# **HOGWARTS CASTLE – GREAT HALL – 7:45 AM**
The Great Hall at breakfast time was a carefully orchestrated chaos of teenage humanity attempting to consume adequate nutrition before morning classes. House tables groaned under the weight of enough food to feed a small army—which, considering the average teenage appetite, was probably accurate—while conversations bounced between tables like verbal Quaffles being passed between players who hadn't quite learned the rules yet.
Fleur Delacour entered the Great Hall like she was gliding across water rather than walking on stone floors that had probably seen more spilled pumpkin juice than most surfaces should be subjected to. Her midnight-blue robes moved with that particular Veela grace that made even simple locomotion look like performance art, and her silver-blonde hair caught the morning light streaming through the enchanted windows in ways that probably violated several laws of physics.
Beside her, Celestine Dubois matched her stride with the easy confidence of someone who'd been walking beside beautiful people for years and had learned to project her own brand of elegant competence rather than trying to compete with supernatural genetics. Her dark hair was pulled back in a practical style that somehow made practicality look fashionable, and her expression held the kind of amused intelligence that suggested she was already cataloguing everyone's reactions to her friend's entrance.
"You know," Cel murmured in French, her voice pitched low enough that only Fleur could hear, "one of these days you're going to walk into a room without making every male present forget how basic motor functions work, and I'm going to throw a party to celebrate."
"*Ce n'est pas ma faute,*" Fleur replied with the long-suffering patience of someone who'd been having variations of this conversation since puberty. "I am not doing anyzing. Zis is just 'ow I exist."
"Your mere existence violates several international treaties on fair competition," Cel observed with obvious amusement. "I'm pretty sure there's a Geneva Convention clause about walking around looking like that without warning labels."
They made their way toward the Ravenclaw table, where Fleur had been unofficially adopted during yesterday's arrival feast. The Beauxbatons delegation had scattered across the various house tables based on personal preference and strategic alliance-building, but Fleur had gravitated toward Ravenclaw with the logic that if she was going to spend several months here, she might as well surround herself with people who read books rather than people who thought reading was what you did to warning labels after you'd already done the thing the warning label was warning about.
Cedric Diggory was already seated, looking like someone had taken the concept of "morning person" and decided to make it devastatingly handsome just to mess with people who were still trying to wake up. His golden hair was perfectly tousled in that way that suggested either really good genetics or a very expensive hair care routine, and his smile was bright enough to power the castle's lighting systems when he spotted Fleur approaching.
"Morning!" he called out with the kind of cheerful enthusiasm that suggested he'd probably already been for a morning run, done twenty minutes of meditation, and possibly saved a kitten from a tree before breakfast. "Sleep well?"
"Well enough," Fleur replied, settling into the empty seat across from him with the kind of elegant precision that made even sitting down look choreographed. "Zough ze beds in ze carriage are not quite as comfortable as zose at Beauxbatons."
"The Beauxbatons carriage has beds?" A nearby Ravenclaw sixth-year looked fascinated and slightly envious. "Like, actual beds? We just assumed you were all sleeping on the floor like very elegant camping."
"We 'ave beds, yes," Fleur confirmed with amusement. "And running water. And a kitchen. Ze carriage is bigger on ze inside zan ze outside. Magic is very useful for avoiding ze need to sleep on floors."
Viktor Krum emerged from the crowd of students like a particularly brooding ship cutting through fog. His dark hair was slightly damp, suggesting he'd either been swimming or had just finished a very thorough shower, and his expression held the kind of focused intensity that suggested he'd been awake for hours analyzing tactical scenarios or possibly just contemplating the existential nature of international magical competition.
"*Dobro utro,*" he said, settling into the seat beside Cedric with the casual grace of someone who'd spent years moving efficiently through crowds of admirers and reporters. "I trust you both slept well?"
"Better zan you apparently," Cel observed, studying Viktor with the clinical interest of someone trained to assess physical condition. "You 'ave ze look of someone who spent ze night doing somesing more strenuous zan sleeping."
Viktor's mouth twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "Varm-up exercises. Is important to maintain conditioning even vhen not actively training. Besides, British castle is very good for early morning running. Many stairs. Very cardiovascular."
"You went running?" Cedric looked impressed and slightly concerned. "At what time?"
"Five-thirty," Viktor replied like this was a completely reasonable hour to voluntarily engage in cardiovascular exercise. "Vhy? Vhen do you normally train?"
"I... usually wait until after breakfast," Cedric admitted, looking like he was questioning his entire approach to athletic conditioning. "You know. When I'm actually awake and have consumed adequate calories to fuel physical exertion."
"*Slabak,*" Viktor said, though his tone suggested affection rather than genuine criticism. "You vill never achieve peak performance if you vait until you are comfortable to begin training."
"I've won three Quidditch cups," Cedric protested with wounded dignity. "I think my training regimen is working fine."
"For Quidditch, perhaps," Viktor conceded. "But Tournament is different. Is not just about flying fast and catching small golden ball. Is about endurance, strategy, adaptation to unexpected circumstances." He paused, his expression growing more serious. "Is about survival."
The word hung in the air like a particularly ominous prophecy, making several nearby students who'd been eavesdropping suddenly remember they had somewhere else to be.
Fleur reached for what appeared to be some kind of pastry that had probably been made by house-elves who took their baking very seriously and had strong opinions about proper croissant technique. "Speaking of survival," she said, keeping her tone light despite the weight of the topic, "'as anyone seen our fourth champion zis morning?"
Cedric glanced around the Great Hall with the expression of someone conducting a systematic search. "Harry? No, actually. Haven't seen him since last night when we all split up after our... team meeting."
"Team meeting," Viktor repeated with obvious satisfaction. "Is good we 'ave agreed to cooperate. Makes survival mathematics much better."
"Survival mathematics?" A Ravenclaw prefect who'd been trying very hard not to stare at Fleur finally gave up and joined the conversation properly. "Is that... is that actually a thing? Do they teach survival mathematics somewhere?"
"Zey teach it at SHIELD, apparently," Cel observed, helping herself to what appeared to be scrambled eggs that had achieved a level of fluffy perfection usually reserved for clouds or very expensive pillows. "'Along with advanced combat techniques, interdimensional threat assessment, and 'ow to look devastatingly attractive while dismantling international criminal organizations."
"That last one seems oddly specific," the prefect said.
"And yet accurate," Cel replied with a grin. "You should see ze intelligence files. Very educational. Also very classified, but zat is a different problem."
Fleur was about to add her own observations about SHIELD's apparently comprehensive curriculum when a shadow fell across their breakfast table like someone had just parked a very large, very nervous obstacle between them and the morning sunlight.
Roger Davies stood there with the expression of someone who'd spent the last hour psyching himself up for this exact moment and was now questioning every decision that had led him to this point. His face had taken on an interesting shade of red that suggested either embarrassment, determination, or possibly some kind of allergic reaction to his own poor life choices.
"Er," he began, which was not a strong opening for what was clearly supposed to be an impressive romantic gesture. "Morning, Fleur. You're looking... I mean, you look... that is to say..."
He trailed off, apparently having exhausted his entire vocabulary and most of his cognitive function in the general direction of trying to form coherent sentences while in close proximity to someone whose Veela heritage made "coherent sentences" significantly more challenging than usual.
Fleur arranged her features into the kind of polite, patient expression she'd perfected over years of dealing with people who couldn't quite manage to speak proper English in her presence. It wasn't their fault, really. Veela allure was a passive effect that she couldn't entirely control, and teenage boys were particularly susceptible to having their higher brain functions temporarily relocated to regions of their anatomy that were significantly less useful for conversation.
"Good morning, Roger," she said carefully, her French accent making even simple greetings sound like poetry. "Is somesing wrong? You seem... distracted."
"Wrong? No! Nothing's wrong! Everything's very... right. Very right indeed." Roger's voice cracked slightly on the last word, which would have been endearing if it wasn't quite so painful to witness. "I was wondering if maybe... possibly... you might want to..."
He appeared to be having some kind of internal struggle, his mouth opening and closing like a particularly confused fish who'd just discovered that water was actually optional and was trying to process the implications.
Cedric buried his face in his hands with a groan that suggested he was experiencing significant secondhand embarrassment on behalf of his fellow Hogwarts student. "Oh no," he muttered. "He's actually doing it. He's actually trying to ask her out in front of half the school."
"Is brave," Viktor observed with clinical interest, watching Roger's meltdown with the fascination of someone studying a particularly interesting natural disaster. "Stupid, but brave. Like charging dragon vithout vand."
"'E is like a puppy who 'as not yet learned zat some things are not meant to be chased," Cel added, her voice pitched low enough that only their immediate group could hear. "Very sweet. Also very doomed."
Roger rallied with visible effort, apparently deciding that if he was going to embarrass himself, he might as well commit fully to the experience. "Would you like to go to Hogsmeade with me? When the next weekend visit happens? We could get Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, and maybe look at the shops, and I promise I'll try to form complete sentences that don't make me sound like I've suffered recent head trauma."
The last part came out in a rush, like he'd been rehearsing it and wanted to get through it before his brain caught up with what his mouth was doing.
Fleur opened her mouth to deliver what was undoubtedly going to be a very polite rejection—she'd had extensive practice at letting people down gently, it was basically a required life skill when you were part Veela and constantly dealing with people whose attraction centers had been accidentally set to "catastrophic system failure"—when a commotion from the direction of the entrance hall interrupted whatever diplomatic explanation she'd been preparing.
The sound started as a murmur, then grew to excited chatter, then exploded into the kind of collective noise that suggested something *interesting* was happening and everyone wanted to see it before it stopped being interesting or someone got seriously injured, whichever came first.
Students began abandoning their breakfasts with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for Quidditch matches or surprise cancellations of Potions exams, flooding toward the doors like a very educated stampede.
"What's going on?" Cedric asked, craning his neck to see over the crowd of students who were all suddenly very interested in whatever was happening outside.
"Sounds like it's coming from the grounds," Viktor observed, already rising from his seat with the kind of economical movement that suggested years of training to respond quickly to unexpected situations. "Ve should investigate."
"We should finish breakfast," Roger said weakly, though even he was glancing toward the doors with obvious curiosity. "I mean, it's probably nothing important. Just some student prank or maybe a really aggressive group of gnomes."
Nobody was listening to him anymore. The champions and their immediate companions were already moving toward the entrance hall with the rest of the student body, following the flow of excited teenagers toward whatever spectacle had just interrupted the morning routine.
They emerged onto the castle grounds into morning sunlight that was bright enough to make several students who hadn't been fully awake yet reconsider their life choices and possibly invest in better curtains. The air was crisp with the promise of approaching winter, and the Black Lake stretched out before them like a mirror reflecting the sky and also whatever chaos was about to unfold on its shores.
A crowd had gathered near the water's edge—not just students, but several professors who'd apparently heard the commotion and decided that whatever was happening probably required adult supervision or at least adult witnessing for future disciplinary hearings.
"What is everyone looking at?" Cel asked, standing on her toes to see over the crowd of taller students who'd claimed the best viewing positions.
"I can't... wait." Cedric pointed toward the lake shore, his expression shifting from curious to absolutely fascinated. "Is that... are those people *fighting*?"
Fleur pushed forward through the crowd with the kind of determined grace that made people automatically move aside—partly from politeness, partly from self-preservation instincts that suggested blocking someone who moved like that was probably a poor life choice.
When she finally got a clear view of what everyone was staring at, her breath caught in her throat hard enough to make breathing momentarily optional.
Four figures moved across the grass near the lake shore with the kind of speed and athleticism that shouldn't have been physically possible without significant magical enhancement or possibly illegal performance-enhancing potions. They weren't dueling in the traditional magical sense—no wands, no obvious spellcasting, just pure physical combat that looked like it had been choreographed by someone who understood that violence could be art if you approached it with sufficient skill and really good reflexes.
The first figure was shirtless—which was probably a tactical error in Scottish November weather but was certainly making half the female student body forget how breathing worked—moving with fluid grace that made professional Quidditch players look clumsy. His dark hair was slightly damp with sweat, his muscles moving under skin like they'd been personally sculpted by someone with strong opinions about human anatomy and access to really good reference materials.
Even from this distance, even with his features partially obscured by movement and morning light, Fleur recognized him immediately.
"*Mon Dieu,*" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the excited chatter of the assembled crowd. "Zat is 'Arry."
Cel followed her gaze and let out a low whistle that would have been completely inappropriate if it wasn't so obviously deserved. "Well. Zat explains why 'e was not at breakfast. 'E was busy looking like walking advertisement for whatever exercise program produced zose results."
The second figure—slightly taller, built like someone had taken the concept of "perfect human specimen" and decided to make it wear really good tactical clothing—moved with the kind of precise efficiency that suggested extensive military training and probably some really comprehensive combat experience. His blonde hair caught the morning light, and even at this distance, there was something about his posture that screamed "leadership" and "definitely has strong opinions about doing the right thing even when it's inconvenient."
"That's Captain America," breathed a seventh-year Hufflepuff who'd apparently been paying attention to international news. "That's actually Steve Rogers. I've seen pictures. He's a *legend*."
The third figure was darker, more dangerous-looking, moving with the controlled precision of someone who'd spent years learning to be a weapon and was now trying to remember how to be a person while still maintaining all those useful killing skills. His left arm caught the sunlight and threw it back in patterns that suggested metal rather than flesh, and his expression held the kind of focused intensity that made smart people remember they had somewhere else to be.
"And that's the Winter Soldier," added a Ravenclaw who'd clearly been doing her research on SHIELD operatives and their various fascinating backstories. "Bucky Barnes. Reformed HYDRA assassin. The metal arm is Vibranium, apparently. Can punch through walls."
The fourth figure was smaller than the men but no less dangerous, moving with the kind of precise, economical grace that suggested extensive training in exactly how to hurt people efficiently. Dark hair pulled back in a practical style, tactical clothing that had definitely been designed for combat rather than fashion, and an expression that suggested she was enjoying herself immensely while simultaneously calculating exactly how many ways she could incapacitate everyone watching if necessary.
"That's Agent Carter," Professor McGonagall said from somewhere in the crowd, her voice carrying enough surprise to suggest even she hadn't been expecting to see a living legend from World War II looking like she'd just stepped out of a recruitment poster. "Peggy Carter. She was... she should be..."
"Seventy-three?" supplied Hermione Granger, who'd apparently materialized from thin air or possibly just really good positioning in the crowd. "She was born in 1921. But the Super Soldier Serum—modified version, different from what Captain Rogers received—kept her functionally in her twenties. It's actually really fascinating from a biochemical perspective if you ignore the ethical implications of human enhancement programs and focus on the applied medical applications."
"Thank you, Miss Granger," McGonagall said with the tone of someone who'd heard enough about biochemical applications for one morning. "That's quite enough technical analysis of people who are currently demonstrating exactly why we don't let students near Super Soldier Serum."
Down by the lake, the four figures continued their exhibition in what could only be described as controlled violence with really good technique. They moved like dancers who'd learned choreography from people who killed for a living, each strike precise, each block calculated, each movement flowing seamlessly into the next.
Harry ducked under what should have been a devastating right cross from Steve, pivoted with liquid grace, and delivered a counter-strike toward Bucky's midsection that the former assassin barely managed to deflect. Peggy took advantage of the momentary distraction to sweep Harry's legs, but he rolled with the momentum and came up in a crouch, claws extending with that distinctive *snikt* that made several students gasp.
"*Merlin's beard,*" Ron Weasley said from somewhere in the crowd, his voice carrying the kind of awe usually reserved for really spectacular Quidditch plays or discovering there was extra dessert. "He's got *actual claws*. Like, coming out of his hands. That's not normal, right? That's not a thing normal people can do?"
"Nothing about Harry Potter is normal," Hermione replied with the clinical precision of someone who'd been compiling data on exactly how abnormal he was and had generated a comprehensive list with footnotes. "The claws are Vibranium-coated, retractable, and capable of cutting through most known materials. He got them when HYDRA spliced his DNA with—"
"—with someone called Wolverine," finished a Gryffindor seventh-year who'd clearly been following the same intelligence reports. "Who's another mutant with similar abilities. It's all very scientific and also slightly horrifying."
"Mostly horrifying," Ron agreed. "I mean, imagine waking up one day and realizing you've got knives in your hands. That's got to make basic hygiene really complicated."
Down by the lake, the four combatants had apparently decided to escalate from "impressive physical demonstration" to "this is why we don't let you near inhabited areas without supervision." Steve produced his shield from somewhere—a throw from off-screen, probably one of the other SHIELD operatives who'd been watching and decided their captain needed his favorite defensive implement—and suddenly the fight had gone from hand-to-hand to "let's add metal projectiles to the mix and see what happens."
The shield ricocheted off Harry's extended claws with a sound like thunder being beaten with hammers, arced through the air in a trajectory that definitely violated several laws of physics, and would have taken Peggy's head off if she hadn't ducked with the kind of split-second timing that suggested this wasn't her first time playing catch with Vibranium murder frisbees.
"They're going to kill each other," Cedric said with the kind of horrified fascination usually reserved for watching natural disasters or particularly aggressive Quidditch matches. "That's... that's not practice. That's actual combat."
"No," Viktor said slowly, his eyes tracking the movements with the focus of someone who'd spent years studying athletic performance at the highest levels. "Look at strikes. Zey are pulling. Not by much, but enough. Zis is not combat. Zis is... demonstration, perhaps. Or training. Very intense training."
"Training?" Roger Davies had apparently followed them out and was now staring at the exhibition with the expression of someone whose understanding of physical fitness had just been comprehensively reorganized. "That's not training. Training is running laps and doing push-ups. That's... that's superhuman."
"Zey are super soldiers," Fleur said quietly, unable to take her eyes off Harry as he moved through the fight with the kind of fluid grace that made watching him feel like a privilege and also possibly a religious experience. "Zat is literally what ze serum does. Makes zem superhuman."
Bucky's metal arm connected with Harry's crossed forearms in a block that should have shattered bone but instead produced a sound like church bells being struck with sledgehammers. The impact sent shockwaves through the air visible enough that several students in the front row actually felt the breeze, and Harry slid backward approximately ten feet before regaining his balance with the kind of casual recovery that suggested physics was more of a suggestion than an actual law.
"Okay," Ron said with the tone of someone whose entire worldview had just been challenged by observable reality, "that's not fair. That's just... that's not how arms work. Arms don't make sounds like that. Arms don't create shockwaves. What even *is* that metal?"
"Vibranium," Hermione supplied automatically, because apparently she'd memorized the material properties of every substance used in SHIELD equipment. "Strongest metal in known existence. Absorbs kinetic energy, virtually indestructible, costs more per gram than most countries' gross domestic products."
"And he's got it in his *bones*?" Ron's voice had climbed several octaves. "Like, his entire skeleton is made of expensive super-metal?"
"Just coated," Hermione corrected. "The bones are still organic underneath. Though given the enhancement serum's effects on cellular regeneration, the exact composition of his skeletal structure is probably more complicated than standard human anatomy."
"Stop," Ron pleaded. "Stop making it more terrifying by explaining it scientifically. Let me just be impressed without understanding why I should be even more impressed."
Fleur barely heard their conversation. Her entire attention was fixed on Harry as he danced through the fight with three of the most dangerous people on the planet and somehow made it look *easy*. This wasn't the desperate struggle of someone trying to survive. This was someone who'd been doing this for so long that extreme violence had become as natural as breathing.
She watched him deflect Peggy's strike with his forearm, pivot to avoid Steve's shield throw, duck under Bucky's follow-up punch, and somehow end up in a position where he could have theoretically taken all three of them out if he'd been fighting for real instead of sparring.
*Zis*, she thought with a mixture of awe and determination, *zis is what I need to become.*
Not just skilled. Not just trained. Not just dangerous.
She needed to become someone who could stand beside people like this and not look out of place. Someone who could watch this kind of combat and think "I could do that" instead of "I could never do that."
Four months of training had made her dangerous. But watching Harry move with that kind of unconscious competence made her realize exactly how far she still had to go.
Beside her, Cel was making soft appreciative noises that suggested she was having similar thoughts, though possibly with less emphasis on combat capability and more emphasis on aesthetic appreciation.
"I am not saying zat watching shirtless men fight is my new favorite spectator sport," Cel murmured, "but I am also not *not* saying zat. Because zat would be lying. And lying is wrong."
"You are terrible," Fleur said without heat, though she had to admit Cel had a point. Watching someone who looked like Harry fight with that kind of athletic precision was definitely educational. Very educational. Possibly inappropriately educational for mixed company and also for people who were supposed to be focusing on Tournament preparation rather than admiring their fellow champion's extremely well-defined muscle structure.
Down by the lake, the four combatants had apparently decided to call a temporary truce. They stood in a loose circle, breathing harder than they had been but not nearly as winded as they should have been after ten minutes of combat that would have hospitalized normal people, talking with obvious camaraderie and occasionally demonstrating specific techniques.
Steve said something that made Harry laugh, the sound carrying across the distance and making several students sigh because apparently even laughter could be weaponized when it came from someone who looked like that.
Then Harry looked up—possibly sensing he was being watched, possibly just randomly scanning the crowd—and his eyes found Fleur's across the distance.
For a moment, their gazes locked. Emerald green meeting ice blue. Recognition sparked, followed by something warmer. His lips quirked in what might have been a smile, and he raised one hand in casual acknowledgment.
Fleur felt her cheeks heat with the kind of blush that had nothing to do with Veela genetics and everything to do with being noticed by someone who'd just spent ten minutes demonstrating exactly why he was the most dangerous person she'd ever met.
"Oh, you 'ave got it bad," Cel whispered with obvious delight. "You are blushing. FLEUR DELACOUR is BLUSHING. I need to document zis for posterity. Zis never 'appens."
"Shut up," Fleur muttered, unable to tear her gaze away from Harry, who was now saying something to Steve while gesturing vaguely in her direction.
Steve looked over, saw the assembled crowd of students who'd apparently decided breakfast was optional when there were super soldiers demonstrating combat techniques, and said something that made Harry grin.
Then—because apparently the universe had decided that Fleur's dignity was optional this morning—Harry waved her over. Just a casual gesture, like he was inviting her to join a study group rather than a training session involving people who could collectively level small towns if they felt like it.
"*Merde*," Fleur whispered.
"Go," Cel said, giving her a gentle push toward the lake shore. "Go talk to your superhuman combat instructor. I will stay 'ere and make sure Roger Davies does not follow you and make everyzing awkward by trying to challenge 'Arry to some kind of weird dominance contest."
"'E would not—"
"'E absolutely would," Cel interrupted. "Boys are stupid. Now go. Before I decide to come with you and make everyzing more complicated by also being attracted to people who can punch through walls."
Fleur took a deep breath, straightened her robes with hands that were definitely not trembling with nervous excitement, and began making her way down toward the lake shore with as much dignity as she could muster while being watched by approximately three hundred students and several professors who were probably taking notes for future disciplinary hearings.
Behind her, she heard Viktor mutter, "If she gets invitation to train vith super soldiers and I do not, I am filing formal complaint vith Tournament organizers."
"Get in line," Cedric replied. "I'm pretty sure half the school just added 'train with SHIELD operatives' to their career goals."
Fleur reached the lake shore where the four super soldiers stood, and immediately felt very small despite being five-foot-eight and generally considered quite tall for a witch. All four of them radiated the kind of controlled danger that came from years of being the most dangerous person in any given room and learning to carry that weight without letting it crush you.
"Morning," Harry said, his voice warm despite the fact that he'd just spent ten minutes engaged in combat that would have killed normal people. "Hope we didn't interrupt your breakfast too much."
"Not at all," Fleur replied, proud of herself for keeping her voice steady despite the fact that her heart was currently attempting to break several land speed records. "We were nearly finished anyway. Zough I must say, zis is quite ze morning exercise routine."
"This?" Harry gestured at the space where they'd been fighting. "This is just warm-up. We do this every morning. Helps keep the reflexes sharp and makes sure nobody's getting complacent."
"*Warm-up,*" Fleur repeated slowly. "You consider zat intensity of combat to be *warm-up*?"
"Wait until you see what we do for actual training," Peggy said with a smile that suggested she was looking forward to traumatizing students with demonstrations of exactly what enhanced humans could accomplish when properly motivated. "This was us being gentle."
"Gentle," Fleur repeated, looking at the small crater in the grass where someone had apparently hit hard enough to displace earth. "I see."
Steve Rogers extended his hand with the kind of easy courtesy that suggested he'd been raised with very good manners and had maintained them despite decades of violence and international incidents. "Steve Rogers. Though I'm guessing you already knew that from the crowd's very helpful commentary."
"Fleur Delacour," she replied, shaking his hand and noting that despite his obvious strength, his grip was gentle enough not to crush bones. "And yes, ze students were very... educational in zeir observations."
"Educational," Bucky Barnes snorted, his metal hand flexing slightly as he studied her with the assessing gaze of someone who'd spent years evaluating potential threats. "That's one word for it. I heard at least three marriage proposals and what sounded like someone trying to calculate the aerodynamics of Steve's shield throw."
"The aerodynamics are actually fascinating," Hermione Granger called from the crowd, because apparently she'd gotten close enough to hear. "The trajectory suggests angular momentum modification through—"
"Thank you, Miss Granger!" Professor McGonagall cut in with the tone of someone who'd heard enough about physics applications before breakfast. "That's quite enough technical analysis for one morning!"
Harry was watching Fleur with obvious interest, his emerald eyes holding depths that suggested he was seeing considerably more than most people did when they looked at her. "You've been training," he said, making it a statement rather than a question.
"'Ow did you—?"
"The way you move," he explained with the clinical precision of someone who'd spent years analyzing combat capability. "You're not walking like someone who's spent their life being decorative. You're moving like someone who's learned to be dangerous."
Fleur felt heat rise in her cheeks again, but this time it was pride rather than embarrassment. He'd *noticed*. Not just that she was beautiful—everyone noticed that, it was unavoidable when you were part Veela—but that she'd transformed herself into something more than just a pretty face.
"Four months," she admitted. "Since ze World Cup. Since you saved us. I 'ave been training with combat instructors at Beauxbatons. Fencing, martial arts, magical combat applications..." She trailed off, suddenly aware of how inadequate that probably sounded to someone who'd been doing this since he was five years old.
But Harry's smile was genuine, without any trace of condescension. "Four months of intensive training can make a big difference. Especially if you've got good instructors and the motivation to push yourself."
"I 'ad excellent motivation," Fleur said quietly, meeting his eyes directly. "I did not wish to be 'elpless again. To need saving. To be..." She searched for the right word. "Decorative."
Something shifted in Harry's expression—recognition, understanding, maybe even approval. "Good. The best warriors are the ones who choose to become dangerous rather than being forced into it."
Peggy stepped forward, her assessing gaze sharp and professional. "You want to train with us," she said, making it a statement rather than a question.
"*Oui,*" Fleur admitted, abandoning any pretense of playing it cool. "If you would allow it. I know I am not at your level, but—"
"Nobody starts at our level," Steve interrupted gently. "We've all spent years getting here. The question isn't whether you're good enough now, but whether you're willing to do the work to get better."
"I am," Fleur said with absolute conviction. "I will do whatever it takes."
Harry exchanged glances with the other three super soldiers, some kind of silent communication passing between them that suggested years of working together as a team.
"Right then," Harry said finally, his grin widening. "Tomorrow morning, six AM, here by the lake. Wear something you can move in that you don't mind getting destroyed. Bring water. And maybe prepare yourself for the reality that four months of traditional training has not prepared you for what super soldier combat instruction actually looks like."
"I will be 'ere," Fleur promised, her voice steady despite the butterflies currently having a rave in her stomach.
"Good," Peggy said with obvious satisfaction. "It'll be nice to have another woman around. The testosterone levels in our training sessions can get a bit overwhelming."
"Hey," Bucky protested with mock offense. "We're not that bad."
"You literally challenged each other to an arm-wrestling competition yesterday using only your *pinkies*," Peggy replied dryly. "It lasted forty-five minutes and ended when you both gave up because it was dinner time."
"That was a tactical draw," Steve said with wounded dignity.
"That was you both being ridiculous," Peggy corrected, then turned back to Fleur with a conspiratorial smile. "See what I have to work with?"
Despite the nerves, despite the intimidation of standing among people who could probably conquer small countries if properly motivated, Fleur felt herself smiling. This was what she'd been hoping for. Not just training, but *belonging*. Being part of something that valued capability over appearance, skill over genetics.
Being treated like someone who could become dangerous rather than someone who just looked dangerous.
---
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