AN: Another chapter for you! Fleur makes good use of her disillusionment charm and Harry is infuriating her even more than usual. Don't forget to leave a review!

Chapter Twenty-Two - The Invisible Girl

The sun hung low in the red-painted sky, the squat cabins spilling long-reaching shadows over the grass like tipped-over ink pots.

Fleur moved unseen through the camp beneath her ever-improving Disillusionment Charm.

They said it was among the hardest spells to master. Initially, that challenge had drawn her to it. But as Fleur practised, it became something closer to obsession. She realised what it could offer: freedom. Freedom to walk unnoticed through the hallways of Beauxbatons, to disappear from one classroom and silently reappear at the next, to stand unscrutinised in the Great Hall and decide whether there were enough free seats to eat in peace. Soon enough the charm ceased to be about pride or ambition—it became a necessity. She'd felt trapped in her own skin since arriving at school, suffocated by stares that wrapped around her like a straitjacket.

Those days were mostly behind her now. She'd eventually made some friends, and it hadn't been necessary anymore. But there were moments like this where the charm served a similar purpose. As she walked invisible through camp, Fleur's steps felt lighter, her face serene as the fading sunlight warmed her skin. She paid no mind to her posture or expression; her hair was a half-dried mess atop her head, and she hadn't even bothered wearing shoes. Today had been… tiring. She needed this moment to herself, away from everyone, to refocus her mind and reclaim her sense of calm. To reorder her priorities. Her frustration with her squad mates had rattled her usually ironclad focus. With the week nearing its end, Fleur couldn't afford such distractions. She needed to remind herself of what was important, why she was here.

She'd escaped to a quiet part of the camp: out behind the last row of cabins where the lawn tapered off into a meadow. The long grass was dotted with boulders of white stone that poked above the tall blades like hulking, silent sheep.

Fleur meandered the length of the divide between perfectly manicured, spongy grass and the wild stalks of the meadow, running her fingers through their rough tips. She ripped one off, rubbing it between her fingers absently.

She stopped herself suddenly, waving her arms to catch her balance and just able to prevent her toes from pressing down on whatever she'd felt beneath her. She took a step back and crouched down, hugging her knees as she peered down at the tiny, budding wildflower. It stood alone, breaking out from the grass and reaching its spindly green neck towards the wild meadow, like a fish flopping on a deck, desperate to reach the ocean. Beneath the closed bud, a hint of vibrant blue promised something beautiful—so long as nobody stomped it into the dirt first.

Sudden voices nearly made her jump, nearly falling backwards over her heels.

"—not as if the Dark Lord was ever going to care about me being there. If anything, I should be rewarded for getting Harry Potter to stupidly walk into what was quite obviously a trap."

Fleur froze. Footsteps were suddenly behind her, accompanied by a scoff. She felt a rush of displaced air as someone nearly collided with her. Turning her head sharply, she glimpsed two figures striding into the tall grass, leaving a trail of rustling stalks in their wake.

Fleur let out a breath, finally allowing herself to rise from her crouch. Despite the quickened beating of her heart, she was quite pleased by the proof that her charm was good enough to remain unseen right beneath someone's nose.

A frown tugged her brows together as she slowly stood, turning her head to peer through the canopy of grass and towards the retreating sound of rustling.

She was sure she'd recognised that voice just a second ago; there were but a handful of students in camp that were British, and it had sounded remarkably like the English boy, Malfoy, who had sat beside Harry at every single meal so far this week.

Despite being free from the threat of discovery, Fleur's heart continued to beat loudly in her ears. Her ears rang with the words she'd just heard. The Dark Lord…

She had not heard wrong. Those two people were talking about leading Harry Potter into a trap, speaking as if the Dark Lord was…

It had been years since she'd heard mention of the defeated wizard, but an instilled sense of fear still lingered, even now. The Dark Lord may not have had the same grip on France as he had on Britain, but the emboldenment of pureblood ideology had affected her family more than most. She still remembered what it had felt like, waiting for her father to come home from work, her mother's silent tears she'd tried to hide.

Fleur squirmed, poised on the balls of her feet, torn between following and retreat — finding out more and pretending she'd never heard a thing. After all, she was invisible. There was nobody but her to judge her decision.

Fleur chewed her lip and stared nervously out across the meadow. The long grass was the one place she could go that would counter the effects of her charm. Even if the sound of her steps didn't reveal her, her indent in the grass certainly would.

Her eyes flickered to the trail they'd left. Perhaps if she kept to their path she could avoid detection. But what if they came back the same way?

She stewed in indecision, nails biting into her palm.

Harry's face surfaced in her mind. His anger. His frustration. The mysterious drive that made him simultaneously work himself to the bone and dismiss anything that didn't serve his idea of useful. She couldn't shake the discomforting sense that these two things were somehow linked. What else could forge a twelve year old into a weapon that even the P.D.E. was struggling to handle? Perhaps she'd misheard. Perhaps she was reading too much into the actions of an angry child.

But she couldn't be sure.

Fleur stepped into the meadow, swallowed into a corridor of grass whose walls were alive and dancing. The breeze was gone, replaced by a constant buzz.

She kept her eyes firmly on each step she would take, attempting to follow the exact footsteps left behind.

"Are you going to say something, or what?"

Fleur immediately crouched to the ground. A chill ran from the tip of her head and down to her toes. She thought at first someone had cast the counter charm on her, but she could see the dents she was making in the springy ground where her feet should be. She narrowed her eyes, searching through the grass.

Had that voice been who she thought it was?

Her eyes eventually locked onto two figures standing behind one of the chalky white boulders. Malfoy stood arms crossed and facing away from her, staring into the meadow beyond.

Suddenly he turned around, and to Fleur's great surprise, cursed like a sailor.

"If it weren't for the fact that you have the sense of humour of a Lethifold, Harry, and the fact that it actually does explain every blasted thing that's happened…"

Fleur blinked in surprise. So the other person was Harry.

"I have a sense of humour," Harry defended grumpily. Fleur saw his elbow flash from behind the boulder and began to creep further towards them. As she rounded the bend she could see Harry leaning against the boulder, arms crossed with his trademark scowl of irritation.

Draco ignored him and began to pace, further flattening the grass beneath him as he muttered to himself.

"Aren't you curious about how?" Harry asked after a moment.

Draco looked up. "Knowing you, it was something incredibly idiotic that should have gotten any other person killed."

"Or worse…" Harry muttered.

"What?" Draco snapped.

"Nothing," Harry snickered to himself, before wincing slightly as if in pain. "But you're not wrong. I jumped through some sort of ancient veil in the Department of Mysteries."

Draco froze, eyes wide as he stared at him, as if waiting for the punchline.

Fleur shuffled closer. She still had no clue what the context of this patchwork conversation was, but she could understand that last part well enough. Her eyes tracked Harry's expression as he watched the boy across from him. There was a naked pain in his eyes that made her almost feel bad for listening in.

It seemed as if Draco also saw something in his expression, because he raised a hand to his brow as if to ward off a headache, and sighed. "And I assume that had something to do with how you knew the Dark Lord still lives. Was— did he truly return?"

Fleur's heart caught in her throat, lungs constricting until breathing felt impossible. Old fears she'd forgotten the taste of rose like bile onto her tongue.

After a tense moment Harry shook his head. "We shouldn't discuss this here. I've already put people at risk this year allowing things to be overheard."

If Fleur wasn't already frozen in place, she would surely be so now. Draco's eyes narrowed and roamed the field, passing over her spot without pause.

He scoffed, "There's nobody here, but fine." He pointed a finger. "Don't think this is over, Potter. I'm— wait. Have you told your three goons?"

Harry narrowed his eyes, "Don't call them that." And then he let out a sigh. "No. I haven't told them." He rubbed his face and looked up at Draco. "Their memories were wiped, and I didn't want to drag them into it. But since you decided to sneak in under my cloak and eavesdrop on everything—"

Draco crossed his arms. "I thought you might need help. And what else was I meant to do when I woke up and you were gone? Just leave your cloak and march in like some idiotic Gryffindor? It was the smart thing to do, and besides, as you pointed out, it's your cloak. I'm sure you've sneaked around listening in on plenty of conversations not meant for your ears."

Fleur felt her ears burning.

Harry chuckled wryly. "Yeah, yeah. I know. I'm a hypocrite. Been learning that about myself a lot recently."

Draco looked for the briefest moment like he was unsure whether to take what he'd said back, but Harry waved him off. "It's fine. Let's get back. We can talk more when we're at Hogwarts." At Draco's unhappy look Harry continued. "We'll talk. I promise. I'm— I'm just not in the mood right now."

"Wait," Draco said, and, when Harry looked like he was going to argue back, he held up his hands, placating. "It's not about all that. Harry—It's just—are you doing okay? You look exhausted."

Harry's shoulders were tense, "I'm fine, Draco."

"Are you still having those dreams?" Draco pressed. "It's only you mentioned it at Hogwarts." He paused. "Do you think the ritual that Quir—"

"Don't say his name!" Harry snapped, panic flashing in his eyes as he leapt forward to grasp Draco's forearm. A tense silence stretched as the boys stared at each other restlessly, before Harry's shoulders slowly relaxed. "I'm no stranger to disturbing dreams. Don't worry about it." He gestured. "Come on. Let's get back, the bonfire's about to start."

She held her breath as the two boys moved her way, but they passed her without even a glance.

As was tradition, the end of the first week was marked with a huge, cerulean bonfire. The students of the P.D.E. summer camp mingled freely in the grounds, catching up with friends, and enjoying the long, warm evening. The air was saturated with the smell of smoke, and the sweet tang of roasting meats on the fire. Even the teachers joined in the festivities, seated in their own circles with bottles of local wine and plates of cheese.

Fleur approached in a daze, her mind still ringing with snatches of the conversation she'd just overheard. Harry Potter's fearful eyes, Draco Malfoy's tense expression, and the whispered mention of the Dark Lord left her feeling detached from the carefree atmosphere and the laughter ringing across the lawn.

As Fleur drew closer into the illumination of the blue flames she was immediately called over by some classmates.

Representation from her school was predominant in the P.D.E., partly due to the location, but partly, also, to the historical links between the two long standing organisations. Durmstrang made up the next largest group, unsurprising perhaps given their focus on duelling and the Dark Arts. Beyond that, it wasn't unusual to see students from Ilvermorny and Koldovstoretz.

Fleur caught sight of Harry out of the corner of her eye, sitting apart from the other larger groups with Malfoy. He glanced up and she immediately looked away.

"What's it like in the second consortium, Fleur?" The girl to her right, Charlotte, asked sweetly. Fleur nearly jumped, but managed to school her expression.

"Challenging," she replied truthfully.

Charlotte exchanged a quick glance with the girl beside her. "Must be so hard, being exceptional all the time."

Fleur shrugged awkwardly.

"I imagine it's easier with Farrow in the group. He's very nice," said the second girl—Fleur couldn't remember her name…

"Of course you'd like Farrow, Emily," Charlotte scoffed.

"What's that supposed to mean, I just said he's nice."

"What do you think, Fleur?"

"Uh…"

Fortunately they were interrupted before her silence became awkward.

"Evening, girls."

They all turned to see a group of older boys, walking up to the loose circle she and the other Beauxbatons girls had formed. Leading the pack was Adam, leader of the first consortium.

"Hope you don't mind if we join you. Beauxbatons girls are the best company."

The girls gave simpering laughs and Fleur rolled her eyes. The new arrivals had positioned her awkwardly at the back of the cluster of girls. She huffed, turning around to look for somewhere else she could go.

"Fleur?"

Fleur turned back around.

Someone must have pointed her out because a moment later Adam gently nudged Emily to the side and beamed down at her. "Fleur! How are you?"

Fleur returned his smile with a frown. "Fine."

"I see you made cadre leader in second consortium."

Fleur nodded hesitantly, glancing at Emily and Charlotte who stood behind him with sour expressions. "That's right. You're cadre leader in first."

He waved his hand as if to dismiss it. "I just wanted to meet my fellow cadre leader, and to say how impressed I was when I heard, it's almost unheard of for someone your age."

Fleur was still waiting for the punchline. "Uh, thanks. Didn't you make second consortium when you were fourteen, though?"

"I did say almost unheard of," he grinned. "But in all honesty, they just want to please my dad."

Fleur very much doubted that. Advancement was down to your skill, no matter how important your parents were.

"Look," Adam said, voice lowering conspiratorially as he stepped closer, "between you and me, Fleur, they're lovely girls but… you know how it is. They just don't understand what it means to be at the top."

She forced herself not to grimace with distaste. She opened her mouth to ask him why he came over then, but he carried on in a normal tone, "Do you want to go for a walk?"

Unable to think of an excuse, and spurred by the glares behind Adam, she nodded reluctantly.

He led her away from the group, eliciting some calls of where are you going? but Adam ignored them.

"What's your secret then?" He asked. "How does a fourteen year old get good enough to lead the second cadre? That means you're good enough for first cadre, you know?"

Fleur shrugged, once again annoyed at the false modesty. "What's your secret?"

Adam rolled his eyes. "I already told you, nepotism."

At Fleur's sceptical look he laughed. "Alright, so I also happened to train myself to the bone every day, and received personal tutoring from a former Champion for two years. But, also, nepotism."

Fleur looked at him with wide eyes. He'd been trained by a Champion? "Who? Laurent? Dubois?"

"Koch," he said, humour dancing in his eyes. "Right vicious bastard, but an absolute artist with a wand. I got sores on my hands from how often he would disarm me."

Fleur seethed, reluctantly impressed.

"So I'll ask again," he said, mouth quirked in a smile. "What's your secret? It would have been embarrassing if I'd not made second cadre at fourteen given the training I was getting. As far as I know, you're a prodigy of the P.D.E.'s training alone."

Fleur felt her cheeks warm at the praise. "I don't know about prodigy," she said reluctantly. "I just work hard—harder than any of my classmates."

Adam regarded her curiously. "I guess you are kind of a loner, huh."

Fleur's mouth formed a frown, and Adam held out his hands and laughed. "I don't mean that in a—sorry, that came out badly. I'm a loner, too! Surely anyone that's trying to be the best at something kind of has to be, right?"

Fleur accepted the apology and let herself deflate, a little embarrassed. Despite the blunt way he'd put it, it was kind of hard to deny. But that didn't mean she was going to thank him for bringing it up.

"Anyway," Adam said. "Sorry for ruining the mood, I was just curious about a fellow prodigy. Hope you don't mind."

Fleur shook her head, dismissing her muddled thoughts. She was more irritable than usual and there was no reason to take it out on Adam. "No, it's fine. I just hadn't thought of it like that before. I suppose it makes sense that chasing success means you leave some things behind."

Adam beamed at her. "Right! And if anything, it makes it all the more meaningful when we meet people out ahead of the pack. People like us."

He gestured around them to the bustling groups of students. "That's why I love it here. I've met people who actually get it, what it means to strive for something great, something exceptional."

He turned to her with a crinkled smile. "People like you."

Fleur felt her face heat up at the blunt admission. What do you even say to something like that? Did he think this flattery would disarm her, or was it just his usual manner?

"People have different priorities," she replied cautiously. "I don't think mine make me particularly special."

Adam chuckled lightly, eyes glinting oddly in the blue light. "I suppose. But pretending we're the same as them... Don't you ever wonder how far you could go if you left them entirely behind?"

Fortunately Adam seemed happy without a response as he continued cheerily. "Well, I'd better get back to the lads before they insult one of your friends. It was nice chatting Fleur, don't be a stranger."

With a short wave that Fleur belatedly returned, he strolled back over to their group, which was now on the other side of the field.

Fleur just stared after him for a while, her thoughts a jumbled mess.

She'd often been made aware of the gulf between her and her peers. It wasn't something that really concerned her anymore. If anything, it was something she encouraged. But, this evening, that gulf felt wider than ever. Maybe it was what she'd overheard earlier, maybe it was the pressure of leading the cadre, but as she stared across to the other side of the field at the giggling, and the casual ease at which they all seemed to enjoy themselves, she felt Adam's words ring true in ways he probably hadn't intended. She had nothing in common with those people.

The realisation left questions in its wake. Ones that Fleur wasn't sure she had answers to.

If even her peers at the P.D.E. were a distant pack behind her, just who were these 'people like us' that Adam had mentioned?

Him? Farrow? The first cadre? Fleur couldn't quite see it.

Harry? Not after what she'd overheard. If she was ahead of her peers just because she was good at duelling, where did that put a boy who was fighting Dark Lords?

The smoky air felt suffocating, and the cerulean flames cast harsh shadows. Fleur suddenly couldn't bear it.

With a deep breath, she turned, escaping quietly toward the dark comfort of the trees.

Fleur arrived at the lecture halls early so she could get a good seat.

It wasn't a matter of needing to hear; the magically enhanced hall made the lecturer's words equally clear no matter where you sat. Distractions, however, were another matter entirely.

Same as in school, an implicit hierarchy established itself according to the number of rows one sat from the front. The first row was a haven under the stern attention of the lecturer, but the back row was akin to the wild west. You'd be lucky to hear a whole sentence without being nudged, whispered over, or hit by some sort of projectile.

It was even worse at the duelling camp than at Beauxbatons; restlessness and an inability to sit still were actually positive traits for duellists.

Others trickled in as the minutes ticked by, including a worn out looking Harry, who sat a few seats down.

As nine o'clock arrived, so did the wispy haired lecturer: the infamous Professor Postula. She was basically a part of the furniture at this point, having taught at the P.D.E. for over a hundred years. There were running bets about whether she'd continue her tenure as a ghost. However, despite her age, she remained the most sought after lecturer for good reason: nobody knew modern duelling theory quite so well. She had invented much of it, after all.

"Esteemed students, neophytes to the mystical arts, welcome. I am humbled, of course, and not in any way reluctant, to be teaching yet another generation of young, over-privileged pupils the dangerous and empowering discipline of duelling."

The hall fell silent. Unfazed by the frowns, the Professor gestured vaguely at them. "Under some of your seats you will find a stack of parchments detailing the contents of these lectures. I personally see no reason why you should need such codling, given how clearly attentive each and every one of you listens to me, even now, not twenty seconds into the first lecture."

Fleur glanced back, to the rear of the hall, where the Professor's narrowed eyes were focused. Fleur rolled her eyes at the sight of so many of the older students clearly not paying attention— lounging, talking, or otherwise engaged.

"Please pass them out. There are enough for one each," the Professor said, hiding a yawn with the back of a hand.

Fleur waited patiently, but a parchment never reached her.

"My young abecedarians, If only your ability to share paper with each other was a sign of your capacity to sow your seed unto the next generation."

Fleur felt a rolled up ball of parchment hit the back of her head. She considered that a win, as she reached behind her and picked up the crumpled lecture notes.

Professor Postula turned back to her blackboard and waved her wand. A large chart appeared in white chalk.

She cleared her throat and peered at them over her glasses.

"The hidden laws of duelling are akin to the laws of nature itself. Ignorance of the wind does not foil the punch of the storm, irreverence of fire will not save you from its bite, etcetera, etcetera. In the same way, the laws of duelling will be felt by everyone that steps onto the court. The question is whether you will see it coming, and whether you can be an instrument of its strength, rather than a subject of its wrath."

Fleur, as always when listening to the ancient Professor, was enraptured. Fleur knew, even as a relative novice, that the art of duelling was something incredibly nuanced, something that could never be mastered, only honed.

When you did it right, you felt unstoppable. Professor Postula was one of the few she had heard articulate this feeling. Fleur had been looking forward to this particular lecture on the Laws ever since she had arrived. It was one that a few of her previous, older teammates had always talked about.

With a tap of her wand, the Professor circled three areas of the chart.

"The first of these laws is sight, though one does not necessarily need eyes to make use of it. The twist, or flick of a wand, the blooming colour of a spell, these are things that are included in this, of course, but sight is so much more. Sight is how a bear can catch a thousand leaping salmon, how a parent catches a child before they fall. Sight is about seeing the future without a drop of seer-blood. It is the power of the mind, to see the patterns of life in the world, and to know what your opponent will do before even they do. This I cannot teach you. Only time can impart such knowledge."

"Next," she spoke softly, and Fleur had to strain to hear her, even with the enchantments in place, "is the tempest. It is the breath that goes unnoticed, the heartbeat that pumps without thought. It is the hum of life in the earth that lives and moves without direction. It is the unconscious that rules the duelling court. Thinking is for before and after. Duelling is action. It won't matter how much you know if it takes any more thought than breathing."

"Finally," she intoned, and Fleur couldn't help but lean forwards, "comes passion. This is the seed of a Mandrake, that blossoms into deadly form. Embrace the magic that sings to you, that whispers your name. Indulge it, neglect all else, and the result is a union with magic that transcends the bounds of anything we can teach here. In my lifetime perhaps only one of my students has ever truly approached mastery of this law."

Fleur was dying to know who it was.

"It has been many years since I met any with the potential, but this year's cohort..."

Fleur's heartbeat quickened. Did she really think some of them could?

"I can just see it now—your mastery of Expelliarmus at the age of sixteen will no doubt shake the very foundations of the magical world. Brace yourself, history, you are about to be rewritten by the prodigious talent before me."

Fleur supposed she should have seen that coming. She wondered why the Professor kept coming back, if she truly felt there was no chance of it happening again.

Professor Postula began to move through the chart in more detail, and Fleur could already hear the whispers of distracted students behind her.

"… the bridge between this concept and — yes?"

Fleur peered to her left, where the Professor had nodded at a raised hand.

"What exactly did you mean by 'tempo'?"

That was distinctly Harry. There must be some sort of translation charm present in the lecture hall for him to understand what was being said.

"A question?" said Professor Postula.

"Is that not allowed?" she heard Harry ask sheepishly.

"Questions are the seed of understanding, boy!" The professor responded indignantly. "Now, what do I mean by tempo? What indeed… Well, tempo is pace, and momentum. It is a resource as much as it is a concept. Gaining tempo is taking advantage of an opening. Losing tempo means allowing the table to turn. Miss its opportunity, and you will cede control to your opponent. Each move, when tempo is respected, creeps closer and closer to overwhelming the opponent, like the arms of the Devil's Snare, until both their action and inaction lead to defeat. It is a loser's game, and one that takes real instinct to fully grasp."

Fleur looked over at him curiously. Harry seemed to actually be paying attention, despite the dark bags under his eyes. She wondered somewhat bitterly whether he'd had a change of mind, or perhaps he was realising that this centuries old art-form did have something to teach him after all.

"Okay. Delacour and Potter, pair up please."

Fleur nodded and walked up to the pitch.

They currently stood on the clay courts with Madam Gerchard, one of the few instructors that Fleur had never had before. With the end of the first week came the beginning of the full training schedule. Their week was packed with classes on the various aspects of duelling and today was spell-casting, where they'd hone their knowledge of offensive and defensive spells beyond the normal school curriculum.

"Take it slowly, please. This is not a duel. I want you to try and use as many spells as you can think of from your existing repertoire offensive, and defensive. I'm keen to understand your current levels before we tailor a learning schedule for you all. Now let me be clear, the goal isn't to win, but to stretch yourselves beyond your comfort, and to show me what you can do."

Madam Gerchard gave them each a stern look from the side of the duelling courts. Fleur waited as she repeated herself again in English for Harry's benefit. She was the only instructor beside Madam Blanchet who'd bothered so far.

With a wave of her wand, the wards at the edges of each court shimmered into place.

Fleur raised her wand, and Harry did the same, an uncertain look on his face.

"So any spell is okay?" He asked.

Fleur answered by sending a stinging hex, which Harry barely managed to dodge.

Fleur traded spells with Harry, keeping the pace fairly slow. It was always surprisingly hard, this exercise. Casting while trying to dig up obscure spell after obscure spell took considerable concentration. It made her appreciate that despite her best efforts, it was too easy to fall into the trap of familiarity. She considered her repertoire to be quite large, but it wasn't long before she was struggling to think of what to cast next.

Fleur eyed a sizzling curse that she didn't recognise, but could almost taste as it ate through the air beside her. She was glad he'd aimed to the side.

Harry lowered his wand, and Fleur did the same, confused.

"What are you doing?" She asked. Don't know any others?"

"No— I do. It's just— I don't know. They're not mine."

"Huh?" She frowned at him. "What do you mean they're not yours. Look if you know more spells then hurry up."

Harry nodded hesitantly and raised his wand again. Fleur tried to get back in the zone, wracking her brain for spells she'd not yet cast.

Harry took a deep breath, and, seemingly resolved, flicked his wand at her.

Fleur had to give up on trying to remember as she avoided the barrage that came from Harry's wand. She quickly transfigured a row of mannequins in the way, curious to know what all these different spells were doing.

The spells found their targets and wood cracked and splintered as an array of spells unleashed their varying payloads; there were numerous variants of constrictor curses, a tripping hex that turned the mannequin's feet backwards, a spell that froze its target solid, only to be shattered by a follow up blasting curse that turned each fragment into an equally sized spearhead, and many a spell that landed on the wooden dummies without visible effect that Fleur knew was not from lack of success, but from lack of an organic target.

Eventually Harry's wand slowed, and then stopped. He stared at his handiwork, nearly panting with exertion, a dark look on his face.

"My, my, Mr Potter," Madam Gerchard said from the side of the court. Fleur looked over at the witch, who was eyeing Harry with a glimmer of interest in her eyes. "Now where did you learn such delectable curses?"

Harry looked at her, expression flat as he put his wand away. "Nowhere good, Professor."

Madam Gerchard hummed, "Yes, I very much doubt the Hogwarts curriculum covers any of what I just saw. Or even the Hogwarts library, for that matter. Your guardian is Mr Black, is he not? A most storied family. His brother Regulus was a student of mine you know, with a similar penchant for the more… obscure arts."

When Harry didn't respond, Gerchard just smiled wide and thin, like a satisfied Kneazel, before gesturing to them both. "I've seen quite enough. Now off you go. I have a curriculum to prepare for your cadre, Miss Delacour. Oh, very interesting. Very interesting indeed."

Fleur hastened her steps to catch up with the rapidly retreating back of her squad mate.

"Wait up, Harry."

He hesitated, and Fleur thought he would ignore her, but he stopped, spinning around with a terse expression. "What?"

Fleur searched for the words that might provoke answers to the many questions fighting for dominance in her head. "You're a first year," she said, stupidly. It had come out more like an accusation.

Harry got a defensive look on his face and Fleur hurried to continue before he cut her off. "What I mean is, how does a first year learn so many spells? Spells I've never seen, or even heard the like of. And I've fought a lot of duels for someone our age, and I've read through all of the spell books up to advanced N.E.W.T. at Beauxbatons."

"Well maybe you just learn different spells in France," Harry tried to say offhandedly, but his desire to leave was obvious.

"That's not what Madam Gerchard said," Fleur pointed out. "She said those spells weren't—"

Harry sighed deeply, "I know. I know. Look, what do you want me to say, Fleur?"

Fleur bit her tongue to stop the questions she really wanted to ask. Did it have something to do with the ancient veil in the Department of Mysteries? Did it have something to do with the Dark Lord?

She let out an annoyed huff and muttered to herself in French, trying to calm herself and think of something smarter to ask.

"Well that's a bit rude," Harry scoffed, his expression half amused and half annoyed.

Fleur paused, shooting him a puzzled look. "What?"

Harry narrowed his eyes at her, but a slight smile tugged at his lips. "You just called me an exasperating little boy with more secrets than sense."

Fleur stared at him, too surprised to be embarrassed. "I did," she said slowly, "in French."

It seemed to take a few moments for Harry to parse what she'd said, and then he frowned. "No you didn't. I don't speak French."

Fleur was now the one with narrowed eyes, and then repeated, slower, what she'd muttered under her breath, very much in French. "Secretive little boys with more secrets than sense."

Harry listened with wide eyes, and then grabbed his head, as if it were to blame, and he could just rip it off to solve his problems. "What the fuck." He muttered.

"Have you been holding out on us, Harry?" switching to French, Fleur crossed her arms. But it didn't make sense. Why pretend you couldn't understand French for a whole week for absolutely no gain? And his reaction made no sense if that were the case. It seemed like he hadn't even realised he could understand it? But to suddenly comprehend another language after clearly not understanding just hours before. That was impossible. Right?

"I need to go," Harry said.

"Wait! Harry—" but before she could ask anything else he was running, headed straight for his cabin.,

Fleur stared after his running form, yet another unanswered question on her lips. She clenched her fists and swallowed down a frustrated scream.

Her mind raced, every question colliding with another only to produce even more. Fleur bit her lip, hard, grounding herself against the whirlwind in her head. She'd never met someone so infuriating, so utterly impossible. Just who was Harry Potter and why did he have so many secrets?