The morning of their departure, Grimmauld Place was filled with a sense of organized chaos. Harry was in his room, calmly placing a small stack of leather-bound books next to his travel bag. In the two days since returning from Hogwarts, he'd found the charm for Undetectable Extension in the Black library and had already applied a surprisingly stable version of it to his bag.
"For Merlin's sake, Harry, are you trying to move your entire library?" Sirius said from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a mug of tea in his hand. He was already dressed in stylish Muggle jeans and a dark, well-fitted coat. "It's a dueling tournament, not a NEWT exam. You're supposed to be intimidating, not studious."
"Knowledge is intimidating," Harry retorted without looking up. He tapped the last book with his wand, and it shrunk slightly before he dropped it into the bag, where it vanished with a soft thump. "Besides, you're one to talk. I saw you packing three different kinds of hair potion."
Sirius scoffed, running a hand through his own perfectly tousled hair. "That's not vanity, that's preparedness. The French appreciate a certain level of style. I can't have my godson showing up looking like he just wrestled a Hippogriff."
"My hair is fine," Harry muttered, zipping the bag shut.
"It's a national tragedy," Sirius said solemnly. "But we'll work on it. Got everything? Wands? Robes? Your overwhelming sense of teenage angst?"
"All packed," Harry said, grabbing his bag and walking past his grinning godfather. "Let's go before you decide I need a complete makeover."
They headed down to the gloomy drawing room, where a grand, ornate fireplace stood cold and silent against the far wall. Sirius picked up a small, ornate pot from the mantelpiece.
"Right then. To the Ministry," Sirius said, offering the pot of Floo powder to Harry. "One of the few perks of this old mausoleum is being connected to the main network. You first."
Harry took a pinch of the fine, glittering powder. He stepped into the hearth, the cold soot crunching under his shoes. "Ministry of Magic, Atrium," he said, his voice clear and loud, before tossing the powder down.
With a roar, the world erupted in a dizzying vortex of green flame. Fireplaces and rooms flashed past in a sickening blur until, just as suddenly, it stopped. He stumbled forward out of a massive fireplace and onto the polished dark wood floor of the Ministry's atrium, catching his balance and quickly brushing a stray bit of soot from his sleeve.
A moment later, the fireplace beside him roared to life, and Sirius stepped out with an easy grace, looking entirely unruffled.
They met Professor Flitwick near the golden Fountain of Magical Brethren. The small Charms master was practically vibrating with excitement, dressed in his finest traveling robes.
"Harry! Sirius! Splendid, splendid!" he squeaked, trotting over to them. "All ready for our continental adventure?"
"Ready as we'll ever be, Filius," Sirius said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Lead the way."
Their first stop was the security desk, where a bored-looking wizard looked up from his newspaper. "Wands, please."
Sirius and Flitwick placed their wands on the brass scale. The wizard grunted, making a note on his clipboard. Then he looked at Harry, and his bored expression vanished, replaced by a wide-eyed stare.
"Blimey," he whispered. "It's Harry Potter."
Harry sighed internally and placed his elder and phoenix feather wand on the scale. The wizard handled it with a reverence usually reserved for ancient relics before clearing his throat and trying to regain his professional composure. "Right. All in order. You're clear to proceed to the Department of Magical Transportation, Level Six."
The International Portkey Terminal was a vast, circular room with a high, domed ceiling painted with a swirling map of the world. Dozens of archways lined the walls, each shimmering with a faint, colored light, leading to different destinations.
"Ah, here we are," Flitwick said, pointing to an archway glowing with a soft, golden light. "Our departure point. Scheduled for precisely nine a.m."
A stern-looking witch with a clipboard checked their documents. "Lord Black, Professor Flitwick, Mr. Potter. Your Portkey is the antique silver locket on the pedestal. It will activate in one minute. Bon voyage."
"A locket," Sirius muttered, eyeing the object with distaste. "Couldn't they have picked a less cursed-looking object?"
Harry just smirked. He placed a hand on the cool metal, Flitwick and Sirius doing the same. A moment later, he felt the familiar, gut-wrenching lurch behind his navel. The world dissolved into a swirl of gold and blue light, a smooth, controlled journey that was over in seconds.
They landed perfectly balanced on a polished marble floor. They were in a similar, though far more elegant, circular room. The air smelled of perfume and fresh pastries. A sign on the wall read, "Bienvenue au Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la France."
A young, impeccably dressed wizard was waiting for them. He was tall and slim, with sharp cheekbones and dark hair styled with a casual elegance that seemed entirely effortless. Harry noted the perfect cut of his robes and the way he held himself—a mixture of professional calm and the ingrained confidence of someone from an old, respected family.
"Lord Black, Professeur Flitwick," the wizard said, his English accented but perfect. He then turned to Harry, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly before his composure returned. "And Monsieur Potter. It is an honor. I am Jean-Luc Dubois. I am here to escort you through our customs process."
"A pleasure, Monsieur Dubois," Sirius said smoothly, shaking his hand. "We are in your capable hands."
The process was, as promised, remarkably smooth. Their wands were registered with a polite nod, their luggage scanned with a single, silent charm. The entire time, Dubois kept stealing glances at Harry, a star-struck awe threatening to break through his professional demeanor. Harry met his gaze with a polite, neutral expression, already accustomed to the weight of his own fame.
"Everything appears to be in order," Dubois said finally, stamping their documents with a flourish. "Allow me to welcome you to Paris. The tournament does not begin until tomorrow. We have arranged your accommodations at Le Grand Hôtel des Mages. I can escort you."
"Excellent," Sirius said. "Lead on."
They were led to a private Floo connection, arriving in the opulent, sunlit lobby of a magical hotel that seemed carved from ivory and gold. After dropping their bags in a spacious suite overlooking the Parisian rooftops, Professor Flitwick excused himself.
"I have a pre-tournament meeting with the judges' panel," he explained. "I shall see you both this evening. Do try to stay out of trouble."
"No promises, Filius," Sirius grinned. "Come on, Harry. Let's go see what the French have been up to."
They stepped out of the hotel and into the heart of Place Cachée. Unlike the chaotic charm of Diagon Alley, the French magical district was a masterpiece of elegant design. The wide, cobblestone boulevards were lined with pristine, ornate buildings, their facades adorned with gold leaf and wrought-iron balconies from which enchanted flowers bloomed in a riot of color. Floating fountains shaped like mythical creatures sprayed shimmering, scented water into the air.
"Show-offs," Sirius muttered, though a look of grudging admiration was on his face.
Harry was fascinated. The magic here felt different—less raw and ancient, more artistic and refined. He could feel it in the air, a subtle thrum of complex, layered charms designed for aesthetics as much as function. It was a different philosophy of magic, one that prioritized beauty and subtlety. He filed the observation away.
They passed an apothecary where potions were displayed in crystal decanters like fine perfumes, and a magical patisserie where éclairs floated gently in the window, each one decorated with a tiny, animated sugar bird.
They spent an hour wandering, Sirius pointing out old haunts from his youth and commenting on the differences between French and British pure-blood society. Finally, they settled at a small outdoor café, a warming charm keeping the afternoon chill at bay.
After ordering sandwiches and two tall glasses of Gillywater, Sirius leaned back, his expression turning more serious. "Enjoying the sights?"
"It's… different," Harry admitted. "Cleaner."
"The French value appearances," Sirius said. "But don't let the polish fool you. The politics here are just as vicious as they are back home, just with better wine. You'll see it at the tournament. Alliances, rivalries… it's a game, Harry. And you're now a major piece on the board."
Harry took a slow sip of his Gillywater, considering his godfather's words. He had already accepted this. His fame wasn't a burden to be endured; it was a tool to be wielded. Being a "major piece" meant he had influence, a weight that could be brought to bear. He wasn't here just to duel; he was here to make a statement.
They ate their lunch, the conversation drifting from dueling theory to Quidditch, a comfortable, easy rhythm settling between them. It was a welcome respite, a moment of normalcy before the storm of the tournament began.
When they returned to their hotel suite that evening, Flitwick was waiting for them, a thick, bound folder in his hands.
"Good evening," he said, his expression all business. "I trust you had a pleasant afternoon."
"We managed," Sirius said, flopping into an armchair.
Flitwick handed the folder to Harry. "This is for you. It contains all the publicly available information on the other fifteen champions. Their schools, their known victories, their preferred spell sets, and my own notes on their observed styles. Study it. Know your enemy. The duels begin tomorrow at noon."
Harry took the folder, the weight of it feeling solid and real in his hands. The brief holiday was over. His mind shifted instantly, the analytical, strategic part of him taking over. The mission had begun.