Hello, Drinor here. I'm happy to publish a new Chapter of A Nundu for A Pet.
If you want to Read 12 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'Drinor Patreon' in Google and Click the First LINK
Chapter 39, Chapter 40, Chapter 41, Chapter 42, Chapter 43, Chapter 44, Chapter 45, Chapter 46, Chapter 47, Chapter 48, Chapter 49, and Chapter 50 are already available for Patrons.
"Now, remember," Newt adjusted Harry's formal robes with ease, "French magical society has certain... expectations. Particularly at events like this."
Harry stood in front of a tall mirror in their Ministry apartment, trying not to fidget as Newt fussed with his collar. The formal robes were midnight blue with silver trim, chosen specifically to complement the Aqualis crystal that hung beneath them. From her perch on a nearby armchair, Itisa watched the proceedings with visible disdain.
"I still think you could come," Harry told her, earning an exasperated look from Newt.
"Harry, we've discussed this," Newt said, straightening a stubborn crease. "A normal cat would be inappropriate at a formal Ministry ball. And if anyone realized what Itisa actually is..." He lowered his voice, though they were alone in the apartment. "The paperwork alone would be nightmarish. Not to mention the army that will surround the place within minutes."
Itisa's tail twitched in what Harry recognized as annoyed agreement. She'd been sulking ever since they'd decided she needed to stay behind.
"Right then," Newt continued, stepping back to survey his work. "Let's review the essentials. When greeting Minister Delacour, you'll want to say..."
"Bonsoir, Ministre Delacour. C'est un honneur de vous rencontrer, (Good evening, Minister Delacour. It is an honor to meet you.)" Harry recited carefully, his accent still rough but passable.
"Good! And for Madame Delacour?"
"Bonsoir, Madame Delacour. Je suis ravi de faire votre reconnaissance. (Good evening, Madame Delacour. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.)"
"Excellent pronunciation on 'connaissance' this time," Newt beamed. "Now, about the dancing..."
Harry's legs chose that moment to remember their recent underwater adventures, wobbling slightly. He grabbed the mirror frame for support, cheeks flushing. "Maybe I could just... not dance?"
"Afraid that's not an option," Newt said sympathetically. "There's a traditional opening dance where all honored guests are expected to participate. Just remember what we practiced – small steps, keep your weight centered, and if all else fails, blame any stumbling on lingering effects from our 'diplomatic mission.'"
Harry attempted a few practice steps, finding his balance somewhat improved from seven days ago. "At least I'm not falling over anymore."
"There are many beautiful ladies there, so that might still happen." Newt checked his pocket watch. "Now, about tonight's guests. You'll likely meet quite a few Ministry officials, most of whom will want to discuss either your talisman work or the Abyssantica situation."
"And if they ask about the Leviathan?"
"Stick to the official story – a fortunate manifestation of ancient magic during a time of need. No need to mention your particular... affinity for magical creatures." Newt's expression grew more serious. "In fact, it's best to avoid any detailed discussion of creature communication. The French Ministry is generally progressive about such matters, but still..."
"Keep it simple, don't volunteer information," Harry nodded. "What about Madam Maxime? You mentioned she'd be there?"
"Ah, yes!" Newt brightened. "Olympe Maxime, Headmistress of Beauxbatons. Brilliant witch, particularly interested in magical creature welfare. She'll likely want to discuss your talisman work – Beauxbatons has been considering implementing similar protective measures."
Harry practiced his formal bow again, remembering the precise angle Newt had taught him. "And the Delacour family? You said Minister Delacour's daughters would be there?"
"Indeed. Fleur Delacour has just finished her fourth year at Beauxbatons – quite accomplished in Charms, from what I hear. And young Gabrielle is..." Newt paused, watching Harry attempt another set of dance steps. "Perhaps we should focus on keeping you upright for now."
From her armchair, Itisa made a sound suspiciously like a snort.
"You're not helping," Harry told her, then turned back to Newt. "What else should I know about French magical customs? I don't want to accidentally offend anyone."
"Well," Newt began, counting off points on his fingers, "never refuse a toast – it's considered quite rude. When discussing politics, let others lead the conversation. The French magical community is proud of their independent traditions, so avoid comparisons to British methods unless specifically asked."
Harry nodded, mentally filing away each piece of advice. "And the Abyssantica situation?"
"Ah, yes." Newt adjusted his own bow tie, which had somehow already managed to go askew. "You may be asked about King Anden's decision to maintain the city's location. Simply emphasize the positive aspects of the new alliance. No need to delve into details about the Dark RSH or the Obsidian Depths – those matters are still classified."
Itisa stretched lazily and jumped down from her armchair, padding over to wind around Harry's legs. He recognized it as her way of showing support, even if she was still annoyed about staying behind.
"I know, I know," he told her softly. "I'll tell you everything when we get back."
"One last thing," Newt said, checking his pocket watch again. "The French magical community places great value on artistic expression in magic. You might see some rather impressive displays tonight – floating orchestras, living ice sculptures, that sort of thing. Try to show appropriate appreciation, even if it seems a bit... excessive."
Harry thought of Crystal-Harmony's ice magic and smiled. "I think I can manage that."
"Excellent!" Newt clapped his hands together. "Now, shall we try those dance steps one more time? We still have about twenty minutes before we need to leave."
As Harry took his starting position, he caught Itisa's eye in the mirror. Her expression clearly said that she expected a full report on any amusing stumbles or social blunders. He made a mental note to leave out any particularly embarrassing moments from his retelling – though knowing Itisa, she'd probably figure them out anyway.
"Remember," Newt said as they began the practice steps, "tonight isn't just about celebrating the alliance. It's also an opportunity to establish connections within the French magical community. These relationships could prove valuable in the future, especially given your... unique situation."
Harry knew Newt wasn't just referring to his role in the Abyssantica alliance. Between his talisman work, his various abilities, and the looming threat of the Dark RSH, having allies in the French Ministry could indeed prove crucial.
"One more thing," Harry said, adjusting his collar nervously. "You said the Minister's wife is a Veela, right? Last time I checked, they made a male's brain get all stupid."
Newt chuckled, a fond memory clearly playing in his mind. "Oh yes. I once had a friend who started drooling when a Full Veela asked him for a dance. Couldn't string two words together. Kept trying to impress her by telling her about his collection of chocolate frog cards." He shook his head, still smiling. "Though you needn't worry about that tonight. From what I understand, Apolline Delacour is Half Veela, and her daughters with the Minister are Quarter Veelas. Their allure won't affect you."
"Why not?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.
"Ah, well," Newt's eyes twinkled with amusement, "you're still too young. Though I should warn you – around thirteen to fourteen years old is when your brain will go rather 'whoosh' whenever you're near a Veela."
Harry's face scrunched up in displeasure. Even Itisa seemed to perk up at his discomfort, her tail twitching with what looked suspiciously like amusement. "I don't like the sound of that. My brain going bye-bye once I hit puberty? Is there any way to develop some immunity to their allure?"
"It depends," Newt said thoughtfully. "The immunity largely comes down to the strength of your will and magical power. Though there is another method – prolonged exposure. The longer someone spends in the presence of Veela, the more resistant they become to the allure."
"That sounds promising," Harry said hopefully.
"Well, don't get too excited," Newt cautioned. "That particular method can take anywhere from six months to years to develop, and even then, the immunity isn't particularly strong. More like... the difference between making a complete fool of yourself and making only a partial fool of yourself."
Harry groaned, and Itisa made a sound that was definitely laughter this time.
"Oh, stop it," he told her. "You're just lucky you don't have to worry about any of this."
Itisa's expression clearly said she planned to thoroughly enjoy watching him navigate this particular challenge in the future.
"Right then," Newt said after their final practice. "I believe we're as prepared as we can be. Remember – confidence, courtesy, and careful conversation. Shall we?"
Harry touched the Aqualis crystal for reassurance, feeling its familiar cool pulse against his skin. "Ready as I'll ever be."
As they prepared to leave, Itisa gave him one last look that managed to combine "be careful" with "try not to embarrass yourself too badly." Harry couldn't help but grin – even when she was annoyed about being left behind, she still managed to show she cared.
"We'll be back before midnight," he promised her. "Try not to terrorize any house-elves while we're gone."
Her tail flick clearly communicated that she made no such promises.
⚯ ͛
⚯ ͛
The French Ministry's Grand Ballroom took Harry's breath away as he and Newt stepped through its gilded doors. Enchanted chandeliers floated beneath a ceiling that reflected the night sky of Paris, their crystals casting dancing patterns of light across marble floors so polished they seemed almost liquid. The air hummed with magic – not the practical, somewhat stern magic of the British Ministry, but something more artistic, more deliberately beautiful.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Newt murmured, nodding to a passing group of witches in elaborate dress robes. "The French magical community has always believed that magic should be as beautiful as it is functional."
Harry adjusted his midnight blue formal robes, suddenly very grateful for Andromeda Tonks' insistence on getting him properly fitted clothes. He could almost hear Tonks' voice in his head: "Look at you, all fancy! Try not to trip over your own feet, yeah?" The thought made him smile – she'd never let him live down his current difficulty with walking if she could see him now.
Living streams of golden light wove through the air, forming intricate patterns that reminded Harry of Crystal-Harmony's ice magic. Along the walls, what appeared to be living paintings shifted and changed, their subjects moving between frames to engage in elegant dances of their own. Even the refreshment tables were works of art, with floating ice sculptures that rearranged themselves into different magical creatures.
"Harry Potter." A tall wizard in midnight-black robes approached, his silver beard precisely trimmed in what Harry recognized as the current French fashion. "Jean-Claude Rousseau, Head of International Magical Cooperation. Your work with the talismans has caused quite a stir in our department."
Harry bowed slightly, remembering Newt's lessons. "Monsieur Rousseau, c'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer. (Mr. Rousseau, it is a pleasure to meet you.)"
The wizard's eyebrows rose appreciatively at Harry's attempt at French. "Ah, you have studied our language! Excellent. Though please, English is perfectly acceptable. We are most interested in your developments in protective magic. Perhaps later we might discuss the possibility of expanding distribution to our Auror department?"
"I would be honored," Harry replied carefully, noting Newt's subtle nod of approval. He could almost hear Hermione's voice: "Remember to be diplomatic, Harry. This could be an important opportunity for international cooperation!" He had to suppress a grin at how accurately he could imagine her reaction.
"Mr. Potter," Adalene Dubois stepped forward, her silver-streaked hair caught in a severe bun. "Your work with runes in protective talismans is... unprecedented for one so young."
"Thank you, Madame Dubois. Though I—"
"Tell me," she cut in, dark eyes intense, "how did you create such a talisman without the need of a French Runes?"
Harry shifted, choosing his words carefully. "The Rune I used was a Greek one, my Lady—"
"Madame Dubois," a smooth voice interrupted. A tall wizard in dark green robes approached, his silver-tipped cane tapping softly against the marble floor. "Surely we can spare the boy technical interrogation at a social function?"
"Antonin," Newt's usually cheerful voice carried an odd edge. "I wasn't aware you were in France."
"Scamander." The wizard's smile didn't reach his eyes. "One must keep up with... international relations."
Harry noticed Newt's subtle shift closer to him, though the magizoologist's expression remained pleasant.
"Mr. Potter," the newcomer turned to Harry, "Your achievements are most... impressive. Perhaps we might discuss potential applications in more... specific areas?"
Before Harry could respond, Pierre Laurent joined their group, his Auror's robes impeccably pressed. "Discussing our young friend's talismans, are we? The practical results in field testing have been remarkable. Three of my Aurors credit their survival to them just last month."
"Really?" Harry straightened with genuine interest; he was surprised that his Talisman was sold in French already, but he was happy to hear it. "The emergency response enchantments worked as intended then?"
"Perfectly," Laurent confirmed. "Though we've noticed some interesting variations in the shield strength depending on the user's emotional state. Almost as if the talismans adapt..."
"Fascinating," Madame Dubois cut back in. "Mr. Potter, did you intentionally incorporate emotional runes into the design?"
"Actually," Harry began, finding firmer ground in the technical discussion, "The material naturally responds to—"
Newt's hand brushed Harry's shoulder. "Fascinating discussion, but I believe Minister Delacour was hoping to speak with Harry about the Abyssantica situation..."
"Of course," the dark-robed wizard stepped back smoothly. "Another time perhaps, Mr. Potter. Your insights are... most valuable."
As they moved away, Harry noticed Newt's usual enthusiasm seemed slightly dampened. "Everything alright?"
"Oh, quite," Newt's smile returned. "Just remembering I need to send an owl to your guardian about our progress. Nothing to worry about."
A group of floating musicians drifted overhead, their instruments playing a delicate melody that seemed to make the very air shimmer. Harry watched as couples began gathering for what he suspected would be the opening dance, his stomach doing a nervous flip.
"Doing splendidly," Newt murmured during a brief moment between introductions. "Though do try to look a bit less like you're facing a Dragon when people mention dancing."
Harry smoothed his expression, touching the Aqualis crystal beneath his robes for reassurance. Its cool pulse helped steady his nerves. He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the floating mirrors – formal robes, attempt at tamed hair (though still stubbornly refusing to lie flat), and the subtle gleam of the crystal's chain at his neck. Neville would probably be just as nervous in his position, he thought, which made him feel a bit better about his own anxiety.
Delicate golden phoenixes made of pure light soared between the floating chandeliers, their trailing sparks forming constellations that mirrored the enchanted ceiling above. Harry noticed how the marble floor seemed to ripple subtly beneath their feet, creating an effect like walking on the surface of a still pond.
"Remarkable charm work," Newt commented, following Harry's gaze. "The French specialty in environmental enchantment really is quite extraordinary."
A passing witch wearing robes that seemed woven from actual starlight caught Harry's attention. Her companion's robes shifted colors with each step, matching the iridescent wings of the magical butterflies that fluttered around them.
More introductions came in quick succession. Madame Leblanc, the celebrated wandmaker whose creations rivaled even Ollivander's, expressed particular interest in how Harry had incorporated various magical materials into his talismans, but then she asked if she could see his wand, and Harry had to refuse; he didn't know how good of a wandmaker she was, but if she noticed that his wand had a living nundu core, he knew he would be in big trouble.
Harry couldn't help but imagine Hermione's excitement at meeting such a renowned magical craftsperson. She'd probably have a dozen questions about wandlore theory ready. The thought helped him maintain his composure as he carefully answered Madame Leblanc's questions about his creative process.
"Ah," Newt said suddenly, his attention drawn to the main doors. "I believe Minister Delacour is about to make his entrance. Remember what we discussed about the formal greetings?"
Harry nodded, squaring his shoulders. The massive doors at the far end of the ballroom began to open, golden light spilling through them. He could do this. He'd faced Dark RSH underwater, after all – surely a formal ball couldn't be more challenging than that?
Still, as the assembled crowd began to turn toward the doors, Harry couldn't help but wish Itisa were here. She'd probably have some amusingly cutting observations about wizard fashion choices, if nothing else. At least his walking had improved enough that he probably wouldn't embarrass himself completely during the opening dance.
Probably.
Harry felt the subtle shift in the room's magic. The floating lights rearranged themselves, creating a pathway of pure radiance. Even the marble floor's ripples seemed to flow toward the entrance.
A herald's voice rang out, magically enhanced: "His Excellency, Minister Victorien Delacour, Madame Apolline Delacour, and their daughters."
Harry touched the Aqualis crystal again, drawing strength from its cool presence. He thought of Tonks' likely reaction to all this ceremony – probably something about "fancy pants French showing off" – and had to suppress a smile. The formality of it all felt a bit overwhelming.
Minister Delacour cut an imposing figure as he approached, his deep blue robes embroidered with subtle silver patterns. But it was his wife, Apolline, who first caught Harry's attention – or rather, the distinctive aura that surrounded her.
The Minister and his wife greeted many people, but eventually, their attention turned towards Newt and Harry.
"Ah, Monsieur Potter!" Minister Delacour's voice was warm. "Your work with the Abyssantica alliance has been most impressive."
"Ministre Delacour," Harry bowed precisely as practiced. "C'est un honneur de vous rencontrer."
"And his French improves by the day," the Minister smiled, switching to English. "Allow me to present my family. My wife, Apolline..."
"Enchantée," Madame Delacour's smile held genuine warmth. "We 'ave 'eard much about your achievements, Monsieur Potter. Both with ze talismans and... more recent endeavors."
"My eldest daughter, Fleur..."
Harry turned to find himself facing a girl who seemed three to four years older than him and younger than Tonks. But what struck him most was the intelligence in her blue eyes as she assessed him with obvious curiosity.
Then, a little girl, who Harry figured was Gabriella Delacour, who had been shifting impatiently at Fleur's side, finally lost what little restraint she had.
She clapped her hands together, bouncing on the balls of her feet before blurting out in terrible, broken English—
"'Arry Pottair! You... you are vrai?" (Real?)
Harry blinked. "Er... yes?"
Gabrielle gasped as if this was the greatest revelation of her life.
"Mais 'e is vrai! Maman! Fleur! Il est vrai!" (But he is real! Mama! Fleur! He is real!)
Fleur sighed, placing a hand on Gabrielle's head. "Oui, Gabrielle. He is not un fantôme." (A ghost.)
Gabrielle beamed up at Harry, seemingly deciding they were now best friends. "You are... petit!"
Harry choked.
Fleur did not stop her.
In fact, she looked far too amused as Gabrielle turned to her, dramatically placing a hand on her forehead.
"Il est petit! Mais 'ow 'e do...?" Gabrielle waved her arms vaguely, trying to convey something but failing spectacularly.
Harry was trying very hard not to laugh. "I, uh... what?"
Fleur smirked. "She means 'ow you are so small but you do such grande things."
Harry groaned. "I am eleven," he said with a flat voice.
Once Gabrielle was gently redirected (with some difficulty) toward Apolline, Fleur turned her attention to him fully.
Her gaze was assessing, as if weighing something about him.
"So," she said, switching to flawless English, "Many talk of you. Le Survivant."
He did not like that title.
"But you do not act like a boy who enjoys being the center of a room," she observed.
Harry smirked. "No offense, but I'd rather be anywhere else than standing here being stared at like some museum artifact."
Fleur's lips twitched, but she held his gaze. "Then tell me, why did you come?"
Harry hesitated. That was... a surprisingly direct question.
He could have given a safe answer—something about politics, about honoring Abyssantica's alliance. But instead, he found himself saying,
"Because I wanted to see how people like you think."
Fleur's eyebrows lifted slightly.
Harry shrugged. "Everyone's been talking about me all night. I wanted to meet the people they talk about."
She considered that for a moment before a small smirk tugged at her lips.
"You do not talk like an eleven-year-old."
Harry smirked right back. "And you don't talk like a fourteen-year-old."
Fleur gave an elegant hmm of acknowledgment. "Per'aps we will get along, alors."
Gabrielle, who had somehow snuck back between them, gasped dramatically.
"You will be marié?" (Married?)
Both Harry and Fleur choked.
"Gabrielle!" Apolline gently pulled her back, laughing softly. "You must not say such things, ma chérie."
Gabrielle giggled, completely unrepentant.
Harry covered his face with one hand. "I was not prepared for this."
Fleur just sighed. "Neither was I."
Despite Gabrielle's enthusiastic interruptions, something subtle shifted between Harry and Fleur at that moment.
Fleur had walked into this interaction expecting a boy defined by fame. Instead, she found someone who met her gaze without flinching, who wasn't trying to impress her, and who had no intention of throwing himself at her feet just because she was part-Veela. But she was not sure if that was because he was not old enough to be affected by her allure, or maybe there was something else. She was not certain, but she knew she would find out.
Harry, meanwhile, had expected another person treating him like some untouchable legend. Instead, Fleur was someone who saw through that nonsense immediately.
That was... refreshing.
And maybe, just maybe—this wasn't going to be so bad after all.
And hopefully, no more marriage proposals from six-year-olds.
Harry had faced a mountain troll. He had faced a Professor with two faces—who, in hindsight, was just a glorified backpack for Voldemort. A backpack that stuttered and smelled like garlic, but a backpack nonetheless. He had even summoned a Leviathan from the depths of the sea.
And yet, as he stood in the center of the French Ministry's Grand Ballroom, watching the orchestra raise their instruments for the opening waltz, he was absolutely certain that this was how he was going to die.
Fleur Delacour, however, looked completely at ease.
She stood beside him, every bit as poised as the princess she wasn't, but might as well have been. Her ice-blue robes shimmered in the candlelight, and her long silver-blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders in a way that seemed completely effortless. She wasn't smug exactly, but there was a certain amusement in her gaze as she looked at him.
"You look," Fleur began, tilting her head slightly, "as if you would rather be wrestling an Acromantula."
"That might be preferable," Harry admitted. "At least I'd know where to put my feet."
Fleur exhaled through her nose—a soft, amused sound—but before Harry could determine whether that was pitying amusement or mocking amusement, she gracefully extended her hand toward him.
"Come, petit anglais," she said, her accent curling around the words like silk. "Let us not make a spectacle of ourselves, oui?"
Harry desperately wanted to point out that Fleur was already a spectacle, what with half the ballroom discreetly watching their every move. Instead, he took her hand, feeling the lightest hum of magic beneath her skin.
The orchestra struck the first note.
And then they were moving.
To Harry's surprise, he didn't completely humiliate himself.
Fleur led him through the first steps, and Harry—despite his misgivings—realized that dancing wasn't so different from dodging curses underwater. It was all about timing, anticipation, and not falling on his face.
"You are not as terrible as I feared," Fleur remarked after a few steps.
"High praise," Harry muttered.
She smirked. "You take instruction well. It is... refreshing."
Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He could practically hear Tonks laughing at him from across the English Channel.
"So," he said instead, focusing on not tripping over his own feet, "you go to Beauxbatons?"
Fleur raised an elegant eyebrow. "You did not know this?"
Harry shrugged. "I figured, but no one actually said it."
Fleur hummed. "Oui. Beauxbatons is in the Pyrénées. It is a school of grandeur and refinement—"
"And you're a prodigy in Charms," Harry cut in, catching the way she instinctively adjusted their pace with a flick of her fingers, sending a tiny, near-invisible pulse of magic to steady them.
Fleur blinked, looking mildly surprised. "Who told you that?"
Harry smirked. "No one. I can just tell."
Fleur regarded him for a moment, as if reassessing something about him. Then, to his relief, she nodded slightly in approval.
"Well," she said, her voice carrying a hint of amusement, "you are not completely oblivious, after all."
Harry wasn't sure whether to feel flattered or insulted.
As the dance continued, Harry found his rhythm improved with Fleur's subtle guidance.
"So," Fleur began as they executed a particularly complex turn, "is it true that Hogwarts has moving staircases? That sounds terribly impractical."
Harry grinned. "They do have a habit of changing while you're on them. Though I imagine Beauxbatons has its own magical quirks?"
"Our Palace?" A note of pride entered her voice. "It's beautiful – all crystal and gardens. The fountains in the dining chamber create rainbow mists that change with the seasons. In winter, they form ice sculptures that dance among the tables."
"That sounds incredible," Harry said sincerely, thinking of Crystal-Harmony's ice magic.
"Though I suspect you've seen even more impressive things recently," Fleur noted with a knowing look. "How does our ballroom compare to an underwater city?"
"Different kinds of beauty," Harry replied diplomatically, earning an approving nod from her. "Though I haven't seen any fish swimming through these chandeliers yet."
Fleur laughed, the sound drawing admiring glances from nearby dancers. "Give the decorating committee time – they're always looking for new ideas."
"Tell me about Beauxbatons," Harry said as they moved through a particularly graceful turn.
"Ah, ze Palace," Fleur's eyes lit up. "You should see it in spring, 'Arry. Ze gardens are filled with butterflies zat change color with ze weather."
"Magical butterflies? At Hogwarts we just have stairs that try to trip you when you're already late to class."
Fleur's laugh was musical. "Zat sounds 'orrible! Though I suppose it keeps you... how do you say... on your toes?"
"More like off them, usually," Harry grinned. "So what do you study there?"
"I specialize in Charms," Fleur said proudly. "Last term, I created a fountain zat plays music when ze water falls. Ze professors were most impressed."
"Sounds beautiful. At my school, the most musical thing we have is Peeves singing rude versions of Christmas carols."
"Peeves?"
"Our resident poltergeist. Real charmer. His favorite holiday song is 'Deck the Halls with Parts of Firsties.'"
Fleur nearly missed a step as she giggled. "'Arry! You cannot be serious!"
Harry barely had time to make a reply before an enormous shadow loomed over them.
Madame Olympe Maxime was impossible to miss.
She was towering—easily twice Harry's height. Her robes, a deep midnight blue, shimmered like liquid silk, and her dark eyes studied Harry with keen interest.
"Ah, so this is 'Arry Potter," she said, her voice a smooth, rich contralto.
Harry straightened. "You must be Madame Maxime, the Mistress of Beauxbatons."
"Your reputation precedes you," she continued, folding her arms. "You are... smaller than I expected."
"And you're taller than I expected, Madame," he said, voice innocent. "Though I suppose meeting expectations is rather dull, isn't it?"
Fleur definitely smirked at that.
"I heard of you, and I'm not talking about the past, but your work on Talismans. I saw what you made, quite impressive," Madame Maxime said, watching him closely. "That is... unexpected, for someone so young."
Harry nodded. "I like figuring things out."
Madame Maxime's gaze sharpened. "Beauxbatons prides itself on innovation in magical crafting. Perhaps one day, you will see for yourself."
Harry's lips quirked. "Is that an invitation?"
Maxime's own lips twitched slightly. "Merely a thought."
Fleur, beside them, watched the exchange with mild intrigue.
Harry filed that away for later.
⚯ ͛
⚯ ͛
As the evening progressed, Harry found himself trapped in conversation with several French Ministry officials.
At first, it was just polite curiosity.
"So, Monsieur Potter, tell us—how did you create your talisman?"
But then it turned into... something else.
"Surely, a boy of eleven could not have crafted such complex enchantments without significant assistance, non?"
"Was it merely luck? Or do you possess family secrets?"
Harry had dealt with skeptical professors before. This was... different.
This was politics.
He had expected curiosity—he had not expected a thinly veiled interrogation.
"So, Monsieur Potter," one of the men—an older wizard named Auguste Bouchard—began smoothly, swirling a glass of elf-made wine in one hand, "we 'ave heard of your... remarkable achievement." His tone made it very clear that 'remarkable' meant suspiciously unlikely.
The other officials—three men and one woman, all wearing robes in deep shades of navy and burgundy—nodded, their expressions ranging from polite intrigue to unsubtle skepticism.
Harry kept his face blank. "I do so love when people say that like I didn't make it myself."
Bouchard smiled, thin and practiced. "But of course. We simply find it... fascinating that one so young has managed what most experienced wizards struggle with for decades."
Harry tilted his head. "Oh, so you struggled with it? That explains a lot."
The woman, Madame Thérèse Moreau, let out a quiet snrk, quickly masking it with a sip of champagne.
Bouchard's smile twitched.
The official standing to his left, a lean, hawk-nosed man named Bertrand Armand, folded his hands in front of him. "You must understand, Monsieur Potter, talisman crafting is a highly complex art. The level of precision required is extraordinary. The calculations alone—"
"Yes, yes," Harry cut in, waving a hand. "Runic harmonization, ley line stabilizing, threshold balancing—don't worry, I did do my homework."
Moreau coughed again, definitely hiding a laugh.
Armand's eyes narrowed slightly. "Ah. Then perhaps you would be willing to explain your process?"
Harry smiled. "No."
A brief pause.
Bouchard chuckled, though there was a hint of irritation beneath it. "Surely, a young mind such as yours would be eager to discuss such a feat, non?"
Harry shrugged. "Oh, absolutely. I love discussing runes. But funny thing—whenever I explain exactly how I made it, the next thing I know, someone else is trying to claim they taught me how to do it. Happens all the time."
Armand and Bouchard exchanged looks.
Harry grinned.
"Besides," he added, reaching for a passing tray of hors d'oeuvres, "you wouldn't believe how many adults just hate the idea that an eleven-year-old figured something out before they did. So, you know, best to keep things a little mysterious."
Moreau, who had given up entirely on hiding her amusement, casually lifted her glass in his direction as if to say well played.
Bouchard's grip tightened on his wine glass. "Of course," he said smoothly. "But one must wonder... was it true skill, or merely... luck?"
Harry made a thoughtful noise, tilting his head. "I mean, I suppose it's possible that I accidentally arranged dozens of layered runes in perfect alignment and infused them with stable magical properties on a whim." He looked Bouchard in the eye. "But I hear luck favors the competent."
Moreau choked on her champagne.
Armand cleared his throat. "But surely, someone must have guided you. Such a thing does not simply... happen."
"Oh, absolutely," Harry said, nodding. "I had some amazing guidance."
Bouchard's eyes gleamed with interest. "Ah, so you did have assistance—"
"Yeah," Harry continued, ignoring him, "there's this brilliant researcher named Books—really knowledgeable, very patient—taught me everything I know."
Armand frowned. "Books?"
"Yeah," Harry said, smirking. "Real quiet type. Just sits there, waiting for you to open them. Incredible teachers."
Moreau let out a full-blown laugh, setting down her glass. "Monsieur Potter, I do believe I like you."
Bouchard's smile had vanished.
"Now, now," a new voice cut in, smooth and dangerously amused. "Let us not interrogate the young man too much."
Fleur glided into the conversation with impeccable timing, her ice-blue robes shimmering under the chandeliers as she stepped beside Harry with the air of someone who owned the room.
Harry could feel the atmosphere shift as she folded her hands delicately in front of her, eyes flickering over the officials.
"Ah, but of course," she said lightly, a subtle challenge in her voice. "Surely, you would not expect Monsieur Potter to simply... hand over his secrets so easily, non?"
Armand frowned. "We are merely inquiring—"
"Ah," Fleur cut in smoothly, "but one does not simply inquire about the secrets of a successful talisman-maker—particularly not one who has already proven himself more capable than many of his elders."
Harry blinked.
Did Fleur just—?
Oh, she did.
Bouchard's jaw tightened. "We meant no disrespect, Mademoiselle Delacour."
"Ah," Fleur said again, smiling dangerously. "Then perhaps it is best to leave such matters for actual talisman experts, non?"
There was a tense silence.
Then, Moreau—still thoroughly entertained—lifted her glass again and said, "Santé."
Bouchard reluctantly inclined his head. "Bien sûr."
Fleur smiled sweetly. "Wonderful."
Then, she turned to Harry and, with impeccable grace, slid her arm through his.
"Maman wishes to introduce you to some of our less exhausting guests," she announced, leading him away before the officials could protest.
Harry, only slightly dazed, shot a final grin over his shoulder. "Pleasure chatting with you all!"
And then, just like that, Fleur rescued him.
Once they were safely across the room, Harry exhaled.
"That," he muttered, "was the most terrifying conversation I've had all night."
Fleur arched an eyebrow. "More than dancing?"
Harry considered. "Actually... no."
Fleur laughed.
Harry blinked. That's a first.
"You are not bad, 'Arry Potter," Fleur said, smirking.
Harry smirked right back. "Neither are you, Fleur Delacour."
And for the first time since arriving in France, Harry realized—
This night wasn't so bad after all.
⚯ ͛
⚯ ͛
The evening progressed into what Minister Delacour called the "serious discussions" portion, where various officials gathered in smaller groups throughout the ballroom. Harry found himself at the center of one such gathering, carefully fielding questions about Abyssantica.
"The magical architecture alone must have been fascinating," remarked Madame Dubois, her eyes sharp with academic interest. "The pressure-maintenance spells at that depth..."
"Their magical traditions are quite different from ours," Harry replied diplomatically, "but equally sophisticated in their own way."
"And ze King's decision to maintain their current location?" Another official pressed. "After ze... incidents?"
"Monsieur Bernard, surely we can appreciate the strategic value of maintaining established defensive positions?"
"Ah, Mademoiselle Delacour," Bernard nodded respectfully. "Your father mentioned you've taken an interest in underwater magical theory?"
"Particularly the interaction between water-based and surface magic. Monsieur Potter was just explaining some of the more technical aspects."
Harry caught her quick glance and followed her lead. "The way they incorporate natural currents into their spellwork is quite innovative. Almost like your approach at Beauxbatons with elemental magic, from what you were telling me earlier."
The discussion shifted to safer territory, comparing magical techniques across cultures.
"It must have been extraordinary," she commented during a brief lull, "seeing such different magical traditions firsthand."
"It was... educational," Harry agreed, thinking of Crystal-Harmony's ice magic. "Though some things are universal – like how magic responds to genuine intent."
"Speaking of intent-based magic," a new voice interrupted, "perhaps we might discuss the potential applications of your talisman work in underwater environments?"
Harry recognized the speaker as one of the Department heads he'd met earlier. Before he could respond, Fleur smoothly interjected.
"Actually, I believe my father was hoping to discuss that very topic with Monsieur Potter." She turned to Harry. "Shall we?"
As they made their way across the ballroom, Harry muttered, "Thanks for the save. Again."
"Consider it mutual protection," she replied with a slight smile.
⚯ ͛
⚯ ͛
The Grand Ballroom was still alive with movement—couples twirling beneath the golden chandeliers, officials deep in conversation, laughter and clinking glasses filling the air. But Harry?
Harry needed a moment.
After nearly an hour of dancing, subtle interrogations, and not getting hexed by angry French bureaucrats, he had managed to slip away onto one of the Ministry's moonlit balconies overlooking Paris.
The air was cooler out here, carrying the faint scent of rain and lavender. Below, the city stretched in a sea of twinkling lights, the Seine snaking through its heart like a shimmering ribbon.
Harry braced his hands against the marble railing, exhaling slowly.
"Escaping already, petit anglais?"
Harry didn't even have to turn around. "You found me fast."
Fleur stepped beside him. Her ice-blue robes caught the moonlight, making her look almost unreal, like something sculpted from frost and silk.
"I 'ave an eye for people trying to disappear," she said, smirking. "Years of practice."
Harry huffed a quiet laugh. "Let me guess—fleeing from annoying aristocrats?"
"Précisément." Fleur leaned against the railing, her gaze flickering to the city below. "Though usually, I do not 'ave to rescue anyone first."
Harry shot her a look. "I was handling it."
Fleur raised an eyebrow. "Oh? So you wanted to be trapped by Ministry hounds asking you if you 'simply got lucky'?"
Harry sighed. "Okay, maybe I appreciated the save."
Fleur smirked. "You are welcome."
For a moment, they stood in companionable silence, the cool wind brushing past them.
Then, Fleur spoke, more thoughtful this time.
"You are not what I expected."
Harry glanced at her. "Yeah? What did you expect?"
She tilted her head. "A child, perhaps. One who would be... dazzled by the attention. Or someone who would spend the evening boasting about his achievements."
Harry snorted. "Yeah, I get enough of that at Hogwarts. Still not used to people knowing my name before I even meet them."
Fleur hummed. "And yet, you do not try to prove yourself to them. You let them wonder."
Harry smirked. "Keeps things interesting."
Fleur considered that. Then, after a pause, she turned fully to face him.
"You made a talisman that grown wizards would struggle with. You survived something that no one else did. But you do not act like someone who believes 'e is above others."
Harry hesitated.
"...Why would I?"
Fleur blinked, as if the answer should have been obvious. "Because people tell you that you should."
Harry exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, well. People say a lot of things."
Fleur watched him carefully. "They expect things of you."
Harry nodded. "And half the time, they don't even know what they're expecting." He huffed. "Sometimes, I think people just want a story, not a person."
Fleur's expression softened.
She understood.
Not just the words—the weight of them.
"I know what that is like," she admitted.
Harry tilted his head. "Because of the Veela thing?"
Fleur sighed. "Oui. People see beauty, grace, and assume I 'ave everything easy." She exhaled sharply, crossing her arms. "They forget I 'ave worked harder than them, that I 'ave trained to be the best in my class, that I am more than what they expect."
Harry studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. That sounds familiar."
Fleur turned to him again, considering.
"You are different, Harry Potter."
Harry smirked. "So are you, Fleur Delacour."
A breeze rustled through the balcony, cool against their faces.
Then, Fleur's expression turned playful.
"You know," she said, tilting her head, "for someone who prefers not to be the center of attention, you seem to 'andle it quite well."
Harry gave a dramatic sigh. "Unfortunately, I've had practice."
Fleur laughed.
Fleur glanced toward the ballroom doors. "Do you think you will return to France?"
Harry shrugged. "Maybe. If I survive the rest of this night."
Fleur smirked. "If you do, you should visit Beauxbatons. You might find it... interesting."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Are you inviting me?"
Fleur smiled—a challenge in her eyes. "Perhaps."
Harry grinned. "I'll think about it."
⚯ ͛
⚯ ͛
The final hour of the evening passed in a blur of polite conversation, swirling silk and velvet, and the lingering hum of enchantments woven through the ballroom. Harry had managed to avoid further interrogation from the more persistent officials, mostly thanks to Fleur's strategic maneuvering (which he now deeply appreciated).
But finally, at long last, the evening drew to a close.
Minister Victorien Delacour took center stage. The room hushed as he raised his wand, sending a delicate chime through the air—an old Beauxbatons signal for attention.
"Mesdames et messieurs," he began. "Tonight, we celebrate not only our past alliances, but the future of magical cooperation.
"We have seen tonight that differences in magic, culture, and tradition are not barriers, but strengths. From Abyssantica's loyalty, to the achievements of young minds—" his gaze flickered to Harry for the briefest of moments "—we are reminded that growth comes not from standing apart, but from standing together."
The crowd murmured in approval, a ripple of polite applause following.
"As we move forward," the Minister continued, "we look toward strengthening our bonds. The French Ministry is pleased to announce ongoing discussions with our allies—both beneath the sea and across the Channel—to foster continued collaboration in magical research, security, and education."
Harry shifted slightly, sensing the subtle implications of that last point. Education. Fleur had hinted at it earlier, and now Minister Delacour was practically dangling the idea in the air.
Interesting.
"For tonight, however," the Minister concluded, raising his glass, "we drink to new friendships and old ones alike. May magic continue to unite us all."
A final toast rang through the ballroom.
The ball was officially over.
As the guests began to disperse, Harry found himself near the entrance, saying his final farewells to the Delacours.
Minister Delacour shook his hand with a firm grip. "You have made quite the impression tonight, Monsieur Potter. I expect we will cross paths again."
Harry inclined his head. "Looking forward to it, sir."
Apolline, offered him an elegant nod. "It was a pleasure meeting you, young man. And do not let certain officials make you doubt yourself." Her knowing smirk made Harry suspect she'd overheard quite a bit of his earlier conversations.
Then came Fleur.
She regarded him with a considering look, arms loosely crossed.
"So, petit anglais," she said, smirking, "do you think you will return to France?"
Harry huffed a quiet laugh. "At this rate? Seems inevitable."
Fleur's lips twitched. "Bon."
Then, with zero warning, she leaned forward and kissed him lightly on both cheeks in the French farewell style.
Harry froze.
Gabrielle gasped dramatically somewhere in the background.
Fleur pulled back, looking entirely too amused at his reaction.
"Until next time, Arry Potter," she said smoothly, turning away with a flick of her hair.
Harry blinked. Then blinked again.
Newt, standing nearby, just chuckled. "You handled underwater creatures. Surely, you can handle a farewell."
Harry wasn't sure.
As he followed Newt toward the exit, he could still feel the faintest trace of Fleur's smirk lingering behind him.
Yeah. He was definitely coming back to France.
⚯ ͛
⚯ ͛
The door to their Ministry apartment had barely closed behind them when Itisa materialized from the shadows, her expression somehow managing to combine "I'm glad you're back" with "how dare you leave me behind" in classic feline fashion.
"Yes, yes, I know," Harry told her, carefully removing his formal robes. "But it actually went rather well."
"Quite well indeed," Newt agreed, his bow tie already completely askew. "You handled the diplomatic aspects admirably. Though I noticed you found some... interesting allies."
Harry sank into his favorite armchair, Itisa immediately claiming his lap while maintaining her air of mild disapproval. "Fleur understands more than most about managing expectations."
"Ah yes, young Mademoiselle Delacour." Newt's eyes twinkled knowingly. "Quite brilliant with Charms, from what I hear."
The Aqualis crystal pulsed gently against Harry's chest as he absently stroked Itisa's fur. "It's nice, sometimes, finding someone who sees past all the titles and stories."
Itisa made a sound that somehow conveyed both agreement and "I told you so," though Harry wasn't quite sure what she was claiming to have predicted.
"Well," Newt settled into his own chair, already pulling out his ever-present notebook, "between the Abyssantica alliance, your new French connections, and the expanding talisman program, I'd say this summer has been rather productive."
Harry thought of Crystal-Harmony's ice magic, Fleur's frost patterns on the balcony railing, and all the different ways magic could bridge gaps between worlds. "More than I expected, honestly."
Itisa bumped her head against his hand, clearly demanding a full account of the evening. As Harry began describing the ball's magical decorations, he found himself thinking about Fleur and Crystal-Harmony. The Princess had kissed his cheek, and so had Fleur.
"You know," he told Itisa, who had deigned to start purring despite her earlier protest about being left behind, "I think this is just the beginning of something interesting."
"So," he said, his tone light but knowing, "quite the evening, wasn't it?"
"You mean the dancing, the overly curious officials, or the part where I got interrogated about my talisman work?"
Newt smirked. "All of the above. But, I'd say you handled it remarkably well."
Harry glanced at him. "You think?"
Newt nodded. "You weren't just a guest tonight, Harry. You were tested—by politicians, by scholars, even by Minister Delacour himself. And yet, you didn't back down."
Harry let that sit for a moment. He had noticed the way people had watched him, the way they had measured his words, waiting for him to slip up. He had expected to feel overwhelmed, but instead, he had adapted.
He had played the game.
And Fleur—
His face warmed slightly as he remembered the parting gesture.
Newt definitely noticed. "Ah," he mused, "and then there's your new friend."
Harry shot him a look. "Don't."
Newt just laughed, stretching out in his chair. "I suspect you and Fleur Delacour will be seeing each other again."
Harry exhaled, leaning back. Yeah. That seemed inevitable.
If you want to Read 12 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'Drinor Patreon' in Google and Click the First LINK