Hello, Drinor here. I'm happy to publish The First Chapter of The Hearts of Two Champions
If you want to Read 4 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'Patreon.com/Drinor' on Websearch
Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, and Chapter 5 are already available for Patrons, so go to my Patreon to gain Early Access.
The afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows of the Transfiguration classroom. Professor McGonagall stood at the front, her emerald robes catching the sunlight as she addressed the combined class of fourth-year Ravenclaws and Gryffindors.
"Today, we will be attempting material conversion transfiguration, specifically with metals," she announced briskly. "Before we begin, who can tell me the fundamental principle that governs transforming one base metal into another?"
Hermione's hand shot up predictably, but Harry's was there just as quickly. McGonagall nodded toward him.
"Mr. Potter?"
"The Principle of Metallic Resonance, Professor," Harry answered smoothly. "The magical frequency needed to alter the atomic structure of metals varies based on their position on the periodic table and magical conductivity."
McGonagall's eyebrows rose slightly in approval. "Very good. Five points to Ravenclaw. And can anyone explain why this is particularly relevant to today's lesson?"
This time, Hermione was called upon.
"Because different metals have different magical resistances to transfiguration," she explained eagerly. "Some metals, like silver, have inherent magical properties that make them more resistant to magical manipulation."
"Excellent, Miss Granger. Five points to Gryffindor."
McGonagall waved her wand, and silver coins appeared on each desk. "Today, you will attempt to transform these silver Sickles into bronze. The incantation is Metallum Commuto. Watch carefully."
She demonstrated with a precise flick and twist of her wand. The silver coin on her desk shimmered before transforming into gleaming bronze.
Harry sat at his desk, quill poised over parchment as he jotted down notes. Next to him, fellow Ravenclaw Terry Boot leaned over.
"Bet you'll get it first try," Terry whispered.
Harry grinned. "Not likely. Silver's tricky."
Professor McGonagall tapped her wand on her desk, drawing their attention back. "Before we begin, can anyone tell me why this particular transformation might prove more difficult than others we've attempted?"
Hermione's hand shot up from the Gryffindor side of the room, as expected. But Harry's hand was already in the air as well, relaxed but confident.
McGonagall's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "Mr. Potter?"
"Silver is inherently resistant to magical transformation, Professor," Harry answered, his voice carrying easily through the room. "It's one of the most difficult base materials to transfigure, behind only gold and a few others like platinum and certain enchanted substances. The noble metals have magical properties that create a sort of... inertia against change."
Ronald Weasley rolled his eyes from across the room.
"Excellently explained, Mr. Potter. Five more points to Ravenclaw," McGonagall said with an approving nod. "As Mr. Potter has correctly stated, silver possesses inherent magical resistance. This is precisely why many magical artifacts are crafted from silver—its stability makes it an excellent conduit for sustained enchantments."
She began distributing silver Sickles to each student. "You'll find the incantation and wand movement on page ninety-four of your textbooks. Remember: firm intent, precise articulation, and fluid movement."
As the class flipped pages, Harry caught Padma Patil giving him an impressed look from two seats over. He responded with a modest shrug and a smile that made her blush slightly before returning to her textbook.
"Show-off," Seamus Finnigan called from the Gryffindor side.
"Just wait 'til you see me actually try it, Finnigan," Harry called back. "My coin will probably grow legs and run away."
Several students laughed, and even McGonagall's stern expression softened momentarily.
The class soon filled with the sounds of spells being cast, frustrated sighs, and occasional exclamations of surprise. Harry studied his coin intently, turning it over in his fingers before placing it on his desk. He closed his eyes briefly, visualizing the molecular structure changing, silver atoms rearranging to form bronze.
"Aerametalus," he said firmly, executing a precise twisting motion with his wand.
The silver Sickle shimmered, and a wave of transformation spread across its surface—but stopped halfway, leaving a coin that was half silver, half bronze, with a clean line dividing the two metals.
"Well, that's something," Harry muttered, examining his partial success.
"Mr. Potter has made significant progress," McGonagall announced, having spotted his result from across the room. "Notice how clean the transformation is on the portion that changed. What do you suspect limited the complete transformation, Mr. Potter?"
Harry turned the coin thoughtfully. "I think I didn't account for the density difference, Professor. Bronze is less dense than silver, so the transformed portion should be slightly larger. My visualization was probably off."
"An astute observation. Another three points to Ravenclaw," McGonagall said, impressed.
"Harry, could you help me with the wand movement?" asked Lisa Turpin from behind him.
He turned in his seat. "Sure. It's not quite a twist—more like you're coaxing it to change." He demonstrated the motion again, slower this time. "Like you're unwrapping something delicate."
"Oh! That makes more sense," Lisa said, attempting the spell again with better results.
Across the aisle, Lavender Brown sighed dreamily. "You explain it so much better than the book, Harry. Mind showing me too?"
"The view's certainly better than staring at McGonagall, isn't it?" Parvati whispered loudly to Lavender, causing both girls to dissolve into giggles.
Harry ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair, giving them a lopsided smile. "The wand motion looks like this," he said, deliberately ignoring their flirtation while demonstrating again. "Imagine you're gently persuading the metal, not forcing it."
"Mr. Potter, while I appreciate your assistance to your classmates," McGonagall interjected dryly, "perhaps you should focus on completing your own transfiguration first."
"Just spreading the Ravenclaw wisdom, Professor," Harry replied with a cheeky grin. "Knowledge is meant to be shared, after all."
Several students laughed, and McGonagall shook her head, though Harry could swear he saw her lips twitch again.
"Indeed. And humility is a virtue often overlooked by those who possess talent," she replied pointedly, causing more laughter.
Harry held up his hands in surrender. "Touché, Professor."
Hermione, who had managed to turn about a third of her coin bronze, leaned across the aisle. "Harry, did you try adjusting the focal point of your magic to account for the atomic weight difference?"
"Trust Granger to think in terms of atomic weights," Dean Thomas muttered.
"Actually, that's brilliant, Hermione," Harry said, considering her suggestion. "Mind if I try that approach?"
Hermione looked pleased. "Of course not."
Harry nodded gratefully and returned to his coin, closing his eyes briefly to recalibrate his intent. When he opened them, he caught Neville watching him nervously.
"You all right there, Neville?" he asked.
"My coin's not doing anything at all," Neville admitted dejectedly.
"Let me see," Harry said, leaning over. He watched Neville attempt the spell. "You're overthinking it. Your wand movement is perfect, but you're hesitating right at the crucial moment. Try it like you know it's going to work."
"Easy for you to say," Neville mumbled.
"Tell you what," Harry said with a conspiratorial wink, "pretend the coin just insulted your gran's vulture hat."
Neville snorted in surprise, then laughed outright. Several heads turned at the sound.
"Go on," Harry encouraged.
Neville took a deep breath, his expression shifting to determined as he pointed his wand at the coin. "Aerametalus!"
The edge of the Sickle took on a distinctly coppery hue. It wasn't bronze, exactly, but it was definitely a change.
"Look at that!" Harry exclaimed, clapping Neville on the shoulder. "See? You've got this."
"Thanks, Harry," Neville said, looking both shocked and pleased.
"Mr. Longbottom has made progress as well," McGonagall noted with approval. "Two points to Gryffindor for persistence."
By the end of the class, Harry had managed to transform approximately three-quarters of his coin to bronze, which was the best result in the class. Hermione came second with just over half her coin transformed.
As students packed away their books and wands, conversations bubbled up around the room.
"Potter, we're having a pick-up Quidditch game Saturday morning," called Seamus. "You in?"
"Wouldn't miss it," Harry replied. "Though I'm warning you now, I'm bringing Terry as Keeper, and he's been practicing."
"Oi! Don't oversell me," Terry protested. "I dropped more Quaffles than I caught last time."
"Yeah, but you looked spectacular doing it," Harry quipped, causing another round of laughter.
As the class filed out, Professor McGonagall's voice cut through the chatter. "Mr. Potter, a word, please."
Harry exchanged glances with Terry, who shrugged and mouthed "good luck" before leaving with the others.
"Yes, Professor?" Harry approached her desk, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
"Professor Dumbledore has requested to see you in his office after your classes today," McGonagall informed him, adjusting her spectacles.
"Have I done something particularly impressive or particularly troublesome?" Harry asked with a grin. "It's sometimes hard to tell the difference."
McGonagall's expression softened unexpectedly. "You are remarkably like your father sometimes, Potter. Though I daresay you've inherited your mother's intellect, thank Merlin for small mercies."
Harry's smile turned wistful. "Sirius says the same thing. Says I've got Dad's charm and Mum's brains, which is why I'm so dangerous."
"Mr. Black would know," McGonagall replied dryly. "Though I wouldn't recommend taking all of his advice to heart."
"Why does Professor Dumbledore want to see me?" Harry asked, curiosity overtaking him. "Is it about the Tournament?"
McGonagall gave him an appraising look. "Indeed it is. I believe he wishes to discuss certain... precautions, given your history of finding yourself in the middle of trouble, intended or not."
"Me? Trouble?" Harry placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. "I'm wounded, Professor. Truly wounded."
"Save your theatrics for Professor Dumbledore, Potter," McGonagall replied, though her tone lacked any real admonishment. "His office, five o'clock. The password is 'Fizzing Whizbee.'"
"Yes, Professor," Harry nodded, his mind already racing with possibilities as he turned to leave.
"And Potter?" McGonagall called after him.
He paused at the door. "Yes?"
"That was excellent transfiguration work today. Your parents would be proud."
A genuine smile spread across Harry's face. "Thank you, Professor. That means a lot."
Fleur Delacour
Fleur Delacour approached her father's study with purposeful strides, her silvery-blonde hair cascading down her back like liquid moonlight. The ornate double doors that led to the Minister's private chambers were as familiar to her as her own reflection. She paused briefly to adjust the collar of her powder-blue robes—immaculate presentation was non-negotiable when meeting with her father, regardless of their familial bond.
The Ministry of Magic of France was housed in an elegant building in magical Paris, hidden beneath layers of enchantments that made it appear as a nondescript government office to Muggle eyes. Minister Delacour's chambers reflected the sophistication of French magical governance—tasteful, refined, yet undeniably powerful.
Fleur raised her hand to knock, then hesitated for the briefest moment before firmly rapping her knuckles against the polished wood.
"Entrez (Come in)," came her father's voice from within.
She entered with her chin held high, shoulders squared. The study was bathed in warm afternoon light filtering through tall windows, illuminating the rich mahogany furnishings and walls lined with ancient magical texts.
Minister Felix Andre Delacour looked up from the parchments spread across his desk, his expression immediately softening at the sight of his daughter.
"Ma chérie (My darling)," he greeted, rising from his seat. "Merci d'être venue si rapidement. (Thank you for coming so promptly.)"
"Tu m'as appelée, Papa (You called for me, Papa)," Fleur replied, crossing the room walking with grace. She placed a light kiss on each of his cheeks. "Je ne ferais pas attendre le Ministre (I would not keep the Minister waiting)."
Felix chuckled, gesturing to a comfortable chair opposite his desk. "S'il te plaît, assieds-toi. Aujourd'hui, je te parle non pas en tant que Ministre, mais en tant que ton père (Please, sit. Today I speak to you not as the Minister, but as your father)."
Fleur took her seat, arranging her robes meticulously. "Pourquoi m'as-tu appelée? Je préparais ma malle pour le voyage à Poudlard (Why did you call for me? I was preparing my trunk for the journey to Hogwarts)."
Her father leaned back in his chair, studying her with an appraising gaze. "Es-tu vraiment prête pour ce Tournoi, Fleur? (Are you truly ready for this Tournament, Fleur?)"
"Bien sûr que je suis prête (Of course I am ready)," she responded without a moment's hesitation. "Je suis la meilleure sorcière que Beauxbâtons ait à offrir. Madame Maxime ne m'aurait pas choisie autrement (I am the best witch Beauxbatons has to offer. Madame Maxime would not have chosen me otherwise)."
"Je n'ai aucun doute sur tes capacités (I have no doubt of your abilities)," Felix said, raising a placating hand. "Mais je veux que tu sois prudente (But I want you to be careful)."
Fleur gave an elegant snort, a sound that somehow managed to remain ladylike despite its dismissiveness. When she switched to English, her accent was pronounced, as if she was making a point of distinguishing the foreign schools. "Ze Durmstrang students are nothing but wizards with statue faces who rely on dark magic for everything. And 'Ogwarts—"
"Je ne parle pas de tes concurrents (I'm not talking about your competitors)," her father interrupted. "Je fais référence à l'incident de la Coupe du Monde (I'm referring to the incident at the World Cup)."
Fleur's expression sobered immediately. The memory was still fresh—the panicked crowds, the burning tents, and most chillingly, that eerie green skull illuminating the night sky, a serpent protruding from its mouth like a monstrous tongue. Even now, weeks later, she could feel the phantom prickle of fear along her spine.
"Je m'en souviens (I remember)," she said quietly.
"La Marque des Ténèbres n'a pas été vue depuis treize ans (The Dark Mark has not been seen for thirteen years)," Felix said gravely. "Son apparition maintenant, surtout sur le sol britannique, est... préoccupante (Its appearance now, especially on British soil, is... concerning)."
Fleur tossed her head, silver-blonde hair shimmering with the movement. "Pourquoi est-ce toujours les Anglais? Pourquoi semblent-ils toujours avoir le plus de mages noirs? (Why is it always the English? Why do they always seem to have the most dark wizards?)"
Felix sighed, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair—a gesture so familiar to Fleur that she felt a rush of affection for him. It was a mannerism she had often caught herself mimicking when deep in thought.
"Ce n'est pas tout à fait juste (That isn't entirely fair)," he said diplomatically. "Chaque communauté magique a eu ses chapitres sombres. Même la nôtre (Every magical community has had its dark chapters. Even ours)."
"Mais pas comme ça (But not like this)," Fleur insisted. "Pas avec quelqu'un comme... lui (Not with someone like... him)."
Neither of them spoke the name. Even in France, there remained an instinctive reluctance to utter Voldemort's name.
"Promets-moi simplement que tu feras attention (Just promise me you'll watch your back)," Felix said, leaning forward earnestly. "Et ne sous-estime pas tes camarades champions (And don't underestimate your fellow champions)."
Fleur waved a dismissive hand, though her eyes remained serious. "Le Tournoi est conçu pour tester notre capacité magique, pas notre habileté à combattre des mages noirs (The Tournament is designed to test our magical ability, not our skill at fighting dark wizards)."
"Fleur," her father said, with the particular intonation that meant he was speaking not just as her father, but as a man who had navigated the complex waters of magical politics for decades. "Une sorcière intelligente ne sous-estime jamais ses adversaires, quel que soit le concours (A smart witch never underestimates her challengers, no matter the contest)."
"Mes adversaires potentiels ne sont pas la Meilleure Jeune Sorcière du Pays (My potential opponents are not the Best Young Witch in the Country)," Fleur replied, unable to keep a hint of pride from her voice. It was a title she had won fair and square, outperforming witches several years her senior.
Felix smiled slightly at her confidence, but persisted. "L'orgueil précède la chute, ma chérie (Pride before the fall, my darling). Particulièrement quand il s'agit des élèves de Poudlard (Particularly when it comes to Hogwarts students)."
"Tu ne peux pas être sérieux (Surely you cannot be serious)," Fleur said incredulously. "L'éducation magique britannique est— (British magical education is—)"
"L'école qui a produit Albus Dumbledore (The school that produced Albus Dumbledore)," her father cut in pointedly. "Un sorcier toujours considéré comme l'un des plus puissants vivants aujourd'hui. Le même sorcier qui a vaincu Grindelwald il y a des décennies, quand personne d'autre ne le pouvait (A wizard still regarded as one of the most powerful alive today. The same wizard who defeated Grindelwald decades ago, when no one else could)."
Fleur's lips pressed into a thin line. She could argue with many things, but the reputation of Albus Dumbledore was not one of them. Even in Beauxbatons, students learned of the legendary duel between Dumbledore and Grindelwald—a confrontation that had changed the course of magical history.
"Je serai vigilante (I will be vigilant)," she conceded finally. "Mais je vais aussi gagner (But I will also win)."
Felix's expression softened with pride. "De cela, j'ai peu de doute (Of that, I have little doubt). Tu es exceptionnelle, Fleur. Tout comme ta mère l'était à ton âge (You are exceptional, Fleur. Just as your mother was at your age)."
At the mention of her mother, Fleur's posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. If Felix noticed, he gave no indication.
"À ce propos (Speaking of which)," he added, glancing down at a note on his desk, "ta mère a envoyé un hibou ce matin. Elle souhaite te voir avant ton départ pour Poudlard (your mother sent an owl this morning. She wishes to see you before you depart for Hogwarts)."
Fleur rose from her chair with fluid grace. "Je suis très occupée avec les préparatifs, Papa (I am very busy with preparations, Papa)."
"Fleur," Felix said, his tone gentle but leaving no room for argument. "Quels que soient les désaccords entre vous, elle t'aime férocement (Do not ignore your mother. She loves you fiercely)."
"J'essaierai de trouver du temps (I will try to make time)," she said finally, the words slightly clipped despite her attempt at neutrality.
Felix stood and circled the desk to embrace his daughter. "C'est tout ce que je demande (That is all I ask)." He placed a kiss on the top of her head, a gesture he had performed since she was small. Despite being nearly grown, Fleur allowed it without protest, briefly leaning into his familiar warmth.
"Tu nous rendras fiers, ma petite fleur (You will make us proud, my little flower)," he said softly. "Reviens-nous simplement en sécurité (Just come home safely)."
"Je fais toujours ce que je me fixe de faire, Papa (I always do what I set out to do, Papa)," Fleur replied with renewed confidence, stepping back from his embrace. "Je ramènerai la Coupe du Tournoi des Trois Sorciers à Beauxbâtons, et à la France (I will bring the Triwizard Cup back to Beauxbatons, and to France)."
"Et la gloire et la renommée éternelle? (And what of glory and eternal fame?)" Felix asked with a knowing smile.
"Celles-ci, je les ai déjà. La Coupe confirmera simplement ce que nous savons déjà (Those, I already have. The Cup will simply confirm what we already know)."
Felix laughed, the sound rich and genuine. "Quelle modestie (Such modesty)."
"La modestie est pour ceux qui ont quelque chose dont il faut être modeste (Modesty is for those who have something to be modest about)," Fleur replied with a smirk. "Je ne fais qu'énoncer des faits (I merely state facts)."
As she turned to leave, her father called after her, "Écris-moi quand tu arriveras. Et souviens-toi— (Write to me when you arrive. And remember—)"
"—vigilance constante (—constant vigilance)," Fleur finished for him, rolling her eyes affectionately. "Je serai prudente, Papa. Je te le promets (I will be careful, Papa. I promise)."
"C'est tout ce que je demande (That is all I ask)," he said, watching as his daughter departed.
As the door closed behind her, Fleur took a deep breath. Hogwarts awaited, and with it, the challenge that would cement her place in magical history. She would not disappoint her father. She would not disappoint herself.
Hogwarts - Harry Potter
The spiral staircase rotated upward, carrying Harry to the Headmaster's office. He'd been here only twice before—once in his second year during the Chamber of Secrets fiasco, and again last year when the whole deal with Sirius was done. Each time, Harry found himself unnerved by the seemingly all-knowing twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes.
Brilliance recognized brilliance, Harry supposed, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Dumbledore played his cards far too close to his chest. A chess master who saw everyone as pieces to be moved strategically. Ravenclaw instincts, perhaps, but tempered with a Gryffindor's flair for the dramatic.
As the staircase came to a halt, he said the password, and the gargoyles moved out of the way, revealing the door for him. Harry raised his hand to knock on the ornate wooden door. Before his knuckles made contact, Dumbledore's serene voice called out.
"Enter, Harry."
Show-off, Harry thought with a wry smile. He pushed open the door and stepped into the circular office.
Fawkes trilled a greeting from his perch, and Harry nodded to the phoenix before turning his attention to the Headmaster. Dumbledore sat behind his desk, resplendent in robes of midnight blue embroidered with silver constellations. His half-moon spectacles caught the light as he looked up from a parchment.
"Good afternoon, Professor," Harry said, approaching the desk. "Professor McGonagall said you wanted to see me about the Tournament?"
"Indeed, Harry. Please, have a seat," Dumbledore replied, gesturing to a comfortable chair across from him. "Sherbet lemon?"
Harry eyed the small bowl of yellow candies with amusement. "No thank you, sir. I've heard they're an acquired taste."
"More for me, then," Dumbledore said cheerfully, popping one into his mouth. "How are your studies progressing this term? Professor Flitwick speaks most highly of your work in Charms."
"Well enough," Harry replied with a modest shrug that belied the fact he was at the top of his year in most subjects. "Though I suspect you didn't call me here to discuss my academic performance."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Direct, as always. You are correct, of course. I wished to speak with you about our guests from Beauxbatons Academy."
Harry leaned back slightly in his chair, crossing an ankle over his knee in a posture of casual interest. "I assumed they'd be arriving soon. The Tournament's meant to start next week, isn't it?"
"They arrive the day after tomorrow," Dumbledore confirmed. "And while here, the Beauxbatons students will be taking their meals at the Ravenclaw table."
Harry's quick mind made the connection immediately. A slight smile played at the corner of his mouth. "So you want me to be their guide," he stated rather than asked.
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, looking pleased. "Your reputation for perception does not disappoint."
"It wasn't a difficult leap, Professor," Harry replied, tapping his temple. "Ravenclaw, remember? We're known for our deductive reasoning, among other sterling qualities."
"Indeed," Dumbledore chuckled softly. "Yes, I'm asking you to serve as a guide for our Beauxbatons guests. You'll show them around the castle, answer any questions they might have, and generally make them feel welcome at Hogwarts."
Harry's green eyes lit with mischief. "The entire castle, Professor? Is the dungeon included? I can see Snape being very happy to see them invading his domain."
"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore corrected gently, though amusement tugged at his beard-covered lips. "And yes, they should be acquainted with all areas of the school where students are permitted to go. Including the dungeons."
"Poor Professor Snape," Harry quipped. "First my father and his friends, then me, and now a group of French students. The man can't catch a break."
"I'm sure Professor Snape will manage admirably, as he always does," Dumbledore replied diplomatically.
Harry nodded, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against the arm of his chair. "I've heard the French girls are quite beautiful," he remarked casually. "Especially from Beauxbatons."
Dumbledore's expression became a touch more serious. "The Triwizard Tournament is intended to foster international magical cooperation, Harry. It's about forming bonds between our schools and creating lasting friendships across borders."
Harry's grin widened. "What better way to strengthen our bonds than to get to know each other?" he suggested innocently.
The Headmaster sighed, looking skyward for a moment as if seeking patience. "You are too much like your father sometimes, Harry."
"Sirius would consider that a compliment," Harry replied lightly.
"I'm quite sure he would," Dumbledore agreed, his eyes regaining their twinkle. "Though your mother might have had other opinions."
Harry's expression softened slightly at the mention of his mother. "From what Sirius and Remus tell me, she'd probably roll her eyes and then try not to laugh."
"An accurate assessment," Dumbledore nodded. "Lily had a remarkable ability to be stern and amused simultaneously. A talent few possess."
For a moment, they shared a comfortable silence, both thinking of Lily Potter.
"So," Dumbledore eventually continued, "will you accept the responsibility of being our Beauxbatons liaison? I could ask another Ravenclaw if you'd prefer to focus solely on your studies."
Harry pretended to consider this seriously. "Well, I suppose someone needs to show them the best shortcuts around the castle. It would be a shame if they spent their entire visit lost in that corridor on the third floor where the staircases never lead where you think they will."
"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed solemnly, though his eyes danced with amusement. "A terrible tragedy that would be."
"Plus," Harry added, "my French is passable. Between Sirius's insistence that 'every gentleman should speak French, Harry, it's essential for diplomatic relations'—" here he mimicked his godfather's dramatic tone perfectly, "—and those summers in Lyon with the Flamels, I should be able to make them feel welcome."
Dumbledore looked genuinely pleased. "Nicholas and Perenelle spoke very highly of your visits. They don't often take such a liking to young people."
Harry shrugged modestly. "I think they appreciated that I didn't immediately ask about the Philosopher's Stone. Well, not until the third day, anyway."
"Your restraint must have been admirable," Dumbledore chuckled. "So I can count on you as our guide?"
"Of course," Harry nodded. "I'll make sure our French visitors see the best Hogwarts has to offer." He paused, then added with a grin, "Though perhaps I'll save the secret passages for later. Wouldn't want to overwhelm them on the first day."
"I would appreciate if certain... features of the castle remained known only to those who have discovered them through their own ingenuity," Dumbledore replied carefully.
Harry's expression was the picture of innocence. "I have absolutely no idea what you're referring to, Professor."
"I'm sure you don't," Dumbledore said dryly. "Just as I'm sure the Marauder's Map is safely tucked away where it belongs."
Harry blinked in genuine surprise before recovering. "The what, sir?"
"Harry," Dumbledore said gently, "while I may be old, my hearing remains remarkably acute. The staff room is not as soundproof as Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick believed when discussing a certain item confiscated from the Weasley twins that subsequently disappeared from Mr. Filch's office."
"Hypothetically speaking," Harry said carefully, "if such an item existed and was in my possession, it would be quite useful for showing visitors around a castle with a habit of rearranging itself."
"Hypothetically speaking," Dumbledore echoed, "I would suggest using such an item with discretion."
"Hypothetically noted," Harry replied with a grin.
The Headmaster shook his head with a small smile. "I've also asked Mr. Diggory to assist with our Durmstrang guests. They'll be seated with Hufflepuff."
"Cedric's a good choice," Harry agreed. "Everyone likes Cedric."
"Indeed. Between the two of you, I believe our visitors will be in excellent hands." Dumbledore leaned forward slightly. "I should mention, Harry, that while I want you to make our guests feel welcome, your primary responsibility is still to your studies. This tournament will be dangerous for those involved."
Harry's expression turned more serious. "I understand, Professor. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten what happened at the World Cup. I'll keep my eyes open."
Dumbledore studied him for a moment. "You continue to surprise me, Harry. Most students would not make that connection."
"Most students weren't there when the Dark Mark appeared," Harry replied simply. "And most students don't have Sirius Black sending them paranoid letters every three days checking that they're still alive."
"Sirius cares deeply for you."
"I know," Harry said with genuine warmth. "Even if his idea of proper godfather behavior is slightly skewed by twelve years in Azkaban."
Dumbledore's expression clouded momentarily at the mention of Azkaban. "A situation I deeply regret not investigating more thoroughly."
Harry waved a dismissive hand. "Water under the bridge, Professor. Sirius is free now, his name is cleared, and he only has nightmares twice a week instead of every night. We're counting it as a win."
The headmaster nodded, seemingly appreciating Harry's pragmatism. "The Beauxbatons students will arrive on Thursday evening, along with their Headmistress, Madame Maxime. Everyone will be in the Main Courtyard to greet them except for first years and second years. I would like you to be there in the front."
"I'll be there," Harry promised.
"Excellent," Dumbledore said, rising from his chair to indicate the meeting was concluding. "Oh, and Harry?"
"Yes, Professor?"
"While I encourage international cooperation, do remember that you're representing Hogwarts. Particularly when interacting with any... particularly beautiful French students."
Harry's grin was pure James Potter. "I'll be on my best behavior, Professor. Or at least, my second-best."
"That," Dumbledore sighed, "is precisely what I'm afraid of."
Tomorrow
The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall reflected a clear autumn evening, stars just beginning to twinkle against the darkening blue. Candles floated above the four long House tables, casting a warm glow over the students of Hogwarts as they enjoyed their evening meal. The Hall buzzed with excited chatter, all centered on tomorrow's much-anticipated arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang delegations.
At the Ravenclaw table, Harry Potter was attempting—with limited success—to follow Luna Lovegood's explanation of why Nargles were particularly attracted to foreign magical beings.
"It's the different magical aura, you see," Luna explained, her protuberant silver eyes serious despite the dreamy quality of her voice. "Nargles are drawn to unfamiliar magic like Wrackspurts to confused thoughts. The Beauxbatons students will be absolutely swarming with them."
Harry nodded thoughtfully, spearing a roast potato with his fork. "Should we warn them, do you think? 'Welcome to Hogwarts, mind the invisible magical creatures that may or may not be real but will definitely steal your socks'?"
Luna considered this for a moment. "I don't think they'd believe you, Harry. Most people don't until they've lost at least three pairs of socks. I'll bring some spare butterbeer cork necklaces, just in case."
"Very thoughtful of you," Harry grinned, his green eyes twinkling behind his glasses.
"Speaking of thoughtful," came a warm, pleasant voice, "mind if we join you?"
Harry looked up to see Cedric Diggory and Susan Bones standing across the table, both wearing friendly smiles. Several heads turned to watch as the popular Hufflepuff prefect and his housemate sat down at the Ravenclaw table.
"By all means," Harry gestured to the empty seats. "Luna was just educating me on the imminent Nargle invasion that will accompany our foreign visitors."
"I've got extra cork necklaces if you'd like protection," Luna offered serenely, reaching for her goblet of pumpkin juice.
Susan's warm brown eyes crinkled with a smile. "I'll keep that in mind, Luna. My aunt always says it's better to be prepared."
"How is Madam Bones?" Harry asked. "Still keeping the Ministry in line?"
"Trying to," Susan sighed, serving herself some shepherd's pie. "She's been working overtime with all the Tournament preparations. The security concerns alone have her department in knots."
Cedric leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly. "After what happened at the World Cup, the Ministry's not taking any chances. Dad says they've stationed extra Aurors in Hogsmeade for the entire year."
"Smart," Harry nodded. "Though I'm not sure Death Eaters are likely to crash a school tournament."
"I think it's the international aspect that has them worried," Cedric replied. "Diplomatic incidents and all that."
Luna tilted her head. "The Rotfang Conspiracy thrives during international events. All those important people in one place."
"Exactly," Harry agreed solemnly.
Susan decided to change the subject. "Are you planning to enter the Tournament, Cedric? You turned seventeen in September, didn't you?"
Cedric ran a hand through his thick, dark hair—a gesture that caused several nearby girls to sigh audibly. "I'm thinking about it. It would be amazing to represent Hogwarts."
"You should," Harry encouraged. "Hufflepuff could use the glory, and you're brilliant at pretty much everything."
"Says the fourth-year who flew faster than a dragon in his first flying lesson," Cedric countered.
Harry waved a dismissive hand. "Ancient history. Besides, you've got something I'll never have when it comes to the Tournament."
"What's that?" Cedric asked.
"The ability to legally enter," Harry quipped, drawing laughs from those around them. "You're lucky they added that age restriction. Some of us might have given you a run for your money."
Cedric snorted. "Sure, Potter. I'm trembling at the thought."
"You should be," Harry replied with mock seriousness. "I almost won last year, and I only lost because those dementors decided they liked the rain. I need to get in the front again."
As they bantered, Harry noticed a group of fifth-year Ravenclaw girls stealing glances in their direction and whispering among themselves. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he caught their gaze and offered a wink.
The reaction was immediate—giggles erupted, faces flushed, and one girl nearly knocked over her pumpkin juice.
"You're terrible," Susan observed, shaking her head.
"I'm delightful," Harry corrected. "There's a difference."
Cedric rolled his eyes. "Remind me why we're friends again?"
"Because I make you look good by comparison," Harry replied without missing a beat. "It's a service I provide."
"Modest, too," Susan remarked dryly.
"Modesty is overrated," Harry grinned. "Just ask anyone."
Luna, who had been gazing dreamily toward the enchanted ceiling, suddenly turned to Harry. "Hermione Granger is looking at you again," she announced, with her characteristic lack of volume control.
Harry glanced toward the Gryffindor table where, indeed, Hermione quickly averted her gaze back to her book. A small smile played at the corner of his mouth.
"She still feels grateful about the troll incident," Susan observed.
"Anyone would have done the same," Harry shrugged.
"Not everyone would have noticed she was missing," Cedric pointed out.
"I'm observant," Harry said with a shrug. "It comes with being in Ravenclaw. We notice things."
"Like when someone is staring at you?" Susan teased.
"Especially that," Harry confirmed with another grin.
Cedric glanced at his watch. "I should head back. I've got prefect duties in an hour. But before I go—what do you think the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students will be like?"
"Durmstrang will be all scowls and fur," Harry predicted, gesturing dramatically. "Very serious, very intense. Their idea of casual conversation will be discussing the darkest curses they've mastered that week."
"And Beauxbatons?" Susan asked, amused.
"Beautiful and intimidating," Harry said with conviction. "The kind of people who make you feel underdressed even when they're wearing pajamas."
Luna nodded sagely. "The French are known for their susceptibility to Wrackspurt infestations. It's all the rich food."
As Cedric stood to leave, Harry noticed the same group of Ravenclaw girls watching again.
"Ladies," he called across the table, "any of you planning to volunteer as official welcoming committee for Durmstrang tomorrow? I hear they're particularly susceptible to British charm."
One of the braver girls, Marietta Edgecombe, called back, "Why, are you offering lessons, Potter?"
"I could be persuaded," he replied with a roguish grin. "For the good of international relations, of course."
This set off another round of giggles, and even Susan couldn't suppress a laugh.
Cedric shook his head, clearly amused despite himself. "And on that diplomatic note, I'm leaving before I'm implicated in whatever international incident you're planning."
"Wise man," Harry nodded. "See you tomorrow for the arrivals?"
"Wouldn't miss it," Cedric confirmed, heading back to the Hufflepuff table.
As dinner transitioned to dessert, the conversation around Harry buzzed with speculation about the Tournament and the arriving schools. Luna shared increasingly outlandish theories about foreign magical education, while Susan provided what were likely more accurate insights based on her aunt's Ministry connections.
"Potter," called a seventh-year Ravenclaw from further down the table, "heard you're playing tour guide for the Beauxbatons lot."
"Guilty as charged," Harry confirmed. "Dumbledore's orders."
"Lucky you," the older student smirked. "French witches are something else."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "I'll be sure to take detailed cultural notes for you."
As laughter rippled through the table, Harry caught Luna studying him with her unusually perceptive gaze.
"What?" he asked.
"I think," she said thoughtfully, "that you're going to meet someone who doesn't find you charming at all."
"Impossible," Harry protested with mock outrage. "I'm universally beloved."
"Mmm," Luna hummed noncommittally, returning to her pudding. "We'll see."
Harry shook his head, dismissing Luna's words as just another of her peculiar pronouncements. After all, what were the chances that anyone from Beauxbatons would be immune to his particular brand of charisma?
⚯ ͛
⚯ ͛
The crisp October air carried a sense of anticipation as Hogwarts students assembled in the main courtyard. Harry stood at the front of the crowd beside Cedric, both of them positioned just behind the line of professors who flanked Dumbledore. As student guides, they'd been given prime viewing positions for the arrival of their international guests.
Harry adjusted his blue and bronze Ravenclaw scarf against the autumn chill. "Any bets on how they'll arrive?" he asked Cedric, his breath forming small clouds in the cool air.
"Dad mentioned something about Beauxbatons having flying horses," Cedric replied, scanning the darkening sky. "Durmstrang, though? No idea."
"Flying Viking longship," Harry suggested with a grin. "Complete with dragon figurehead that breathes actual fire."
"Five Galleons says you're wrong," Cedric chuckled.
"Deal," Harry extended his hand, and they shook on it.
Behind them, the assembled students buzzed with theories and speculation. The third-years were particularly excitable, having never experienced anything like this before. Harry caught snippets of their conversations:
"I heard the Durmstrang students can turn into wolves—" "My cousin said Beauxbatons teaches actual fairy magic—" "Do you think Viktor Krum will really be coming?"
The last question seemed to dominate many discussions. Even Ronald Weasley, standing with his fellow Gryffindors, looked ready to faint at the prospect of meeting his Quidditch hero.
Professor McGonagall's voice cut through the chatter. "Students, please remember that you are representing Hogwarts School. Conduct yourselves with appropriate decorum."
"Translation: don't embarrass us in front of the fancy foreigners," Harry muttered to Cedric, who suppressed a laugh.
Dumbledore, resplendent in midnight blue robes with silver stars, raised a hand to quiet the remaining whispers. "I believe our friends from Beauxbatons approach," he announced, pointing toward the sky.
All heads turned upward. At first, Harry saw nothing but the deepening blue of dusk. Then a murmur rippled through the crowd as something large appeared over the Forbidden Forest.
"Is that... a house?" a nearby Hufflepuff asked incredulously.
"Too fast for a house," Harry observed, narrowing his eyes. "And houses generally don't have wings."
As the object drew closer, its true nature became clear: an enormous powder-blue carriage pulled through the air by a dozen magnificent palomino horses, each the size of an elephant with powerful wings extending from their muscular shoulders.
The carriage descended in a wide spiral, the massive horses touching down and slowed down quite fast despite their size. The carriage landed with a resounding thud that sent several first-years stumbling backward. It rolled to a stop directly before Dumbledore, the golden horses stamping and tossing their massive heads.
Harry let out a low whistle. "Now that's an entrance."
Before anyone could respond, the carriage door opened, bearing a coat of arms featuring two crossed golden wands, each emitting three stars. A boy in pale blue robes jumped down, unfolded a set of golden steps, and stood back with a formal bow.
What emerged next drew gasps from the assembled students. A woman—if she could be called merely that—of almost comically immense proportions stepped from the carriage with the dignified grace of royalty. She stood easily as tall as Hagrid, taller!, dressed in black satin and magnificent opals that glittered.
"Madame Maxime," Dumbledore announced, stepping forward to kiss her extended hand. "Welcome to Hogwarts."
"Dumbly-dorr," she purred in a deep, accented voice. "I 'ope I find you well?"
"In excellent form, thank you," Dumbledore replied with a courtly bow.
"My students," Madame Maxime gestured behind her with a bejeweled hand.
From the carriage emerged about a dozen boys and girls, all in their late teens, clad in fine silk robes of powder blue. They stood shivering, looking up at Hogwarts with expressions ranging from apprehension to thinly veiled disdain. Unlike their headmistress, they wore no cloaks, and several were wrapping silk scarves more tightly around their heads.
Harry immediately noticed their discomfort and stepped forward, drawing his wand discreetly. With a subtle motion, he cast a warming charm that extended outward to encompass the Beauxbatons students. "Calorus Ambientis," he murmured, and a gentle wave of warmth spread around them.
The effect was immediate—shoulders relaxed, shivers subsided, and several students turned to Harry with surprised but grateful looks. A petite brunette girl smiled warmly at him, murmuring "Merci" as she unwound her scarf slightly.
Harry's attention, however, was quickly drawn to one student in particular—a girl with silvery-blonde hair who stood slightly apart from the others. Even from a distance, her beauty was startling—not just pretty, but the kind of beauty that seemed almost unreal, like a painting come to life. Her features were perfectly proportioned, her skin luminous even in the dim evening light.
What struck Harry most, though, was not her appearance but her demeanor. While her classmates had huddled together against the chill and now expressed gratitude for the warming charm, she stood tall with her chin raised, surveying Hogwarts as though evaluating a potential purchase she found somewhat lacking. She hadn't acknowledged Harry's spell with so much as a glance.
Around him, Harry became aware of a strange shift in atmosphere. A quick glance revealed numerous boys—and even some girls—staring at the blonde student with expressions of slack-jawed adoration. Even Cedric beside him had a slightly dazed look, his usual composed demeanor faltering as his gaze fixed on the Beauxbatons girl.
Harry elbowed Cedric discreetly. "She's a Veela," he murmured. "Or part-Veela at least."
Cedric blinked rapidly, seeming to snap out of a trance. "What? How can you tell?"
"The drooling spectators, for one," Harry nodded toward several Hogwarts boys who were straightening their robes and attempting to smooth their hair. "Plus that... shimmer around her. It's subtle, but it's there."
Cedric frowned. "I don't see any shimmer. But I did feel... strange for a moment. You don't seem affected."
Harry shrugged. "I notice she's beautiful, obviously. But no sudden urge to compose bad poetry or show off my non-existent muscles."
"Most wizards can't resist Veela allure."
"Lucky me," Harry replied dryly, turning his attention back to the proceedings.
Madame Maxime was introducing her students to Dumbledore, who welcomed each with a warm smile. When she came to the blonde girl, Harry noted the particular pride in the headmistress's voice.
"And zis is Fleur Delacour, our most accomplished student."
Fleur stepped forward with the confidence of someone accustomed to being the center of attention. She offered Dumbledore a small, precise curtsy. "It is an honor to meet you, Professor Dumbledore. Your reputation extends far beyond Britain's borders."
Her English was excellent, though heavily accented, with 'h's dropped and 'th's transformed into 'z's. Despite her polite words, Harry detected a slight coolness in her tone—respect without warmth.
"The honor is mine, Miss Delacour," Dumbledore replied with his usual genial manner. "Hogwarts welcomes Beauxbatons with open arms."
As Fleur rejoined her classmates, Harry couldn't help but notice how they subtly shifted to give her space—not moving closer as one might with a friend, but rather adjusting their positions as if to avoid encroaching on her territory. Interesting dynamic, he thought.
The sound of rushing water drew everyone's attention to the Great Lake, where a whirlpool had formed in the previously calm surface. A massive ship was rising from the depths like a resurrected wreck, water cascading from its ancient timbers as it emerged fully into the air. The Durmstrang delegation had arrived.
While the crowd's attention was diverted to the spectacle of the emerging ship, Dumbledore motioned for Harry to approach. "Mr. Potter, a moment if you please."
Harry stepped forward as Madame Maxime regarded him with mild interest.
"Madame, may I present Mr. Harry Potter? He will be serving as a guide for your students during their stay at Hogwarts."
If Madame Maxime recognized Harry's name, she gave no indication beyond a slight lifting of her sculptured eyebrows. "A guide, you say?"
"Mr. Potter will be responsible for those students seated at Ravenclaw table," Dumbledore explained. "We thought it best to have a designated point of contact familiar with the areas where your students will be spending most of their time."
"I see," Madame Maxime nodded, her enormous head tilting forward. "Very well."
Harry stepped forward with a polite bow. "It's a pleasure to welcome you to Hogwarts, Madame Maxime. I'll do my best to ensure your students feel at home during their time here. I've already taken the liberty of casting a warming charm; I noticed your students weren't dressed for our Scottish weather."
"You are in Ravenclaw House yourself, Mr. Potter?" she inquired.
"Yes, Madame. Fourth year."
She looked surprised. "So young to be a guide?"
"Mr. Potter has demonstrated exceptional knowledge of the castle and its workings," Dumbledore interjected smoothly. "I assure you, your students will be in capable hands."
Harry caught Fleur Delacour watching this exchange with thinly veiled skepticism, her perfect eyebrows drawn together in the slightest of frowns. When she noticed him looking, she didn't glance away but instead held his gaze with cool assessment. The message was clear: she was not impressed.
Harry found himself returning her stare with equal composure, a small, challenging smile playing at the corner of his mouth. For a brief moment, something like surprise flickered across her face—perhaps at his immunity to her charm, or perhaps at his audacity.
The moment was broken as Dumbledore turned to greet the Durmstrang Headmaster. Harry, however, couldn't shake the feeling that an opening move in some complex game had just been played. Eventually, after a few more introductions from Drumstrang and many jumping up trying to get a look at Krum, Harry decided to do his job as a guide.
"And if you'll follow me this way," Harry announced, walking backward a few steps as he addressed the group of Beauxbatons students trailing behind him, "we're heading to Ravenclaw Tower."
The French students followed, their pale blue uniforms standing out against the ancient stone corridors. Most appeared to be taking in their surroundings with varying degrees of interest, though Harry couldn't help but notice that Fleur Delacour walked with her gaze fixed forward, as though determined not to appear too impressed by anything she saw.
"Our common room has the best view in the castle," Harry continued, turning to walk up a spiraling staircase. "Though I might be biased."
"It cannot be better zan ze view from Beauxbatons," said a pretty brunette near the front of the group. "Our palace overlooks ze Mediterranean."
Harry flashed her a charming smile. "Well, I can't compete with the Mediterranean, but I promise you'll enjoy waking up to a view of the mountains and the Great Lake. On clear days, you can see all the way to Hogsmeade village." He switched to carefully practiced French, "J'espère que vous trouverez votre séjour ici confortable (I hope you'll find your stay here comfortable)."
Several of the Beauxbatons students looked pleasantly surprised at his attempt, and the brunette giggled.
"Your accent is 'orrible," she said, but her tone was teasing rather than critical.
Harry placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. "Je suis profondément blessé (I am deeply wounded)," he replied, exaggerating his accent further, which earned more laughter.
"Where did you learn French?" asked another girl with curly black hair.
"My godfather insisted," Harry explained, leading them around a corner. "Said it was essential for a proper gentleman's education. I spent a couple of summers in France, which helped. Though clearly not enough," he added with a self-deprecating grin.
As they climbed higher into the castle, Harry pointed out various landmarks—moving portraits that bowed as they passed, suits of armor that saluted, and hidden alcoves with spectacular views. He answered questions confidently, occasionally dropping in another French phrase that made the girls smile despite his intentionally terrible pronunciation.
Throughout the tour, Harry noticed Fleur watching him. Unlike her classmates, who seemed increasingly charmed by their guide, her expression remained cool and evaluating. Everyone had asked questions, but she had yet to ask one herself.
Finally, they reached the entrance to Ravenclaw Tower, where a bronze eagle-shaped knocker adorned a door with no handle or keyhole.
"This is the entrance to our common room," Harry explained. "Unlike other houses that use passwords, Ravenclaw has a different system."
As if on cue, the eagle knocker came to life, its metal beak opening to speak: "I have cities, but no houses. I have mountains, but no trees. I have water, but no fish. What am I?"
The Beauxbatons students exchanged curious glances.
"You must answer ze riddle to enter?" one boy asked.
Harry nodded. "That's right. It helps encourage wisdom and quick thinking—though it can be inconvenient when you're tired after a long day of classes."
Several students began whispering among themselves, discussing possible answers.
"A painting?" suggested the curly-haired girl.
The knocker remained silent.
"A dream?" offered another student.
Again, no response.
"A map," came Fleur's clear voice from the back of the group. Her tone suggested she found the riddle trivially easy.
The knocker responded, "Well reasoned," and the door swung open.
Harry inclined his head slightly in Fleur's direction—the first acknowledgment he'd given her since the tour began. "Well done, Miss Delacour."
The Beauxbatons students filed into the common room, their expressions shifting to genuine appreciation as they took in the airy, circular space with its domed ceiling painted with stars, elegant arched windows, and comfortable blue and bronze furnishings. The room was bathed in soft light from various lamps, while the windows provided a spectacular view of the grounds below, just as Harry had promised.
"This is lovely," murmured one of the girls, moving toward the windows.
"It has a certain... charm," Fleur remarked, her voice carrying clearly across the room. "Though it is rather small compared to ze Grand Salon at Beauxbatons. And so... medieval."
She ran a finger along one of the bookshelves, inspecting it for dust. "I suppose it has remained unchanged for centuries. Is innovation not valued in British magical education?"
A small silence fell as the other students glanced between Fleur and Harry, clearly anticipating his response.
Harry smiled, not missing a beat. "We like to think of it as classical rather than medieval, Miss Delacour. Though I understand how someone might confuse the two if their architectural education was... incomplete."
Fleur's eyes narrowed slightly. "Ze French magical tradition values progress alongside 'istory. We do not cling to ze past simply because it is comfortable."
"How fortunate then," Harry replied smoothly, "that you'll have the opportunity to experience both approaches during your stay. Perhaps you'll find there's wisdom in certain traditions—assuming you're open to learning, of course."
"I am always open to learning, Potter," Fleur countered, her accent becoming more pronounced. "But I prefer teachers with experience beyond four years of magical education."
Several of the Beauxbatons students inhaled sharply, clearly shocked at her direct challenge. The Beauxbatons boy closest to Harry actually took a step back, as though expecting an explosion.
Instead, Harry laughed—a genuine sound of amusement. "Fair point, Miss Delacour. I'm merely a humble tour guide, not a professor. Though sometimes the newest books have the most interesting stories, while the most impressive-looking tomes contain nothing but stale air between their covers."
The metaphor wasn't lost on anyone present. Two of the Beauxbatons girls exchanged wide-eyed glances, while another unsuccessfully tried to disguise a smile behind her hand.
Fleur's cheeks flushed delicately, but her composure remained intact. "Some stories are not worth reading, no matter 'ow new ze binding."
"I'll be sure to remember that valuable literary advice," Harry replied with a small bow. Then, turning to address the entire group.
"This is our common room, where Ravenclaws spend most of their free time," Harry explained to the group. "You'll be sleeping in your carriage, of course, but you're welcome to visit here anytime." He gestured to the bronze eagle knocker. "Just remember to bring someone who's good with riddles."
Several of the students chuckled, while Fleur merely raised an eyebrow.
"Now, if you've seen enough of Ravenclaw Tower, I thought we might visit the Central Hall next," Harry continued. "It's a gathering place where students from all four Houses interact. Probably the best place to get to know Hogwarts students from different Houses."
As the group prepared to leave, one of the Beauxbatons girls—Sophie, she'd introduced herself as—approached with a small frown.
"My bag has a damaged clasp," she explained hesitantly, showing Harry where the silver fastening had come loose on her small handbag. "I worry my things will spill everywhere as we walk."
"That's easily fixed," Harry said kindly, drawing his wand. With a precise movement and a murmured "Reparo," the clasp mended itself.
"Merci beaucoup," Sophie smiled gratefully. "Your spell was very... gentle. When Jean tried earlier, he nearly blew ze whole thing apart."
Harry grinned, but then Fleur stepped forward.
"I 'ave a question, Monsieur Potter," she said, her voice carrying clearly. "Do all ze classrooms at 'Ogwarts have zese... rustic furnishings? Or is it only ze more remote towers zat lack proper comfort charms?"
Harry turned to her with a pleasant smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "We find that comfort sometimes distracts from learning, Miss Delacour. Though I understand that might be a foreign concept at schools where style is prioritized over substance."
A few gasps escaped from the French students.
Fleur's eyes narrowed dangerously. "At Beauxbatons, we believe one can learn without sitting on furniture from ze Middle Ages. But perhaps British wizards need such... primitive conditions to focus zeir minds."
"Different educational philosophies," Harry replied with a casual shrug. "Though I'd be happy to transfigure you a silk cushion if the historic significance of sitting where Rowena Ravenclaw herself once sat is too uncomfortable for your... delicate sensibilities."
The tension in the room was palpable. Two Beauxbatons girls were watching with wide eyes, and Sophie was biting her lip, glancing nervously between them.
Fleur's perfect features arranged themselves into a smile that held no warmth. "If 'Ogwarts is truly as impressive as you claim, Monsieur Potter, perhaps you could demonstrate? Or are your words as hollow as zese ancient walls?"
She drew her wand—not threateningly, but with the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. "In Beauxbatons, we learn to prove our claims with magic, not merely... talking."
Harry's eyes lit with the spark of challenge rather than annoyance. "What exactly did you have in mind, Miss Delacour?"
"A simple demonstration," Fleur replied coolly. "You speak so proudly of Ravenclaw intelligence. Show me something zat would impress even Rowena herself."
It was clearly a trap—no matter what spell he performed, she would find a way to dismiss it. Harry considered for a moment, then smiled.
"Very well." He drew his wand with a flourish and turned toward one of the bookshelves. With an intricate pattern of movement and a murmured incantation that sounded almost like music, he cast a spell none of them recognized.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the air around the bookshelf shimmered, and suddenly the names of everyone who had touched each book in the past century became visible—floating in gentle silver script above each tome. Not just names, but dates, and brief impressions. One particularly thick volume on Advanced Transfiguration showed it had been handled by McGonagall when she was a student, with the notation "Most insightful analysis of cross-species transformation."
"Ravenclaw's library remembers every mind that has sought knowledge here," Harry explained softly. "It's not just history—it's living memory."
Several of the Beauxbatons students gasped, genuinely impressed. Even Sophie's eyes widened with appreciation.
Fleur's expression remained composed, but Harry caught the slightest widening of her eyes—a flash of genuine interest before her mask of indifference returned.
"A clever charm," she conceded, though her tone suggested it was merely adequate. "Though more for sentimental value zan practical application, non?"
"Knowledge of those who came before us is always practical," Harry countered. "Unless, of course, one believes they have nothing to learn from history."
"Well," Harry said brightly, addressing the whole group again, "shall we continue to the Central Hall? It's one of the more modern areas of the castle—renovated just three centuries ago, so practically brand new by Hogwarts standards."
As the students filed toward the door, still casting curious glances between Harry and Fleur, Harry caught Sophie's eye. She gave him a look of mingled admiration and surprise.
Fleur, for her part, followed with perfect posture, her expression betraying nothing. But as they descended the spiral staircase, Harry noticed her knuckles had whitened around her wand, and a faint crease had appeared between her eyebrows.
It was evident that Fleur Delacour, the beautiful, talented witch who clearly expected the world to revolve around her, had just discovered that she had met her match in at least one person at Hogwarts.
If you want to Read 4 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'Patreon.com/Drinor' on Websearch