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Harry Potter
The path to Hogsmeade was packed with students, their excited chatter echoing off the snow-dusted hills. Harry walked between Hermione and Fleur, hyperaware of every stare, every whisper that followed them like a wake behind a ship.
"—two of them—"
"—can't believe—"
"—lucky bastard—"
Harry kept his eyes forward, refusing to acknowledge the attention. Hermione's hand found his. On his other side, Fleur walked gracefully as she always did.
"You would think," Fleur said conversationally, "zat zey 'ave never seen three people walking together before."
"They haven't seen three people walking together who've been splashed across the Prophet," Hermione muttered. "Rita Skeeter made sure of that."
Harry felt anger rising at the mention of the name. The article still burned in his mind—the insinuations about Hermione being "plain but ambitious," the suggestion that Fleur had somehow enchanted him. He squeezed Hermione's hand.
"She'll get what's coming to her," he said quietly.
Fleur's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Oui. She will."
There was something in her tone that made Harry glance at her. Fleur looked serene, almost distracted, but her eyes were scanning the crowd. As they passed a group of fifth-year Ravenclaws, Harry felt a shift in the air, a warmth that rolled off Fleur like a wave. The Ravenclaws stumbled mid-conversation, their eyes glazing slightly before snapping back to focus.
"Are you—" Harry started.
"Just checking ze perimeter," Fleur said lightly, linking her arm through his. "One can never be too careful, non?"
Before Harry could ask what she meant, a familiar voice called out from behind them.
"Oi! Wait up!"
Harry turned to see Tonks jogging toward them, her hair a vivid bubblegum pink today, dressed in Muggle jeans and a purple jacket instead of her usual Auror robes. She looked younger like this, less official. More like the troublemaking cousin Sirius had described.
"Wotcher, Harry," Tonks grinned, falling into step beside them. "Hermione. Fleur."
"Tonks," Hermione said, a note of warning in her voice. "I thought you were on duty."
"I am on duty," Tonks said cheerfully. "Protecting the students. And you lot happen to be students. So really, I'm just doing my job by tagging along."
"How convenient," Fleur murmured, but her eyes were dancing with amusement.
They walked in a loose formation—Harry between Hermione and Fleur, Tonks slightly ahead, playing the role of friendly chaperone.
It was necessary. He knew that. But it still felt wrong, like they were hiding something shameful.
"So," Tonks said, glancing back at them. "What's the plan? Honeydukes first? Or are we going straight to the Three Broomsticks to get properly sloshed on butterbeer?"
"Honeydukes," Hermione said immediately. "I need to restock my chocolate supply. I went through my entire stash during the study session last week."
"You mean ze study session where you fell asleep on your Runes textbook?" Fleur teased.
"I was just resting my eyes!"
As they approached the outskirts of the village, Harry caught a flash of red robes. He turned his head slightly and saw Viktor Krum walking with a group of Durmstrang students, all of them wearing matching furs. Krum's eyes met Harry's for a brief moment, and Harry nodded. Krum returned the gesture, expressionless as always.
"Friendly, isn't he?" Tonks observed.
"He's alright," Harry said. "Just quiet."
"He's brooding," Hermione corrected.
They passed under the wooden arch that marked Hogsmeade's entrance, and the village spread before them, shops with frost-covered windows, smoke curling from chimneys, students milling about in thick cloaks and scarves.
The bell above Honeydukes' door chimed as they entered, and Harry was immediately hit with the overwhelming scent of sugar and chocolate. The shop was packed with Hogwarts students—mostly younger years who were hovering around the display of Fizzing Whizzbees and Chocolate Frogs like seagulls around chips.
Several heads turned as Harry and his group entered. A third-year Hufflepuff actually dropped her bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans.
"Subtle," Tonks murmured, browsing a shelf of Pepper Imps.
Harry ignored the stares and made his way to the chocolate section, Hermione still attached to his hand like a lifeline. Fleur drifted away slightly, examining a display of crystallized pineapple with the same focus most people reserved for wandlore.
"What do you want?" Harry asked Hermione, surveying the overwhelming array of options.
"Everything," Hermione said seriously. "But practically speaking, I'll settle for the dark chocolate with the chili flakes. And maybe those ones with the caramel."
"Living dangerously, Granger," Tonks commented, appearing at Harry's other shoulder. "Chili chocolate? That's advanced candy consumption."
"I like things with a bit of bite," Hermione said primly.
Harry bit back a grin and started loading chocolate into a basket—dark chocolate for Hermione, milk chocolate for himself, and some of the fancy truffles he knew Fleur liked. He added a few boxes of Chocolate Frogs for Ron and grabbed some Honeydukes Best for Tonks.
"You don't have to buy me sweets, Harry," Tonks protested, but she didn't put them back when he dropped them in the basket.
"Consider it payment for being our bodyguard," Harry said.
As he moved toward the counter, Harry noticed Fleur had gone very still near the window. She was looking at something on the glass—or perhaps through it—her expression intent. Then, with a movement so slight, she increased her allure.
Three Gryffindor boys who'd been laughing by the Exploding Bonbons went silent, their mouths falling open. A seventh-year girl actually walked into a display of Sugar Quills. Even the shopkeeper, Mr. Ambrosius Flume, blinked rapidly behind his gold-rimmed spectacles.
But Fleur's attention wasn't on any of them. She was watching the empty space near the windowsill.
"Fleur?" Harry called.
She turned, her smile bright and guileless. "Oui, mon coeur?"
"You alright?"
"Perfect," she said, gliding over to him. She reached into the basket and plucked out one of the truffles, examining it with exaggerated interest. Then, with a theatrical gasp, she dropped it.
The truffle hit the wooden floor and rolled under a shelf.
"Oh, 'ow clumsy of me," Fleur said, bending down gracefully. Harry watched as she appeared to search for the truffle, but her eyes were tracking something else—something that had apparently moved when the truffle rolled.
She straightened up, truffle in hand, and met Harry's eyes with a look that said trust me.
Harry did trust her. But he really wished he knew what was going on.
He paid for the sweets—Mr. Flume recovered enough from the allure to function, though he gave Fleur an extra discount that made her smile sharpen—and they left the shop. The cold air was a relief after the sugary warmth inside.
They moved down the street, Harry distributing chocolate like he was a particularly well-stocked Father Christmas. Hermione immediately tore into her chili-dark chocolate, making a satisfied humming sound that reminded Harry of other, more private sounds she made.
Focus, he told himself firmly.
"So what's next?" Tonks asked, looking eagerly at everything around them, mainly at the shops. "Zonko's? The Three Broomsticks?"
"Ze Three Broomsticks," Fleur said decisively. "I find I am quite thirsty."
There was an edge to her voice, a tension that Harry didn't understand. He glanced at Hermione, who looked equally confused.
"Sounds good," Harry agreed. "Lead the way."
As they walked toward the pub, Harry caught sight of another familiar face—Cedric Diggory, walking with Cho Chang. Cedric looked better than he had after the First Task, but there was still something haunted in his eyes. He saw Harry and gave a brief nod, which Harry returned.
We're all carrying our nightmares, Harry thought. Just some of us hide them better than others.
The Three Broomsticks loomed ahead, its windows already fogged with warmth. Fleur's hand found Harry's, her fingers intertwining with his.
"Are you going to tell me what you're doing?" Harry murmured, low enough that only she could hear.
Fleur's smile was all teeth. "Setting a trap, mon coeur. And I believe our prey is taking ze bait."
The Three Broomsticks was packed, warm, and loud. Students filled nearly every table, their voices blending into a wall of noise punctuated by laughter and the clink of tankards. Harry scanned the room and spotted an empty corner booth near the back—partially obscured by a wooden beam and far enough from the fire that they wouldn't roast.
"There," he said, pointing.
They claimed it quickly, sliding into the circular booth. Harry ended up sandwiched between Hermione and Fleur, with Tonks sitting across from them, her back to the wall and her eyes on the door. Even in civilian clothes, she couldn't quite turn off the Auror instincts.
Madam Rosmerta appeared within minutes, her blonde curls pinned up and her robes a deep burgundy that matched the pub's décor. She was in her forties but still turned heads—something Harry had heard sixth and seventh-year boys comment on.
"Harry Potter," Rosmerta said, her voice warm with amusement. "I heard you caused quite a stir in the Great Hall this morning. Something about a Daily Prophet article?"
Harry felt his face heat. "I didn't cause the stir. Rita Skeeter did."
"Mmm," Rosmerta's eyes flickered to Hermione and Fleur, then back to Harry. "Well, you certainly keep interesting company, too bad all the chairs are occopuied. What can I get you?"
"Four butterbeers, please," Harry said.
"Make mine warm," Hermione added.
"Cold for me," Fleur said.
"And mine with a shot of Firewhiskey if you're feeling generous," Tonks grinned.
Rosmerta laughed. "I might be able to arrange that for an Auror. Be right back."
As she walked away, Harry noticed her glance back at him over her shoulder, a slight smile playing at her lips.
"She was flirting with you," Hermione said flatly.
"She was not—"
"She absolutely was," Fleur agreed, though she sounded more amused than jealous. "But zen, 'Arry is quite ze catch, non? Triwizard Champion. Boy Who Lived. And now, according to ze Prophet, 'artbreaker extraordinaire."
"I'm not a heartbreaker," Harry protested.
"No," Hermione said, her voice softening. "You're really not."
Harry looked at her, and for a moment, the noise of the pub faded. She was looking at him with that expression—the one that made his chest ache, made him want to kiss her until neither of them could breathe. He leaned in slightly, drawn by the inevitable pull of her—
"Ahem."
Harry jerked back to find Tonks watching them with raised eyebrows. "You know I'm right here, yeah? And so are about forty other people, including half your house?"
Right. Public. They were in public.
Harry straightened, trying to look casual. Across the pub, he could see several students watching their table—some with curiosity, some with judgment, and some with envy so naked it was almost uncomfortable.
"Sorry," Harry muttered.
"Don't be sorry," Tonks said, but her eyes were serious. "Just be careful. Not everyone out there is your friend."
Rosmerta returned with their drinks, setting them down. True to her word, Tonks's butterbeer had a suspicious golden tint that smelled like alcohol. Tonks saluted her with the tankard and took a long drink.
"So," Tonks said, once Rosmerta had left. "The tournament. How are you lot handling the whole... nightmare situation?"
Harry grimaced. Even thinking about the First Task made his arm ache, the phantom pain of carved words ghosting across his skin. "I haven't looked at the memory yet. Dumbledore said to take my time."
"I 'ave not looked either," Fleur admitted. "I am... not eager to revisit zat place. Even in memory."
"That's fair," Tonks said. "I've seen Aurors break down after viewing traumatic memories in a Pensieve. There's no shame in waiting."
Hermione was quiet, running her thumb along the rim of her tankard. Harry nudged her gently.
"What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking," Hermione said slowly, "that whoever put your name in the Goblet wanted you to face something that would break you. The Noxlings weren't random. They were chosen specifically to attack your minds."
"That's... cheerful," Harry said.
"I'm not trying to be cheerful. I'm trying to understand the pattern." Hermione looked at him, her brown eyes intense. "What if the second task is the same? What if it's designed to exploit another vulnerability?"
"Then I'll deal with it," Harry said simply. "Same as the first one."
"You almost didn't come out of the first one," Hermione said, her voice cracking slightly. "Harry, you had words carved into your arm. You were covered in blood. You looked like—"
She cut herself off, but Harry knew what she'd been about to say. He'd looked like he was dying.
"But I didn't," Harry said, covering her hand with his. "I'm here. I'm fine."
"You are fine now," Fleur interjected, her eyes distant. "But Hermione is right to worry. Ze tournament... it is not normal. Zere is something wrong with it."
Tonks decided their talk was very gloom, so she told them a funny story of hers, when she had to deal with a group of drunk idiots in a hub, one of them had used his wand to try and undrunk himself, only for him to transform into a glass of butterbeer, thankfully no one had tried to drink him, and Tonks had managed to turn him back into a human, with a big warning to not drunk again.
"So," Harry said slowly, "if the first task was designed to break us mentally... what do you think the second task will be?"
Fleur considered this, her fingers tracing patterns on the wooden table. "Ze first task tested our weaknesses, non? Our fears, our doubts, what breaks us inside." She looked up, her blue eyes thoughtful. "Perhaps ze second will test our strengths instead. What we are capable of when pushed to our limits."
"That's a cheerful thought," Hermione muttered. "What kind of test?"
"Could be anything," Tonks interjected, leaning back in her seat. "But if I had to guess based on my Auror training, I'd say stealth might be involved. One of my final tests was to sneak into a heavily warded house, grab a specific object, and get out without being detected."
Harry looked at her with raised eyebrows. "You? Stealth? Tonks, you trip over flat surfaces."
"Oi!" Tonks protested. "That's what makes me so good at it, actually. No one expects the clumsy one to be the infiltrator."
"But 'ow did you pass?" Fleur asked, genuinely curious.
Tonks tapped the side of her nose conspiratorially. "Metamorphmagus, remember? I turned myself into a cat. Walked right past the Aurors standing guard, grabbed what I needed with my mouth, and sauntered out like I owned the place."
"That's cheating," Hermione said.
"That's being smart," Tonks corrected. "Use every advantage you have. That's what they teach us."
"So you think ze second task might be about infiltration? Stealth?" Fleur mused. "Zat would be... interesting."
"I don't know," Harry admitted. "But whatever it is, I doubt it'll be straightforward. Nothing about this tournament has been."
A warm pulse washed through the pub. Harry glanced at Fleur. She was looking past them, past the crowd, her expression serene but her eyes sharp and focused.
She's doing it again, Harry realized. Searching.
A crash from the bar made everyone jump. One of the customers—a wizard Harry didn't recognize—had knocked over his drink, sending butterbeer cascading across the counter. Rosmerta rushed over with her wand, vanishing the mess with a flick.
But Harry noticed that Fleur's attention hadn't shifted to the crash. She was still watching that one specific spot near their booth, near the wooden beam—
What is she looking at?
Before Harry could ask, Luna Lovegood materialized beside their table as if she'd apparated there. She was wearing her usual dreamy expression and a necklace made of what looked like butterbeer caps.
"Hello, Harry," Luna said in her airy voice. "I've been looking for you."
"Luna," Harry said, surprised. He didn't know her well—just as that odd Ravenclaw girl who occasionally said stranger things. "Er... how are you?"
"Oh, quite well. Though I noticed you have Wrackspurts hovering around your head again. They're attracted to stress."
"I'll... keep that in mind," Harry said diplomatically.
Luna turned to Fleur, tilting her head like a curious bird. "You're very bright. Not just your hair, though that's lovely too. There's light around you. The Nargles are rather intimidated."
Fleur blinked, clearly thrown. "Ze... Nargles?"
"They live in mistletoe," Luna explained. "But they don't like Veela magic. Too sharp." She paused, her gaze going distant. "You should be careful in the second task. The sanguine creatures don't like sharp magic either. They prefer the taste of those who bleed easily."
The table went very quiet.
"Sanguine creatures?" Hermione asked carefully. "What do you mean?"
But Luna had already turned away, her attention caught by something else. "Oh, there's a Blibbering Humdinger near the fireplace. I should warn Madam Rosmerta before it gets into the butterbeer barrels." She drifted away as suddenly as she'd appeared, leaving confusion in her wake.
"Bleed easily? What is she talking about?" Hermione asked, looking confused, and annoyed.
Harry had no idea, but he couldn't help but feel that somehow, it was important.
They fell into uneasy conversation after that. Tonks tried to lighten the mood with a story about Fred and George's failed prank on Mad-Eye Moody, but Harry could tell she was disturbed by Luna's words.
Through it all, Harry was aware of Fleur's periodic pulses of allure.
What are you looking for? he wanted to ask.
But something in Fleur's expression told him to wait. To trust. So he did.
Finally, after nearly an hour, Tonks drained the last of her spiked butterbeer and stood. "Right. I need to check in with the other Aurors. Do some actual work instead of just sitting around drinking."
"You're abandoning us?" Hermione asked.
"I'll find you later," Tonks promised.
She left, walking carefully as if expecting a trap. She nearly tripped, but she finally managed to walk out of the pub.
Harry turned to Fleur. "Alright. We're alone. Well, as alone as we can be in a crowded pub. What's going on?"
Fleur's smile was sharp as a sword. "I believe," she said quietly, "zat I 'ave confirmed our little spy is still following us."
Harry's hand went to his wand instinctively. "You're sure?"
"Oui. I am sure."
Hermione leaned forward, her eyes bright with understanding. "The allure. You've been using it to track—"
"Movement," Fleur confirmed. "Disruptions in ze air. Something small, light, zat does not belong." Her smile widened. "Something zat thinks it is invisible."
"Rita Skeeter," Harry breathed.
"Exactement." Fleur finished her butterbeer in one long swallow and stood, extending her hand to Harry. "Now. Shall we give our little spy somewhere more private to follow?"
Harry took her hand, his heart racing. "Where?"
Fleur's eyes glittered dangerously. "Somewhere we can talk freely. And where she will not be able to escape when I spring ze trap."
They left the Three Broomsticks and stepped back into the cold, the temperature shift making Harry's breath fog in the air. Students still crowded the main street, moving between shops in groups, their laughter echoing off the buildings.
"Where are we going?" Hermione asked quietly as they walked.
"Nowhere specific," Fleur said, linking her arm through Harry's. "For now, we window shop. We act like three students on a date, enjoying ze village."
"We are three students on a date enjoying the village," Harry pointed out.
"Oui, but we are also 'unting." Fleur glanced at a display of Quidditch supplies in the window they were passing. "So we must be patient."
They wandered from shop to shop, maintaining the appearance of casual browsing. At Zonko's, Hermione examined a set of Dungbombs with academic interest while Harry tried to talk himself out of buying a Fanged Frisbee for Ron. Fleur stood near the entrance, her attention seemingly on a display of Hiccough Sweets but her eyes tracking... something.
"She's definitely still with us," Fleur murmured when they regrouped outside.
"How can you tell?" Harry asked in a quiet voice.
"She is very good at remaining 'idden. But she 'as never 'ad to 'ide from a Veela before."
They continued down the street, passing Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop and Gladrags Wizardwear. The crowd was thinning slightly as students began heading back to Hogwarts for dinner, but there were still enough people that Harry felt exposed. Every whisper, every glance felt like a spotlight.
He was saved from his spiraling thoughts when he nearly walked directly into Viktor Krum.
"Potter," Krum said, stopping short.
"Krum," Harry replied. "Sorry, wasn't watching where I was going."
Krum's dark eyes flickered to Hermione and Fleur. "You are... enjoying Hogsmeade?"
"Yeah, it's been good." Harry shifted, suddenly aware of how awkward this was. Krum was his competitor. They hardly knew each other, and Krum's headmaster was a based pig. "How about you?"
"It is... adequate." Krum said. "The village is smaller than I expected."
"Wait until you see the Shrieking Shack," Hermione offered. "It's supposed to be the most haunted building in Britain."
Krum's eyebrows rose. "Haunted?"
"Supposedly," Harry said. "Though it's probably just an old, abandoned house with a good reputation."
"I should like to see this," Krum said. Then, as if the words cost him something, he added, "Perhaps I will visit before returning to the ship."
He nodded curtly and walked away, his Durmstrang classmates falling into formation behind him like a flock of red-robed birds.
Fleur wasn't paying attention to their conversation. She'd gone very still, her head tilted slightly as if listening to something Harry couldn't hear.
Fleur turned to Harry, and the shift in her expression made his cock rock hard beneath his clothes.
"'Arry, I am growing tired of all zese people. Is zere somewhere we could go zat is more... private?"
The implication in her tone was unmistakable. Harry felt his face heat.
"I... yeah. There's a place. If you don't mind a bit of a walk."
"I do not mind at all," Fleur purred, pressing closer to him.
Around them, students had definitely noticed. Harry caught several scandalized expressions, a few jealous glares, and one or two approving grins. He ignored them all and started walking toward the edge of the village, toward the hill where the Shrieking Shack stood in solitary, decrepit glory.
They'd only made it a few steps when Tonks appeared from behind a building, her hair now a subdued brown and her expression carefully neutral.
"Heading somewhere?" Tonks asked.
"The Shrieking Shack," Harry said.
Tonks's eyebrows rose. "Bit remote, that."
"Exactly," Fleur said meaningfully.
Understanding flickered across Tonks's face. She glanced around—checking for observers, Harry realized—then lowered her voice. "You want me to come?"
"It would be... 'elpful," Fleur said.
"This is a terrible idea. You know that, right?"
"Probably," Harry admitted.
"Definitely," Hermione corrected.
"But we're doing it anyway," Tonks sighed. "Fine. But if we get caught, I'm claiming I was investigating suspicious activity and you lot just happened to be there."
"Whatever you need to say," Harry agreed.
They left the main street, heading up the winding path that led toward the Shack. The further they got from the village, the quieter it became. The laughter and noise faded, replaced by the crunch of their feet in the snow and the whistle of wind through bare trees.
Harry glanced back once and saw nothing following them. But Fleur's expression remained focused, and her hand in his was trembling slightly—not with fear, but with anticipation.
"How much further?" Hermione asked, her breath fogging in the cold air.
Harry pointed ahead to where the Shrieking Shack loomed against the grey sky—a ramshackle building with boarded windows and a roof that looked like it might collapse at any moment. The fence around it was crooked, the gate hanging off its hinges.
"There," Harry said. "The most haunted building in Britain. Or at least the most dramatic one."
"It looks like it should 'ave a warning sign," Fleur observed. "DANGER: GHOSTS INSIDE. ENTER AT OWN RISK."
"I think it does have a warning sign," Hermione said, pointing to a weathered piece of wood nailed to the fence. "KEEP OUT. TRESPASSERS WILL BE CURSED."
"Well," Tonks said dryly. "That's inviting."
Harry pushed open the gate, wincing as it let out a long, rusty creak. "Welcome to the Shrieking Shack. Try not to die of tetanus."
They stepped through the gate and approached the building. Up close, it looked even worse—the paint was peeling, the shutters were barely hanging on, and several of the boards over the windows had gaps large enough to see through.
"You're sure this is safe?" Hermione asked nervously.
"Relatively sure," Harry said, which was true. Sirius had used this place as a hideout for months, and it hadn't collapsed on him.
He tried the door. It was locked, but a quick Alohomora fixed that. The door swung open with a sound like a dying animal, revealing a dark interior thick with dust and shadows.
"Lumos," Harry whispered, and his wand tip flared to life.
They stepped inside.
The inside of the Shrieking Shack was exactly as depressing as Harry remembered—dusty, dark, and smelling of mold and abandonment. The entrance hall was small, with a staircase leading up to the second floor and a narrow corridor stretching toward what was probably the kitchen.
"Charming," Tonks muttered, wrinkling her nose. "Really setting the mood here, Potter."
"It's private," Harry said defensively. "And no one will bother us."
"Because it looks like a deathtrap," Hermione pointed out, eyeing the staircase suspiciously. "Those boards don't look stable."
"The upstairs is better," Harry said, starting up the stairs. "More... structurally sound."
He led them up carefully. At the top of the stairs was a landing with three doors—one leading to a bathroom, one to what looked like a bedroom, and one to a larger room that might have once been a parlor.
Harry pushed open the parlor door. The room was surprisingly intact—there was even a worn sofa pushed against one wall, its cushions covered in dust but not completely destroyed. The windows were boarded up, but thin lines of grey light leaked through the gaps, providing just enough illumination to see by.
"Well," Hermione said, stepping into the room and immediately casting cleaning charms. Dust billowed and then vanished, leaving the air clearer if not exactly fresh. "I suppose it could be worse."
"Much worse," Fleur agreed, though she was already scanning the room. Her eyes lingered on the corners, the shadows, the spaces where something small might hide.
Tonks closed the door behind them. "Right. What exactly are we doing here?"
Fleur turned to face them, and her expression had changed. Her eyes darkened, her lips curving into a smile that was pure invitation.
"I would like to fuck 'ere," Fleur said simply.
There was a beat of stunned silence.
"I'm sorry," Tonks said slowly. "You want to what?"
"Fuck," Fleur repeated. She gestured around the dusty parlor. "'Ere. In zis place. It is private, non? No one will disturb us."
Tonks stared at her, then at Harry, then at Hermione, then back at Fleur. "You dragged us to the Shrieking Shack—the most notorious haunted building in Britain—because you wanted to have sex?"
"Oui." Fleur's smile widened. "Is zere a problem?"
"I—" Tonks opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "Do you have a kink for this? For creepy, abandoned buildings? Because I have to tell you, Fleur, this place smells like mold and despair."
"It is atmospheric," Fleur said, unperturbed. She walked over to Harry, her hips swaying, and pressed herself against him. "Do you not find it exciting, mon coeur? Ze danger? Ze secrecy?"
Harry's brain was trying to catch up with what was happening. This was part of the plan, he realized.
"I..." Harry swallowed hard as Fleur's hand slid up his chest. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."
Hermione caught on faster than he did. She moved to Harry's other side, her hand finding his. "It is rather thrilling, isn't it?" she said, her voice slightly breathless. "Being somewhere we're not supposed to be."
Tonks looked between the three of them like they'd all lost their minds. "You're serious. You actually want to—right here. Right now. In the murder shack."
"It's not a murder shack," Harry said, though his attention was mostly on Fleur, who was now pressing soft kisses along his jaw. "It's just... old."
"And private," Hermione added, stepping closer until she was pressed against Harry's back, her arms coming around his waist. "Very private."
Tonks ran a hand through her hair, making it shift from brown to purple with her agitation. "This is insane. You're all insane." But she wasn't moving toward the door. She was standing there, torn between professional concern and something else—something that looked a lot like arousal mixed with curiosity.
"You do not 'ave to participate," Fleur said, though her eyes were gleaming with mischief. "You can simply... watch. Make sure we are safe. Very professional, non?"
"That is the opposite of professional," Tonks muttered, but her voice had gone rougher. "I should not—we should not—this is a terrible idea."
"You keep saying zat," Fleur observed. "And yet you are still 'ere."
Harry turned in Hermione's arms, facing her properly. He could see the understanding in her eyes. That's what this came down to. Trusting Fleur knew what she was doing.
"Come here," Harry murmured to Hermione, and she came willingly, tilting her face up for a kiss.
The kiss started gentle—Hermione's lips soft against his, her hand coming up to cup his face. Harry responded automatically, his hand finding her waist, pulling her closer. It felt good.
Hermione made a soft sound against his mouth, and Harry deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she opened for him. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, and Harry groaned despite himself.
From across the room, Fleur's voice was low and amused. "My, my. You two do not waste time."
Harry broke the kiss long enough to shoot her a look. Fleur was standing near the window, but her attention wasn't on them—not entirely.
Tonks was leaning against the door, her arms crossed and her expression caught between amusement and discomfort. "This is... definitely not in my Auror manual."
"Consider it educational," Fleur said lightly. Then, louder, "Come 'ere, Tonks. Do not stand so far away."
Tonks hesitated, then pushed off the door and moved closer. "Fleur—"
"Shh." Fleur reached out and caught Tonks's hand, pulling her in until they were standing close enough that Harry could see the tension in both their postures. "Just trust me."
Fleur leaned in and whispered something in Tonks's ear—something Harry couldn't hear, but it made Tonks's breath catch and her face flush pink. Fleur's lips moved against Tonks's ear, her voice a low purr that carried just enough for Harry to catch fragments.
"—want 'im to touch you—"
"—'ow it feels when 'e—"
"—make you forget—"
Tonks's eyes went wide, her hand coming up to grip Fleur's arm. "You're evil," she breathed.
"Oui," Fleur agreed, smiling. "But effective, non?"
Harry watched them, torn between arousal and confusion. This was supposed to be a trap, a performance, but the heat between all of them felt real. Too real.
Hermione shifted against him, her mouth moving to his neck, and Harry's brain short-circuited. He tilted his head back, giving her access, his hands sliding down to her hips as she settled more firmly on his lap.
"Harry," Hermione murmured against his skin, and the sound went straight to his groin.
He was losing the thread of the plan. All he could focus on was Hermione's weight on him, the warmth of her mouth, the way her breath hitched when he pulled her closer—
Fleur's expression changed.
And then the temperature in the room spiked.
It wasn't warmth—it was heat, sudden and suffocating, like standing too close to a bonfire. The air itself seemed to ripple, distorting with the force of Fleur's allure concentrated into a single, devastating point.
Harry felt it for a brief moment, the desire to do whatever Fleur wanted, but he quickly ignored it, and then a moment later, the air itself felt hot...too hot. Harry took a deep breath, and suddenly he found it difficult to fill his lungs with air.
From the windowsill came a sound, high-pitched, inhuman, a shriek that stabbed through Harry's eardrums like broken glass. It was the sound of something in pain, something burning.
Harry and Hermione sprang apart, wands in their hands. Hermione's "Lumos Maxima" lit the room like daylight.
But there was nothing on the windowsill. Nothing visible.
Fleur was smiling—a sharp, vicious expression that made her look like her Veela ancestors, the ones who'd lured sailors to their deaths.
"She is indeed just an insect," Fleur said, her voice full of dark satisfaction.
She walked forward, graceful and unhurried, her eyes locked on a spot near the floor. Then she bent down, and when she straightened, she was holding something between her thumb and forefinger.
A beetle.
It was small, dark shell, delicate wings, the kind of insect you'd find in any garden. It was struggling, its wings buzzing frantically but not achieving flight. Its legs scrabbled uselessly against Fleur's fingers.
"What are you doing?" Harry asked.
Fleur turned to face them, holding up the beetle like a trophy. Her smile widened.
"Everyone," she said, her voice full of triumph. "I introduce you to Rita Skeeter."
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