CHAPTER 22: THE WOMAN IN THE SHADOWS
The following months passed quickly as Harry settled into his new role. Leading a team came with its own set of challenges, but Harry found a rhythm. His team—mostly comprised of skilled Aurors who had been with the department for years—were respectful of his leadership, and he quickly gained their trust.
But with each mission, new threats arose. Dark magic was still lurking in the corners of the wizarding world, and it was Harry's job to hunt it down. Whether it was an underground black market dealing with cursed objects or dark wizards attempting to resurrect long-forgotten spells, Harry and his team were on the frontlines.
Yet, even in the midst of danger and chaos, Harry knew something that no one could take from him: this was his purpose. The mission, the work, and the people—he was building something worthwhile. He had found his place in this new world, and even if it was different than he had expected, it was enough.
As he sat in the quiet of his office late one night, reviewing reports and making plans for the next mission, he allowed himself a rare moment of peace.
For the first time in a long while, Harry felt hopeful about the future.
The journey ahead wasn't easy, but he was no longer running. And for the first time, he believed it might just be enough.
Mike's voice crackled through the comm again, his laugh making the transmission fuzzy. "Old people, huh? You know, I wouldn't be too quick to judge. Those 'old people' are the ones who kept the world from going to hell in a handbasket all those years ago."
Harry smirked as he continued to watch the steady stream of cars pulling up to the Elysee Palace. "Yeah, I'm sure they've got some interesting stories to tell. But we're here for a different kind of history tonight, aren't we? The kind that doesn't involve any potential explosions."
"Right, right," Mike agreed, his tone shifting. "But hey, just don't get too comfortable. I've got my eye on the ground, and things are… quieter than usual. That makes me nervous, Harry."
Harry knew what he meant. The silence before a storm was always the worst. The fact that everything was so smooth, so orchestrated, felt almost too perfect. There had been no signs of trouble up until now, but they both knew that in their line of work, it only took a single mistake, a single slip, for everything to go sideways.
"I'll keep an eye on things down here," Harry replied. "And you, stay sharp up there. If something happens, I want to be the first to know."
"Roger that, Commander," Mike quipped. "I'll be waiting for the first sign of trouble, like a rat in a tuxedo. You'll be the first to know."
Harry let out a quiet chuckle and turned back to the unfolding scene. The palace grounds were pristine, the high stone walls casting long shadows under the moonlight. The grand entrance had been adorned with elegant decorations—flags from dozens of countries fluttered in the breeze, the banners of past victories, and a symbol of unity amidst the chaos.
The security buzz around him was palpable. Every person present had been thoroughly vetted, and yet Harry could still sense that something wasn't right. It wasn't the guests arriving, it wasn't the foreign dignitaries. It was the atmosphere—the almost tangible tension, thick as fog, rolling in from somewhere beyond his line of sight. His senses were heightened. It was like his very skin could feel the danger even before it materialized.
The first car stopped at the grand entrance, and the guests began to step out, greeted by the French presidential security and magical agents. Harry watched as the moment unfolded, all the while keeping his attention split between the security detail, his agents' movements, and the comms.
Suddenly, a sharp voice pierced the air through his earpiece. "Harry, this is Agent Leclerc. We've got something odd. A guest is unaccounted for. We've been tracking all the limos, but one is off the grid."
Harry's heart skipped a beat. The tension in his chest tightened as the realization hit. "Do you have a visual?" he asked quickly.
"Negative, but we've got a trace signal going to a nearby alley. It's near the west wing. We think the limo might've dropped someone off there."
Harry didn't hesitate. "Mike, you're with me. Let's move."
He quickly turned away from the balcony, his tuxedo blending in with the sea of black suits and uniforms in the crowd. The plan had always been to keep things contained within the palace grounds, but this felt like a diversion. An attempt to get someone inside while everyone's attention was on the event itself.
He strode through the palace halls, passing guards and agents as he made his way toward the west wing. His thoughts raced. Was this a distraction? Was someone planning to make a move during the commotion, slip through the cracks when everyone was distracted? His hand instinctively reached for the small gold coin hidden inside his jacket pocket. The charm would allow him to summon any agent nearby within seconds, but he didn't want to show his hand just yet. The fewer people involved in this search, the better.
When he arrived at the side entrance leading to the west wing, he signaled for Mike to follow him. They approached the alley carefully, blending into the shadows to avoid being seen by the increasing number of guests arriving. Harry's instincts were screaming at him, but he couldn't pinpoint why. His mind flicked back to what he'd learned in his Auror training: trust your gut, but verify with your eyes.
Mike leaned in close. "What's the play?"
"We wait and observe," Harry whispered. "The moment we see anything, we call for backup."
The minutes felt like hours. Every sound seemed amplified in the silence—the hum of magic flickering in the air, the shuffle of footsteps, the low murmur of conversations from afar. Nothing looked out of place, but Harry knew better than to assume everything was fine. He watched the shadows, waiting, listening, and trying to piece together the puzzle.
Suddenly, movement caught his attention. A figure, shrouded in a dark cloak, emerged from a side door, slipping past a security camera. The figure's movements were quick and deliberate—too quick to be just another latecomer. Harry's breath caught in his throat as his eyes narrowed.
"Mike, we've got company," he said under his breath. "I need a clear view of that figure. Get to the other side."
Without waiting for a reply, Harry pressed his hand against his coin. In an instant, several nearby agents appeared, including Leclerc, who had been keeping an eye on the west wing's perimeter.
"Stay low," Harry muttered. "We're not taking any chances here."
They moved silently, staying out of sight, until the mysterious figure reached a secluded part of the palace gardens. Harry's mind raced. Who were they? What were they doing here? And why were they trying to avoid the crowds?
"I think they're heading for the back entrance," Leclerc said, looking through his enchanted binoculars. "But why sneak around if they've got a clear path inside?"
Harry's pulse quickened. The answer to that question was a chilling one. They were here for something—or someone.
The words struck Harry like a thunderclap. His body froze, and for a moment, his mind scrambled to make sense of what was happening. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog of disbelief that had clouded his thoughts. The woman standing before him—tall, elegant, with waves of silvery blonde hair—was not someone he had expected to see tonight, or ever again, for that matter.
"Impossible," Harry whispered, stepping back, his hand instinctively reaching for his wand, though he didn't know if he was ready for whatever was about to unfold. "It can't be..."
The woman's smile widened as she took a step closer, her gaze never leaving Harry. Her presence seemed to cast a shadow over the grandeur of the palace, and yet there was something familiar about her. Something Harry couldn't quite place, but it gnawed at him, like a memory on the edge of his mind, just out of reach.
"Oh, Harry," she cooed softly, her voice like silk. "You've grown up so much since we last saw each other. But you still look the same, don't you?"
His heart thudded in his chest. The memories that had been buried, the ones he had tried so hard to lock away, suddenly surged to the surface, threatening to overwhelm him. He could see her now—not as the woman before him, but as the child he had once known. Her bright eyes, her mischievous grin, the laugh that had always seemed so infectious.
"No," Harry muttered, shaking his head. "No, it can't be you. You… you're—"
"Dead?" The woman finished for him, her voice tinged with amusement. "Oh, I don't think so. Not anymore."
Harry felt a chill run through him. The woman in front of him was none other than Fleur Delacour, but she wasn't the Fleur he had known. This was someone... different. Her eyes gleamed with something darker now, something that Harry couldn't quite understand.
"How are you even here?" he demanded, struggling to keep his voice steady. "We... we saw you, Fleur. You died."
"Did I?" Fleur laughed softly, her expression almost playful. "I suppose you all believed that, didn't you? A beautiful ending for a beautiful story. But there is much more to the tale, Harry. Much more than you could ever imagine."
Harry's mind reeled. Fleur's death had been one of the great tragedies of the war, the final blow that had left so many of them broken, desperate, and mourning. He could still remember Bill's grief, the way the Weasley family had mourned her loss. And yet, here she was—alive, standing before him as though nothing had changed.
"How?" Harry asked again, this time his voice cracking, betraying his confusion and frustration. "What happened to you?"
Fleur tilted her head, her smile turning more enigmatic. "There are things you do not know, Harry. Things that have been hidden from all of you. You and your friends, you always believed in one story. But there are other stories, Harry. Stories that go beyond your understanding."
She stepped closer to him now, her movements graceful, almost predatory. "And you, of all people, should know that not everything is as it seems."
Harry's heart pounded in his chest. His grip tightened around his wand, though he kept it at his side, wary of any sudden movements. Something was off. She wasn't the same Fleur who had once stood beside Bill, laughing with the Weasley family, teasing Harry with her playfully biting remarks. This Fleur... was something darker.
"You're not the same," Harry said, his voice low, almost to himself. "What happened to you? What did they do to you?"
Fleur's eyes sparkled, and she stepped even closer, until only a few feet separated them. "They didn't do anything to me, Harry," she whispered, her voice now soft, but filled with an unsettling calm. "I chose this. I chose to be more than just the pretty girl who married a Weasley. I chose to survive... to evolve."
Her smile faded as she looked at him, and for the first time, there was a glimpse of something darker in her gaze. "And now, Harry, I need you to choose as well."
Harry felt a shiver run down his spine. Something was happening here, something far beyond the scope of what he had prepared for. The Fleur he had known was gone, replaced by someone else—someone far more dangerous, far more calculating. The air between them thickened, and Harry could feel the weight of her words, as though they were a warning, a prophecy.
"What do you want?" Harry demanded, trying to push the rising sense of dread aside. "Why are you here?"
Fleur's lips parted slightly, her smile returning, though it was colder now, tinged with something almost predatory. "You've grown stronger, haven't you, Harry? But you've only scratched the surface. You've seen the world for what it truly is, but you haven't yet learned how deep the shadows go." She stepped even closer, her breath warm against his cheek. "I want you to understand. I want you to see."
Suddenly, Harry's thoughts were interrupted by a sharp crackle in his ear. "Harry! What the hell is going on?" Mike's voice came through urgently. "We've got movement near the east wing. I think—"
Before Mike could finish, Fleur raised a hand, and the comms went dead, cutting off any further communication. Harry's pulse raced, and his senses sharpened. He had to think fast. Was this a trap? Were they trying to distract him? Or was Fleur truly a threat, something worse than he could have imagined?
Fleur took a step back, her eyes glinting with amusement as she watched him closely. "The party is just beginning, Harry. I suggest you keep your eyes open. I'll be seeing you again soon."
With a flick of her wrist, she disappeared into the shadows, leaving Harry standing there, heart pounding, unsure of what to believe.
For a long moment, Harry stood frozen in the silence of the balcony, trying to make sense of the encounter. The beautiful, deadly woman who had once been a part of his world was gone, and in her place stood a mystery—one that Harry knew he would have to solve before it consumed him, and perhaps everyone he cared about.
His hand instinctively moved to the coin in his pocket, but before he could activate it, a sudden crash echoed through the palace—far too close for comfort. His instincts kicked in, and he bolted toward the noise, his mind racing, trying to piece everything together.
One thing was certain. This night was far from over. And whatever had happened to Fleur Delacour, it was just the beginning of something far darker.
Harry's pulse raced as he sprinted down the corridor, his footsteps echoing in the grand hallways of the Élysée Palace. His thoughts were a chaotic blur, struggling to process everything that had just happened. Fleur Delacour—alive, changed, and dangerous—had just vanished into the shadows, leaving him with more questions than answers. But he couldn't afford to dwell on that now. The crash he'd heard had snapped him back to the present, and the immediate danger was still very real.
As Harry turned the corner, he saw a pair of agents rushing past him, their wands drawn. "Harry, over here!" one of them shouted. They were headed toward the east wing, the source of the disturbance.
Harry quickly followed them, the sharp scent of old wood and polished stone filling his lungs as he moved through the palace. The atmosphere was tense, the air thick with anticipation. What was happening? Was this connected to Fleur—or was there something else going on? The notion that everything was part of a bigger plan began to take shape in his mind, like the pieces of a puzzle slowly revealing themselves.
Rounding another corner, Harry spotted the commotion. The east wing was in chaos. There were several more agents gathered around a large, ornate door that had been smashed open. It was clearly not an accident. The doorframe was charred, and the air around it was thick with the acrid scent of magic.
"What happened?" Harry barked, his eyes scanning the scene.
One of the agents, a tall man with short-cropped hair and a stern expression, turned to him. "We were on patrol when the door suddenly exploded inward. No signs of forced entry, but there's a magical signature here, powerful and dark."
Harry stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. He could feel it now—the unmistakable presence of dark magic lingering in the air. It was the same oppressive aura he had felt during the final battles of the war, the kind of magic that left a mark, a signature that was impossible to ignore. Whoever had done this was powerful, but also reckless.
"We need to clear this area, now," Harry said, his voice tight with urgency. "Get everyone back and double the security."
The agents quickly moved to comply, but Harry lingered at the doorway, peering inside. The room beyond was dark, save for the flickering glow of several torches lining the walls. He could hear a faint sound—like a low murmur or chant—coming from deep within the room. His instincts screamed that he was not alone.
"Get the backup wands," Harry muttered to himself, his mind racing. He didn't know what he was walking into, but he knew one thing: Fleur's sudden appearance was no coincidence. This attack—it had to be connected.
He slowly stepped forward, his wand drawn, his heart hammering in his chest. As he crossed the threshold, the air grew colder, and the sound of chanting grew louder. But it wasn't in any language Harry recognized. It was a guttural, almost unearthly language—one that reminded him of the dark rituals that Voldemort and his followers had once used.
"Harry! Wait!" The agent from earlier called after him, but Harry didn't pause. He had to see this through. He had to understand what was happening.
The chanting seemed to grow more frantic the deeper he went into the room. The walls were adorned with ancient tapestries, but the decor felt off. Something about the room didn't belong in the Élysée Palace. It was almost as if this space had been left untouched for centuries. The very walls seemed to hum with dark magic, and Harry could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he continued.
The source of the chanting came into view just as Harry entered the center of the room. There, standing in front of an intricate circle drawn in what appeared to be blood, was a figure cloaked in black. The figure's face was obscured by a hood, but the air around them crackled with malevolent power.
Before Harry could react, the figure turned to face him, and the chanting abruptly stopped. The figure's eyes—pale and filled with an unnatural intensity—locked onto Harry's, and for a split second, Harry felt a surge of panic grip his chest. The figure raised a hand, and Harry instinctively raised his wand.
"Ah, Potter," the figure spoke, its voice like a rasping whisper. "You always seem to show up at the most opportune moments."
Harry's mind raced as he took in the situation. The figure was clearly a dark wizard—there was no mistaking that—but what was even more unsettling was the aura of familiarity that lingered in the air. It was the same kind of power he had felt during the battle at Hogwarts, the kind that was impossible to ignore. The figure's magic was deep, ancient... and terrifying.
"Who are you?" Harry demanded, his voice steady despite the rising sense of dread in his chest.
The figure chuckled darkly, stepping closer to the circle. "You're not as quick as you used to be, are you, Harry? It's been a long time since we've crossed paths."
Harry's mind raced, searching for any clue that could help him make sense of the situation. And then it hit him—the voice. The way the figure spoke. It was hauntingly familiar, like a whisper from his past.
"Fleur?" Harry's voice was barely a whisper, but the figure smiled, and Harry's stomach twisted with recognition.
"Close, but no," the figure replied, their voice growing colder. "You've forgotten much, haven't you, Harry? Forgotten what we shared. Forgotten what I became."
The figure lowered their hood, revealing a face that sent a chill down Harry's spine. It was Fleur—no, it was someone who looked like Fleur, but with the stark, unnatural pallor of someone who had been touched by something far darker. Her blue eyes, once warm and inviting, were now a cold, predatory shade.
"How?" Harry breathed, unable to keep the shock from his voice. "What happened to you?"
Fleur—or whatever this was—smiled again, but it was no longer the smile of the playful, teasing woman he once knew. It was a cold, calculating grin. "I survived, Harry. More than you'll ever understand. And now, I have work to finish. The real war has only just begun."
Before Harry could react, the room seemed to pulse with dark energy. The figure raised their arms, and the very walls seemed to tremble. The air grew thick with magic, and Harry's senses screamed that something terrible was about to happen.
He had to stop this, but how? He knew one thing for certain—he wasn't facing the Fleur Delacour he had known. This was someone far worse, someone who had been corrupted by power beyond his understanding.
As the figure began to chant again, the dark magic swirling around them intensified. Harry's instincts screamed at him to act, but he had to be careful. One wrong move, and everything could be lost.
With a flick of his wand, Harry summoned his own magic, trying to counter the growing force. But this was no ordinary dark magic. This was something far older, far more dangerous. Harry's thoughts raced as he fought to stay focused.
Fleur—or whatever she had become—smiled, and Harry knew then that he was not just fighting to survive. He was fighting for something much larger than himself.
The true battle had begun.
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