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Harry Potter
The Firebolt hit Harry square in the face.
He went down hard, his arse hitting the stone floor with a painful thud while stars exploded across his vision. The broom clattered beside him, looking entirely too pleased with itself for an inanimate object.
"Bloody hell," Harry groaned, pressing a hand to his nose. At least it wasn't broken. Probably.
Tonks's laughter echoed through the hidden classroom, bright and entirely unsympathetic. "Oh, that was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. I wish I had a camera."
"Glad my pain amuses you," Harry muttered, pushing himself up to sitting. His nose throbbed, and he could feel heat spreading across his cheeks.
"It does, actually." Tonks was grinning at him from where she leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "But more importantly, it's instructive. You know what you did wrong?"
"Summoned my broom directly into my face?"
"Well, yes, but specifically?" Tonks pushed off the wall and crossed to him, offering a hand. Harry took it, letting her pull him up. She didn't let go immediately, her fingers warm around his. "You were forcing it. Yanking it toward you like you were trying to reel in a particularly stubborn fish."
Harry rubbed his nose with his free hand. "The whole point of Accio is to bring things to you."
"Yes, but there's a difference between bringing something to you and launching it at your head like a bludger." Tonks finally released his hand, moving to pick up the Firebolt. She held it up, examining it critically. "Beautiful broom. Shame you're trying to weaponize it against yourself."
"I wasn't trying to—"
"You were." Tonks set the broom carefully against the wall. "You're thinking about it wrong. It's not about yanking it toward you, Harry. It's about creating a path and inviting it to follow. There's finesse to it."
"Finesse," Harry repeated flatly. His face still hurt.
"Yes, finesse. Something you clearly need to work on." But her expression had softened, concern creeping into her eyes. "Come here, let me see your nose."
Harry stepped closer, tilting his head up slightly so she could examine him. Tonks's hands came up to his face, her touch gentle as she checked for damage. Her fingers were cool against his warm skin, and Harry found himself very aware of how close she was standing.
"Not broken," Tonks said after a moment. "Though you'll probably have a bruise. At least it'll give you that rugged, battle-worn look." Her thumb brushed across his cheekbone, and her voice dropped slightly. "Very heroic."
Harry's throat felt dry. "Right. Heroic. That's me."
Tonks's eyes met his, for a moment she seemed like she wanted to lean closer. Then she stepped back, clearing her throat, and Harry tried not to feel disappointed.
"Again," Tonks said, all business now. "But this time, I want you to close your eyes."
"Close my eyes?"
"Yes. Close them." When Harry hesitated, she added, "Trust me."
Harry closed his eyes.
"Now," Tonks's voice came from somewhere to his left, "I want you to think about your Firebolt. Not just think about it—really focus on it. Picture it in your mind. The weight of it, the smooth wood under your hands, the way it feels when you're flying."
Harry did as instructed. It wasn't hard. He knew his Firebolt intimately, every inch of it, the way it responded to his slightest touch in the air.
"Good," Tonks said softly. "Now, can you feel it? Even with your eyes closed, even across the room—can you sense where it is?"
Harry frowned, concentrating. At first, there was nothing. Then—there. A faint pull, like a string tied around his chest, tugging gently toward where the broom rested against the wall.
"I think so," he said.
"Don't think. Know." Tonks's voice had taken on that instructor quality she used when teaching him something important. "That connection you're feeling? That's your magic recognizing something that belongs to you."
Harry focused on the pull, that invisible thread between him and his broom.
"Now," Tonks continued, "instead of yanking on that thread, I want you to imagine it like a path."
It sounded absurd when she put it like that. Asking his broom nicely to come over. But Harry pushed the skepticism aside and tried anyway. He raised his wand, still keeping his eyes closed, and spoke clearly: "Accio Firebolt."
The Firebolt's handle pressed into his waiting hand.
Harry's eyes snapped open. He was holding his broom, and it hadn't hit him in the face. Victory.
"There you go!" Tonks was beaming at him, genuinely delighted. "That's exactly it! Did you feel the difference?"
"Yeah," Harry said, still a bit surprised it had worked. "Yeah, I did. It was like... instead of dragging it, I was guiding it."
"Precisely." Tonks crossed to him, and before Harry could react, she grabbed his face and kissed him. Quick and enthusiastic and leaving him slightly dizzy. "Brilliant work, Harry."
"I just summoned my broom from ten meters away," Harry said when she pulled back. "That's not exactly impressive."
"It's impressive when you do it right." Tonks's hands lingered on his shoulders. "And you did it right. Now you just need to do it from further away. And faster. And under pressure. But," she grinned, "you've got the foundation now."
They spent the next hour working on distance. Harry set his Firebolt at increasingly far points in the classroom—fifteen meters, then twenty, then twenty-five. Each time, he focused on that connection, that invisible thread, and invited rather than forced.
Most of the summons went well. One went extremely poorly when Harry lost concentration halfway through and the broom veered sideways, smashing into a desk with a crack that made them both wince.
"That's coming out of your Quidditch budget," Tonks said solemnly, examining the small dent in the broom's handle.
"I don't have a Quidditch budget."
"Then you're starting in debt. Tragic."
By the time the sun began setting, casting long orange shadows across the floor, Harry could reliably summon his Firebolt from thirty meters away. His arm ached from holding his wand extended, and his head throbbed with magical exhaustion, but he felt accomplished.
"That's enough for today," Tonks decided, watching him stifle a yawn. "You're dead on your feet, and tired wizards make mistakes."
"I can keep going—"
"You can barely keep your eyes open." Tonks crossed to him, her expression fond. "Rest is part of training too, Harry. Your body needs to recover, your magic needs to settle. We'll continue tomorrow."
Harry wanted to argue, but another yawn cracked his jaw. "Fine. But we're starting earlier tomorrow."
"Deal."
They packed up in comfortable silence, Tonks vanishing the training obstacles while Harry collected his things. At the door, Tonks caught his hand, pulling him back.
"You did good today," she said quietly. "Really good. I know it doesn't feel like much, but you're learning faster than most people twice your age would."
"It needs to be faster," Harry said. "The First Task is in eight days."
"And you'll be ready." Tonks's free hand came up to cup his cheek. "I promise you, Harry. You're going to survive this. I know it."
The second day of training started at dawn.
Harry arrived at the classroom to find Tonks already there, two steaming mugs of tea waiting on a conjured table. She looked disgustingly awake for this hour, her hair a bright bubblegum pink.
"Morning, sunshine," she said cheerfully.
Harry grunted in response, making a beeline for the tea. It was sweet and strong, exactly how he liked it, and he felt marginally more human after several long gulps.
"Not a morning person?" Tonks asked, amused.
"Not a dawn person," Harry corrected. "Morning implies a reasonable hour. The sun's barely up."
"The sun's been up for twenty minutes, actually. You're just spoiled by Hogwarts letting you sleep until breakfast." Tonks set down her own mug. "Besides, we've got a lot to cover today. Yesterday you managed thirty meters. Today, we're aiming for fifty."
They started with a review, Harry summoning his Firebolt from the distances he'd mastered the day before. Ten meters, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty. Each summon came smoothly now, the broom arriving in his hand with comfortable reliability.
"Good," Tonks said, nodding approvingly. "You're not even thinking about it anymore. That's muscle memory setting in, magical muscle memory. Now let's push it."
She walked to the far end of the classroom, setting the Firebolt down. "Forty meters. Whenever you're ready."
Harry raised his wand, found that familiar thread of connection, and spoke the incantation. The Firebolt shot toward him, and Harry had to adjust his stance quickly to catch it properly. It arrived with more force than he'd expected, nearly knocking him back a step.
"Control," Tonks called out. "Remember, it's not just about bringing it to you. It's about bringing it to you safely. If you summon your broom during the Task and it arrives going fast enough to bowl you over, that's not helpful."
"Right," Harry said, slightly breathless. "Control. Got it."
They worked on it for another hour, Harry learning to modulate the speed of the summon, to bring the broom in fast or slow as needed. It was harder than it looked, requiring a delicate balance of intention and magical output.
"It's like Quidditch," Tonks said at one point, demonstrating by summoning a practice dummy across the room. "You don't always fly at top speed, right? Sometimes you need to hover, sometimes you need to accelerate, sometimes you need to brake hard. Same principle here."
By mid-morning, Harry was reliably summoning from fifty meters. Then sixty. Then seventy-five.
Careful, or your head's going to get too big for that broom," Tonks observed when Harry summoned the broom one-handed while taking a drink of water with the other. But she was smiling. "Show off."
"I learned from the best," Harry said, and Tonks laughed.
"Save the compliments for the dragon."
They broke for lunch, eating sandwiches Tonks had somehow procured from the kitchens. Harry was ravenous, the magical exertion burning through energy faster than he could replace it.
"How do you feel?" Tonks asked, watching him demolish his third sandwich. "Magically, I mean. Tired? Drained?"
Harry considered it. "Tired, yeah. But not drained. Not like after a really long Quidditch practice where I can barely lift my wand. More like... pleasantly exhausted?"
"Good. That means you're working hard but not overextending." Tonks bit into her own sandwich thoughtfully. "We'll push to one hundred meters this afternoon, then call it. That should be enough range for the Task. The arena's not going to be massive—they'll want spectators to actually see what's happening."
The afternoon session was intense. One hundred meters was the length of the classroom three times over, and Harry had to really concentrate to maintain the connection over that distance. The first attempt failed completely, the Firebolt not even twitching.
Harry closed his eyes, searching for that pull. It was fainter now, stretched thin over the distance, but it was there. He gathered his magic, careful and precise, and cast the spell.
The Firebolt came, but slowly, wobbling slightly in the air like it wasn't quite sure of the path.
"Again," Tonks said.
Harry tried again. And again. And again.
By the fifteenth attempt, sweat was running down his back and his wand hand trembled with effort. But the Firebolt came straight and true, arriving in his grip.
"Yes!" Tonks jumped. "That's it! That's perfect! Harry, that's N.E.W.T. level Summoning! Do you understand? Most seventh years couldn't do what you just did!"
Harry was breathing hard, but he couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. "Really?"
"Really." Tonks crossed to him in three quick strides and kissed him. When she pulled back, her eyes were shining. "You're bloody brilliant, you know that?"
Harry's face heated. "I had a good teacher."
"Damn right you did." Tonks was still grinning. "One more time. Just to prove it wasn't a fluke."
It wasn't a fluke. Harry summoned the Firebolt from one hundred meters away again, and this time it felt almost easy. The connection was clear in his mind, the path obvious, the magic flowing naturally.
When Tonks cupped his face afterward, her expression had gone soft and serious. "You're going to survive this," she said quietly. "I know it, Harry. You're going to walk into that arena, summon your broom, and fly circles around whatever dragon they throw at you."
"I know. I might have not chosen to enter this Tournament, but I'm not going to give whoever put my name in there the satisfaction of watching me die."
❾¾
❾¾
The next two days blurred together in a haze of water, fire, and increasingly creative magical theory.
Harry had thought mastering the Summoning Charm was exhausting. He'd been wrong. The Aqua Scutum training made summoning look like a pleasant afternoon stroll.
"Again," Tonks called out, her wand raised and glowing orange at the tip. "And this time, try to maintain it for longer than thirty seconds!"
Harry gritted his teeth and focused. The water shield sprang into existence around him, a rotating barrier of water and crystal.
Tonks didn't wait. A jet of flame shot from her wand—not dragon fire, obviously, but a respectable Incendio that would have set his robes alight without the shield. The fire hit the water barrier and hissed, steam erupting where they met. The water rotated, dispersing the heat, venting the steam upward in white plumes.
"Good!" Tonks called over the hissing. "Keep it steady! Don't let it wobble!"
The shield was wobbling. Harry could feel it, the rotation becoming uneven as he struggled to maintain consistent magical pressure. His arm ached from holding his wand extended, and sweat ran down his back despite the classroom's cool air.
"Ten more seconds!" Tonks encouraged.
Harry lasted eight before the shield collapsed, water splashing to the floor in a small flood. He bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard.
"Better," Tonks said, lowering her wand. With a casual flick, she vanished the water pooling on the stone. "That was forty-two seconds. You're improving."
"Doesn't feel like it," Harry muttered.
"Because you're comparing yourself to some imaginary standard instead of where you started." Tonks crossed to him, pressing a water flask into his hands. "Three days ago, you could barely hold the shield for fifteen seconds. Now you're past forty. That's nearly three times longer."
Harry drank gratefully, the cool water soothing his parched throat. "The dragon won't wait politely while I catch my breath."
"No, but the dragon also can't cast spells." Tonks's expression was serious now. "Its fire breath is powerful, but it's not sustained like a spell. It comes in bursts. As long as your shield can handle a burst and you can recast between attacks, you'll be fine."
"And if I can't recast fast enough?"
"Then you fly away and recast from a distance." Tonks squeezed his shoulder. "You're not going to stand there and let a dragon roast you, Harry. You're going to be mobile, remember? That's the whole point of the broom."
Harry nodded. "Again?"
"Again."
By the end of the second day, Harry could maintain the Aqua Scutum for just over two minutes. It didn't sound like much, but Tonks assured him it was well beyond what most sixth-years achieved on their first attempt at the spell.
"There's something different about how you cast it," Tonks said thoughtfully during one of their breaks. She was watching him. "The water responds to you differently than most people."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean..." Tonks gestured vaguely with her wand. "When I cast Aqua Scutum, the water is clearly conjured. It's magical construct shaped into barrier. But when you cast it, it's like the water is... more real. More present. Does that make sense?"
"Not really," Harry admitted.
"Here, watch." Tonks cast the spell, and a water shield shimmered into existence around her. It looked exactly like Harry's—rotating barrier, crystalline appearance, the same basic structure. But as Harry looked closer, he could see what she meant. Tonks's shield had a slightly translucent quality, like looking through colored glass. It was obviously magical in nature.
Tonks dismissed her shield and nodded at Harry. "Now you."
Harry raised his wand and cast. His shield formed, and he studied it carefully. Tonks was right—there was a difference. His water looked... wetter. More solid. More like actual water pulled from somewhere rather than purely conjured from magic.
"See?" Tonks said. "It's subtle, but it's there. You've got some kind of natural affinity for water magic."
"Is that common?"
"Having an affinity for a specific element or type of magic? Sure. Some people are naturally better with fire spells, others with earth or air. But water affinity is less common than the others." Tonks was grinning now. "Lucky for you, since you're about to face a fire-breathing lizard."
Harry let his shield drop, an idea forming. "If I have an affinity for it... can I modify the spell? Make it stronger somehow?"
Tonks's eyebrows rose. "Modify a sixth-year spell you learned three days ago? That's ambitious."
"But possible?"
"Theoretically? Maybe. Practically?" Tonks shrugged. "I don't know. Spell modification is advanced magic, Harry. Seventh year at minimum, and even then, most wizards never do it. Too dangerous if you get it wrong."
"But I could try?"
Tonks studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "You're going to try whether I say yes or no, aren't you?"
"Probably," Harry admitted.
"Fine. But we start small, and if anything feels wrong—if the magic starts fighting you or the spell becomes unstable—you drop it immediately. Understood?"
"Understood."
They started with the rotation speed. Harry reasoned that if the water spun faster, it would disperse heat more quickly, making the shield more effective. He cast the Aqua Scutum and then, carefully, pushed more magic into it, focusing on the rotational aspect.
The water responded immediately, spinning faster. Harry could see the difference—the barrier became almost opaque with speed, individual droplets blurring together.
"Good," Tonks said, excited now. "That's good! How does it feel? Is the magic stable?"
"Yeah," Harry said, concentrating on maintaining the faster rotation. "It's pulling more power, but it feels... solid. Not like it's going to collapse."
Tonks hit him with another fire spell, this one stronger than before. The flames met the spinning water and vanished almost instantly, the accelerated rotation dispersing the heat so efficiently that barely any steam formed.
"Bloody hell," Tonks breathed. "That's brilliant. You just made a sixth-year spell significantly more effective."
Harry let the shield drop, breathing hard but grinning. "What else can I change?"
They experimented for the next hour. Harry discovered he could expand the shield's size, making it large enough to cover not just himself but several meters around him. It required more magical power to maintain, but against a dragon's widespread fire breath, the extra coverage could be the difference between life and death.
"Try multiple shields," Tonks suggested at one point. "See if you can split your focus."
Harry tried to create two shields at once. The first formed normally, but when he attempted the second, the first collapsed immediately.
"It's too much," Harry said, frustrated. "I can't maintain two separate spells."
"Not two separate spells," Tonks corrected. "One spell, but divided. Think about it like... like splitting a stream of water into multiple flows. It's all the same source, just directed differently."
Harry frowned, considering this. He raised his wand and cast Aqua Scutum again. But this time, instead of creating one solid barrier, he focused on the water itself. On treating it not as a single construct but as individual element he could shape.
The shield formed, and then—
It split.
The water divided into three separate barriers, each one smaller than the full shield but rotating independently around Harry at different angles. One at chest height, one lower near his legs, one higher protecting his head and shoulders.
Harry stared at what he'd created, barely believing it was working. The three shields moved in synchronized rhythm, overlapping their coverage so there were no gaps.
"That's—" Tonks's voice had gone high with shock. "That's not how that spell works. That's not how any spell works! Harry, you just—you just fractured a single spell into multiple components while maintaining unified magical control. Do you understand how advanced that is?"
"Not really," Harry said, too focused on maintaining the shields to fully process her words. "It just... made sense. The water's all from the same source, so why can't it take different shapes?"
"Because that's not—" Tonks stopped, shaking her head in disbelief. "Never mind. Just keep doing whatever you're doing."
The three-shield configuration held for nearly a minute before Harry's concentration slipped and the water collapsed. He was panting, drenched in sweat, but exhilarated.
"Can I try something else?" he asked.
Before Tonks could respond, the classroom door opened and Hermione entered, her arms full of books and scrolls. She stopped short, taking in the scene—the wet floor, the steam still hanging in the air, Harry's disheveled appearance.
"Am I interrupting?" she asked.
"Perfect timing, actually," Tonks said. "You need to see this. Harry, show her the three-shield thing."
Harry cast the spell again, and after a moment of concentration, achieved the split. Three rotating water barriers, each protecting a different zone around him.
Hermione's mouth fell open. She set her books down carefully, never taking her eyes off the shields. "How are you doing that?"
"I'm not entirely sure," Harry admitted. "I just thought about splitting the water flow."
Hermione circled him slowly, studying the shields from different angles. Her expression had gone intense, the way it did when she encountered a particularly fascinating magical problem. "You're treating the water as an individual element rather than a singular construct. It's like—like conducting an orchestra where each instrument plays a different part but creates harmony."
"That's what I said!" Tonks exclaimed. "Well, not exactly, but close enough."
"This is seventh-year magic at minimum," Hermione said, still circling. "Possibly N.E.W.T. level. Harry, you're essentially performing simultaneous spellcasting with unified magical control. That's—that's extraordinary."
Harry let the shields drop, embarrassed by the attention. "It's just water."
"It's not just water," Hermione said firmly. "It's creative magical application combined with apparently natural affinity." She turned to Tonks. "Has he always shown this kind of aptitude for water magic?"
"First time we've really explored it," Tonks admitted. "But yeah, there's definitely something there. The water responds to him differently than it should."
Hermione was already pulling out parchment, her quill moving rapidly as she took notes. "We should test other water-based spells. See if the affinity extends beyond Aqua Scutum. And we need to document this—the ability to fractionally divide spell effects while maintaining control could have applications beyond just shielding."
"Later," Tonks said gently. "Right now, we're focused on keeping Harry alive. You can write your thesis on his special water magic after the First Task."
Hermione flushed but nodded, putting away her parchment. "Right. Sorry. I brought the dragon research you asked for."
While Hermione spread out her books and began explaining what she'd discovered about dragon weaknesses, Harry had another idea. If he could split the water into multiple shields, could he do the opposite? Compress it into something more concentrated?
"I could try to hit that dummy," Harry said, interrupting Hermione's lecture on Chinese Fireball heat signatures. He pointed his wand at a practice dummy across the room.
"Harry, are you even listening?" Hermione asked, exasperated.
"Always," Harry lied. He focused on the water magic, on that feeling of natural affinity Tonks had identified. But instead of creating a barrier, he imagined the water compressed, pressurized, forced into a tight stream.
"Aqua Scutum!" he cast, but twisted the spell's intention.
A jet of water shot from his wand like a battering ram. It hit the practice dummy with enough force to knock it backwards, the wooden figure slamming into the wall with a crack.
Silence filled the classroom.
"Did you just..." Tonks walked over to the dummy, examining where the water had struck. The wood was splintered, a clear impact point visible. "Did you just weaponize a defensive spell?"
"I think so," Harry said, staring at his wand.
"That's offensive capability," Tonks said, turning back to him with something like awe in her expression. "Harry, if you can do that against a dragon—aim for the eyes, the nose, any sensitive areas—you've got an actual weapon. Not just defense, but a way to fight back."
"Though you'd need to be extremely close to hit a dragon's eyes," Hermione pointed out practically. "And at that range, you'd be vulnerable to its claws and teeth, not just its fire."
"Details to work out later," Tonks said, still grinning. "The point is, Harry's not just surviving now. He's got options."
They practiced for another hour, Harry learning to control the pressurized water stream, to aim it accurately, to vary its intensity. By the end, he could knock down a practice dummy from fifteen meters away.
"One more thing," Harry said, an idea crystallizing. "What if I combined shields?"
"Combined them how?" Tonks asked.
"Protego and Aqua Scutum together. A regular magical shield backed by a water barrier. Double protection."
Hermione and Tonks exchanged glances.
"That's... ambitious," Tonks said carefully. "Layering two different protective spells requires maintaining separate magical feeds while ensuring they don't interfere with each other. The concentration needed would be immense."
"But possible?" Harry pressed.
"Theoretically," Tonks admitted. "In practice, I've never heard of anyone actually doing it successfully."
"Then let's try."
Harry raised his wand and cast Protego first. The shimmering magical barrier sprang up around him. Then, carefully, while maintaining the Protego, he cast Aqua Scutum.
For a moment, nothing happened. The water shield tried to form but seemed to slide off the Protego, unable to find purchase. Harry gritted his teeth, pushing more magic into the spell, forcing the two constructs to coexist.
The Aqua Scutum suddenly snapped into place, rotating outside the Protego. Two shields, layered one inside the other.
Harry felt his magic drain like a big hole in a ballon. Harry could feel both spells pulling on his reserves, demanding constant attention and power. His vision swam slightly, and sweat broke out across his forehead.
"How long can you hold it?" Tonks asked, her voice tight with concern.
"Not... long," Harry managed through gritted teeth.
He counted in his head. Five seconds. At eight seconds, the Protego collapsed, followed immediately by the Aqua Scutum. Harry staggered, and Tonks caught him before he could fall.
"That's enough experimenting for today," Tonks said firmly, guiding him to sit down. "You're pushing too hard."
"But it worked," Harry said, his voice rough with exhaustion. "Eight seconds of double shielding. That's Eight seconds where dragon fire has to get through two barriers instead of one."
"And it nearly knocked you unconscious," Hermione said, crouching beside him with a water flask. "Harry, you can't use that in the actual Task. You'll exhaust yourself before you even get the egg."
"Not as a constant defense," Harry agreed, accepting the water and drinking deeply. "But as a last resort? If I really need it? Eight seconds could be enough to make a difference."
Tonks sighed but nodded reluctantly. "Fine. But only as a last resort. Your primary defense is the single water shield and your mobility on the broom. The double shield is for emergencies only. Understood?"
"Understood."
Fleur Delacour
Two days of dead ends had left Fleur Delacour with very little patience and even less useful information.
She'd asked around, carefully and diplomatically, trying to learn more about Harry Potter. The Gryffindors she'd approached had been mostly useless. Some knew him by reputation only—the Boy Who Lived, the youngest Triwizard Champion. But beyond the obvious, beyond what everyone already knew, they had nothing to offer.
"He's quiet," one fourth-year girl had said with a shrug. "Keeps to himself mostly. Hangs around with Hermione Granger."
"Brilliant at Defense Against the Dark Arts," a fifth-year boy had offered. "Professor Lupin said he produced a corporeal Patronus last year. At thirteen."
Interesting, but not what Fleur needed. She needed to understand what made Harry Potter dangerous. What made a twelve-year-old capable of killing a basilisk. What made him immune to her allure when every other boy his age couldn't maintain eye contact for more than five seconds.
Then, finally, someone had mentioned Ronald Weasley.
"They were best friends," a third-year Gryffindor had said. "Until Harry's name came out of the Goblet. Then Ron turned on him. Said Harry was seeking attention, cheated somehow. They haven't spoken since."
A former best friend. Someone who would know Harry intimately, who would have seen him in private moments, who would understand his strengths and weaknesses. And someone who, based on the story, now resented him.
Perfect.
Finding Ronald Weasley alone proved surprisingly easy. Most students were at dinner, the castle corridors emptying as the Great Hall filled. But the youngest Weasley boy—Fleur had learned his name from the same helpful third-year—was walking alone near the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, his hands shoved in his pockets, his expression sullen.
Fleur approached with grace as usual. She kept her allure at its passive baseline—always active, impossible to fully suppress, but not amplified or directed. Just her natural presence.
Ronald turned at the sound of her approach, and Fleur watched his entire face transform.
His eyes went wide, comically so. His mouth dropped open slightly. And his face—his entire face—turned a shade of red that clashed violently with his hair.
"Bonjour," Fleur said pleasantly, stopping a polite distance away. "You are Ronald Weasley, yes?"
"I—uh—yes?" His voice cracked on the word, jumping an octave. "I'm—yeah. Ron. Ronald. Weasley. That's me."
Fleur maintained her pleasant expression despite the urge to roll her eyes. "May I speak wiz you for a moment? I 'ave some questions, if you do not mind."
"Questions?" Ron was sweating now. Actually sweating, small beads forming at his hairline despite the corridor's cool temperature. His eyes couldn't seem to focus on her face, darting away every time they met hers. "About—about what?"
"About 'Arry Potter," Fleur said, keeping her voice casual and friendly. "I 'eard you were close friends wiz 'im."
Anger appeared in his face, so much anger than he scowled. "We—yeah. Were. Used to be."
"May I ask what 'appened?" Fleur tilted her head slightly, a gesture she knew made her hair catch the light. "Why are you no longer friends?"
Ron's eyes dropped. Not to avoid her gaze—no, they dropped lower. To her chest.
Fleur felt her smile freeze in her face, sometimes she wished she had cheeks of steel. She was used to male attention, had dealt with staring and inappropriate behavior since her Veela heritage had manifested at fourteen. But there was a difference between an appreciative glance and this. This was blatant, uncomfortable, and utterly pathetic.
"He—" Ron's voice cracked again. He cleared his throat, still staring at her breasts. "He put his name in the Goblet. Cheated. Wanted—wanted the attention."
"I see." Fleur kept her voice level. "And you are certain 'e cheated? You 'ave proof of zis?"
"Must have," Ron said, his eyes glazing over slightly. A small line of saliva had appeared at the corner of his mouth. "He's always—always got to be special. Can't just be normal. Always—" He trailed off, apparently losing his train of thought while staring.
Fleur's disgust rose like bile. She wanted to leave, to end this conversation and scrub the memory of his drooling face from her mind. But she needed information, and this pathetic boy was supposedly Harry's former closest friend.
"Ronald," she said sharply, trying to snap him out of whatever trance he'd fallen into.
"Ron," he corrected automatically, finally dragging his eyes up to her face. They stayed there for approximately three seconds before dropping again. "You can—you can call me Ron."
Fleur resisted the urge to hex him. "Ron, zen. Tell me, what can you tell me about 'Arry's abilities? 'Is magic? 'E must be skilled to be chosen as champion."
"He's—" Ron's face was still red, and the sweat had increased. "Lucky. Just lucky. Always lucky. First year with the Stone, second year with—with—"
"Wiz what?" Fleur prompted when he trailed off again, his attention clearly wandering.
"With Ginny," Ron said, and for the first time, his eyes stayed on her face for more than a few seconds. "My sister. He saved her. In the Chamber of Secrets. Second year."
Fleur's attention sharpened. This was something. "Ze Chamber of Secrets? Tell me more."
"She was—" Ron gestured vaguely, his coherence deteriorating with each passing second. "Down there. In the Chamber. With the basilisk. And Harry—he went down and—and saved her."
"'Ow did 'e save 'er?" Fleur pressed.
Ron nodded dumbly, his eyes glazing over again as they dropped back to her chest. "Yeah. Ginny. He saved her. Down in the Chamber. With the basilisk."
He was just repeating himself now, completely useless. Fleur felt her patience snap like an overstressed wand.
So, Harry Potter was able to kill a Basilisk somehow, but also save someone.
"I 'elped too, you know," Ron added suddenly, apparently trying to impress her. His chest puffed out slightly, his voice taking on a boastful quality even as he continued to stare at her breasts. "I was there. Well, not in the Chamber exactly, but I was—we were—"
He trailed off incoherently, his eyes completely unfocused now. The line of saliva at his mouth had grown more pronounced.
Fleur had enough.
No wonder Potter wanted nothing to do with this, she thought viciously. How did these two ever become friends?
She couldn't imagine Harry Potter choosing to spend time with this drooling, staring, incoherent mess. There had to be more to Ronald Weasley than this, some quality that had made him worth Harry's friendship. But whatever that quality was, Fleur certainly couldn't see it through his hormone-addled behavior.
"Sank you for your time," Fleur said, her voice cold. The pleasantness had vanished from her tone entirely, replaced with clear dismissal.
Ron didn't notice. He just nodded, still staring at her chest, his mouth slightly open.
Fleur turned and walked away, her spine straight and her steps measured. She refused to hurry, refused to give him the satisfaction of thinking he'd affected her enough to make her flee.
Behind her, she could feel his eyes still on her. Still staring.
Pathetic, she thought again.
She was used to male attention. Expected it, even, given her heritage. The Veela allure was part of who she was, and she'd long since accepted that most males would react to her presence with varying degrees of inability to function normally.
But there were levels to it. There was the appreciative glance, the momentary distraction, even the tongue-tied nervousness that could be endearing when coupled with genuine respect. And then there was this—the complete dissolution of higher brain function, the reduction of a person to their most base instincts, the utter inability to maintain even a pretense of civilized behavior.
The only thing she'd learned was confirmation of the basilisk story, which she'd already suspected was true based on Madame Maxime's information, and knowing that Harry was apparently capable of using a Patronus, and had saved someone named Ginny. Everything else had been a waste of time.
Fleur walked down the corridor, putting distance between herself and the Gryffindor Tower entrance. She needed to return to the Beauxbatons carriage, needed to continue her preparations for the First Task. Six more days until she'd face a dragon, and she'd wasted valuable time trying to gather intelligence that had yielded almost nothing.
She was halfway to the Entrance Hall when someone stepped into her path.
Fleur stopped, her wand in her hand, ready to use a spell, but she stopped herself when she saw her uniform. She had seen that uniform around Hogwarts since the day the champions were chosen, and after Fleur noticed the uniform, only then she noticed who was wearing said uniform.
Pink hair. Athletic build. Auror robes.
Nymphadora Tonks.
The woman from the Daily Prophet article. Harry Potter's supposed secret lover, though Fleur had dismissed most of that story as the usual sensationalist rubbish the British papers loved to print.
But looking at her now, Fleur reconsidered. There was something protective in her posture.
"Fleur Delacour," Tonks said. It wasn't a question.
"Oui," Fleur replied carefully. "And you are ze Auror. Tonks, oui?"
"That's right." Tonks was trying to keep her expression pleasant, but Fleur could see the anger in her eyes. "I couldn't help but notice you've been asking a lot of questions about Harry Potter lately."
Fleur kept her own expression pleasant and mildly curious. "Oh? I was not aware anyone was paying such close attention to my conversations."
"I pay attention when people start digging into the life of someone I'm assigned to protect," Tonks said flatly. "So I'll ask again: why are you so interested in Harry Potter?"
This conversation was about to get interesting.
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