Hello, AMagicWord. I'm happy to publish a new Chapter of Harry Potter and The Pink Auror
If you want to Read 6 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'patreon.com/AMagicWord' on Websearch
The following 6 chapters are already available to Patrons.
Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, and Chapter 20 are already available for Patrons.
Yesterday, A day after the First Round of the Duelling Club
Harry pushed through the door into the Gryffindor common room, and immediately wanted to wipe the stupid grin off his face. He couldn't though. Every time he tried, his brain helpfully replayed the feeling of Tonks's lips on his, the way her fingers had tangled in his hair, that soft sound she'd made—
Stop it, Potter. You look like an idiot.
But his face wasn't listening to his brain. His face had apparently decided that grinning like a complete moron was the appropriate response to kissing a girl. A really brilliant, funny, gorgeous girl who also happened to be teaching him magic and who'd said they were "together" even though that was complicated and secret and—
"Harry!"
He jumped, nearly dropping his bag. Hermione was staring at him from her usual spot by the fireplace, a book open in her lap that she clearly wasn't reading anymore. Her brown eyes were doing that thing where they got all knowing and suspicious, like she'd just spotted an error in a Potions essay.
"Morning," Harry said, trying for casual and probably missing by several miles judging by how Hermione's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline.
"Morning," she repeated slowly, closing her book with a decisive snap. "You're... cheerful."
Was he? Harry tried to school his expression into something more normal, but his mouth kept trying to smile. The common room was already crowded with students—some celebrating yesterday's victories with exaggerated reenactments, others slumped in corners looking like they'd been told their Quidditch team had disbanded.
"TACTICAL BRILLIANCE!" Ron's voice carried from across the room where he was holding court with Dean and Seamus near the boys' staircase. "That's what separates a real duelist from someone who just waves their wand around hoping for the best. You've got to think three moves ahead, like chess."
Harry caught Hermione rolling her eyes so hard he was surprised they didn't fall out of her head.
"Ron's explaining how he 'meant' to trip over his own feet," she said dryly, patting the seat next to her. "Apparently it was all part of his master strategy."
Harry sat, trying not to think about how he had kissed Tonks, how she'd smiled against his lips and told him to "try not to look so bloody happy or everyone will know something's up."
Too late for that, apparently.
"So," Hermione said, leaning closer. Her bushy hair tickled his shoulder. "You seem different this morning."
"Different how?" Harry asked, which was a mistake because it came out way too defensive.
"Different like..." Hermione's lips twitched. "Like someone who had a very good evening?"
Harry felt his neck heat up. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Right." Hermione's eyes sparkled with mischief that reminded Harry uncomfortably of the twins. "So you didn't see Tonks last night?"
"We trained," Harry said quickly. Too quickly. Definitely too quickly based on how Hermione's grin widened. "Like we always do. Normal training. Very normal."
"Uh-huh." Hermione was clearly enjoying this far too much. "And this 'normal training' is why you're practically glowing right now?"
"I'm not glowing—"
"You are absolutely glowing, Harry Potter." She poked him in the ribs, making him flinch. "You look like someone cast a Cheering Charm on you. A really strong one."
Harry opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. Arguing would just make it worse, and besides, lying to Hermione was about as effective as using a Severing Charm on water. She always knew.
"I'm just in a good mood," he tried instead. "Is that a crime?"
"After yesterday? No, that's perfectly reasonable." But her eyes were still doing that analytical thing, like she was solving a particularly interesting equation. "Though I notice your good mood seems to have very little to do with freezing Pucey solid and much more to do with whatever happened after."
Before Harry could figure out how to respond to that without either lying or confirming her suspicions, Hermione's expression softened slightly. She glanced around the common room—Ron was still gesticulating wildly about "tactical positioning," several fifth-years were re-dueling yesterday's matches with exaggerated wand movements, and a banner someone had hung over the fireplace proclaimed "POTTER FREEZES SLYTHERIN - LITERALLY" in letters that changed color.
"Something happened," Hermione said quietly. It wasn't a question. "Something good."
Harry felt his face doing that stupid grin thing again. He tried to stop it, made what he was pretty sure was a ridiculous expression somewhere between a smile and a grimace, and gave up entirely when Hermione started laughing.
"You look demented," she told him, but there was something warm in her voice. "Like you're trying not to smile and failing spectacularly."
"Shut up," Harry muttered, but he was grinning properly now.
"I'm happy for you," Hermione said. "You deserve to be happy, Harry. After everything..."
She trailed off, but Harry knew what she meant. After the Goblet. After Ron. After three years of increasingly mental things trying to kill him.
"Thanks," Harry said, meaning it. Then, because deflection seemed safer than whatever this conversation was becoming: "Did you see Dean over there? He looks like he's been hexed."
Hermione followed his gaze to where Dean Thomas was slumped in an armchair, staring moodily at nothing. His robes still had scorch marks from yesterday.
"Montague hit him with a Bludgeoning Hex," Hermione said, her tone shifting to disapproval. "A proper one, not the weaker version we learned. Professor Flitwick had to intervene before it got worse."
"Is he alright?"
"Physically, yes. Madam Pomfrey fixed him up." Hermione's expression darkened. "But he's out of the race now. One loss and you're eliminated completely. I think that's what's bothering him more than the actual injuries."
Harry looked around the common room with new eyes. The celebrating students—like Ron and his audience—were the ones who'd won their matches. But scattered throughout were the ones who'd lost, and they all had that same defeated look. Lavender Brown was curled up in a corner with Parvati, who'd apparently lost to a Beauxbatons student in the first round. A third-year whose name Harry didn't know was angrily shoving books into his bag, muttering about "unfair matchups."
"It's brutal," Harry said. "One mistake and you're done."
"That's why I didn't want you to enter," Hermione said quietly. "It's not just about winning or losing. It's about being publicly eliminated in front of the entire school. Having everyone watch you fail."
Harry thought about Pucey, frozen solid on that platform, probably still in the hospital wing getting treated for hypothermia. Then he thought about how close that dark cutting curse had come to actually hitting him properly instead of just grazing.
"I won though," he said. "Against a seventh-year who was actively trying to hurt me."
"I know." Hermione's hand found his arm, squeezed briefly. "I know you did. And I'm proud of you, even if I think the whole thing is barbaric."
"Barbaric but brilliant?" Harry asked, remembering her assessment from yesterday.
"Don't push it."
"Harry!" Neville appeared from the direction of the boys' dormitory, looking more energized than Harry had seen him in ages. His round face was split in a genuine smile. "There you are. I've been thinking about your match—"
"Haven't we all," Hermione muttered, but she was smiling.
"—and I wanted to ask about the Aguamenti application." Neville dropped into the chair across from them, leaning forward eagerly. "That move with the ice, freezing him, using the same water from your earlier spell, that was amazing,"
"It wasn't really much,"
"But that's brilliant!" Neville said. "You were counting on his emotional state to create the conditions you needed. That's not just tactical, that's psychological."
"I think you're giving me too much credit," Harry said. "I mostly just wanted to stop him from moving so fast."
"Still counts," Neville insisted. "And that Lumos Temporis at the beginning—where did you even learn that?"
Harry hesitated. He couldn't exactly say "my secret Auror mentor who I'm now snogging taught me" without opening several cans of worms he definitely didn't want to open.
"Research," he said instead, which was technically true. "Found it in one of the books in the Restricted Section. Seventh-year spell, apparently."
"Seventh-year?" Neville's eyes widened. "Harry, that's—"
"Showing off?" suggested a new voice.
Harry looked up to find Ginny Weasley standing over them, hands on her hips, but she was grinning. Her red hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, and she looked like she'd been training—there was sweat on her forehead and her wand was still in her hand.
"Been practicing?" Hermione asked.
"Second round's coming," Ginny said, dropping onto the arm of Neville's chair. "I'm not going to get knocked out because I got cocky."
"Your match yesterday was impressive," Harry said, remembering the sheer ferocity Ginny had brought to the platform. "Where did you learn to fight like that?"
Ginny's grin turned slightly feral. "Six older brothers, Harry. You either learn to hit hard and fast, or you spend your childhood being used as a test dummy for Fred and George's experiments."
"Fair point," Harry conceded.
"Though I've got to say," Ginny continued, her eyes sparkling with mischief that definitely ran in the Weasley family, "your match was something else. Freezing Pucey solid? I didn't know you had that in you."
"Neither did I, honestly."
"That's the best kind of victory," said another voice. Harry turned to see Marcus Bellamy, a fifth-year Gryffindor he vaguely recognized from Quidditch practices, approaching their growing group. "The kind where you surprise yourself as much as your opponent."
Harry wasn't sure what to say to that, but apparently he didn't need to say anything because Bellamy was already settling on the floor near Hermione's chair, looking at Harry with the kind of intense focus usually reserved for studying for O.W.L.s.
"I wanted to ask you about environmental magic," Bellamy said. "That thing you did with the platform—turning it into a weapon. That's not in any of our textbooks."
"It's creative spellcasting," Hermione supplied, and Harry heard the pride in her voice even as she tried to sound academic. "Using existing elements rather than conjuring everything from scratch. It's more advanced than traditional dueling but technically within the regulations."
"It's also wicked smart," Ginny added. "Why waste energy making ice when you can just freeze what's already there?"
"Exactly!" Neville said enthusiastically. "It's about working smarter, not harder."
Harry felt warmth spread through his chest. These were his people—Hermione with her books and pride in his achievements, Neville with his tactical analysis, Ginny with her fierce approval. Even Bellamy, who he barely knew, was looking at him with respect.
It was such a stark contrast to the day after his name came out of the Goblet that Harry had to swallow around a sudden lump in his throat.
"—nothing but luck!" Ron's voice carried across the common room, and Harry saw his former best friend gesturing wildly. "That's all Potter has. Luck and fame. Put him in a real duel without his tricks and he'd fold like a house of cards."
The warmth in Harry's chest curdled into something cold and ugly. He saw Hermione's expression darken, caught Ginny actively glaring at her brother.
"Ignore him," Hermione said quietly, her hand finding Harry's arm again. This time she didn't let go immediately. Her fingers were warm through his robe sleeve, and Harry found himself very aware of how close she was sitting. "He'll come around eventually. Or he won't. Either way, not your problem."
"He's my brother and I love him," Ginny said flatly, "but right now he's being a complete prat. You won fair and square, Harry. Against a seventh-year who used dark magic. Ron barely beat Crabbe through dumb luck."
"His 'tactical repositioning' was him tripping over his own feet," Neville added, making air quotes. "Everyone saw it."
Harry knew he should feel angry at Ron. He'd certainly been angry enough over the past weeks as his former best friend led the charge in making Harry's life miserable. But sitting here with Hermione's hand on his arm and friends surrounding him, he mostly just felt... tired of it.
"What about the other matches?" Harry asked, deliberately changing the subject. "I was a bit focused on not getting killed to pay attention to everything."
"Krum was terrifying," Bellamy said immediately. "Did you see what he did to that Ravenclaw? Goldstein, I think? Cracked the actual platform with his Stunner."
"Durmstrang doesn't have the same restrictions on dark magic that we do," Ginny pointed out. "They probably teach him things that would get you expelled here."
"Fleur Delacour was interesting," Neville said, then flushed slightly. "I mean, her technique was interesting. The way she moved—it was almost like dancing."
Harry remembered the way Fleur had glided across the platform, how half the boys in the audience had looked ready to throw themselves at her feet. He'd been completely unmoved by the whole display, more interested in analyzing her tactics than her appearance.
He glanced at Hermione without meaning to and found her watching him with an unreadable expression.
"She was showing off," Harry said. "Good technique, but way more flash than necessary."
Something flickered in Hermione's eyes—relief? pleasure?—before she looked away. "She's Europe's junior dueling champion. I suppose showing off comes with the territory."
"And Daphne Greengrass?" Ginny said with a low whistle. "That was brutal. She took Katie Bell apart like she was doing homework."
"Clinical," Neville agreed. "That's the word. Like she was dissecting the duel rather than fighting it."
"She's the one to watch out for," Bellamy said seriously. "Not flashy like Delacour, not overwhelming like Krum, but precise like a gunshot."
"Potter!"
Harry looked up to see Alicia Spinnet making her way over, dodging around celebrating third-years and stepping over the defeated Dean Thomas.
"Spinnet," Harry greeted. "Good match yesterday?"
"Made it through, barely." She dropped into a crouch next to their group, lowering her voice. "I wanted to ask you something. That moment when Pucey used the dark cutting curse—you didn't freeze. You didn't even flinch. How?"
Harry remembered the flash of dark magic, the burning line across his ribs.
"I did flinch," he said honestly. "But I couldn't afford to stop moving. If I'd frozen up, he would've hit me with something worse."
"But how did you keep calm?" Alicia pressed. "I was up against a fifth-year Ravenclaw who threw a Bludgeoning Hex at me, and I nearly panicked. You had actual dark magic coming at you."
Harry thought about all the times he'd faced things that should have made him panic. The troll in first year. The basilisk in second. The Dementors last year. At some point, panic had stopped being an option and started being a luxury he couldn't afford.
"I don't know if it's about being calm," Harry said slowly, working through it as he spoke. "It's more like... when something's trying to hurt you, you don't really have time to panic. You just react."
"That's not helpful," Alicia said, but she was smiling slightly. "I can't exactly learn how to 'just react.'"
"Think of it like Quidditch," Hermione suggested, and everyone turned to look at her. She flushed slightly but continued. "When a Bludger comes at you, you don't sit there thinking through all your options. You just move. It's the same principle."
"Except in Quidditch, getting hit means you fall off your broom and Madam Pomfrey fixes you up," Ginny pointed out. "In dueling, getting hit might mean actual permanent damage."
"Which is why this whole competition is barbaric," Hermione said firmly.
"But also brilliant?" Harry couldn't resist adding.
Hermione shot him a look that promised retaliation later.
"The point is," Harry said, trying to sound more confident than he felt, "you can't duel thinking about all the things that might go wrong. You just have to trust your training and move."
"Easy for you to say," Alicia said. "You've been training with—" She paused, glancing around. "Well, everyone knows you've been getting extra help. From that Auror."
Harry's stomach clenched. Did everyone know? Was it that obvious?
"Security detail," he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "Ministry assigned her after the Goblet thing."
"Right," Alicia said, but there was a knowing edge to her voice that made Harry's neck heat up. "Security detail. That explains why you've been learning seventh-year spells."
Before Harry could figure out how to respond to that, Fred and George Weasley appeared beside their group with the kind of perfect timing that suggested they'd been eavesdropping.
"Harry, my boy!" Fred announced, throwing an arm around Harry's shoulders.
"Freezing Pucey solid!" George added, mimicking the gesture from the other side. "Absolute poetry."
"Get off," Harry said.
"We've been thinking," Fred said, which was never a good sign.
"Dangerous pastime," Hermione muttered.
"—about your technique," George continued, ignoring her. "The environmental manipulation. Very sophisticated."
"Almost like someone's been teaching you things beyond the standard curriculum," Fred added with exaggerated innocence.
"Wonder who that could be," George mused.
"Maybe a certain pink-haired Auror?" Fred suggested.
Harry felt his face go hot. Next to him, Hermione made a small choking sound that might have been a laugh.
"She's been helping with tournament prep," Harry said defensively. "That's all."
"Of course," Fred agreed solemnly.
"That's all," George echoed.
"Nothing else happening there," Fred continued.
"Definitely not," George finished.
They were both grinning like loons, and Harry wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
"Speaking of which," Fred said, his expression shifting to something more serious, "you did good yesterday, Harry. Really good."
"Pucey's a nasty piece of work," George added. "Uses dark magic in a student dueling competition? That's beyond the pale."
"And you handled it," Fred said. "Didn't let him get in your head, didn't panic. Just fought smart."
Coming from the twins, who'd probably pulled more successful pranks than anyone in Hogwarts history, "fought smart" felt like high praise.
"Thanks," Harry said, meaning it.
"Also," George said, pulling a small wrapped package from his pocket, "we made you something."
Harry unwrapped it cautiously—anything from Fred and George could either be brilliant or explode in your face—to find a small badge. It showed a cartoon figure frozen in a block of ice with the words "PUCEY GOT ICED" scrolling around the border.
Despite everything, Harry laughed.
"We're selling them," Fred announced proudly. "Already moved fifteen this morning."
"Ron tried to confiscate them," George added. "Said they were 'disrespectful to inter-house relations.'"
"We told him where he could shove his inter-house relations," Fred finished.
Harry saw Ron across the room, his face red as he turned his back on their growing group. For a moment, Harry felt that familiar pang of loss—missing his best mate, wishing things were different.
Then Hermione squeezed his arm gently, Neville said something that made Ginny laugh, and the twins started arguing about badge pricing strategy, and Harry realized something important.
He had friends. Real friends who believed in him, who were proud of him, who didn't care about fame or tournaments or any of that rubbish. And yeah, he was also maybe possibly definitely involved with a brilliant Auror who he had kissed, but that was a separate category of excellent that he definitely wasn't thinking about right now with Hermione sitting so close and the twins watching him like hawks.
"Right," Hermione said, standing and pulling Harry up with her. Her hand lingered in his for just a moment before she let go. "We should head down to breakfast before all the good food is gone."
"The good food is always gone by the time we get there," Harry pointed out, but he stood anyway.
"Then we should definitely hurry," Hermione said primly.
"Can I come?" Neville asked, scrambling up.
"Me too," Ginny added. "I'm starving."
"We're all coming," Bellamy said, apparently having adopted himself into their group without asking.
"Breakfast party!" Fred announced.
"Without Ron, though," George added, glancing at their younger brother, who was still holding court about his "tactical genius." "He's busy being a prat."
The Great Hall was louder than usual when Harry's group pushed through the doors. Conversations bounced off the enchanted ceiling—which showed a crisp autumn morning with scattered clouds—creating a wall of noise that hit Harry. Everyone was still talking about yesterday's matches, apparently.
Harry's eyes automatically scanned the room as they made their way toward the Gryffindor table.
The Slytherin table was weirdly quiet. Not silent—Malfoy was holding court at the far end, surrounded by his usual cronies. Several seventh-years were hunched over their plates, not making eye contact with anyone. Harry caught sight of Pucey near the middle, his face still pale and his hands wrapped around a steaming mug. Their eyes met for half a second before Pucey looked away quickly, his jaw clenching.
Yeah, Harry thought with grim pleasure. That's what you get for using dark magic on a fourteen-year-old.
"They're not even looking at you," Hermione murmured as they slid onto the bench. She'd positioned herself next to Harry again, close enough that he could smell whatever she used in her hair—something vanilla-ish. "I think you genuinely scared them."
"Good," Ginny said from Harry's other side, reaching for the eggs. "Maybe they'll think twice before underestimating Gryffindors again."
Harry grabbed some toast, his stomach growling. He hadn't eaten much yesterday, too nervous about the dueling, and apparently freezing someone solid and then snogging your Auror mentor worked up quite an appetite. He firmly shoved that second thought away before his face could do that stupid grinning thing again.
The Hufflepuff table was harder to read. Some students were deliberately not looking at Harry, their backs stiff with what looked like lingering resentment. But others—he caught Susan Bones watching him, and Hannah Abbott actually gave him a small nod when their eyes met.
Cedric wasn't at breakfast yet. Probably still asleep, or maybe doing that morning Quidditch practice thing he was weirdly dedicated to even during the tournament.
"The Ravenclaws are taking this very seriously," Neville observed, and Harry followed his gaze to see the blue-and-bronze table covered in what looked like charts and diagrams. Anthony Goldstein—who'd been demolished by Krum yesterday—was pointing at something on a large piece of parchment while several students argued animatedly.
"They're probably analyzing every match," Hermione said, and there was something wistful in her voice. "Looking for patterns, weaknesses, optimal strategies."
"You wanted to do that too, didn't you?" Harry asked.
"I may have started a statistical breakdown," Hermione admitted. "But then I remembered I think the whole competition is barbaric and stopped."
"But you kept the notes," Ginny guessed.
"...I may have kept the notes."
Harry grinned and grabbed more toast. The Beauxbatons students were easier to spot—all that pale blue and perfect posture stood out. Several of them kept glancing toward the Gryffindor table, and Harry realized with a jolt that they were looking at him. Not hostile looks, exactly. More... assessing.
Like I'm a problem they need to solve, Harry thought.
Fleur Delacour sat at the center of her group like a sun surrounded by planets, she wasn't looking at Harry, but she seemed a little tenser than usual.
The Durmstrang students, by contrast, couldn't have cared less about anyone else in the room. Krum sat at the end of their table, shoveling food into his mouth in a way as if eating food was a bothersome to him. His dark eyes were unfocused, probably thinking about Quidditch or whatever brooding Bulgarian seekers thought about. The students around him gave him space, like he had an invisible boundary that no one dared cross.
"So," Hermione said, pulling Harry's attention back to their table. She was giving him that look again—the one that meant she was about to ask something she already knew the answer to. "What's your plan now? The second round is coming up."
Harry paused mid-bite. Right. The second round. He'd been so focused on surviving yesterday and then subsequently having his brain melted by Tonks that he'd sort of... forgotten about the rest of the tournament.
"First Task is in ten days," Harry said slowly, working through it. "And Crouch said the second round of the Race is a week after that. Seven days after the First Task."
"So you have time," Neville said. "Sort of."
"Not really." Harry set down his toast, his appetite suddenly less urgent. "Right now, my only focus is the First Task. Everything else comes after I survive that."
The word 'survive' made a few frown. Harry saw Hermione's expression tighten.
"Do you have any idea what it will be?" Hermione asked quietly. "The First Task?"
"No." The admission felt like failure. "Nothing. Dumbledore hasn't said anything, Moody's been cryptic as hell, and no one else seems to know either. Or if they do, they're not telling."
"What do you think it could be?" Neville asked.
Harry shrugged. "Could be anything. Magical creatures, probably? The tournament's supposed to test courage and skill, so it'll be something dangerous. Maybe a puzzle we have to solve while something tries to kill us. Or just straight combat demonstration."
"That's not helpful," Ginny pointed out.
"I know!" Harry said, frustration bleeding into his voice. "But how am I supposed to prepare for something when I don't know what it is?"
Hermione was quiet for a moment, chewing thoughtfully. Then: "What about Tonks? She's an Auror—she might have inside information. The Ministry's involved in organizing this, after all."
"I'll ask her," Harry said, keeping his voice blank like a rock. "We're training later today. But..." He paused, thinking about last night. Not the kissing part. "I doubt she knows. If she did, I think she would have told me by now."
"You really trust her, don't you?" Hermione asked quietly.
The question should have been simple. But the way Hermione was looking at him—like the answer mattered more than she was letting on—made Harry's throat feel weird.
"Yeah," he said simply. "I do."
It was true. Tonks had believed him from the start about the Goblet, had offered to help when no one else would, had actually taught him useful magic instead of just feeling sorry for him. And last night she'd been honest about her feelings even though it was complicated and could get her in trouble and—
Right. Not thinking about last night. At least not the parts that made his face go hot.
"That's good," Hermione said, and there was something complicated in her voice. "It's good that you have someone you can trust. Someone who's looking out for you."
Before Harry could figure out what to say to that, Neville leaned forward. "I saw Moody watching you during your match. He looked... pleased? Which is weird because Moody never looks pleased."
"All the professors were watching the champions pretty closely," Ginny added. "Sprout kept checking on Cedric, and Karkaroff barely took his eyes off Krum."
"Maxime too," Hermione said. "She was watching Fleur like a hawk."
"Do you think they're helping them?" Harry asked. "Their champions, I mean. Giving them information or extra training?"
Hermione frowned. "It wouldn't surprise me. Karkaroff and Maxime especially—they both want their schools to win. National pride and all that."
"So Krum and Fleur might know what the First Task is already," Neville said.
"Maybe." Harry poked at his eggs, appetite officially gone. "But worrying about it won't help. I can't control what information they get. I can only prepare as best I can with what I know."
Which is basically nothing, his brain added helpfully. You're going into this completely blind while your competition probably has detailed notes and strategic plans.
"That's very mature of you," Hermione said, and she sounded genuinely impressed.
"Or I'm just really good at pretending I'm not terrified," Harry muttered.
"You're allowed to be terrified," Hermione said firmly, her hand finding his under the table. She squeezed once, quick and warm, before letting go. "This whole thing is mental. You're fourteen and being forced to compete in a tournament designed for adults. Being scared is the only sane response."
Harry wanted to point out that he seemed to have left 'sane responses' behind around the time a giant three-headed dog was guarding a trap door in his first year, but before he could, a familiar snowy white shape swooped down from the enchanted ceiling.
"Hedwig!" Harry said, relieved. His owl landed on his shoulder with more grace than usual, a letter tied to her leg. "Good girl."
Hedwig nipped his ear affectionately—or possibly in reproach for not visiting her enough—and stuck out her leg. Harry untied the letter, recognizing Sirius's handwriting immediately. His godfather's scrawl was distinctive, like someone had given a quill to a very enthusiastic dog.
"From Sirius?" Hermione asked, leaning closer to look.
"Yeah." Harry felt warmth spread through his chest. Sirius had been writing more often since the Goblet incident, checking in, offering advice that ranged from genuinely helpful to completely mental. "I'll read it later. Probably just checking I'm still alive after yesterday."
"He must have been worried," Hermione said softly. "He must have heard you dueled a seventh-year who used dark magic."
"He's always worried." Harry pocketed the letter carefully and gave Hedwig a piece of bacon, which she accepted with dignified pleasure before taking off again. "Comes with the godfather territory, I think."
The Great Hall was starting to empty as students headed off to their first classes. Harry watched them go, a mix of excitement and dread churning in his stomach. Morning classes meant the day was moving forward, which meant training with Tonks later, which meant...
His brain helpfully supplied several detailed memories of last night that made his neck heat up.
"I should go," Harry said abruptly, standing. "Free period this morning. Thought I'd, uh, get some practice in before... before training later."
Smooth, Potter. Really smooth.
Hermione gave him a look that said she knew exactly what he was thinking and found it endlessly amusing, but mercifully she didn't call him out on it.
"Try to stay out of trouble," she said instead.
"When have I ever gotten into trouble?" Harry asked innocently.
"Do you want that list alphabetically or chronologically?" Hermione shot back.
Ginny snorted into her pumpkin juice, and even Neville was grinning.
"Right," Harry said, backing away from the table. "I'm going. Wish me luck not dying in ten days."
"Shut up,"
Fleur Delacour
The summons had come during breakfast—a simple note delivered by one of the younger Beauxbatons students, written in Madame Maxime's distinctive flowing script: My office. Immediately after you finish eating.
Fleur had taken her time anyway, because she was Fleur Delacour and she did not jump simply because someone crooked their finger, even if that someone was her headmistress. She'd finished her croissant with deliberate leisure, sipped her café au lait until it was perfectly empty, and only then made her way back to the carriage.
Now she stood outside Madame Maxime's private chambers, smoothing down her uniform even though it didn't need smoothing, and knocked twice.
"Entrez."
Fleur pushed open the door and stepped into a room that managed to be both imposing and elegant, which was rather like Madame Maxime herself.
The chambers were decorated in deep blues and silvers. A massive desk dominated the center of the room, mahogany, Fleur thought, or possibly ebony, polished to a mirror shine. Behind it sat Madame Maxime, her enormous frame somehow making the oversized chair look almost normal-sized.
Everything about the woman was large, her height, her presence,. But her eyes were sharp and assessing as they fixed on Fleur, and there was nothing soft about her expression.
"Fleur," Madame Maxime said, gesturing to the chair across from her. "Sit."
Fleur sat, crossing her legs elegantly and arranging her robes. She kept her expression pleasantly neutral, the way she'd been taught since childhood. Never let them see what you're thinking. Never give away more than necessary.
"You wanted to see me, Madame?"
"I did." Madame Maxime steepled her fingers...massive fingers that could probably snap a wand like a twig, and studied Fleur for a long moment. "Tomorrow night, I have a meeting scheduled. With Hagrid."
"The Keeper of Keys," Fleur said. "And Professor of Magical Creatures, yes?"
"Oui." Madame Maxime's expression showed something rare, warmth....was that even possible? "He will tell me what the First Task entails."
Finally. Fleur felt satisfaction bloom in her chest, warm and victorious. She'd been waiting for this—information, real information, not speculation and rumor. The British and their obsession with secrecy was tiresome. In France, they would have announced the tasks weeks in advance to allow for proper preparation. This cloak-and-dagger nonsense was so very... English.
"A meeting," Fleur said, unable to resist. She felt her lips turn into a smile. "Is this more than simple business, Madame?" Her voice was almost teasing.
The words were barely out of her mouth before she realized her mistake.
Madame Maxime's expression hardened like concrete, her dark eyes going cold in a way that made Fleur's stomach clench.
"Now is not the time for jokes, Fleur."
The rebuke was sharp and immediate, and Fleur felt her smile disappear like snow in summer. Merde. She'd overstepped.
"Your entire attention should be on this tournament," Madame Maxime continued, her voice taking on that particular quality that meant she was delivering a lecture that Fleur would be wise to remember. "Not on my personal affairs, not on gossip or speculation. Your focus must be absolute."
"Yes, Madame," Fleur said quietly, dropping her gaze to her hands. They were folded neatly in her lap, her fingers interlaced. Perfect posture, perfect poise, even when being dressed down like a first-year who'd forgotten her homework.
"Your parents are relying on you," Madame Maxime said, and each word felt like a stone being placed on Fleur's shoulders. "They have invested considerable resources in your education, in preparing you for opportunities like this. All of Beauxbatons is relying on you to represent us with distinction."
Fleur felt ugly irritation growing in her heart. She knew all this.
"And more than that—" Madame Maxime leaned forward, and the desk creaked under the shift of her weight. "—all of magical France is watching. When you compete, you don't compete as Fleur Delacour. You compete as France itself. Every spell you cast, every challenge you face, every victory or failure—it reflects on all of us."
"I understand, Madame," Fleur said, lifting her chin slightly. Pride refused to let her appear cowed, even if her stomach was churning. "I will not disappoint you. Or France."
Madame Maxime studied her for another long moment, then nodded once. "Good. See that you don't."
The silence stretched between them, not quite comfortable but no longer hostile. Fleur wondered if she was dismissed, but something in Madame Maxime's expression suggested there was more.
"Is there anything else I should know?" Fleur asked carefully after a long moment of silence.
"Perhaps." Madame Maxime settled back in her chair, which groaned in protest. "I have been... cultivating a relationship with Hagrid over the past weeks. He is surprisingly forthcoming when approached correctly."
Fleur bet he was. Men—even half-giant ones—tended to be remarkably stupid around Madame Maxime when she wanted them to be. Not that Fleur would ever say that aloud.
"I subtly inquired about the other champions," Madame Maxime continued. "Cedric Diggory, specifically. The British champion, the one Hogwarts chose officially, before the Goblet's... irregularity."
"And?" Fleur asked.
"Hagrid had little to say beyond the obvious. Handsome boy. Famous student. Good at Quidditch—" She said it with the slight disdain of someone who found the sport rather barbaric. "—popular with his peers. Well-liked by the professors."
Fleur nodded slowly. "I had already figured as much. Diggory is competent but unremarkable."
She'd watched him duel yesterday—all that careful, methodical spellwork that was technically perfect and completely uninspired. He would be a good duelist in peacetime, excellent at following established techniques. But in actual combat, when creativity and adaptability mattered? He would be adequate. Nothing more.
"He is not the one you should concern yourself with," Madame Maxime said, and something in her tone made Fleur's attention sharpen again.
"Oh?"
"Hagrid had a great deal to say about Harry Potter."
Fleur couldn't help it, she snorted, the sound inelegant and immediately regretted. But really. Harry Potter. The little boy, the lucky child who'd somehow stumbled into a tournament meant for adults.
"The Boy Who Lived?" Fleur said, unable to keep the dismissiveness from her voice. "He is just a child, Madame. A lucky one, certainly—surviving the Killing Curse is no small thing. But luck is not skill. He stumbled into things beyond his control and somehow survived. That does not make him a threat."
She'd watched Potter duel yesterday too. Yes, he'd won against that seventh-year Slytherin, but the seventh year was clearly incompetent. Parlor magic dressed up as tactics. Freezing someone with water—it was clever in the way a child's prank was clever, not in the way real magical combat was clever.
Madame Maxime was quiet for a moment. Then: "I would normally agree with you, Fleur."
There was a but.
"But?" Fleur prompted, trying to keep the irritation from her voice.
"But I cannot allow you to underestimate him." Madame Maxime's voice took on that lecturing quality again. "Hagrid told me something interesting. In Potter's second year—when he was merely twelve years old—he killed a basilisk."
Fleur blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
"A basilisk," Madame Maxime repeated. "In the Chamber of Secrets. With a sword, apparently. On his own."
The words didn't make sense. Fleur turned them over in her mind, trying to make them fit with reality, and found they wouldn't. A twelve-year-old child killing a basilisk? One of the most dangerous creatures in existence, whose gaze alone could kill?
"That's absurd," Fleur said flatly. "A fairy tale. Like those ridiculous books written about him—Harry Potter and The 33th Expedition, Harry 'Riddle' Potter or something like that. Next you'll tell me he really did save some magical artifact from You-Know-Who in his first year like some say."
Madam Maxime gave her a look as if she was acting like a child.
"Please, Madame." Fleur waved a hand dismissively. "The Boy Who Lived defeating monsters, saving the school, being a hero? Stories to make British children feel better about their savior."
"I thought the same thing," Madame Maxime said, and her voice was serious in a way that made Fleur's dismissiveness falter. "But Dumbledore himself confirmed the events. He doesn't discuss the details publicly, but he doesn't deny them either."
"But..." Fleur struggled to find words. "He was twelve. How could a twelve-year-old possibly—"
"That is precisely the question you should be asking yourself." Madame Maxime leaned forward again, her dark eyes intense. "Not 'could he have done it,' because clearly he did. But 'how did he do it, and what does that mean for his capabilities now?'"
Fleur's mind was racing, trying to reconcile the image of the scrawny fourteen-year-old boy she'd seen in the Great Hall with someone capable of killing a basilisk at twelve. It didn't fit. It couldn't fit.
Except...
Potter was immune to her allure. She'd noticed that, even if she'd been trying not to think about it. Most boys his age fell over themselves just being in the same room as her—it wasn't vanity, just fact. Her Veela heritage made it nearly impossible for most males to resist her. But Potter had looked at her like she was just another student. Talented, perhaps, but not special.
And yesterday, he'd defeated a seventh-year. Not through raw power—he didn't have that, she could tell—but through creativity. Using the environment, thinking several steps ahead, turning his opponent's anger against him.
Like someone who'd been fighting things much more dangerous than other students for years.
"You are a talented witch, Fleur," Madame Maxime said, and the sudden gentleness in her voice was almost worse than the lecture. "Exceptionally talented. Your magical education has been superior, your natural gifts are considerable, and your skill is undeniable."
There was another but.
"But talent's biggest enemy is ego." The words were soft but struck like a slap. "Underestimating opponents has destroyed greater witches than you. I have seen it happen. I will not allow it to happen to my champion."
Fleur felt that ugly feeling again, but she would not allow herself to show it, she could feel it, but she could not show it, her mother had taught her that, so instead, she swallowed the feeling down.
"I am paying attention to both of them," Fleur said slowly, working through it as she spoke. "Diggory and Potter. I will not underestimate anyone."
Madame Maxime nodded, satisfaction crossing her face. "Good. That is what I needed to hear."
She stood, signaling the meeting was coming to an end. Fleur rose as well, smoothing down her robes automatically.
"Tomorrow night, after I meet with Hagrid, I will tell you what we face," Madame Maxime said. "Prepare yourself, Fleur. The First Task will not be easy. The British love their spectacle and danger—they will not have chosen something simple."
"I will be ready," Fleur said, and meant it.
She left the office without saying another word.
The corridor outside Madame Maxime's chambers was empty and elegant. Fleur walked slowly back toward her own quarters, now that she was alone, she felt her feelings come out again like an angry Veela.
A basilisk. At twelve years old. With a sword.
It was mad. Completely, utterly mad.
Fleur reached her room and sank onto her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her confidence hadn't disappeared—she was still Fleur Delacour, still the best student Beauxbatons had produced in a generation, still the champion of France. She would still win this tournament because that's what she did. She won.
Now - Harry Potter - A Few Hours After He Created the Silver Line in the Training Room
Harry pushed through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room, still thinking about the silver line and the shadow it had left on the wall. His mind kept circling back to the way it had responded to Parseltongue, growing and collapsing like it was alive somehow.
"Harry!"
Hermione's voice cut through his thoughts. She was standing near the fireplace, clearly waiting for him. Her bushy hair was even wilder than usual, like she'd been running her hands through it, and she had that look on her face that meant something was happening.
"What's wrong?" Harry asked, moving toward her.
"Nothing's wrong, exactly." Hermione glanced around the common room, which was moderately full of students. She lowered her voice. "Hagrid wants to see you. In his hut. Within the hour."
Harry blinked. "Hagrid? Why?"
"He didn't say. Just caught me after Arithmancy and asked me to pass along the message." Hermione's expression was concerned but curious. "He said to bring your invisibility cloak."
The invisibility cloak meant secrecy. Secrecy usually meant danger, at least where Hagrid was concerned.
"Did he say what it was about?" Harry asked.
"No. Just that it was important and you should come as soon as possible." Hermione bit her lip. "Harry, do you think it's about the First Task?"
Harry's mind immediately jumped to possibilities. Hagrid knew about magical creatures. If the First Task involved something dangerous, Hagrid might have information. Or he might be trying to help in that well-meaning but potentially disastrous way of his.
"Could be," Harry said. "Or it could be about some very dangerous magical creature he's acquired. Maybe a Nundu. Those are supposed to be impressive, right?"
Hermione's expression shifted from concerned to exasperated in about half a second. "A Nundu? Harry, don't be ridiculous. Nundus can use their breath to wipe out entire settlements. Their toxic breath can destroy hundreds of miles of land, air, and sea. Even Hagrid isn't that reckless."
Harry felt his eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "Hundreds of miles? I knew they were dangerous, but not that dangerous."
"They're classified as XXXXXXX by the Ministry for a reason," Hermione said firmly. "It takes a hundred skilled wizards working together to subdue one. Hagrid might be overly fond of dangerous creatures, but he's not suicidal."
"Maybe that's the First Task then," Harry said, unable to resist. "Face down a Nundu. Really test our courage and survival instincts. Very traditional tournament stuff."
Hermione swatted his arm. "You're an idiot."
"A charming idiot?" Harry tried.
"Just an idiot." But she was smiling slightly. "Go see what Hagrid wants. And Harry? Be careful. If this is about the tournament, it might be something the judges wouldn't approve of him sharing."
"When am I not careful?" Harry asked.
Hermione gave him a look that clearly said she had a very long list of examples but was choosing not to share them right now. "Just go. And tell me what happens later, if you can."
Harry nodded and headed up to the boys' dormitory. The room was empty, thankfully. Ron was probably still at dinner or off somewhere with Dean and Seamus, continuing to pretend Harry didn't exist.
Harry pulled open his trunk and dug through the contents until his fingers found the familiar silky material of the invisibility cloak. He pulled it out, checking to make sure it was still in good condition.
He tucked the cloak under his robes where it wouldn't be visible and headed back down to the common room. Hermione was still by the fireplace, now with a book open in her lap, though Harry noticed she wasn't actually reading it.
"Got it," Harry said quietly as he passed her.
She nodded, worry creasing her forehead again. "Be careful."
"Always am," Harry said, which made her snort.
The castle corridors were relatively quiet as Harry made his way toward the entrance hall. Most students were either at dinner or already settled in their common rooms for the evening. Harry kept his pace casual, like he was just going for a walk, nothing suspicious about it at all.
Once he was outside and far enough from the castle that no one would see, Harry pulled out the invisibility cloak and swung it around his shoulders.
Unknown to Harry, someone saw him turn invisible, and raised an eyebrow, and from the way her allure was bouncing back from him like a paper plane, she could 'see' where he was going because her allure was bouncing off of him, he might be invisible now, but his physical body was still there, she wondered what Harry Potter was doing right now.
She remembered Madam Maxime telling her that Monsieur Hagrid would tell her something about the first task, and she wondered if Harry had somehow found out about and wanted to know the same thing.
She went the other way; a part of her wanted to see this first task herself, but then she remembered Madam Maxime's words towards her.
He killed a basilisk.
Fleur wanted to say it was ridiculous, but according to Madam Maxime, Dumbledore had not denied such rumors when asked about it.
She had to admit it. Harry Potter was apparently no little boy, and if anything, he might be more dangerous than Digory and Krum.
Fleur walked into Hogwarts, deciding to ask questions and see what other rumors were true about Harry Potter.
Note: The way Fleur saw where Harry was going, even under the Invisibility Cloak, is because her allure works similarly to how a bat uses echolocation to 'see' objects and creatures. Except that Fleur is not using sound, she is using her allure.
If you want to Read 6 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'patreon.com/AMagicWord' on Websearch