Harry was marvelling at the size of the female Principal.
He believed that if Madam Maxime and Professor Dumbledore were to fight one-on-one without using magic, even three Professor Dumbledore's wouldn't be her match.(TN: Who even imagines this kind of weird stuff? Dudley is influencing him deeply, it seems.)
"Thank you for your concern, Madam, but with Professor Cavendish here, we were safe the whole way," Harry said.
Madam Maxime nodded; it seemed she had other matters to attend to.
"For lunch, you can go to the Banquet Hall and try the Bouillabaisse (French mixed fish soup). I've always thought the cooking of our school's House-elves was quite good. I have some official business to deal with now. Have fun exploring the school."
Watching her retreating figure, Harry quietly leaned in and whispered to Sherlock.
"I think she might be related to Hagrid!"
Sherlock flicked Harry on the forehead, making him clutch his head and howl.
"I told you to stop talking about people behind their backs, and don't make fun of others' unique characteristics. It's very rude."(TN: Truly. )
Harry behaved obediently when facing Sherlock's lecture.
They continued to stroll around Beauxbatons, and along the way, they met a student who had stayed at the school, chatting with her for a while about daily life there.
From her words, it was clear that the atmosphere of this school was slightly more serious than Hogwarts, with rules being just as numerous, if not more so.
Or perhaps Hogwarts wasn't as relaxed before; the atmosphere only became easier after Dumbledore took over as Principal.
At noon, they tasted the mixed fish soup recommended by Madam Maxime in the Beauxbatons Banquet Hall.
Neither Harry nor Sherlock was used to the soup; they preferred the toasted bread here.
It was perfectly toasted and tasted wonderful, earning high praise from Mr Potter, the Chosen One.
After lunch, they sat in the garden for a while to digest, then got up, preparing to leave Beauxbatons.
Sherlock's itinerary in France was all spontaneous.
For example, the decision to visit Beauxbatons was made only when he was in Caen.
For their next destination, they took the advice of Garrel, the administrative teacher who had let them into Beauxbatons.
"Near the Muggle town called Saint-Gaudens at the foot of the Pyrenees, there is a Wizard market town called Aspet. It gathers Wizards from France, Portugal, Spain, and some from Africa. You can check out the Warmth Bar; their red wine and steak are excellent."
Getting back into the flying car and driving south along the Pyrenees mountain range, Sherlock and Harry found the Wizard town named Aspet.
This place seemed even livelier than Hogsmeade.
The main reason was that the Pyrenees were located at the border of Spain and France, and if one crossed the ocean, it wasn't too far from Africa either.
Therefore, not only French Wizards but also Wizards from surrounding countries gathered here, giving the town the busiest magical commercial street in Southern Europe.
Seeing that about one-fifth of the people on the street were Black, Harry couldn't help but exclaim.
"There are quite a few African Wizards here."(TN: He is so bloody ignorant.)
Sherlock patted his shoulder and told him to listen carefully to the Black Wizards speaking. Only then did Harry realise that most of them were speaking French.
"They are all French!" Harry asked, wide-eyed.
Sherlock made a shushing gesture at him, signalling him to quiet down.
"That's normal. The concept of pure-blood Wizards isn't as strong here in France as it is in Britain. The proportion of half-blood Wizards and Muggle-born Wizards is very large. And the rate of Black people in French Muggle society is increasing yearly, which naturally affects the Wizarding World here. So don't just assume every Black Wizard you see is African."
Harry nodded, half-understanding, and followed Sherlock as they wandered aimlessly through the streets of the Aspet town.
It was indeed very lively, arguably the most important Wizard gathering place in Southern Europe. Harry bought many interesting things along the street.
In Magical society, Sherlock didn't need to pay for Harry.
Considering his status as a Wizard, Harry's ancestors founded a shampoo company, leaving him with far more substantial wealth than Sherlock's small private vault—he was definitely a rich slob.
Just as Sherlock was being pestered by the owner of a Potion shop, who was trying to sell him an antidote to Amortentia, Harry suddenly seemed to make a major discovery, staring wide-eyed in one direction, completely stunned.
Sherlock shook off the shop owner, noticed Harry's unusual behaviour, and followed his gaze, finding that he was looking at a young witch.
The witch had beautiful silver-white long hair, delicate features, skin as white as snow, and most importantly, she radiated a captivating aura.
The experienced Sherlock was not enchanted by the witch. He narrowed his eyes and tapped the stunned Harry, snapping him out of it.
"Hey, hey, hey, your drool is almost reaching your chest."
Harry's face instantly flushed red as he frantically wiped the corner of his mouth, only to find there was nothing there.
"You tricked me, Professor!" Harry complained bitterly.
"If I didn't snap you out of it, you really would have started drooling," Sherlock said, grabbing the back collar of the still-reluctant Harry and dragging him away. "There's something wrong with that girl. She must have the bloodline of some special Magical Creature; otherwise, she wouldn't unconsciously emit that kind of aura. I advise you to sober up."
As evening approached and the sky gradually darkened, Sherlock took Harry directly to the Warmth Bar recommended by the old witch Garrel and walked in.
The Warmth Bar lived up to its name; the atmosphere inside was indeed warm, with soft yellow lighting and gentle music giving the entire bar a sophisticated style.
Sherlock found an empty table near the window, sat down with Harry, and ordered two steaks and a bottle of red wine.
"Do you want to try some this time?" Sherlock uncorked the red wine and gestured to Harry.
Harry repeatedly waved his hands in refusal. The last time he tasted red wine in Saumur, he immediately spat it out; it tasted nothing like the grape juice he had imagined.
Sherlock ordered him a glass of orange juice. Just as Garrel had said, the steak here was indeed excellent, and both Harry and Sherlock were very satisfied with their meal.
When they were halfway through eating, Harry suddenly nudged Sherlock's arm, signalling him to look towards the bar entrance.
The silver-haired girl they had seen on the street earlier was now pushing the door open and walking in.
She wasn't alone; she was accompanied by a seemingly attentive young Wizard about Sherlock's age.
Sherlock merely glanced over, then turned his head back, tapping Harry's plate with his fork to remind him.
"Eat your food properly, stop looking around."
"She must be a Beauxbatons student." Although Harry refocused on his steak, he was clearly still thinking about that captivating girl.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and said,
"How do you know?"
As they talked, the girl and the Wizard accompanying her came and sat down at the table next to theirs, which was the last empty seat in the bar.
Harry signalled Sherlock with his eyes. Sherlock looked in the direction he indicated and indeed saw the Beauxbatons crest—two crossed golden wands—on the sleeve of the girl's robe.
Sherlock shrugged at him, signalling that he should just stick to eating.
Having eaten too much good food recently in France, Sherlock and Harry's stomachs had expanded slightly.
One steak each was no longer enough to satisfy their appetites. After finishing, they ordered an extra serving of escargots and two bowls of onion soup.
"Where are we going next, Professor?" Harry asked while chewing an escargot.
Sherlock took this time to pull out the map of France he always carried and looked at their upcoming travel route.
"Hmm... next, we'll head north. If we continue south, we'll hit Spain. We'll loop around Switzerland from the northeast, passing through Lyon and Geneva, then visit the town of Interlaken, and finally head to Paris."
"Do we have enough time?"
"Of course, we do. As long as we get to Nicolas Flamel's residence in Paris before August, we can go anywhere we want before then."
Just as they were chatting, a somewhat proud yet pleasant and clear voice suddenly interjected in English with a heavy French accent.
"Are you also planning to look for Mr Nicolas Flamel?"
Sherlock and Harry both turned to look at the person who had interrupted—it was the silver-haired girl.
Hearing her initiate a conversation, Harry was eager to respond immediately.
But after catching Sherlock's eye, he nervously lowered his head and drank his onion soup.
Sherlock dismissed Harry with a look and turned emotionlessly towards the girl.
"May I ask who you are?"
The girl lifted her chin, revealing her long, fair neck.
"Fleur Delacour, sixth-year student at Beauxbatons."
Sherlock nodded.
"We are indeed going to Paris to see Mr Nicolas Flamel, at the invitation of an elder."
"Excuse me! Sir, Miss, pardon me, excuse me!"
Just then, a Goblin wearing a grey robe squeezed between their two tables, accidentally bumping Fleur's chair in the process.
Sherlock slightly frowned, watching the Goblin walk past, but said nothing.
Fleur continued excitedly.
"I'm going to visit Mr Nicolas Flamel soon too. I heard Madam Maxime say that he seems to have something good he plans to give away..."
As she said this, Sherlock stood up from his seat. He put on his coat and, incidentally, picked up Harry, who was pretending to drink onion soup but was actually eavesdropping on Fleur.
"Excuse me, Miss Delacour, we have matters to attend to and must leave first." As Sherlock spoke, he glanced towards the Goblin who was quickly heading towards the fireplace. "Before we go, I suggest you check if you are missing anything important. And finally, I wish you good luck."
With that, Sherlock dragged the bewildered Harry out of the bar.
Before leaving, Harry looked back at the girl named Fleur with eyes full of pity.
"Professor, was your blessing to Miss Delacour sincere?"
After leaving the bar, Harry followed closely behind Sherlock, pressing the question.
Sherlock curled his lip.
"That poor unfortunate soul was just robbed without realising it. Of course, I sincerely wish her good luck next."
Harry could only mourn silently for Fleur in private.
To be robbed and then seemingly cursed—what a pitiful girl.