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Sunlight streams through the enchanted windows of the Royal Suite, painting golden patterns across the lunch table that's already laden with more food than five people could possibly eat. Harry stares at the spread with something between awe and concern—croissants that steam gently despite no one having baked them, fruit tarts that rearrange themselves based on proximity, and what appears to be chocolate mousse masquerading as a lunch food.
"Is that... is that chocolat actually winking at me?" Tonks asks, poking suspiciously at a pastry.
"Don't be ridiculous," Ted says, already three bites into his second croissant. "It's French. It's giving you a sultry gaze of chocolate-filled promise."
"Edward," Andromeda sighs, though she's delicately spreading jam on her own pastry. "Please don't anthropomorphize the lunch."
"Too late," Harry mutters, watching his café au lait stir itself. "I think my coffee just judged me for considering adding sugar."
Newt emerges from his room looking remarkably put-together for someone who spent the last hour with at least a dozen magical creatures. "Good afternoon, everyone. I trust you all slept well?"
"Like a baby," Ted declares. "A baby in the world's most expensive crib with self-adjusting temperature charms and pillows that massage your head."
"The beds were rather comfortable," Andromeda allows, which from her is equivalent to shouting praise from rooftops.
"So!" Ted claps his hands together, nearly upsetting his tower of pastries. "Magical Paris awaits! I vote we see everything. Every shop, every street corner, every suspiciously attractive building that might be hiding dark secrets."
"We are not here to uncover conspiracies, Ted," Andromeda says firmly. "We are here as diplomatic guests representing Britain."
"Right, so we should definitely investigate any suspicious French activity. For Britain."
Tonks snorts into her chocolat chaud. "Dad, your idea of suspicious French activity is probably just someone wearing a beret non-ironically."
"Berets are suspicious! No practical purpose whatsoever. Clearly hiding something."
Harry tears his attention away from a particularly aggressive fruit tart that seems determined to leap onto his plate. "Actually, I was hoping to visit some shops in the magical quarter. I need to check out their talisman supply stores—see if they have any unique materials I can't get in Britain."
"Ooh, shopping!" Tonks brightens. "Bet they have better clothes here than Twilfitt's. Everything there makes you look like someone's stern grandmother."
"You will not blow your Auror training fund on French fashion," Andromeda warns.
"I'm not going to blow it. I'm going to invest it. In my future. Of looking fabulous while arresting dark wizards."
"That's my girl," Ted grins. "Fiscal responsibility through creative interpretation."
"I believe the main magical shopping district is called Rue de Séraphin," Newt offers, buttering a baguette slice with ease. "Rather like Diagon Alley, but with significant architectural differences. The shops there date back to the thirteenth century."
"Brilliant!" Tonks attempts what Harry assumes is meant to be French. "Nous allons faire du shopping!"
The silence that follows is profound.
"Sweetheart," Ted says gently, "I think you just declared war on consonants."
"What? My accent's not that bad!"
"Nymphadora," Andromeda says carefully, "you just pronounced 'shopping' as if it were a threat against the French state."
Harry tries to hide his grin behind his coffee cup. "Maybe stick to English? We don't want to cause an international incident."
"Oh, like your French is any better, Mr. 'I-Sound-Like-I'm-Choking-On-Treacle.'"
"Fleur said I'd improved to treacle! Last year I was choking on a baguette. Clear progress."
"The bar's so low it's practically underground," Tonks mutters.
"Children," Andromeda interrupts, though her eyes hold warmth. "Perhaps we should finish lunch before the palace staff think we're ungrateful? These croissants didn't aparate themselves here."
"Actually," Newt says thoughtfully, "they might have. French magical theory includes some fascinating work on self-directed food magic. There's a whole subset of charms designed to—"
He stops as everyone stares at him.
"Right. Not lunch conversation. My apologies."
Ted reaches for another pain au chocolat. "So, Rue de Séraphin it is? Everyone agrees?"
"I need to find texts on advanced ward matrices," Harry says. "My current reference books are good, but they're all British publications. Different countries have different approaches."
"Je veux acheter des vêtements!" Tonks declares proudly.
Another silence.
"You just said you want to buy vegetables," Harry informs her.
"I said clothes!"
"You said 'vêtements' like it was 'végétaux.'"
"There's a difference?"
"One gets you a new dress. The other gets you a cabbage."
"I hate French," Tonks decides. "Stupid language with too many ways to accidentally embarrass yourself."
"Whereas English is perfectly logical," Ted says dryly. "Through, though, thought, tough—completely reasonable."
"Can we please just go shopping before Tonks declares war on another language?" Harry suggests. "I want to have time to actually look at things before tonight's show."
"Ooh, right! The star thing!" Tonks bounces slightly in her seat. "Think Fleur will be there?"
"Almost certainly," Andromeda says. "These events are as much about networking as entertainment. All the prominent families will attend."
"Brilliant. Another chance for me to stand there like a mute troll while she's all elegant and French."
"You're not a mute troll," Harry assures her. "You're more of a temporarily speechless salamander."
She throws a grape at him.
"Alright, alright!" Ted intervenes before food combat can properly begin. "Let's get ready to explore. Andy, how long do we need to look presentable for French society?"
"We're already presentable," Andromeda says primly. "We simply need to maintain that state while navigating what will undoubtedly be crowded magical streets filled with tourists and locals who will judge us for being British."
"So no pressure then," Tonks says.
"I'm sure it'll be fine," Newt offers. "The French are actually quite welcoming to visitors who make an effort to appreciate their culture."
"Define 'effort,'" Harry says suspiciously.
"Well... attempting their language helps. Showing interest in their history. Not comparing everything to British equivalents. Basic courtesy, really."
"We're doomed," Tonks decides.
⚯ ͛
⚯ ͛
The public entrance to the French Ministry opens onto a sight that makes Diagon Alley look like a particularly dingy back street. Rue de Séraphin stretches before them in a gentle curve, its cobblestones shifting and rearranging themselves to guide pedestrians around puddles, rough patches, and the occasional dropped ice cream.
"Oh, come on!" Tonks exclaims as the stones beneath her feet gently nudge her away from a crack she was about to trip over. "Even their streets are showing off!"
"That's actually quite clever," Ted muses, watching the cobblestones form helpful arrows for a lost-looking tourist. "Wonder if we could get something like this for London?"
"The Ministry would form sixteen committees to discuss it and then decide it's too expensive," Andromeda says dryly. "Besides, can you imagine Diagon Alley trying to be helpful? It would probably direct people into walls out of spite."
Harry's attention is caught by the shops themselves. Where Diagon Alley tends toward the narrow and vertical, these establishments sprawl outward. Display windows don't just show their wares—they actively court passersby. A robe shop's mannequin performs an elaborate fashion show, while a candy store's window fills with chocolate sculptures that melt and reform into increasingly elaborate shapes.
"Is that confection doing interpretive dance?" Newt asks with interest.
"I think it's reenacting the French Revolution," Harry observes. "With bonbons."
"Liberté, égalité, chocolat!" Tonks declares, then frowns. "Wait, that can't be right."
A silver hand emerges from a jewelry shop's entrance, holding a delicate necklace that sparkles with inner light. The hand beckons elegantly before retreating inside. The shop's sign reads "Enchantements Éternels" in flowing script that rewrites itself in different languages as people pass.
"'Eternal Enchantments,'" Ted translates. "Bit presumptuous, isn't it? What if the enchantments only last ninety-nine years?"
"Then you get a refund," a passing witch says in accented English, overhearing. "The Beaumont family stands behind their work. That necklace? It will remember its first owner forever. Even centuries later, it will warm when touched by their descendants."
"That's... actually quite lovely," Andromeda admits as the witch continues on her way.
"See?" Tonks says. "The French get it. Jewelry with emotional significance beyond 'oh, shiny.' Meanwhile, British jewelers are still debating whether silver or gold shows more fiscal responsibility."
They continue down the street, each shop more intriguing than the last. A potions ingredient store has samples floating in glass bubbles outside—touch one and you experience the scent, texture, and magical resonance without any risk. A wand maintenance shop demonstrates cleaning spells through an elaborate puppet show in the window.
"Le Grimoire Doré!" Harry points to an elaborate bookshop whose window display features books reading themselves, pages turning at precisely timed intervals. "That's supposed to have texts going back to the founding of Beauxbatons."
"Books that read themselves seem counterproductive," Ted observes. "Takes all the fun out of it."
"I think it's for demonstration," Newt says. "Look—each one's showing particularly interesting passages. That one on Mediterranean ward schemes is displaying the exact chapter on underwater protections."
"Convenient," Harry agrees, already moving toward the entrance. "Coming?"
The inside of Le Grimoire Doré makes Flourish and Blotts look like a cramped cupboard. Books float at different levels, accessible by gesture or spoken request. The air smells of parchment, aged leather, and something indefinably magical—like knowledge itself has a scent.
"Puis-je vous aider?" A young wizard approaches, then switches to English at their expressions. "May I help you?"
"I'm looking for texts on advanced talisman construction," Harry says. "Particularly anything covering non-British methods?"
The wizard's eyes light up. "Ah! You are interested in the Continental approaches? We have excellent selections. The German efficiency model? The Italian artistic method? Or perhaps..." He leans in conspiratorially. "The old French texts? Pre-standardization, when each craftsman had secret techniques?"
"The old French texts," Harry says immediately. "Definitely those."
"Un moment!" The wizard waves his wand in a complex pattern. Several ancient-looking tomes drift down from the highest shelves. "These are reproduction copies, of course. The originals are too delicate. But the knowledge—parfait!"
Harry accepts the first book, running his fingers over the embossed cover. The French title is complex, but he recognizes enough words to understand it deals with lunar influences on protective magic.
"Oh, that reminds me!" Tonks appears at his elbow, having wandered off to explore. "Harry, you've got to see the clothing shop next door. The robes actually adjust their style based on your personality!"
"That sounds dangerous for you," Harry says absently, already opening the book. "Your robes would probably have an identity crisis."
"Oi! My personality is perfectly consistent!"
"Your hair is literally three different colors right now."
"That's consistency! Consistently inconsistent!"
Harry turns back to the French texts, his excitement growing. The diagrams alone are revolutionary—approaching magical protection from angles he'd never considered. Where British talisman work tends toward straightforward shield charms, these French methods layer protections like an onion, each one supporting and enhancing the others.
"Find something good?" Ted asks, appearing with his own armload of books.
"Household charms?" Harry guesses.
"Cooking charms, actually. These French wizards have spells for pastry that I've never even dreamed of. Andy's pretending she's not interested, but I saw her eyeing the one on self-maintaining cleaning spells."
"I was merely observing their different approach to domestic magic," Andromeda says primly.
"Right. That's why you've got three books on French household management tucked behind that treatise on magical etiquette."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The books are literally visible, love."
"Trick of the light."
Harry grins while adding two more talisman texts to his pile. The wizard who'd helped him appears again, looking delighted.
"Ah, you appreciate the Montmorency Method! Very few British craftsmen bother to study it. Too complex, they say. But the results..." He makes a chef's kiss gesture.
"Is this the one that uses moonlight as a stabilizing agent?" Harry asks, showing a particular diagram.
"Precisely! You have studied already?"
"A bit. But I've never seen this variation with the silver-threaded matrix. Is that to channel or to contain?"
The wizard beams like Harry's just asked the perfect question. "Both! You see, the silver threads create micro-channels that—"
"Harry!" Tonks's voice carries from outside. "Stop being a magical theory nerd and come see this!"
"Being a magical theory nerd is literally why we're here!" Harry calls back.
"That can wait! This is fashion! It's important!"
"Since when do you care about fashion?"
"Since these robes made me look like I actually have a figure instead of a particularly animated coat rack!"
Harry sighs, looking apologetically at the wizard. "I should probably..."
"Ah, oui, the mademoiselle seems quite insistent. These books—shall I hold them for you?"
"Actually, I'll take them now." Harry does some quick mental arithmetic regarding his available funds. "These three on talismans, and do you have anything on Mediterranean ward schemes?"
"But of course!" More books float down. "You know, we ship internationally. If you wish to build a collection..."
"I'll definitely keep that in mind." Harry means it. These texts are exactly what he needs to push his work to the next level.
As he pays—wincing only slightly at the total—Tonks pokes her head back into the shop. Her hair is now a sophisticated silver-blonde that makes her look startlingly mature.
"The robes did that?" Harry asks.
"The robes suggested it. Well, suggested through interpretive color changes and judgmental shimmering. But look!" She spins, and Harry has to admit the deep blue robes are remarkably flattering. "I look like an actual adult!"
"You are an actual adult."
"I'm seventeen! That barely counts!"
"Fair point."
They exit to find Ted and Andromeda engaged in animated discussion with a shop owner about the proper use of self-stirring cauldrons, while Newt emerges from the creature supply store looking pleased.
"They had concentrated Mooncalf essence," he announces. "Itisa loves it as a treat, though I'll have to dilute it significantly. Full strength would have her bouncing off the walls. Literally."
"She already bounces off walls," Harry points out.
"Yes, but this would involve actual momentum physics rather than choice."
"That's... concerning."
"Hence the dilution."
As they continue down the street, more wonders reveal themselves. A shop selling "Memories in Glass" where pensieve memories are transformed into decorative spheres. A café where the pastries adjust their sweetness to each customer's preference. A music store where instruments play themselves, creating impromptu concerts.
"Can we live here?" Tonks asks plaintively. "Please? I'll learn French. Properly this time."
"Your career is in Britain," Andromeda reminds her.
"They have Aurors here too! French Aurors! Who probably get to wear robes that don't make them look like angry dustbins!"
"British Auror robes are perfectly functional," Harry says, then ruins it by adding, "Functionally ugly."
"See? Even Harry agrees!"
"I didn't say—"
"Too late! You're on my side now! We're moving to France!"
They've nearly reached the end of the main street when Harry spots it: a small, elegant shop with a simple sign reading "Composants Mystiques." Unlike the flashier establishments, this one makes no effort to attract attention. The window display shows only a few carefully selected items, each one radiating quality.
"That's it," Harry says with certainty. "That's where I need to go."
"How can you tell?" Tonks asks. "It's practically invisible compared to the others."
"Exactly. The best suppliers don't need to advertise. They let their materials speak for themselves."
"Your Slytherin is showing," Tonks teases.
"My Slytherin gets me the best deals on rare components."
"Your Slytherin gets you into trouble,"
Newt clears his throat. "Perhaps I should accompany Harry? My French is fluent, and I have some experience with rare component suppliers."
"Brilliant," Harry agrees immediately. "Ted, Andromeda, do you mind if we split up for a bit?"
"Not at all," Andromeda says. "We'll explore the household goods section. There's apparently a shop that sells self-organizing closets."
"I want one," Tonks says immediately. "My closet looks like a textile explosion."
"That's because you treat clothing storage as a contact sport," her mother observes.
"I prefer to think of it as an organic organizational system."
"If by organic you mean growing new life forms, then yes."
They agree to meet in an hour at the café with the self-adjusting pastries. Harry and Newt head for Composants Mystiques while the others continue their exploration, Tonks's voice carrying back: "Ooh, is that a shop for color-changing nail polish? Properly color-changing, not that rubbish British stuff that just goes between two shades?"
Harry grins. Some things—like Tonks's enthusiasm for anything that changes colors—are universal constants, no matter what country you're in.
The interior of Composants Mystiques is everything the understated exterior promised. Where other shops overwhelm with displays, this one whispers quality through careful curation. Ingredients rest in crystal containers that preserve their magical properties, each one labeled in precise script. The air holds no competing scents—instead, a subtle charm allows customers to experience each component's aroma only when examining it directly.
"Oh," Newt breathes appreciatively. "This is proper craftsmanship."
An elderly witch emerges from behind the counter, her silver hair arranged in an elaborate chignon held by what appear to be actual stars. Her robes are simple but impeccably cut, and her eyes—sharp as a hawk's—fix on them with interest.
"Britanniques?" she asks, though something in her tone suggests she already knows.
"Oui, madame," Newt responds in flawless French. "We're looking for talisman components. My young friend here is something of a specialist."
Her gaze shifts to Harry, and her expression transforms. "Mon Dieu. You are the Potter boy. The talisman prodigy."
"I... yes? How did you—"
"Madame Baudelaire knows all who work with rare components," she says, switching to accented but perfect English. "Your talismans have made waves even here. My grandson—he is an Auror in Rome. His captain wears one of your creations."
"Oh! The Italian contract. I hope it's working well for them?"
"Working well?" She laughs, a rich sound like aged wine. "Captain Rossi claims it saved his life twice last month alone. Once from a cursed artifact, once from his wife when he forgot their anniversary. The reminder charm, you see."
Harry feels heat rise in his cheeks. "I didn't actually intend for the scheduling charm to be used for personal matters..."
"The best magic adapts to need," Madame Baudelaire says philosophically. "Come, come. You seek materials, yes? But not just any materials. You have the look of someone searching for something specific."
"I've been working with standard British components," Harry explains as she leads them deeper into the shop. "But I've hit limitations. The French texts I just bought reference materials I've never seen in London."
"Ah, because London suppliers think tradition more important than innovation. 'If powdered moonstone was good enough for Merlin,' they say, 'it's good enough for us.'" Her impression of a stuffy British accent makes Newt hide a smile. "But you know better, non?"
"I know there's always room for improvement."
"Bon." She stops at a section where the containers glow with inner light. "Tell me, what limitations do you face?"
Harry considers how much to reveal, then decides honesty might yield the best results. "Power sustainability. My talismans are effective, but they drain faster than I'd like when facing sustained assault. The matrix holds, but the energy source depletes."
"Hmm." Madame Baudelaire studies him with those sharp eyes. "And you use standard charging crystals?"
"Refined quartz, usually. Sometimes celestial stone for the higher-end models."
"Adequate for British weather and British threats. But you sell internationally now, yes? Different magics require different defenses." She reaches for a container that seems to hold liquid starlight. "This is Lunargent. Moonsilver, in your language."
Harry leans closer, fascinated. The substance flows like mercury but gives off a soft, pearl-like luminescence. "I've read about this. But every text said it was theoretical."
"Theoretical to those who don't know where to look." She allows him to examine the container more closely. "Harvested only during specific lunar conjunctions, from springs in the Alps touched by ancient magic. It bonds with any crystal matrix but adds self-renewing properties."
"Self-renewing?" Harry's mind races through possibilities. "You mean it actually generates magical energy?"
"Not generates. Collects. Like a sponge for ambient magic. Your talisman runs low? Lunargent draws power from the environment. Slowly, yes, but steadily."
"That's... that's brilliant." Harry looks at Newt. "This could solve the drainage problem entirely."
"It could," Newt agrees, though his expression is thoughtful. "Though I imagine it's not cheap?"
Madame Baudelaire names a price that makes Harry's eyes water.
"Five thousand galleons? For one vial?" he squeaks.
"For one vial of something that exists nowhere else in Europe," she corrects. "Though..." She pauses, studying Harry again. "You are young. Building your craft. And my grandson speaks highly of your work. Perhaps we can make arrangement?"
"What kind of arrangement?" Harry asks carefully. His Slytherin instincts are fully engaged now.
"One thousand galleons for the vial," she says, watching his reaction. "In exchange, you create something for me. Not now—I am not unreasonable. Within three days."
"What kind of talisman?" Harry asks, still wary of the massive discount.
"A memory repeater." Her voice carries an odd note. "Something that can capture a single memory and replay it when activated."
Harry's eyes narrow slightly. "Why do you need a memory repeater? I won't create something that could be used to torment someone with bad memories or—"
She laughs, a rich sound that fills the shop. "Oh, you are naïve, young Potter. Do you truly believe everyone who purchases your protection talismans uses them for noble purposes? That Italian Auror captain could be corrupt. Those British Ministry officials could be Death Eater sympathizers. Once you sell your work, you cannot control its use."
The words hit Harry like cold water. He hadn't really considered... but of course she's right. His talismans could protect saints or sinners equally.
"However," she continues, her expression softening, "I assure you my purposes are not wicked. I am ninety years old, Monsieur Potter. My husband died fifteen years ago. I have one memory—just one—of our last dance together before he fell ill. My pensieve is failing, and memories fade even for witches. I simply want to preserve that moment before it disappears entirely."
Harry feels his suspicion melt away. "I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Non, you were right to ask. It speaks well of your character." She straightens, businesslike again. "So. One thousand galleons for Lunargent, in exchange for a memory repeater within three days. Do we have an accord?"
"Yes," Harry agrees immediately. "I'll need to research the proper runes for memory capture, but three days should be enough."
"Bon." She retrieves several items from various containers. "Since you are now a valued customer, perhaps other materials interest you? Venetian Glass Sand, spelled to remember light. Pyrenean Cave Crystals, which amplify protective magic near mountains. And..." She pauses dramatically. "Flamel's Fluxweed."
Harry nearly drops the container she hands him. "Flamel? As in Nicolas Flamel?"
"Who else? He supplies select shops with his personally cultivated ingredients. This fluxweed has been growing for three centuries. Imagine the magical saturation."
"That's..." Harry struggles for words. "Why would you sell this to me?"
"Because tomorrow night, you meet him, non? And when the great alchemist asks where you acquired such fine fluxweed, you will mention Madame Baudelaire's shop." Her eyes twinkle. "Even we elderly magical folk understand marketing."
"That's... actually brilliant."
"I have been in business for ninety years, young man. One learns things." She begins tallying items with quick wand movements. "Now, for future orders, I offer thirty percent reduction on bulk purchases. Forty percent if you agree to mention my shop in any interviews about your work."
"Deal," Harry agrees immediately. The Lunargent alone makes it worthwhile, and the other components are treasures he couldn't find anywhere in Britain.
As he pays—grateful for his Italian contract funds—Madame Baudelaire wraps each component with care. "Un moment," she says suddenly, disappearing into a back room. She returns with a slim leather journal. "This was my grandfather's. His notes on component interactions. Perhaps useful for someone willing to blend traditions."
Harry accepts the journal with reverence. "I... this is too generous."
"Non. It is investment. You will create great things, Harry Potter. And when you do, perhaps you remember the old French woman who helped when you were young and still learning." She pauses, then adds quietly, "The Alchemist will test you tomorrow. Not officially, but he will want to see if you are worthy of his attention. Create something during the ball. Something small but impossible to ignore. Show him you think beyond the obvious."
"Any suggestions?"
"You agreed to make a memory repeater for a sentimental old woman. Trust those instincts that balance ambition with compassion." She pats his cheek like a grandmother. "Now go. Your friends wait, and French pastries grow stale if ignored too long."
As they leave, Newt carrying the carefully wrapped components, Harry's mind is already spinning with possibilities. A memory repeater—he's never attempted anything dealing with memory magic before. It'll require completely different approaches than his protection work.
"That went rather well," Newt observes mildly.
"I just agreed to create something I've never even researched," Harry points out. "In three days."
"But you gained materials that could revolutionize your work, and a valuable contact."
"True." Harry grins. "Plus, did you see that Flamel's Fluxweed? The magical signature was incredible!"
"I noticed you didn't hesitate when she explained her reasons," Newt adds casually. "Many would have remained suspicious."
"She wanted to preserve a memory of dancing with her dead husband," Harry says quietly. "If I can help with that... well, there are worse uses for magic."
They find the others at the promised café, Tonks wearing robes that shift through autumn colors while she gestures animatedly with a pastry that appears to be sculpture of a tiny dragon.
"Harry!" she calls out. "You missed it! Dad tried to order coffee in French and somehow asked for a marriage proposal instead!"
"It was the pronunciation," Ted defends himself. "Café and fiancé sound very similar with a British accent."
"They really don't," Andromeda says dryly. "The poor waitress looked terrified."
"But she brought me excellent coffee afterward, so no harm done."
Harry slides into a seat, accepting the éclair that appears before him without prompting. It's filled with cream that tastes like childhood happiness and accomplishment mixed together.
"So?" Tonks demands. "Find anything good in the mysterious shop of mysterious mystery?"
"A few things," Harry admits, patting his expanded pocket where the components rest. "Including something grown by Nicolas Flamel himself."
Tonks chokes on her dragon pastry. "The Nicolas Flamel?"
"The very same."
"And you're just... carrying his plants around in your pocket?"
"Technically, it's fluxweed, not a plant anymore. It's been dried and treated with—"
"Harry James Potter," Tonks interrupts. "Only you could go shopping for talisman supplies and come back with ingredients from the most famous alchemist in history."
"It's a gift," Harry says modestly.
"It's unnatural is what it is." But she's grinning. "So what's the plan now? More shopping? Please say more shopping. I found a place that sells quills that write whatever you're thinking, and I want to buy one just to see the chaos it causes."
"That sounds like a terrible idea," Andromeda observes.
"Exactly! It'll be brilliant!"
As his family debates the merits of thought-transcribing quills, Harry lets himself relax. Tomorrow he'll meet Nicolas Flamel, tonight he'll watch stars dance above Versailles, but right now? Right now he's just a teenager in a French café, surrounded by the people who matter most, with pockets full of impossible ingredients and a head full of dreams.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, he's already beginning to work out how to capture a memory in silver and stone—not for fame or profit, but for an old woman who wants to dance with her husband one more time.
Not a bad way to spend an afternoon in Paris.
Crystal Harmony
Deep beneath the Mediterranean, where pressure would crush ordinary humans to paste, the palace of Abysstanica glows with bioluminescent beauty. Crystal-Harmony floats in her chambers, tail fins creating excited ripples as she sorts through waterproof scrolls for the dozenth time.
"Surface clothing," she mutters, examining a diagram. "Shoes. Such strange concepts. Why would anyone want to trap their appendages in leather?"
"Because surface dwellers have tender feet," King Anden says from the doorway, his massive frame filling the curved entrance. "Unlike sensible beings who developed proper scales."
"Father!" Harmony spins, her translucent hair floating like a silver cloud. "I didn't hear you approach."
"You were rather absorbed in those diagrams. Still convinced this is wise?"
"Of course!" She swims closer, practically vibrating with excitement. "Tomorrow I'll finally walk on actual land! With actual legs! Do you know how long I've dreamed of this?"
"Since that Potter boy filled your head with surface stories," Anden says dryly. "You do realize you most likely won't even know how to walk? The transformation potion gives you legs, not the knowledge of using them."
Harmony waves dismissively. "I can swim through depths and navigate underwater tornadoes. How difficult can walking be?"
"It's nothing like swimming."
"Of course it is! You just..." She makes swimming motions with her arms. "Move forward through the medium of air instead of water."
"Harmony, you cannot swim on the surface."
She pauses mid-motion, frowning. "That's... actually bizarre when you think about it. Why can't I swim through air? It's still a fluid, just less dense."
"Because gravity exists differently up there. You'll fall, repeatedly. Probably on your face."
"I will not!" She crosses her arms, trying to look dignified despite the excited flush in her cheeks. "Harry lived with us for two weeks and he managed fine."
"Harry had that breathing spell. You'll have legs. Completely different challenge."
"He also had to learn our ways, our magic, our entire culture. And he did brilliantly!" Her expression softens. "As long as Harry's there, I'll be fine. He won't let me embarrass myself. Much."
Anden studies his daughter, noting how her eyes light up at the surface boy's name. "You trust him that completely?"
"He saved our kingdom," Harmony says simply. "He treated me as an equal when even our own nobles see me as just a pretty princess. He taught me that just because I could not use water magic like everyone else, that did not mean I could not find my own way. Yes, I trust him."
"And this has nothing to do with those romance stories Lady Coral keeps telling you about our ancestor who married the surface dweller?"
"Father!" Harmony's scales flush deeper blue. "This is about cultural exchange and diplomatic relations!"
"Ah yes. Diplomatic relations. Is that what you're calling it?"
"You're impossible." She turns away, but he can see her smile. "I just want to experience the surface world. To understand Harry's world better."
"Harry's world," Anden repeats thoughtfully. "Not the surface world. Harry's."
"That's... that's not what I meant."
"Hmm." He swims closer, placing a massive hand on her shoulder. "You know I worry. You're my only daughter, my precious pearl. The surface has dangers we don't understand."
"I know." She covers his hand with her smaller one. "But Harry will be there. And his family—they're good people. Harry spoke of them with such love. The Tonks family who took him in, taught him magic properly."
Anden sighs deeply, creating a current that sets nearby anemones swaying. "You're determined to go regardless of my concerns."
"But I'd prefer your blessing," she says softly. "You're my father. Your opinion matters more than all the councils combined."
"Flattery, Harmony?"
"Truth, Father."
They float in comfortable silence for a moment, the only sound the distant whale songs that serve as the palace's natural music.
"Promise me," Anden says finally, "that you'll be careful. The transformation is taxing, and surface customs are strange. Don't trust everyone just because they smile."
"I promise. Though Harry told me most humans are actually quite nice when you get to know them."
"Harry sees the best in people. It's both his strength and potential weakness."
"Is that why you like him?" Harmony asks slyly. "Because he saw the best in us when others might have seen monsters?"
"I respect him," Anden corrects, though his tone is warm. "There's a difference."
"Of course there is." She doesn't bother hiding her knowing smile. "Just like there's a difference between excitement for cultural exchange and excitement to see a specific surface boy."
"You're spending too much time with the court gossips."
"I'm spending exactly the right amount of time preparing for tomorrow." She swims to her shell-desk, gathering more scrolls. "Did you know surface dwellers have something called 'restaurants'?"
"And this excites you?"
"Everything excites me! Walking, breathing air, seeing the stars without water distortion, experiencing weather that isn't currents..." She spins again, pure joy radiating from her.
Anden can't help but smile at his daughter's enthusiasm. "Just remember, you'll need to return to water every twelve hours, and make sure to act like a proper Princess."
"I know, Father. I will never disappoint you again." She swore, and Anden hugged her close.
"You never did, but I was blind until a boy from the surface cleaned my eyes and showed me that you are just like the rest of us."
"Mother would have loved him," Harmony said quietly with a sad smile.
"She would have interrogated him for hours about surface magic," Anden agrees. "Then adopted him into the family through sheer force of will."
"So really, I'm just following family tradition."
"Harmony..."
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