# **Beauxbatons Academy of Magic – Training Courtyard**
The morning mist clung to the Pyrenees like a lover reluctant to let go, wrapping the ancient peaks in gossamer veils that caught the dawn light and scattered it into a thousand dancing diamonds. Château de Beauxbatons rose from this ethereal landscape like a fever dream made manifest—all pale limestone that seemed to glow from within, soaring spires that pierced the sky like elegant fingers reaching toward heaven, and windows that captured the sunrise and threw it back in waves of rose gold and amber fire. The castle's gardens sprawled in perfect geometric harmony below, their manicured perfection a testament to centuries of French refinement.
It was beautiful. It was elegant. It was everything Fleur Delacour had grown up loving about her world.
Right now, she wanted to set the whole bloody thing on fire.
"*En garde, mes petits guerriers!*"
The command cracked through the morning air like a champagne cork exploding from its bottle. Professor Laurent Dubois stood at the edge of the circular training ground, his salt-and-pepper beard meticulously groomed despite the early hour, his épée held with the casual, almost lazy grace of a man who had won Olympic gold not once but twice before discovering that magic existed and that yes, you absolutely could hex people into next Tuesday if you knew the right words.
His dark eyes sparkled with the kind of mischief that had once charmed audiences across Europe, and his smile—*ah, that smile*—could have sold a thousand movie tickets or convinced a dragon to hand over its hoard. Even at fifty-three, Laurent Dubois remained devastatingly handsome in that uniquely French way that suggested expensive wine, silk sheets, and the kind of romantic adventures that ended with duels at dawn.
"*Allez-y, mes enfants,*" he continued, twirling his blade with theatrical flair. "*Show me what you have learned. But remember—*" He paused dramatically, one eyebrow arched in perfect imitation of a man about to deliver the world's most important wisdom. "*—technique without passion is mere dancing. Passion without technique is suicide. Today, we seek the perfect marriage of both.*"
Fleur raised her own épée, muscles coiled like springs beneath skin that had grown lean and dangerous over the past four months. Gone was the soft prettiness of the sheltered Beauxbatons princess. In its place stood something altogether more predatory—all sharp angles and deadly curves, beauty honed to a killing edge.
Across from her in the circle, Antoine Moreau stretched like a panther preparing to pounce. At seventeen, he was already six feet of lean muscle and aristocratic arrogance, his dark hair perfectly tousled in that effortless way that actually required significant effort, his green eyes holding the smug confidence of someone who had never truly been challenged. He was beautiful in the way that French nobility had perfected over centuries—all sharp cheekbones and elegant lines, the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers or Renaissance paintings.
He was also, Fleur had discovered, insufferably convinced of his own superiority.
"*Ah, la belle Fleur,*" Antoine drawled, his voice carrying the lazy confidence of inherited wealth and unearned privilege. He executed a mocking bow, his épée flourishing in a movement designed more for show than substance. "*Try not to trip on those pretty little feet of yours, princesse. It would be such a shame to mar that perfect complexion with something so... common... as a scar.*"
The other students tittered nervously. Even Professor Dubois raised an eyebrow, though whether in amusement or warning was unclear.
Wrong. Thing. To. Say.
Fleur's smile could have frozen champagne. Her grip tightened on her weapon, and for just a moment—just a heartbeat—her Veela heritage blazed behind her eyes like captured starlight. The temperature in the courtyard seemed to drop several degrees.
"*Oh, mon cher Antoine,*" she purred, her voice silk wrapped around a blade. "*How thoughtful of you to worry about my appearance. Perhaps you should worry more about your own. After all—*" Her smile widened, showing teeth white as fresh snow and twice as cold. "*—it is much harder to look handsome when you are flat on your back, non?*"
The nervous laughter died entirely. Several students took an instinctive step backward.
Professor Dubois grinned like a man about to witness something magnificent. "*Maintenant, c'est intéressant,*" he murmured. "*Begin!*"
Fleur moved like lightning wrapped in silk and dipped in starlight.
Her first attack was a feint—a delicate thrust toward Antoine's chest that drew his blade in a textbook parry. But even as their épées met with a crystalline chime, she was already flowing into her real assault. Her blade disengaged like smoke, serpentining around his defense to threaten his shoulder. When he moved to counter, she was gone again, dancing backward on feet that seemed to barely touch the ground.
"*Merde,*" one of the watching students whispered. "*She's fast.*"
Antoine's smirk faltered slightly. He'd expected the dance, the testing—it was proper form, after all. What he hadn't expected was the way she moved, like water given deadly purpose. Her footwork was flawless, each step perfectly balanced, perfectly timed. This wasn't the pampered princess he'd been expecting to embarrass.
He lunged, a powerful thrust aimed at her heart that would have ended the bout if it landed. It was a good attack—technically perfect, properly distanced, backed by the full strength of his athletic frame.
Fleur made it look like child's play.
She sidestepped with liquid grace, her free hand snapping out to catch his extended wrist in a grip like a steel manacle. Before he could react, she was using his own momentum against him, guiding his stumbling form past her with the casual ease of a matador redirecting a bull. Her épée found his throat while he was still struggling to regain his balance, the point resting just lightly against his skin—close enough to part the morning mist that clung to his neck, close enough that he could feel the cold kiss of steel.
The entire sequence had taken perhaps three seconds.
"*Touché!*" Professor Dubois called, no longer bothering to hide his delighted grin. "*Point to Mademoiselle Delacour. Magnificent form, ma petite. You made that look almost... effortless.*"
Antoine straightened slowly, his face cycling through several interesting shades of red. The casual confidence had evaporated like morning dew, replaced by something much less attractive—wounded pride with a sharp edge of genuine surprise.
"*Lucky,*" he muttered, though even he didn't sound convinced. "*Just... lucky.*"
Fleur's laugh was like wind chimes made of crystal and malice. "*Chance?*" she asked sweetly, resetting her position with fluid precision. "*How fascinating. Shall we test your theory, mon brave chevalier?*"
She gestured elegantly with her blade, the steel catching the light and throwing it back in dazzling patterns. "*Encore? Let us see if my... how did you put it... luck... holds, oui?*"
It did. Spectacularly.
The second bout lasted longer, but only because Fleur was clearly playing with him now. She let him attack, parrying with minimal effort while studying his form with the intensity of a predator learning its prey. When she finally struck, it was with surgical precision—a simple thrust that slipped through his guard like it wasn't there at all.
"*Touché,*" Dubois called again. "*Two-zero.*"
By the fourth bout, Antoine wasn't smirking anymore. His attacks had grown increasingly desperate, his form deteriorating as frustration mounted. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool mountain air.
By the sixth, he was breathing hard, his perfect hair plastered to his skull, his green eyes wide with something that might have been the first stirrings of actual fear.
By the eighth, he was questioning not just his fencing ability but his entire understanding of reality.
Fleur, meanwhile, looked like she could fence until the sun set and rose again. Her breathing remained steady, her form perfect, her movements as crisp and precise as they'd been at the start. If anything, she seemed to be getting *better* as the morning progressed, each successful touch adding to her confidence like fuel to a fire.
"*Assez!*" Professor Dubois finally called, stepping into the circle with the air of a man who had just witnessed something worth remembering. The watching students exploded into chatter, their voices a mix of awe, excitement, and nervous laughter. "*Well done, both of you. Antoine—*"
He turned to the thoroughly deflated young man with the kind of gentle smile usually reserved for wounded animals or broken hearts. "*Mon brave, you have solid fundamentals, truly. Your classical technique is quite good. But you telegraph your attacks like you are sending postcards to your grand-mère. Also—*" His expression grew more serious, though still kind. "*—you fence like you are performing for an audience, not fighting an opponent. This works well in exhibitions. Less well when someone is actually trying to hurt you.*"
Antoine nodded mutely, still processing his comprehensive defeat at the hands of someone he'd dismissed as decorative.
Professor Dubois then turned to Fleur, and his expression grew more complex—pride mixed with concern, admiration tempered by worry. "*Fleur, ma petite étoile...*"
He paused, studying her with the intensity of a man who had trained champions and recognized potential when he saw it. "*You fence like you are trying to prove something. Like you are... angry. At the world, perhaps? At yourself? This anger—it makes you strong, it gives you fire. But it also makes you predictable to those who know how to read it. Channel it, oui? Use it as fuel, but do not let it be your master.*"
Fleur lowered her blade, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that spoke of perfect conditioning. Four months of relentless training had transformed her body into something magnificent—all lean muscle and dangerous curves, power wrapped in porcelain-perfect skin. She was still breathtakingly beautiful, but now it was the beauty of a loaded weapon.
"*Perhaps I am proving something, Professor,*" she said softly, her voice carrying undertones that made several male students shift uncomfortably. "*Perhaps I am proving it to myself.*"
Dubois nodded slowly, understanding flickering in his dark eyes. He had seen this before—the fire that burned in those who had something to prove, something to achieve. It was the same fire that had driven him to Olympic gold, that had pushed him beyond the merely talented to the truly exceptional.
"*Bon. Just remember—the thing you wish to prove, it must be worthy of the price you pay to prove it. And the price...*" He gestured at her lean frame, at the intensity that seemed to radiate from her like heat from forged steel. "*...it can be higher than you think.*"
Fleur glanced at the ornate clock tower rising above the courtyard, its baroque spires reaching toward clouds that had turned from rose to gold to brilliant blue. Nearly noon. Time was always moving, always pushing forward toward that moment when she would see him again.
"*Professor, may I be excused?*"
"*Naturellement.* But Fleur—*" His voice carried a weight that made the remaining students lean in despite themselves. "*The selection trials are next week. Madame Maxime will be observing everything. Not just your magical ability, not just your academic achievement. She will be watching how you move, how you think, how you adapt to pressure. The Tournament... it is not just about being skilled. It is about being complete.*"
Fleur's stomach tightened like a fist. The trials. The reason she had been driving herself to the breaking point for four months, the reason she had transformed herself from protected princess to deadly weapon. Technically, she was already guaranteed a place on the Beauxbatons delegation to Hogwarts—being the daughter of Sebastian Delacour, war hero and French magical celebrity, had its advantages.
But Fleur didn't want a spot handed to her on a silver platter like some consolation prize. She wanted to *earn* it. To stand before Madame Maxime and know with absolute certainty that she belonged there not because of her bloodline but because she was the best candidate France could offer.
And if her father was right about Dumbledore's plans for the Tournament—if there were darker currents flowing beneath the surface of this supposedly friendly competition...
If Harry Potter—her mysterious savior, her dark knight, her *bête*—was going to be there...
She needed to be more than ready. She needed to be magnificent.
"*I will not disappoint you, Professor,*" she said, and the quiet conviction in her voice made even Antoine look up from his sulking.
Dubois smiled—the real smile this time, not the theatrical one. "*You never do, ma petite. Now go. Doesn't Durand get cranky when you're late?*"
Fleur winced dramatically, one hand flying to her heart in mock horror. "*Mon Dieu, yes. And a cranky Aurélie is a dangerous Aurélie. I should hurry before she decides to demonstrate advanced combat techniques on my person.*"
"*Bonne chance,*" Dubois called after her retreating form. "*Try not to let her break anything important!*"
---
**Beauxbatons Academy – Private Training Room**
The private training room existed in a space that seemed to have been carved from the castle's very bones. Deep in the lower levels, past corridors that most students never saw, it crouched behind wards so thick and complex that they formed their own ecosystem of magical protection. The air itself hummed with containment spells, silencing charms, and barriers designed to keep the violence inside from spilling out into the refined world above.
It smelled of sweat and leather and the particular metallic tang that came from learning how to efficiently hurt people. The walls bore scars from years of abuse—scorch marks from misfired hexes, gouges from blunted weapons, stains that were probably blood but might have been something worse.
Fleur absolutely adored it.
"*You are four minutes late,*" growled a voice from the shadows, the words carrying the kind of menace that made smart people reconsider their life choices.
Aurélie Durand stepped into the light like violence given form. She was compact where most fighters were tall, built like a human battering ram—all dense muscle and coiled menace packed into a frame that stood barely five-foot-six. Her dark hair was cropped military-short, practical and no-nonsense, while her eyes were the color of storm clouds before lightning struck. Scars decorated her arms, her throat, her knuckles—a roadmap of violence survived and lessons learned the hard way.
Her face could have been carved from granite, all sharp angles and unforgiving lines. She was not beautiful in any conventional sense, but she possessed something far more dangerous: the absolute certainty of someone who had looked death in the eye and made it blink first.
She was also, despite her terrifying exterior, Fleur's favorite person in the entire castle.
"*Désolée, Aurélie,*" Fleur said, already stripping off her fencing jacket with practiced efficiency. Beneath, she wore a simple training top that clung to her transformed physique and leggings that allowed complete freedom of movement. Four months of this had rebuilt her from the ground up—lean predator's muscle where there had been decorative softness, thin white scars where there had been unmarked perfection. She was still achingly beautiful, but now it was the beauty of a blade fresh from the forge.
"*Antoine was being particularly... Antoine today. All peacock preening and wounded masculine pride.*"
Durand snorted, a sound like a small controlled explosion. "*Antoine is a pretty boy playing at being dangerous. All technique and no substance, like a sword made of glass—impressive to look at, useless in a real fight. You could dismantle him with your eyes closed and one hand tied behind your back.*"
"*That was rather the point,*" Fleur admitted, beginning her stretching routine with the fluid precision of someone who had learned that preparation could mean the difference between victory and a hospital ward.
Durand's grin was all teeth and bad intentions, the expression of a shark that had just smelled blood in the water. "*Excellent. Now let's see if you can do the same to someone who actually knows how to hurt people.*"
She pulled on sparring gloves with the methodical care of someone donning armor, each movement economical and purposeful. Everything about Aurélie Durand was economical—no wasted motion, no unnecessary flourishes, nothing that didn't serve the singular purpose of survival in a world that wanted to kill her.
She had been Sebastian Delacour's personal bodyguard for seven years before accepting this teaching position. In that time, she had survived Death Eater assassination attempts, vampire hunting parties, and something she referred to only as "that incident in Prague" which she steadfastly refused to elaborate on no matter how much Fleur pestered her for details.
If anyone could teach Fleur to be a warrior rather than merely a weapon, it was Aurélie Durand.
They began to circle each other like predators establishing dominance, feet sliding across the mats in patterns older than civilization. Durand moved like controlled violence—every step calculated, every shift in weight deliberate. She was studying Fleur with the intensity of someone reading a tactical manual, cataloging strengths and weaknesses, looking for openings.
"*Your footwork has improved,*" Durand observed, her voice conversational despite the lethal intent crackling between them. "*You're not crossing your feet when you move laterally anymore. Good. Dead fighters have poor footwork.*"
"*How comforting,*" Fleur replied, matching her instructor's movements with growing confidence. "*I shall endeavor to remain among the living.*"
"*See that you do. I have a reputation to maintain.*"
Durand struck without warning—not a telegraph, not a tell, just sudden explosive movement that transformed her from circling predator to attacking hurricane in the space between heartbeats. Her jab was a blur aimed at Fleur's solar plexus, backed by the kind of power that could stop a charging bull.
Fleur slipped the punch by perhaps two inches, feeling the wind of its passage stir her hair. Her counter was immediate—an elbow strike toward Durand's ribs that would have cracked bone if it landed. But Durand was already moving, already adapting, catching Fleur's arm and redirecting the strike's momentum.
They separated, reset, both grinning now with the savage joy of the truly dangerous.
"*Better,*" Durand admitted, rolling her shoulders to work out the impact of Fleur's near-miss. "*Much better. You're not dropping your guard when you attack anymore. And that slip—four months ago, you would have tried to block that punch. Now you understand that sometimes the best defense is simply not being where the attack wants you to be.*"
"*You were an excellent teacher,*" Fleur said, settling back into her fighting stance with fluid grace.
"*I am a violent woman with control issues and a pathological need to hit things,*" Durand corrected cheerfully. "*The fact that this makes me an excellent teacher says disturbing things about the nature of education.*"
They came together again, harder this time. Durand threw a combination that would have hospitalized most people—jab, cross, hook, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next with the kind of technical perfection that spoke of decades of practice. Fleur danced through the assault like smoke, slipping some punches, deflecting others, her movement a poetry of violence that was breathtaking to watch.
When she saw her opening, she took it. Durand had committed fully to the hook, her body turned slightly to generate maximum power. For just an instant—less than a second—her right side was exposed. Fleur's left hand snapped out in a palm strike that would have driven Durand's ribs into her lungs.
Would have, if Durand hadn't been expecting it.
The older woman caught Fleur's wrist, pivoted, and suddenly Fleur was airborne, her own momentum used against her in a throw that sent her tumbling across the mat like a discarded doll. But instead of landing hard and awkward, Fleur rolled with the impact, came up in a perfect crouch, ready to continue.
"*Magnifique!*" Durand's approval was worth more than any grade or commendation. "*You're learning to fall properly. Most fighters spend so much time learning to give damage that they forget how to receive it. But in a real fight—*" She gestured at the scars decorating her throat. "*—you will take hits. The question is whether you can take them and keep fighting.*"
"*Again?*" Fleur asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a boxer ready for the next round.
"*Again.*"
They sparred for over an hour, the training room echoing with the sounds of impact—flesh striking flesh, feet sliding across mats, the sharp crack of blocked strikes. Fleur took her share of punishment—a split lip that painted her smile crimson, a bruised rib that would ache for days, knuckles scraped raw from a missed block that found brick wall instead of target.
But she gave as good as she got. By the end, both women were breathing hard, sweat-soaked, their hair plastered to their skulls, grinning like maniacs who had just discovered fire.
"*You have improved dramatically,*" Durand said, toweling off with the methodical precision she brought to everything. "*When you started four months ago, you fought like a princess afraid to break a fingernail. Technically proficient, but without any real understanding of violence. Now...*"
She studied Fleur with the intensity of a scientist examining a particularly fascinating specimen.
"*Now you fight like a woman with something to prove. Like someone who has seen what she wants and is willing to bleed for it. It's made you dangerous.*"
Fleur wiped blood from her split lip, tasting copper and satisfaction in equal measure. "*I have everything to prove.*"
"*This boy you're chasing—*"
"*I am not chasing anyone,*" Fleur protested, but the words came out too quickly, too sharp, carrying their own contradiction.
Durand's snort could have powered a small aircraft. "*Bien sûr. This boy you are definitely not chasing, who definitely did not save your life, who definitely does not occupy your thoughts at all hours of the day and night—he had better be worth all this.*"
She gestured at the training room, at Fleur's transformed body, at the intensity that seemed to radiate from the younger woman like heat from molten metal.
Fleur thought of armor that gleamed red and gold in firelight. Of claws that hummed with absorbed magic and eyes that glowed like dying stars. Of a voice that sounded like it had seen the end of the world and decided to keep fighting anyway, and hands that could be gentle even when they were stained with the blood of monsters.
"*He is,*" she said simply, and something in her voice made Durand's expression soften slightly.
"*Then you had better win next week,*" the older woman said, her tone uncharacteristically gentle. "*Because if Madame Maxime doesn't select you for the delegation...*" She shrugged with studied casualness. "*Well. It is rather difficult to impress a boy from France, non?*"
Fleur's hands clenched into fists tight enough to crack bones. The thought of failure, of being left behind while others went to Hogwarts, of missing her chance to see him again—it was physically painful, like swallowing broken glass.
"*She will select me,*" Fleur said, and the quiet fury in her voice could have melted steel. "*I will not give her any choice in the matter.*"
"*Bon. Use that fire, ma petite guerrière. Just don't let it consume you from the inside out.*"
Too late, Fleur thought but didn't say. She was already burning, had been burning since that night in the forest when death had worn a monster's face and salvation had come in the form of a boy who moved like lethal poetry.
But perhaps that was the point. Perhaps she needed to burn to become what she was meant to be.
---
**Beauxbatons Academy – Fleur's Dormitory Room**
Night had settled over the Pyrenees like a sorcerer's cloak, all dark velvet studded with diamonds that seemed close enough to pluck from the sky. Fleur's dormitory room was a masterpiece of understated luxury—silk wallpaper in shades of blue that shifted from sky to storm depending on the light, furniture that had been crafted by artisans whose names were whispered with reverence, and windows that offered a view of snow-capped peaks so beautiful they belonged in paintings rather than reality.
Under normal circumstances, Fleur would have been perfectly content to spend her evening appreciating the aesthetic perfection of her surroundings, perhaps with a book of poetry and a glass of wine liberated from her father's collection.
Tonight was not normal circumstances.
She sat cross-legged in the center of her bed, surrounded by a war council of books, parchments, and magical theory texts that would have made seventh-year students weep with despair. Research on the Triwizard Tournament formed the bulk of her collection—historical accounts, statistical analyses, tactical evaluations, survivor testimonies from the few champions who had lived to tell their tales.
The numbers were, frankly, horrifying. But Fleur had never been one to be deterred by mere statistics.
More than the Tournament itself, she had been researching *him*. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-Then-Died-Then-Came-Back-As-Something-Else. The reports were fragmentary, contradictory, and probably half propaganda from various competing interests. But patterns emerged if you knew how to look for them.
He collected dangerous women the way other boys collected chocolate frog cards.
A metamorphmagus who could become anyone, be anything, the ultimate spy and infiltrator. A redhead who could summon fire from nothing and burn the world with a snap of her fingers. Another redhead who had turned combat into an art form and violence into a precise science. A girl with silver hair and dark skin who could supposedly command the very weather.
All of them brilliant. All of them lethal. All of them utterly devoted to him.
Fleur stared at her reflection in the window glass, studying the changes four months had wrought. She was still beautiful—would probably always be beautiful, it was simply her nature—but it was a different beauty now. Harder. More focused. The beauty of a blade rather than a flower.
Was it enough? Was she the kind of woman who belonged in a collection like that?
A soft knock at her door interrupted her increasingly circular thoughts.
"*Entrez,*" she called, not looking up from the intelligence report she'd been trying to decipher.
The door opened with theatrical slowness to reveal Celestine Dubois—no relation to the fencing professor, despite the shared surname—her roommate and the closest thing she had to a best friend at Beauxbatons. At seventeen, Cel was a study in elegant contrasts: petite where Fleur was tall, dark where Fleur was light, possessed of a razor wit that could fillet a person's ego at twenty paces and leave them thanking her for the privilege.
She was also the only person in the castle who knew the real reason behind Fleur's sudden transformation from pampered princess to warrior goddess.
"*Still researching your mysterious prince charming?*" Cel asked, settling onto the bed with the casual grace of long friendship. Her dark eyes sparkled with mischief as they took in the scattered papers. "*Mon Dieu, Fleur. This is starting to look less like research and more like obsession.*"
"*Research is merely organized obsession,*" Fleur replied primly, though she couldn't quite suppress a smile. "*And he is not my prince charming. Yet.*"
"*Ah, 'yet.' How refreshingly honest of you.*" Cel picked up one of the intelligence reports, squinting at the small text. "*When was the last time you actually left this room for something other than training or classes?*"
Fleur frowned, genuinely having to think about it. "*Tuesday?*"
"*That was last Tuesday. As in, a week ago.*" Cel's expression grew more concerned. "*And when did you last eat something more substantial than whatever you can grab between sword lessons?*"
"*I had an apple,*" Fleur said defensively.
"*When?*"
"*This... morning? Yesterday morning?*" The words sounded uncertain even to her own ears.
Cel sighed with the long-suffering patience of someone who had been having variations of this conversation for weeks. She reached over and gently but firmly closed the book Fleur had been reading, ignoring her friend's protest.
"*Talk to me,*" she said, her voice carrying the kind of warmth that could coax secrets from stones. "*Not about the Tournament, not about your mysterious warrior-prince. About you. How are you really feeling?*"
Fleur was quiet for a long moment, her fingers absently tracing patterns on the silk coverlet. Outside, wind whistled through the castle's ancient stones, carrying with it the promise of winter and change.
"*Terrified,*" she admitted finally, the word falling into the silence like a stone into still water.
"*Of the Tournament?*"
"*Of not being enough.*" The words came out in a rush, like a dam finally giving way under pressure. "*He saved me, Cel. Gabrielle and I were going to die—really, truly die—and he appeared out of nowhere like some avenging angel made of shadows and starlight. And I could do nothing. Nothing but stand there like some useless ornament and be grateful that someone stronger had bothered to save my life.*"
Cel nodded slowly, understanding flickering in her dark eyes like candlelight.
"*When I see him again—and I will see him again, the Tournament will make sure of that—I cannot be that girl. I cannot be the pretty princess who faints at the first sign of real danger. I need to be...*"
"*His equal?*"
"*Oui.* But what if I am not? What if four months of training is nothing more than playing dress-up in a warrior's costume? What if, when it matters, I am still just a beautiful face who crumbles the moment things become difficult?*"
Cel was quiet for a moment, studying her friend with the intensity of someone trying to solve a particularly complex puzzle. Then her expression softened into something warmer, more genuine than her usual sharp-edged humor.
"*Fleur Isabelle Delacour,*" she said, and the use of her full name made Fleur look up in surprise. "*You spent four months transforming yourself into a weapon because you wanted to be worthy of a boy you met exactly once. You are preparing to enter the most dangerous magical competition in recorded history. You have been pushing yourself so hard that you forget to eat, forget to sleep, forget to exist as anything other than pure determination made flesh.*"
She paused, letting the words sink in.
"*Does that honestly sound like someone who faints at the first sign of danger?*"
Despite everything—the fear, the uncertainty, the bone-deep exhaustion that had become her constant companion—Fleur felt a smile tugging at her lips.
"*When you put it like that...*"
"*You are not the same girl who was rescued in that forest,*" Cel continued, her voice gaining strength and conviction. "*You are someone new. Someone who chose to become dangerous not because she had to, but because she wanted to. Because she decided what she wanted and was willing to bleed for it.*"
Fleur looked at her reflection in the window again, but this time she saw what Cel saw. Not a girl playing at being a warrior, but a woman who had chosen her path and walked it without looking back.
"*Merci,*" she said softly, and meant it more than she had meant anything in months. "*I needed to hear that.*"
"*De rien, ma chérie. Now, before you collapse from malnutrition, let's get some actual food in you. And Fleur?*"
"*Oui?*"
Cel's grin was pure mischief wrapped in silk and dipped in starlight. "*When you see him again? When you show him what you've become? He's going to take one look at you and wonder how he ever got so lucky.*"
Fleur laughed—really laughed—for the first time in weeks, the sound bright and genuine and full of the kind of joy that could light up entire kingdoms.
Her mysterious knight was waiting for her at Hogwarts, surrounded by his collection of extraordinary women.
She just had to get there first.
And prove that she belonged among them.
---
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