in the background, its quiet tune filling the space between his thoughts. But something was wrong.

Something was... missing.

Grindelwald had been silent.

Completely silent.

Harry's brows furrowed, his eyes flicking toward the space where he had always felt the weight of those whispered observations pressing against his thoughts.

Nothing.

No voice. No laughter.

Just absence.

The music box's melody swayed, almost mocking in its consistency.

Harry swallowed, pushing down the unease curling in his stomach.

The dark lord never just disappeared.

But tonight, he had.