Harry took a slow, measured breath as he traversed the sloping grounds of Hogwarts, the sky tinted with wisps of pink and gold in the waning evening light. Despite the picturesque sunset, an uneasy coil of tension lingered in his stomach—tonight was Fleur's banquet at the Beauxbatons carriage, and he could feel the weight of it settling over him like a cloak. With practised ease, he used his Occlumency to still his thoughts, forcing a semblance of calm into his mind.
He fingered the collar of his new robes, the soft midnight-blue fabric lined with subtle silver filigree. They were a far cry from his usual plain black—Fleur had been adamant that he lookproperly presentable. He had to concede that she had an impeccable eye for style, even if part of him felt slightly out of place in such refined attire.
A familiar, sardonic hiss slithered through the air.
"You look ridiculous," Asmodeus drawled. "All that silver thread is distracting. I'd have gone for black and green."
Harry almost rolled his eyes at the remark but settled for a silent retort. "Yes, well, I like how these look. And you're a snake—what do you know about wizarding fashion?"
Ash let out a soft snort. Harry could feel the serpent shifting beneath his robes, apparently displeased by the banter. Then Asmodeus fell quiet, though Harry suspected he was only biding his time. The snake had, after all, declared he wanted totake a strollaround the castle this evening—yet here he was, coiled snugly against Harry's torso.
"Ash," Harry whispered with mild exasperation, "what part of 'taking a stroll' involves staying hidden in my clothes?"
The snake's lofty tone rolled through their soul-bond. "I am not one for cold evening air," Asmodeus replied. "Besides, you shouldn't question your betters, boy."
Harry shook his head and decided not to dignify that with an answer.
They reached the edge of the lawn where the famed Beauxbatons carriage stood in regal splendour—its powder-blue exterior gleaming in the last of the sun's glow. Though it looked sizable from the outside, Harry knew firsthand how vast it was within, courtesy of powerful spacial enchantments. A gentle hum of voices drifted out to the grounds, and floating candles lined a conjured walkway, flickering like tiny fairy lights against the evening dusk.
Harry steeled himself for the spectacle beyond those doors, watching as witches and wizards in their finest robes stepped carefully up the staircase. After a moment, he climbed the first step—just as Fleur appeared at the entrance. Silvery locks were pulled back in a delicate twist, her sky-blue dress robes shimmering faintly around her figure. Harry's breath caught momentarily at the sight. 'She's breathtaking,' he thought, feeling that now-familiar flip in his chest.
She descended a step and greeted him with a small, triumphant smile. Her gaze slid over his robes, and a hint of satisfaction lit her eyes. "You see," she murmured, "I knew I could make something nice out of you."
Harry placed a hand over his heart in mock offence. "Wow, so you're saying I'm not usually good-looking?"
A light laugh escaped Fleur's lips, and she moved closer. "Mon amour, you're adorable. Now, you're also presentable. You'll survive, non?"
He pretended to scoff. "I'll withhold judgment," he teased, though a grin tugged at his lips. She answered with a radiant smile that pulled him in, and he offered her his arm with a playful flourish.
The gentle strains of violins and harp filtered through the open doorway behind her, weaving a delicate melody that seemed to beckon them inside.
She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, and together they crossed the threshold.
Inside, Harry felt as if he had stepped into an enchanted palace. The interior was massive, with smooth marble floors and swaths of pale blue and silver draperies cascading along the walls. Overhead, floating chandeliers bathed the space in a gentle glow. Well-dressed witches and wizards mingled in small clusters—most of them French, though Harry spotted a few members of Hogwarts staff looking slightly out of place amid the lavish décor.
In the distance, Madame Maxime towered above the crowd, her posture unyielding and regal. Harry caught a glimpse of her sharp, assessing gaze briefly flicking towards him and Fleur before moving on to greet a small group of dignitaries. He resisted the urge to fidget under that gaze. Focus, Harry, he reminded himself, inhaling softly to maintain his calm.
A shifting weight against his chest served as a reminder that Ash was still coiled under his robes. 'Rather crowded, isn't it?' the serpent hissed through their soul channel. 'There's not enough room for a proper hunt.'
'No hunting,' Harry warned silently, 'and stay hidden.'
Outwardly, he kept his face impassive as an official approached them, balancing a tray of ornate pastries. Fleur accepted two delicate swirls of chocolate and spun sugar, handing one to Harry.
"Try it," she insisted, popping hers into her mouth. Her eyes fluttered shut as she savoured the sweetness. "Mmm, the chefs here never disappoint."
Harry took a cautious bite, relishing the burst of richness on his tongue. "Not bad," he admitted with a grin, "almost makes the pomp worthwhile."
"You do know," she teased in a low voice, "that for most people, simply being on my arm would be the highlight of their year?"
Harry rolled his eyes playfully. "Such modesty."
She only laughed, flicking his arm. "Come," she said then, tilting her head towards the other end of the hall. "We should say hello to Madame Maxime before she decides to lecture us publicly."
They wove through the crowd, exchanging polite nods with those who offered Fleur a quick "Bonsoir, Championne." Some students dipped half-bows in her direction. Harry noticed a tall, stylish boy smirking at him as they passed; he reminded Harry uncomfortably of Malfoy, so Harry chose to ignore him. A swirl of colourful robes and the soft hum of chatter made the entire place feel simultaneously grand and claustrophobic.
Finally, they reached Madame Maxime, who inclined her head in greeting. Her expression was formal, and her eyes lingered on Harry for a fraction longer than needed. "Mademoiselle Delacour," she said, her deep voice carrying over the strains of music, "and Mr Potter, I see." There was a slight emphasis on Harry's name, and then a knowing pause. "Welcome. Enjoy yourselves… within reason."
Fleur's jaw tightened for the briefest moment, but she kept a cordial smile in place. "Of course, Madame," she replied sweetly.
With a few additional words of caution and a brisk nod, Maxime dismissed them. Fleur steered Harry away from the Headmistress with a quiet sigh of relief. "At least that's done," she muttered under her breath, glancing over her shoulder to ensure Maxime was indeed leaving them be.
They continued on, eventually spotting a refreshment table, arrayed with pastel-hued punches and glass towers packed with tiny, twinkling confections. As they poured themselves each a glass of sparkling punch, Harry spied Professor Flitwick perched on a high stool.
The tiny Charms Master looked uncharacteristically animated, chatting with a tall witch in dark blue robes—Professor Faure.
Flitwick waved in greeting, his cheeks rosy. Harry chuckled softly. "He seems to be enjoying himself," he commented.
Fleur followed his gaze, a small smile playing at her lips. "Faure has a bit of a crush on him, I think. She mentions hislegendaryduelling achievements at least once every year."
The corners of Harry's mouth quirked in amusement. "Well, at least some people are making the most of the evening," he said. For a moment, it was easy to forget the swirl of politics that lingered just beneath the surface of such an event.
The quartet's music grew richer, shifting into a graceful waltz, and across the polished marble floor, couples began to form, turning in gentle circles under the chandeliers. The gentle lilt of violins and the melodic hum of a cello wove through the banqueters, and Harry felt Fleur's fingers curl around his forearm in the slightest show of tension.
She exhaled a soft breath, leaning in. "Let's dance," she murmured. "Might as well give everyone something beautiful to look at, oui?"
Harry smiled, ignoring the flutter of nerves at the idea of waltzing in front of half the French Ministry. "Lead the way," he murmured, and let her guide him onto the shining dance floor.
Harry felt every eye on him and Fleur as they glided across the space, yet for a moment, the world felt blissfully distilled to just the two of them.
The soft notes played by the band created a comforting cushion of sound, making each footstep on the smooth stone nearly silent.
Harry had never pictured himself enjoying dancing, let alone performing it so gracefully in front of a crowd.
Yet here he was, once again moving in near-perfect unison with Fleur's fluid steps.
His mind flitted back to the early days of the school year, when he could barely muster the confidence to dance without treading on Fleur's toes.
'I'm quite lucky, aren't I? Merlin knows where she found all that patience that she must have needed to teach me,' he thought, watching her graceful movements and remembering how she'd coaxed him through those first awkward steps with endless encouragement.
Harry caught Fleur's eye and smiled, an unspoken gratitude passing between them.
She offered the faintest nod, as if to say,You're doing fine.
A swirl of colour at the edge of his vision reminded him of the watching audience.
Several pairs slowed their dancing just to watch Harry and Fleur, while others whispered or cast jealous looks.
'Focus on the music,'Harry told himself, resisting the urge to glance around.
'Don't think about the crowd; think about her.'
As if she sensed his shifting thoughts, Fleur gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, drawing him closer in time to the final swell of the melody.
When at last the violins faded on a lingering note, a soft round of applause washed over them, polite yet intrigued.
They lingered briefly in the centre of the floor, taking a breath to steady themselves.
With a subtle gesture, she guided him away from the limelight.
As they stepped off the marble floor, Harry welcomed the relative quiet near the refreshment tables.
Although the hall was still lively—couples launching into another dance, dignitaries chatting under drifting fairy lights—this corner felt a bit more sheltered.
Fleur's arm remained snug against his until they reached a table laden with elegantly arranged sweets and tall flutes of sparkling juice.
He finally allowed himself a tiny sigh of relief. "You make it look easy," he murmured, setting a hand lightly on the small of Fleur's back.
"Years of practice I'm afraid," she replied softly, her accent curling around the words. "And… I've had to learn to hide my nerves, especially around politicians and father's allies." Her eyes flickered with a guarded light at the last few words.
Harry handed her a glass, watching with quiet concern as she took a careful sip.
Guilt tugged at him briefly, knowing she was expected to be perfect—too perfect.
"The only reason I haven't messed up too badly," he said lightly, "is because you're steering me half the time."
Her lips curved into a soft, genuine smile. "You're doing quite well yourself,mon amour. I'm sure I wouldn't have to steer much if we danced again."
He grinned, letting that casual banter fill him. "Maybe after a bit of a break."
They clinked their glasses in a silent toast—to us—then sipped.
Harry felt his muscles uncoil slightly, as though the night's pressure momentarily loosened its grip.
However, the sense of calm didn't last long.
Harry noticed a figure weaving through the crowd with unnerving purpose. Even before the young man reached them, Harry recognised him: tall, sharp-featured, and well-dressed in dark teal robes trimmed with gold. There was an unmistakable haughtiness in his posture, reminding Harry uncomfortably of Draco Malfoy.
'What are the odds that they're actually related?'he mused, jaw setting in mild exasperation.
The newcomer paused, only a polite step away.
His gaze flicked over Harry almost dismissive, before settling on Fleur.
He offered a shallow bow. "Mademoiselle Delacour*" he greeted, the pleasantry in his tone stretched thin by condescension.
Fleur acknowledged him with a cool nod. "Good evening," she replied, the words crisp.
Harry noticed a flash of irritation cross the boy's eyes before he responded in clipped English.
"You were enchanting on the dance floor. I trust you'll honour me with a turn as well?"
Harry felt a prickle of annoyance.
The tone of the Malfoy look-alike reeked of entitlement, as though Fleur's acceptance was guaranteed. The sense of expectancy in the boy's stance was almost palpable.
Fleur's polite smile didn't waver. "Thank you for the offer, but I've already danced quite enough for the moment. And I'm here with my partner." She spoke in English, emphasising Harry's presence. The steel in her tone was subtle, but it left no ambiguity.
The young man's eyes flicked to Harry, narrowing briefly. "Certainly," he replied, returning to French with insouciance, "but perhaps your 'partner' would understand if you wished to dance with a more… refined escort. One from your own country,non?"
Harry's fingers tightened around his glass.
'This again,' he thought, knowing enough French to understand exactly what the boy said.
How many times would he have to endure snide comments about being anoutsider?
Whether it was his house, his blood status, or now his nationality—the constant stream of prejudice was exhausting, especially from people who didn't even know him.
A spike of anger lanced through him, and for a moment, he recalled Draco's sneers in their earlier years at Hogwarts.'Same arrogance, different accent.'
He forced himself to stay calm, focusing on the breath he exhaled through his nose.
Fleur, however, showed no sign of flinching. "I'm content with the partner I have, Monsieur," she said. Her calm graciousness didn't mask the warning in her eyes. "If you'll excuse us, we'd like to finish our refreshments in peace."
A faint flush spread across the young man's cheeks—whether from anger or embarrassment, Harry couldn't tell.
He cleared his throat, adjusting his robe cuffs with exaggerated finesse. "I see," he said, voice growing taut. "What a pity, then, that the Beauxbatons champion—mychampion—declines to associate with her rightful peers. One might think it reflects poorly on our academy if you prefer strangers' company."
Fleur's jaw set in a rigid line. "Your champion?" she echoed, her carefully modulated accent lending a razor edge to the words. "I'm no one's champion but my own. And if I'm to reflect Beauxbatons, I suggest you consider how your behaviour looks at this moment."
The boy stepped closer, ignoring Harry entirely—a big mistake.
His voice rose slightly, attracting a few curious glances from nearby guests. "I wanted to show courtesy. You respond with insults and cling to your foreign attachments. I'd expect more loyalty from someone representingourschool."
Harry's pulse hammered. He couldn't stand by quietly any longer. He set his glass down with deliberate composure and placed himself so that he was a half-step in front of Fleur, no longer content to remain a bystander.
"I think that's enough," he said calmly, thought the tension in his tone made it clear it was anything but a request. "If Fleur says no, it's no. Stop making a fool of yourself and leave."
The French Malfoy's gaze whipped to Harry, eyes glittering with condescension. "Do you know who I am?" he demanded, switching back to English.
"I come from the prominent French line of the Malfoy family—unlike that lesser branch that settled in Britain."
Harry almost burst out laughing at the absurdity.
'Good lord, he's actually a Malfoy. He even acts like one!'
However, his cheeriness quickly evaporated as the boy showed no signs of backing down.
If anything, the Malfoy seemed emboldened by his own proclamation, his chin lifting with an air of superiority.
Harry's lips tightened into a half-smile, devoid of real mirth. "Then maybe you should act like someone who'sbetterthan me. Because right now, Malfoy, you're acting like a brat who can't take no for an answer."
The small circle of spectators who had gathered nearby tittered with amusement.
The tension in the room seemed to thicken, and Fleur's grip on Harry's forearm grew tighter, her nails pressing into his sleeve.
Harry sensed her unease—she clearly didn't relish the idea of him defending her—but his protective instincts roared at the way Malfoy was addressing them.
"You dare speak to me like that?" the Malfoy scion hissed indignantly. "You're nothing but an interloper—an outsider she's taken pity on."
Harry felt the familiar heat of anger rising within him, prepared to boil over. He even felt Ash moving beneath his robes, readying himself to strike.
'Let me handle this, please,' Fleur's voice resonated inside his head.
The request surprised him and it took deliberate effort not to snap back at Malfoy.
He wrestled down his temper and marvelled at the suddenmind channel, questioning how Fleur had formed the connection wandlessly.
Steadying herself, Fleur turned fully to the French Malfoy, chin lifting by a fraction. "You," she began, her tone cool yet cutting, "will not speak to Harry that way. I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks." She spoke with a crisp precision, each syllable laced with an accent that only sharpened her meaning. "And don't presume I belong to anyone, least of all you. That is laughable."
A charged silence followed her words, pressing upon the knot of onlookers who had begun to gather. Malfoy's nostrils flared, ready to lash out, but Fleur forged on before he could speak.
"Your arrogance is embarrassing," she stated, allowing her disgust to show. "You think your family name entitles you to demand my time, criticise my choices, and insult whomever you please? Shame on you—and on your family for its obvious disregard of your upbringing. You're just like your British cousin."
A muscle in Malfoy's jaw tightened. "You dare group me with that inbred imbecile?" he spat, words stumbling in his hurry to defend himself. "I am no Draco Malfoy—I'm the rightful heir to a far more distinguished—"
"Distinguished?" Fleur interrupted, disdain cool and unwavering. "Any name you boast means nothing if you conduct yourself with such poor grace. You might as well be a common peasant."
Their voices rose, drawing in more of the party-goers. Harry felt the hush in the air, as though everyone had paused mid-conversation or dance to watch the confrontation unfold.
'If he's anything like Draco, that must have hit the right spot.'
Malfoy stepped forward, near enough that Harry caught the venom in his eyes.
"Youdarequestionmyhonour and status in front of all these people?" the boy snarled. "You humiliate me—"
"No," Fleur cut in, her composure bordering on glacial. "You humiliated yourself."
From the corner of his eye, Harry noticed Malfoy's hand twitch towards his robes, no doubt seeking his wand. Acting on instinct, Harry had his holly wand out in an instant, aimed squarely at Malfoy's chest. Startled, Malfoy froze, his wand half-drawn.
Harry's voice came out tight and controlled. "I wouldn't," he cautioned, the implicit threat clear.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, and several onlookers visibly steeled themselves for what might come next.
"That will bequiteenough," a smooth voice interjected, firm though devoid of open hostility.
Sebastian Delacourstepped forward, commanding attention with easy confidence. Dressed in deep gold robes, he looked every inch the influential wizard. A single measured glance from him rooted Malfoy to the spot.
"What, may I ask, is the cause of this disruption?" he inquired, words calm yet tinged with a steely edge. His gaze flicked between Malfoy, Harry, and Fleur.
Malfoy endeavoured to collect himself, offering the older wizard a shallow bow. "Monsieur Delacour, there appears to have been a misunderstanding—"
Sebastian silenced him with a raised hand. "I've heard enough, thank you." He switched to French, his tone quieter but still commanding. "Leave at once. Your family's name does not permit you to harass my daughter." His gaze narrowed in warning.
Red-faced, the Malfoy scion bowed stiffly and backed away. The circle of spectators parted, allowing him to retreat behind a swirl of pastel robes, though whispers followed in his wake.
As the crowd began to disperse, the tension remained behind. Even once people resumed their conversation and dancing, the hush lingered around Sebastian, Fleur, and Harry.
Sebastian turned, giving Harry a brief, measured look before focusing on his daughter.
"Are you hurt?" he asked in French, his voice softening with a barely perceptible concern.
"I'm all right," Fleur replied in the same language. She straightened her posture, determined to project composure. "It was a small matter."
Sebastian's gaze flicked briefly to Harry, then back. "We should speak privately," he said, nodding towards a quieter corner of the hall. It wasn't a suggestion so much as a directive.
Fleur hesitated, her fingers pressing lightly against Harry's arm in a subtle signal to let her deal with this. Harry inclined his head, stepping aside but remaining near enough to intervene if necessary.
Once they were a bit removed from the lingering onlookers, Sebastian's voice dropped to a low murmur. "I had hoped you would avoid making a scene tonight," he remarked, slipping easily back into that polished, almost diplomatic tone. "Instead, half the hall is gossiping about your spat with that boy—and," he added, giving Harry a fleeting glance, "the Hogwarts champion."
Fleur inhaled sharply. "Let them gossip.Hestarted it, not me." She switched to English, presumably for Harry's benefit. "And you're wrong to dismissthe Hogwarts champion. Harry's been more of a gentleman tonight than most of the people in that room."
Sebastian's eyebrow twitched. "That may be so, but you know perfectly well what is expected of you—by Beauxbatons, by our Ministry, and by your family. Frankly, I'm disappointed." He paused, his next words clipped. "Do you truly think associating with a Hogwarts champion, someone entirely outside our circle, brings you any credit?"
Fleur's expression hardened. "Iget to decide that. Besides," she added, voice growing quiet but determined, "I've no intention of staying in France after graduation."
He looked truly startled, shock flickering across his features before he concealed it. "You can't mean that," he said, voice hushed and urgent. "You belong with your family. Leaving would sever you from everything—"
"Fromyoureverything," Fleur corrected. Though her voice wavered ever so slightly, her gaze did not.
'This must be so hard for her,' Harry thought.
While he couldn't truly relate due to his parents' deaths, he felt Dumbledore's betrayal gave him some understanding of her situation.
He resisted the urge to hex Sebastian—Fleur needed to handle this herself.
Fleur's father exhaled slowly, reining in whatever he was about to say. "You risk burning bridges that cannot be rebuilt," he warned, his voice just a shade gentler, laced with what might have been genuine sadness.
"Then so be it," Fleur answered, keeping her composure by the barest thread.
For a moment, father and daughter simply regarded one another, the shared silence thick with unspoken recrimination. Finally, Sebastian dipped his head. "Very well." He stepped back. "You've made your position clear. I only hope you won't come to regret it."
With a sweep of his robes and the understated scent of fine cologne, Sebastian moved away, leaving that corner of the hall still charged with the aftershock of confrontation.
Fleur let out a faint, shaky breath. Harry approached, setting a gentle hand on her arm. "Fleur?" he murmured.
She turned, eyes bright with tears she refused to shed. "I'm all right," she whispered unsteadily. "I just… I need a minute."
Harry nodded, concern and affection mingling powerfully within him. "If you'd rather step outside…?"
She mustered a tremulous smile and nodded. "Yes, I'd like some fresh air."
He bent to kiss her temple, then guided her through the thinning crowds. Madame Maxime shot them a pointed look but didn't intervene as they made their way towards the exit.
As they walked, Harry couldn't stop but appreciate the ritual he had undergone—being taller than your girlfriend was nice…
Once outside, the cool night air closed around them. The moon glowed in a deep velvet sky, and Harry felt relief loosening the tightness in his chest.
Fleur glanced up at the castle spires, then turned to him with a grateful expression. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice soft as if not to disturb the hush of the evening. "For staying by me. For… everything."
He saw the gentle reflection of moonlight in her eyes and felt a fierce tenderness well up in response.
"Always."
.
.
.
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Chapter 34: The Duelling Competition
Chapter 35: Champions Showdown
Chapter 36: The Impstor