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Fleur Delacour
'''The Beauxbatons duelling arena smelled of polished wood and nervous sweat. Fleur Delacour sat on the hard wooden bench reserved for competitors, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had gone white. Around her, the circular arena rose in elegant tiers, filled with students and professors whose voices created a constant, buzzing hum that made her stomach churn.
She was going to be sick. She was absolutely going to be sick, and then everyone would see, and—
Fleur's eyes darted upward, finding her father in the third row. Felix Delacour sat like a man of importance, just looking at him, someone would understand he was important, and when their eyes met, he smiled.
You've got this, he mouthed.
Beside him, Maman sat with perfect posture. Apolline Delacour didn't smile but she inclined her head slightly.
"Mesdames et messieurs!" The announcer's voice boomed across the arena, amplified by magic. "Our next duel! In the left corner, representing third year...Fleur Delacour!"
Fleur stood on legs that felt like water, walking toward the raised platform. The applause was polite but scattered. She was thirteen, small for her age, and everyone knew what she was. The whispers had followed her since she'd started at Beauxbatons two years ago.
Quarter-Veela. Unfair advantage. Shouldn't be allowed to compete.
"And in the right corner," the announcer continued, "representing fifth year...Laurent Beaumont!"
The applause for Laurent was much louder. He was fifteen, tall and broad-shouldered, and quite handsome. As he stepped onto the platform across from her, he caught her eye and winked.
Fleur lifted her chin and looked away, her jaw tight. Her wand hand trembled slightly.
Keep it in. Keep it in. Keep the allure in.
That was the hard part. The allure wanted to slip out when she was nervous, like water through cracks. She had to keep it locked down tight, had to make sure every judge and monitor saw that she was winning—or losing—on her own merit.
The referee, a stern-faced woman with silver hair, raised her wand. "Wands at the ready. Begin on my mark. Three... two... one—Commence!"
Laurent moved first, his wand slashing through the air. "Stupefy!"
The red bolt screamed toward her and Fleur threw herself sideways, her heart hammering. She landed badly, stumbled, caught herself. Laurent was already casting again.
Papa's spell. Use Papa's spell.
Fleur's wand came up in the specific circular motion her father had drilled into her over the summer holidays. "Sonorus Impetus!"
The air itself seemed to compress, then exploded outward from her wand tip in an invisible blast. The sonic wave hit Laurent dead-center, and his confident expression shattered. His hands flew to his ears, his face twisting in pain, and for one satisfying moment, Fleur felt a fierce surge of triumph.
I did it! I actually—
"Stupefy!" Laurent's retaliation came through gritted teeth, his aim wild but lucky.
"Protego!" The shield charm burst from Fleur's wand instinctively, and she felt it snap into place like a physical wall. The stunning spell hit the barrier and rebounded, flying off harmlessly into the protective wards surrounding the platform.
Laurent's eyes widened. He hadn't expected that.
Neither had she, honestly. In practice, her shields were... adequate. This one had been perfect.
Don't think. Just do.
Fleur's mind raced through her repertoire of spells—the ones she'd learned in class, the ones Papa had taught her, the experimental variants she'd been practicing. Her wand moved almost without conscious thought, tracing a complex pattern in the air.
"Aqua Serpens!"
Water materialized from nowhere, coiling and twisting as it took shape. The liquid serpent was as thick as her arm, translucent and gleaming, and it moved like something alive. It shot across the platform, wrapping around Laurent's legs in three swift coils.
"What the—" Laurent tried to step back, but the water held him fast.
"Glacius!" Fleur's follow-up was immediate.
The water serpent froze solid in an instant, ice crackling as it locked Laurent's legs in place. He wobbled, tried to keep his balance, failed. His wand flew from his hand as he windmilled his arms.
"Expelliarmus!" Fleur's disarming charm caught his wand mid-flight, and suddenly it was in her hand, and Laurent was frozen in place, and the arena had gone completely silent.
She'd won.
She'd actually won.
Fleur looked up at her father, her face breaking into a grin so wide it hurt. Papa was on his feet, clapping, and even Maman was smiling, and the referee was raising her wand to signal the end of the match and—
"She cheated!"
Laurent's voice cracked across the arena like a whip. "She used her allure! I felt it—she distracted me with her Veela magic! That's cheating!"
The words hit Fleur like a slap. Her smile disappeared. The joy that had been bubbling up inside her turned to ice in her chest.
"I did NOT cheat!" Her voice came out too loud, too high, too desperate. She could feel tears burning at the corners of her eyes, and she hated it, hated that she was going to cry like a baby in front of everyone. "I didn't use it! I kept it suppressed the whole time!"
"Liar!" Laurent was red-faced now, furious at his own defeat. "Everyone knows your kind can't help it! You're always—"
"Enough."
Papa's voice wasn't loud, but somehow it cut through everything. Fleur watched through blurry eyes as her father descended the stairs with measured steps, Maman gliding beside him. Papa's face was perfectly calm—the same expression he wore during difficult political negotiations—but Fleur had known him her whole life.
He was furious.
Felix Delacour stepped onto the platform, placing himself between Fleur and Laurent. When he spoke, his voice was cold enough to frost glass.
"My daughter kept her allure completely suppressed throughout the entire match. The judges monitored her magical signature continuously—it is standard protocol for all competitors with Veela heritage." He turned to the referee. "Madame Beaufort?"
The silver-haired referee frowned. "I am afraid we do not know for sure, this duel is cancelled. She and Laurent will have another duel."
Fleur heard many students from her own school looking pleased.'''
Fleur woke with a gasp, her heart pounding.
The ceiling of her room in the Beauxbatons carriage came into focus slowly, blue silk hangings, the soft glow of enchanted lights. Not the duelling arena. Not thirteen years old. Not standing on that platform with tears in her eyes.
"Why that stupid dream again?" she muttered, pressing her hands against her face.
She knew why. Potter. It was all happening again, except this time she was on the other side of it.
Fleur threw back her covers with more force than necessary and reached for her uniform. She had a long day ahead of her, and she refused to waste another moment dwelling on the past.
Fleur fastened the last silver button on her Beauxbatons uniform and reached for her traveling cloak, the thick one lined with warming charms. October in Scotland was proving to be exactly as miserable as she'd anticipated: cold, damp, and gray. The Beauxbatons carriage at least maintained the comfortable temperature of southern France, but the moment she stepped outside, the English chill would seep through everything.
Cold, medieval castle. Cold, medieval country.
She swept her hair into a practical twist and secured it with her wand, checking her reflection in the mirror. The dream still lingered at the edges of her mind: Laurent's accusation, the tears she'd barely held back, the hollow victory. Fleur pushed the memory away firmly. That was four years ago. She was seventeen now, a champion, and she had more important things to focus on than old nightmares.
Like proving to an entire castle full of English students that she'd earned her place.
The common area of the carriage was already filled with the warm scent of fresh bread and chocolate when Fleur descended the spiral stairs. Her classmates had claimed their usual spots around the elegant table, plates piled with croissants and fruit.
"Fleur!" Sophie waved enthusiastically, her dark curls bouncing. "Come sit! Margaret saved you a seat."
Margaret smiled and gestured to the empty chair beside her. "We were beginning to think you'd sleep through breakfast."
"Unlike some people," Amélie said pointedly, glancing at Jean-Philippe, who was half-asleep over his coffee, "Fleur actually requires beauty sleep."
"I 'eard zat," Jean-Philippe mumbled without opening his eyes.
"You were meant to," Amélie replied sweetly.
Fleur settled into her seat and reached for the teapot. Her fellow Beauxbatons students were arguing with Pierre about whether the Montrose Magpies or the Puddlemere United had better Chasers.
"Neither," Fleur said, pouring her tea. "Ze Quiberon Quafflepunchers 'ave superior offensive strategy."
Laurent groaned. "Not zis again. Just because zey are French—"
"Just because zey are better," Fleur corrected, adding a precise amount of sugar to her cup.
Sophie leaned forward conspiratorially. "Speaking of competitions, Fleur, did you submit your name to Madame Maxime? For ze Duelling Race?"
The question drew the attention of everyone at the table.
"Yes."
"And?" Margaret prompted.
"And I will win both ze Duelling Race and ze Triwizard Tournament," Fleur stated without a single doubt in her mind.
Amélie's eyes widened. "Both? You are not worried about—'ow do you say—spreading yourself too thin?"
"No." Fleur selected a croissant and began pulling it apart. "I 'ave trained for zis my entire life. I am ready."
It wasn't boasting. Boasting implied uncertainty masked by bravado. Fleur was simply confident in her abilities, the same way she was confident the sun would rise tomorrow.
Jean-Philippe finally opened his eyes fully. "At least ze competition will be interesting. Four champions instead of three."
"You mean ze cheat," Laurent said darkly.
Sophie made a soft sound of protest. "We do not know for certain—"
"'E is fourteen years old," Laurent interrupted. "Ze Goblet 'ad an age line placed by Dumbledore 'imself. And yet somehow Potter's name came out. What else could it be?"
"A conspiracy," Pierre suggested dramatically. "Someone entered 'is name to kill 'im."
"Or," Laurent countered, "'e cheated and is simply a very good liar."
Fleur chewed her croissant thoughtfully, saying nothing. The debate had been raging among the Beauxbatons students for days now, circular arguments that went nowhere. She'd already formed her opinion and saw no reason to say it again.
Margaret glanced at her. "Fleur? You 'ave been very quiet about all zis."
"Because zere is nothing to say." Fleur dabbed her mouth with her napkin. "Potter cheated or someone entered 'is name. Either way, 'e is ze fourth champion now."
"But—" Sophie began.
"Finish your breakfast," Fleur said, standing. "We 'ave Transfiguration in forty minutes, and I 'ave no intention of being late because you are all arguing about something zat 'as already been decided."
The walk from the carriage to Hogwarts castle was crisp and cold, their breath misting in the morning air. Fleur pulled her cloak tighter, mentally preparing herself for another day of English weather and English attitudes. At least the classes were somewhat interesting, even if the castle itself was drafty and medieval.
They'd just entered the main corridor when Fleur noticed them: banners hanging from the stone walls, charmed to flutter despite the lack of wind.
POTTER STINKS - SUPPORT CEDRIC, THE REAL CHAMPION
Fleur's eyes rolled.
Behind her, several of the Beauxbatons students giggled.
"Zey really do not like 'im, do zey?" Amélie whispered, sounding more amused than anything.
Margaret moved closer to Fleur, her voice low. "It is... a bit much, non?"
"It is childish," Fleur said dismissively, not breaking stride. The banners weren't worth her attention or her comment. If the Hogwarts students wanted to waste their time with such—
"Oi! You there!"
Fleur stopped, her expression cooling instantly. A group of Slytherin students was approaching, led by a pale blonde boy she vaguely remembered from the welcome feast. Three girls flanked him, including one with a pinched face who looked perpetually displeased.
The boys in the group were trying to maintain eye contact with her. Trying and failing spectacularly. Their gazes kept dropping to her chest, then jerking back up, faces flushing red. It was a dance Fleur had witnessed countless times since she was thirteen, and it never became less irritating.
The blonde boy opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. A strangled sound emerged that might have been words in some language, but certainly not English or French.
Fleur's patience, already thin from the dream and the cold, snapped.
"What do you want?" Her voice was cold enough to frost glass. "I 'ave a to attend."
The boy's face went from pink to crimson. He mumbled something incomprehensible, staring fixedly at a point somewhere over her left shoulder.
The girl with the pinched face groaned loudly. "For Merlin's sake, Draco." She stepped forward, shoving what appeared to be badges into her companion's hands before turning to Fleur's group. "Here. Take these."
Fleur accepted one, examining it with a raised eyebrow. The same message as the banners: POTTER STINKS - SUPPORT THE REAL HOGWARTS CHAMPION.
"Why are you giving zis to us?" Fleur asked. "We are from Beauxbatons, not 'Ogwarts."
"I told you it wouldn't work, Draco," one of the girls told the blonde boy.
"Shut it," the boy told the girl.
Pansy's expression turned smug. "You could help everyone by wearing these. Maybe Professor Dumbledore will finally be convinced to kick Potter out. He's an embarrassment to the whole school."
For a long moment, Fleur simply looked at the badge. Then, without a word, she handed it back to Pansy.
The Slytherin girl blinked, clearly not expecting that response.
Fleur's classmates exchanged uncertain glances, then one by one followed her lead, returning their badges. The Slytherins looked genuinely taken aback, as if they'd never considered anyone might refuse their generous offer.
Fleur walked past them without another word, her head high. Her classmates hurried to catch up.
"Fleur," Sophie said once they'd rounded the corner, "why did you not accept? I thought you didn't like Harry."
Fleur stopped and turned to face her group. Several of them were watching her with curious expressions, clearly confused by her refusal.
"Why would I ever wear zat badge?" Fleur asked, her accent thickening slightly with conviction. "It proves nothing except zat I am childish and immature. Wezzer I like it or not, 'Arry Potter is ze fourth champion. I will prove my worth not by wearing a ridiculous badge like a child throwing a tantrum, but by winning. By being better. Zat is 'ow one demonstrates superiority."
Margaret studied her thoughtfully. "You do not like 'im, but you... respect ze competition?"
Fleur paused, considering her words carefully. "I respect victory. I respect earning one's place through skill. Everything else is noise."
"Will you face 'im in ze Duelling Race?" Laurent asked eagerly. "Show 'im what real talent looks like?"
"No." Fleur shook her head, resuming their walk toward the Great Hall. "I do not think Potter will enter ze Duelling Race."
They were quite surprised.
"What?" Sophie's voice rose sharply. "He seemed quite eager when Dumbledore announced it."
"If I were in 'is position," Fleur explained, "bound to a tournament zat could cost me my magic or my life—I would spend every moment training for those tasks. Ze Duelling Race is an extra distraction I would not want. 'E may be arrogant and a cheat, but 'e would be foolish to divide 'is attention." She paused. "And whatever else 'e is, I do not think 'e is foolish."
Sophie's eyes widened. "So you think 'e is... smart?"
Fleur's jaw tightened slightly. The memory of Potter's magical displays flickered through her mind—the library spell with its complex layering, the way he'd disarmed that chair charm at breakfast, the silver stag he'd conjured that first night that had required simultaneous transfiguration and animation.
Fleur remembered that, unlike most boys, he was immune to her allure, and she would be lying if she said that she hadn't enjoyed his company when he was showing them the castle, but then, he had revealed his true colors; still, she was not foolish enough to underestimate him.
"'E was able to fool Dumbledore's age line. Come to your own conclusion." Fleur finally said.
Fleur said nothing more. She'd stated a fact, not an opinion. Potter had bypassed protections placed by one of the most powerful wizards alive. That required extraordinary skill and intelligence...even if that intelligence was being used for deception.
Something uncomfortable stirred in her chest, but Fleur pushed it away. It didn't matter how talented Potter was or wasn't. What mattered was proving herself in the Tournament, showing everyone that she'd earned her place through years of dedication and training.
Not through shortcuts. Never through shortcuts.
"Come," she said briskly, pulling open the heavy doors to the Great Hall. "Breakfast. Before ze food gets cold and ze English students try to give us more ridiculous badges."
As they entered, Fleur kept her gaze forward, not looking toward the Ravenclaw table where she knew Potter would be sitting, despite knowing she would sit there as well. She had no interest in seeing him this morning.
None at all.
Harry Potter
Harry Potter stared at his breakfast with the kind of suspicion usually reserved for Potions assignments from Snape.
He knew this meal was perfectly fine, the eggs were fine, and the bread was well-baked, but this was his second meal; the first one was thrown away.
Brilliant, Harry thought darkly. Absolutely brilliant.
He'd detected it the moment his fork had touched the eggs, a faint shimmer in the yolk that shouldn't have been there, a texture that was just slightly wrong... this was definitely wrong. After examining the thing carefully, he had realised that it had been tampered with, something that would make him vomit for an entire day.
The smart thing would have been to make a scene. To stand up, announce that someone had poisoned his breakfast, force the perpetrator into the open. But Harry had learned something from yesterday's chair incident: whoever was doing this wanted attention. Wanted to see him react, to watch him scramble.
So instead, Harry quietly vanished the contaminated food with a nonverbal spell and summoned replacement portions from the serving platters. No fuss. No drama. Just a quiet acknowledgment that yes, he'd noticed, and no, they weren't going to get the satisfaction of seeing him panic.
But internally? Internally, Harry was furious.
The chair charm could have been anyone. But this? This required access to the kitchens. And there was only one house common room positioned directly beside the kitchens, with a password-protected entrance that led right to them.
Hufflepuff.
Harry's jaw tightened as he stabbed at his fresh eggs like he was trying to kill them. The Hufflepuffs had every reason to be angry with him—Cedric was their champion, their moment of glory, and Harry's name coming out of the Goblet had stolen half their thunder. He understood their anger. What he didn't understand was the cowardice.
If you're going to hate me, Harry thought viciously, at least have the spine to do it to my face.
"The Slytherins are handing out badges with your name on them, Harry," came Luna Lovegood's dreamy voice from beside him. She didn't look up from her breakfast, simply continued buttering her toast. "They say unkind things."
Harry took a long sip of pumpkin juice, letting the anger settle into something colder and more manageable. "The Slytherins have nothing better to do. The House of Snakes. The House of 'Cunning and ambitious' my arse." He set down his goblet. "If this is as far as their cunning and ambition extend, I feel sorry for Salazar Slytherin. The man built a secret chamber beneath the school and filled it with a bloody basilisk. His descendants make badges."
Luna giggled. "I think Salazar would have appreciated the basilisk more too."
"At least the basilisk was straightforward about wanting to kill me," Harry muttered.
Around them, the Ravenclaw table maintained its usual morning buzz—students discussing homework, comparing notes on essays, debating the finer points of Transfiguration theory. A few glanced in Harry's direction, expressions ranging from sympathetic to coldly disapproving, but most had learned to ignore the drama surrounding him. Ravenclaws valued their peace and quiet, and Harry's situation was decidedly neither peaceful nor quiet.
The bench across from him shifted as someone sat down.
Harry looked up to find Cedric Diggory settling in with his own breakfast plate. A few nearby Ravenclaws glanced over with interest, some leaned closer, wanting to hear what he would say.
"Morning," Cedric said, reaching for the marmalade.
"Ced." Harry nodded in greeting. "Come to be seen with the school pariah? Bold move."
"I live dangerously." Cedric spread marmalade on his toast. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you're still alive. The betting pool on your survival has gotten quite extensive."
"What are the current odds?"
"Three to one that you make it to Christmas. Five to one that you survive the first task." Cedric took a bite of his toast. "I put ten Galleons on you winning the whole Tournament, actually. The payout will be spectacular."
Harry found himself smiling. "Your faith in me is touching."
"It's not faith. Based on what you have gone through, sometimes it feels like you were some kind of invincible armor that keeps you safe," Cedric's tone was light, but his eyes were serious. "You've survived a basilisk, Dementors, and whatever else this castle throws at you. A tournament seems almost pedestrian by comparison."
Luna nodded wisely. "Harry has very persistent survival instincts. Like a Crumple-Horned Snorkack."
"I'm not entirely sure that's a compliment, Luna," Harry said.
"It is," she assured him.
Cedric cleared his throat, his expression shifting to something more serious. "Actually, Harry, I wanted to ask—would you like to train together for the first task? Compare notes, strategies? We don't know what it is yet, but we could work on general skills. Shield charms, dodging, that sort of thing."
Harry appreciated the offer—genuinely appreciated it. Cedric didn't have to extend this kind of support, especially when his own house was probably pressuring him to maintain distance. But accepting would be wrong.
"I appreciate the help, Cedric. Really." Harry set down his fork, meeting Cedric's eyes directly. "But you have your own task to prepare for. You're already behind because you've been helping me adjust to all this madness. You shouldn't waste your time with me when you need to focus on your own preparation."
"You're missing three years of magical education, Harry." Cedric reminded him. "Three years of spells, techniques, theory that I've already learned. You're at a disadvantage, and—"
"Three whole years?" Harry pressed his hand to his chest in exaggerated shock, his eyes wide with mock horror. "Truly? I had no idea!" He gasped dramatically. "Thank you for illuminating this shocking revelation. However would I have survived without this crucial information?"
Several nearby Ravenclaws snickered into their morning tea.
Cedric rolled his eyes heavenward. "You're insufferable."
"I try," Harry said pleasantly, returning to his eggs.
There was a moment of silence, both eating their breakfast.
"Speaking of insufferable decisions," Cedric said, breaking the silence with a tone that suggested he was about to say something Harry wouldn't like, "it would be smarter of you not to enter the Duelling Race."
"How did you know I still wanted to enter?"
Cedric gave him a long look, "You should have all your focus on the Triwizard Tournament," Cedric continued, more seriously now. "It's dangerous enough without dividing your attention between two competitions."
Harry shook his head. "Sirius said the same thing yesterday. I'm still entering."
"That's not very Ravenclaw of you." Cedric said. "More like Gryffindor, really. Charging ahead without thinking things through."
"The Hat wanted to put me in Gryffindor," Harry admitted, grinning. "Changed its mind at the last second."
Cedric knew when he had lost a battle with Harry, he knew there was no point in trying to change his mind. "That's because red doesn't suit you well. That's the only reason you're in Ravenclaw—fashion sense, not intelligence."
"Green would suit me though." Harry pretended to consider it. "Should I join the Slytherins? I could make badges insulting myself. Really commit to the role."
Cedric made an exaggerated horrified face, clutching at his chest. "Please don't. They're insufferable enough without you adding to their numbers."
"Fair point."
They settled back into eating, and Harry felt more relaxed. This was normal. This was good. For five minutes, he could pretend he was just a student having breakfast with a friend, not a fourteen-year-old bound to a potentially lethal tournament he'd never wanted to enter.
Then Cedric suddenly went still, his attention shifting toward the entrance to the Great Hall as Harry heard it being opened.
Cedric nodded toward the doors with his head. "Fleur's here. With her group."
Harry's eyes flicked toward the entrance almost against his will. Sure enough, Fleur Delacour swept into the Great Hall surrounded by her usual entourage of Beauxbatons students. The way she walked, it seemed like she was gliding across ice rather than walking like everyone else.
Something tightened uncomfortably in Harry's chest, something he decided to ignore.
"You should talk to her," Cedric said, watching Harry's face with far too much interest.
"Why would I do that?" Harry said with a hard tone. "She doesn't believe me. I have better things to do than waste breath convincing people who've already made up their minds about my guilt."
"You two had something going on when you were showing them the castle—"
"The only thing 'going on,'" Harry interrupted, his tone flat, "was a mutual desire to duel each other and prove superiority. That's it. Nothing more."
Cedric's grin turned absolutely wicked. "So which one of you had the bigger head?"
Harry could not stop it; he burst out laughing. Several nearby students turned to stare.
"I'm leaving," Harry announced, standing and grabbing his bag, "before you say something even more ridiculous."
"Too late!" Cedric called after him, his laughter following Harry toward the exit. "I've got loads more material!"
Harry left the hall. As he passed Fleur, he felt her eyes on him for a brief moment, and he glanced back. He was right; her blue eyes looked at him. Then, she quickly looked away, and Harry turned to look forward. He had his own problems, and right now, he didn't want to think about Fleur Delacour.
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