The Grand Palais des Sortilèges sparkled in the afternoon sun, its enchanted crystal walls scattering light into brilliant rainbow patterns that danced across the assembled crowd.
Harry Peverell adjusted his dress robes and surveyed the magnificent venue. The French had genuinely outdone themselves.
Magical France's most prestigious families filled the terraced seating, their colorful robes creating a rather obnoxious display of wealth and influence. Ministers, ambassadors, and dueling champions from across Europe mingled on the polished marble floor.
It seemed as if the very air was humming with excitement.
"Quite the spectacle," Amelia murmured from her place beside him, her voice low enough that only he could hear. She looked stunning in her deep blue auror dress robes, the formal cut doing nothing to hide her curvaceous figure.
Harry's lips quirked upward. "The French do love their pageantry."
Narcissa glided up to his other side, looking every inch the aristocratic pureblood lady that she was despite her role as his healer. Her silver-blonde hair was pinned in an elegant twist, and her emerald robes complemented her pale skin perfectly.
"The Deschanel family has certainly spared no expense," she observed, nodding toward the elaborate magical displays floating overhead.
"Big shots, I take it?" Harry asked, trying to place the family name but coming up short.
"One of the richest in France," Narcissa replied. "Rather… progressive for a pureblood family, even more so than the so-called blood traitors."
"Is that so?"
"They're well known for their open-minded views about blood purity," Amelia supplied. "Have been marrying muggleborns, veela, and even muggles for generations."
"They must produce some very capable witches and wizards then," Harry remarked, fully aware of the role diversity played in magical abilities. Tonks was the prime example.
Narcissa's lips pursed slightly at the remark but she did not say anything, knowing the truth of his words.
"If I'm not mistaken," she said finally, her eyes darting around, "one of theirs is to represent France in this conference."
Harry nodded absently, filing that information away. He had not researched his possible opponents since he was fully confident in his ability to tackle any challenge that came his way.
A cascade of golden sparks suddenly erupted from the center of the arena, forming the shape of a phoenix that soared above the crowd before dissolving into glittering dust. Harry and his companions turned as the assembled dignitaries burst into applause.
"Ladies and gentlemen," a magically amplified voice announced in French, automatically translated into accented English, "welcome to the European Dueling Conference of the year 1976!"
The man whom Harry recognized as Alexandre Beaumont, the French Minister of Magic, took center stage.
"We gather here to celebrate not only the noble art of dueling but the bonds between our great magical nations. Each champion here represents the finest their country has to offer."
A small round of applause echoed in the cavernous hall.
"The European Dueling Conference," Minister Beaumont continued, his voice carrying clearly through the enchanted air, "represents the finest tradition of magical combat in our continent. For three centuries, our nations have gathered to test skill, honor, and magical prowess."
Polite applause rippled through the audience. Harry noticed several British Ministry officials in the crowd, along with what appeared to be members of various pureblood families. This wasn't just a tournament—it was a social and political event of the highest order.
Harry scanned the crowd as the minister continued his speech. Most of the faces were new and he moved on quickly, not really deeming them threatening enough. He had confidence in his abilities and he knew he could brush off anyone he'd face here.
Suddenly, though, he did a double take. His eyes narrowed as he focused near the Bulgarian delegation on a particular individual.
He looked different, much healthier than he'd known him, but there was no mistaking it. It was Antonin Dolohov.
He looked younger than Harry remembered, his dark hair still thick and his face unmarked by the years of Azkaban that would come later. But those cold eyes were the same. Those were the eyes of a killer.
Harry quickly composed himself as their gazes met across the arena. Dolohov's expression remained perfectly neutral, giving nothing away. He held his gaze for a second or two and inclined his head in the barest acknowledgment before turning his attention back to the ceremony. Harry barely avoided a sneer.
Smart. Don't draw attention. Don't stand out.
Harry felt a familiar rage start to consume him. This bastard had tortured and killed so many in his original timeline. He had been there the night his friends had almost died in the Ministry. He had been the one to curse Hermione with that disgusting purple hex that had almost killed her. The urge to end him here and now was almost overwhelming.
"Harry," Narcissa's voice was barely a whisper, but he caught the warning tone. She'd noticed his tension, having scooted ever so slightly toward him. They couldn't be too close in public, but it was enough proximity to calm him down.
He forced himself to relax. Later. There would be time to deal with Dolohov later.
Meanwhile, Dolohov had been busy analyzing one Harry Peverell as the ceremony continued.
So young, he thought, taking in Harry's confident posture and easy smile. Malfoy didn't mention how young he was. That could work in his favor. Young wizards were often overconfident, prone to taking unnecessary risks. All Dolohov had to do was create the right opportunity. The conference was not a stranger to accidental casualties, and he could easily ensure this one remained untainted as well.
"Now," the French minister continued, "allow me to present our champions!"
One by one, the representatives were called forward. Harry noted each name, filing away potential threats and allies. The German champion looked competent but unimaginative. The Italian representative carried himself with flashy confidence that suggested more style than substance.
"Representing the Republic of Bulgaria, Antonin Dolohov!"
Polite applause followed as Dolohov stepped forward. He moved like a predator ready to pounce, acknowledging the crowd with a slight bow. His eyes swept the arena, cataloging threats just as Harry had done. When his gaze passed over the British delegation, it lingered for just a moment on Harry.
You've heard of me, haven't you? Harry thought as Dolohov walked past. Good. Let's see how well you can do against someone your own size.
"Representing the Wizarding Britain, Lord Harry Peverell!"
The applause was louder this time. The Peverell name still carried weight, even after all these years. People had gotten long enough to get over the shock that a Peverell would be participating, but there were still a few gasps as Harry stepped forward with confident strides, his back straight and his head held high. He could feel hundreds of eyes on him, assessing, judging, and calculating.
He ignored the gazes directed at him as he made his way to join the other national champions, his lips quirking a bit when Amelia gave him a wink from her place beside Narcissa.
As he took his place among the other champions, he caught sight of the young woman in the French delegation and could not stop himself from raising an impressed brow.
She was stunning—there was no other word for it—with platinum blonde hair that cascaded over her shoulders in perfect waves and blue eyes that shone with sharp intelligence, seemingly taking in everything around her. Her robes were cut in what Harry could only assume was the latest Parisian fashion, emphasizing her curvaceous figure without being overly improper. It was quite apparent that the woman took pride in her sensuality though, given the select curves the dress did not truly hide. It was elegance mixed with deliberate provocativeness.
What made him curious was the fact that she was watching him with undisguised interest, her lips curved in a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Even from across the arena, he could sense the subtle pull of veela magic testing his defenses. It slid off him like water off glass.
Her smile faltered slightly, and Harry stifled a smirk. So she was indeed a veela. Interesting. She'd have to try harder than that.
"And finally," the minister announced, "representing the French Wizarding Republic, Mademoiselle Apolline Deschanel!"
The applause should've been thunderous, and to an extent it was, but there were quite a lot of reserved responses mixed in. This was her home crowd, so it came as slight surprise.
Apolline didn't seem to care though as she stepped forward with grace, acknowledging the cheers with elegant waves. She was every inch the French aristocrat—beautiful, poised, and utterly confident in her superiority.
For his part, Harry found himself appreciating the view. As a hot-blooded man, how could he not? Apolline was undeniably gorgeous, with a perfect face, curves in all the right places, and a way of moving that drew the eye.
In another timeline, she would become Fleur's mother, though she couldn't be older than twenty-five here. The resemblance was already there in the proud tilt of her chin and the way she commanded attention simply by existing, but where Fleur had possessed an almost innocent allure, Apolline's beauty carried a sharp edge of calculation.
When the introductions finished, the champions were escorted to a reception area where they could mingle with the dignitaries and each other. Narcissa and Amelia parted ways from Harry who immediately found himself surrounded by French nobles eager to make his acquaintance.
"Monsieur Peverell," an elderly wizard gushed, "such an honor! The Peverell name is legendary, even here in France."
"You're too kind," Harry replied smoothly, accepting a glass of champagne from a floating tray. "I'm simply honored to represent Britain in such a prestigious tournament."
"Modest as well as skilled," laughed a woman. "How refreshing!"
Harry played the part perfectly, charming and humble while revealing nothing of substance. Years of dealing with political functions in his previous life had taught him well. Smile, nod, say the right things, and give them nothing they could use against you.
"Monsieur Peverell."
The voice was soft, musical, with just a hint of veela influence threaded through it. Harry turned to find Apolline Deschanel approaching, a crystal of champagne in her delicate hand.
"Mademoiselle Deschanel." He inclined his head politely. "A pleasure to meet who I assume would be my most formidable opponent."
Her laugh was like silver bells, though Harry did not miss the flicker of surprise that crossed her face.
"Flattery, my lord? How... refreshing. Most men seem to lose their tongues around me."
"Then they're fools," Harry said simply. "Beauty should inspire eloquence, not stupidity."
A little further away from him, he saw Narcissa and Amelia exchange a look. They knew him well enough to recognize when he was playing a game.
Apolline's eyes sparkled with what might have been genuine amusement. "You are not what I expected, Lord Peverell."
"I do try to keep people guessing," Harry replied. "It makes life more interesting, don't you think?"
"Perhaps." She tilted her head slightly, studying him. "I must confess, I am curious about you."
She stepped closer, well within what most would consider personal space. The subtle scent of her perfume—something deep, dark, and mysterious that seemed to enhance her natural scent with hints of what Harry had come to identify as uniquely veela—wafted around him. The choice was not lost on Harry. It was meant as a direct skin-to-skin contact, especially with her veela scent directed at him.
Forward. And bold. Too bold.
"Curious how?" He raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of champagne. The veela allure pressed against his mental shields again, stronger this time. He let it break against his defenses like waves against a cliff. Once again, he saw the flicker of surprise mixed with irritation cross her beautiful face, but it was gone so quickly that one might as well have imagined it.
She was very good.
"You are... unexpected." Her blue eyes studied his face intently. "I must emphasize, most men find themselves quite taken with me upon first meeting."
Harry's lips quirked upward. "Perhaps I'm not most men."
"Non," she murmured, "I suspect you are not."
There was something calculating in her gaze now, as if she were reassessing her approach. "I do hope we can be friends during your stay in France. It would be such a shame if our competition created unnecessary... tension."
The way she said 'tension' made it clear she wasn't talking about dueling. Harry felt a flicker of amusement. She was good at this game, he'd give her that. But he'd been playing it better.
"I'm sure we'll get along splendidly," he said, his voice dropping to a more intimate rumble as he allowed a bit of his own aura to waft over her. "After all, what's a little healthy competition between... professionals?"
Two could play at this game of innuendo and suggestion. He let his eyes travel over her figure with obvious appreciation, just long enough to be noticed but not long enough to be crude. When he met her gaze again, he saw another flash of surprise quickly hidden.
"Indeed," she said, her voice slightly breathless, making his smirk widen a bit. "I look forward to seeing what you're truly capable of."
"As do I." He raised his champagne glass in a small toast. "To new friendships."
She clinked her glass against his, her fingers brushing his in the process. A much more powerful tingle of her veela magic traveled through the touch, once again brushed off without breaking a sweat.
"To new friendships," she agreed a bit tightly, and something in her tone suggested she had other ideas entirely.
"Lord Peverell." A polite voice interrupted their moment. "If I may have a moment, please."
Harry turned to see Millicent Bagnold approaching with who could only be the Bulgarian Minister of Magic in tow. He could tell because behind them walked none other than Antonin Dolohov, his expression carefully neutral.
"Minister Bagnold," Harry said warmly, nodding before extending his hand to the Bulgarian minister. "An honor, Minister Dimitrov."
"The honor is mine, Lord Peverell," the man replied in heavily accented English. "May I present Bulgaria's champion, Antonin Dolohov?"
Harry turned to face his old enemy, though no one else knew that. He had to work especially hard on keeping his expression pleasantly polite. He didn't notice the slight narrowing of Apolline's eyes though as she glanced from him to Dolohov and back again.
"Mr. Dolohov," Harry began calmly. "I've heard impressive things about your dueling skills."
Dolohov's smile was cold and didn't reach his eyes. "You are too kind, Lord Peverell. Though I confess, I know little of your own abilities. The Peverell name is... ancient. But skill is not always inherited, no?"
The subtle insult hung in the air. Several nearby conversations faltered as people caught the exchange.
Only her firm control over her expressions prevented Apolline from reacting outwardly. Meanwhile, Harry's smile didn't waver in the slightest.
"You're absolutely right. Names mean nothing without the ability to back them up. I suppose we'll all find out soon enough who truly deserves to be here."
"Indeed we will," Dolohov replied softly.
Apolline watched this exchange with sharp eyes, clearly filing away information she could garner from this little interaction. She didn't know much, but she knew she'd not mistaken the predatory instinct that she'd felt emanating from Harry Peverell the moment he'd laid eyes on Antonin Dolohov.
Is there bad blood between them? She wondered. Harry caught her gaze and winked, which seemed to unsettle her further.
The next hour passed in a blur of introductions and polite conversation. Harry worked the room with expertise, making mental notes about each champion and their accompanying delegations. The German representative was exactly as boring as he'd appeared. The Italian was all flash and bravado with little substance behind it. The Swiss champion barely spoke, preferring to observe from the sidelines.
But it was Dolohov who drew his attention repeatedly. The man was subtle, almost invisible in the crowd despite his imposing presence. He spoke when spoken to, laughed at the right moments, and revealed absolutely nothing about himself. It was masterfully done.
Harry found himself grudgingly impressed despite his hatred for the man. Dolohov had always been one of Voldemort's more competent followers, and it showed even here in this social setting.
"You seem distracted," Narcissa murmured as she appeared at his elbow with a fresh glass of champagne.
"Just observing," he replied quietly. "Getting a feel for the competition."
"And what do you think?"
Harry's eyes swept the room again, landing briefly on Dolohov before moving on. "Some are more dangerous than they appear."
Narcissa followed his gaze and her lips tightened almost imperceptibly. She'd noticed Dolohov too, then. Good. She had already recognized the subtle signs of threat that could be seen beneath the veneer of faux normalcy.
Harry played along with the conversations, but he found his attention drifting back to Apolline across the room as another delegation left.
She was speaking with an older French wizard, her manner deferential but her eyes sharp. Even from this distance, he could see the calculations running behind those blue eyes.
Their eyes met across the crowded room and she smiled, raising her champagne glass in a small salute. Harry returned the gesture, amused despite himself. She was playing a dangerous game, but at least she was playing it well.
"Earth to Harry," Amelia's voice was quietly amused as she appeared beside him again. "You're staring."
"Just appreciating the local scenery," he replied with a grin.
"Careful," she warned, though her tone was light. "That particular piece of scenery has teeth."
"The best ones always do."
"Ladies and gentlemen," the French minister's voice boomed across the reception hall, "if you would please take your seats, we will begin the formal ceremony."
The crowd began to move toward the arena seating in a rustle of expensive robes and quiet conversation. Harry found himself walking beside Apolline, apparently by coincidence though he suspected otherwise.
"Are you enjoying your stay in France, Monsieur Peverell?" she asked as they walked.
"Very much. Your country's hospitality has been... memorable."
Something flickered in her eyes at that. "I do hope Clarisse has been taking good care of you at Chateau Lumiere. She is a dear friend."
Harry noticed—with more than a little approval—that she hadn't bothered to keep up any pretenses or pretend innocence. He enjoyed the game of subtlety as much as anyone, but he appreciated it even more when both sides openly recognized the other's intelligence.
Harry's smile was perfectly innocent. "She's been most attentive. Though I'm afraid her efforts had been somewhat wasted on me for quite a while."
Apolline's step faltered almost imperceptibly at his wording. "Oh? How so?"
"I'm rather set in my ways, I'm afraid. Difficult to influence or distract." He glanced at her sideways. "I find it best to remain focused on what truly matters."
She recovered quickly, her smile never wavering. "How... disciplined of you."
"I've found discipline serves me well in all areas of life. And I prefer to keep things under control."
The innuendo was subtle but unmistakable. Apolline's cheeks colored slightly, though whether from irritation or anger was unclear. She didn't seem the type to be bashful about such things, not after orchestrating such elaborate schemes behind everyone's backs. It did make him wonder though—why him?
"Clarisse did mention that you seemed... unaffected by her charms. That is unusual, for a man."
Harry's smile didn't waver. "I've found that attraction works best when it's genuine rather than magical."
"How refreshingly honest," Apolline said, though her tone suggested she found it anything but refreshing. "And what do you find... genuinely attractive?"
The question hung in the air between them, loaded with multiple meanings. Harry was aware of Narcissa and Amelia nearby, their postures subtly attentive without being obvious about it.
"Intelligence," Harry said finally. "Strength. The kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly who you are and what you're capable of."
"And do you know what you are capable of, Lord Peverell?"
"I'm beginning to find out," he replied. "Though I suspect you've already formed your own theories."
Apolline let out a tinkling laugh. "You give me too much credit. I am simply a curious woman meeting an intriguing man."
"Are you?" Harry asked, his tone remaining light even as his eyes grew more serious. "Just curious?"
For a moment, her mask slipped. Just for an instant, he saw the calculating mind behind the beautiful facade, the sharp intelligence that made her far more dangerous than any veela allure ever could.
"Perhaps," she said softly, "we are both more than we appear."
"Perhaps we are."
They parted ways shortly and reached the arena seating where champions and their delegations had reserved sections. Harry took his seat between Narcissa and Amelia, the other two aurors taking their place on either side. Along with them sat Bagnold and the few ministry officials that had arrived.
The formal ceremony began with a parade of magical creatures—phoenixes, unicorns, and winged horses soaring through the air while the crowd applauded. French magical theory was on full display, with complex illusions and transfigurations that would have impressed even Dumbledore.
As the ceremony concluded, the evening shifted into its socio-political phase. Musicians began playing in one corner while house-elves appeared with trays of champagne and delicate hors d'oeuvres. The rigid seating arrangement dissolved as delegates mingled freely.
Harry found himself surrounded almost immediately, and the discussions this time were strictly about politics and external affairs. The Spanish representative wanted to discuss recent changes in international magical law. The Portuguese champion insisted on sharing his theories about wand movement optimization. Through it all, Harry maintained his diplomatic facade while keeping track of both Apolline and Dolohov.
"The dueling tournament will begin tomorrow," the French minister announced as the ceremony wound down. "Champions will be grouped randomly for the first round. Two champions from each group will proceed to the knockouts. May magic guide your wands and honor guide your hearts!"
The crowd erupted in applause as fireworks exploded overhead, filling the arena with brilliant colors and magical sparkles that slowly drifted down like snow.
"Quite a show," Narcissa commented as they rose to leave.
"Indeed," Harry agreed, his eyes finding Apolline in the crowd. She was speaking animatedly with another French wizard, her hands gesturing elegantly as she made some point. Even in conversation, she was beautiful.
"She's quite something, isn't she?" Amelia appeared at his elbow, having gracefully extracted herself from a conversation with the Austrian delegation.
"Dangerous," Harry agreed quietly. "But I expected that."
"Did you expect her to be quite so... focused on you?" Narcissa joined them, her tone carefully neutral.
Harry glanced around to ensure they weren't being overheard. "I expected some interest. The Peverell name tends to draw attention."
"This feels like more than curiosity about your family name," Amelia observed. "She's studying you like you're a puzzle she's determined to solve."
"Let her," Harry said with a slight smile. "I've been studied by far more dangerous people."
"So she's the one behind that little scheme," Amelia commented idly. "Must suck for her that it failed so spectacularly."
"Am I an asshole for feeling flattered that I was considered worthy enough for such an elaborate scheme?" Harry asked with a grin.
"I don't think you're the only one," Narcissa replied. "The target, I mean."
"Interesting," Harry murmured, the meaning behind her words dawning on her. "She's much more cunning than I gave her credit then."
"Too bad that even all her cunning won't help her win," Amelia smirked.
As they made their way out of the arena with the rest of the crowd, Harry caught Dolohov's eye one more time. The Bulgarian champion was speaking with his minister, but his attention was clearly elsewhere.
Soon, Harry thought. Very soon we'll see what you're really made of.
The opening ceremony was over, but the real games were just beginning. And Harry intended to win them all.
"Monsieur Peverell!"
Harry turned to find Apolline approaching once more, having apparently detached herself from the French delegation. She moved through the dispersing crowd, drawing admiring glances from several wizards as she passed.
"Mademoiselle Deschanel," Harry greeted with an easy smile. "Another lovely conversation, I hope?"
Her smile was dazzling, and he felt another press of veela allure against his mental shields, this time much more intentional than the ones before.
'You're one persistent woman,' he thought. How many times had she already done this? Didn't she learn, or did her pride not let her know when to back off from what was not working?
He brushed it off as casually as he'd done previously. Her smile threatened to falter, but she kept it in place. All it did was amuse Harry.
"I was wondering if you might join me for dinner tomorrow evening after the duels? There is a charming little restaurant in Paris that I think you would enjoy."
'Taking matters in your own hands so quickly? For all your scheming, you sure are an impatient one,' Harry thought, holding in a chuckle.
"How thoughtful of you to think of me," he replied smoothly. "Unfortunately, I'll be quite busy preparing for the tournament. Perhaps another time?"
Something flashed in her eyes—surprise, perhaps, or annoyance that was quickly masked. "Of course. The tournament must take priority. Though..." She stepped closer, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body. "I do hope we'll have opportunities to get better acquainted during your stay."
Her hand touched his arm lightly, her fingers trailing across the expensive fabric of his dress robes. The gesture was perfectly innocent to any observer, but the intent behind it was clear.
Harry could have easily backed away, but when had he ever when he sensed the opening to go for the jugular?
He covered her hand with his own, his thumb brushing across her knuckles. "I'm sure we will. After all, the tournament will last several days. Plenty of time for... getting acquainted."
Her breath caught slightly at the contact, and he saw her pupils dilate.
"Yes," she breathed. "Plenty of time."
Harry lifted her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles, his lips lingering just long enough to make the gesture meaningful. "Until tomorrow, then."
He released her hand and stepped back, offering a polite nod before turning to rejoin Narcissa and Amelia. Behind him, he heard Apolline's sharp intake of breath.
"Smooth," Amelia murmured as they walked away.
"She's playing a game," he replied quietly. "Might as well play along."
"Just remember who you're going home with," Narcissa added, though her tone was more amused than jealous.
Harry's smile was warmly genuine for the first time all evening. "Always, Cissa," he said softly, before his lips curved into a smirk. "But you know me well enough by now to guess where this is going."
Narcissa's lips curled into a smirk that matched the one on Amelia's face.
"Greedy bastard," the latter muttered, shaking her head.
As they reached the arena exit, Harry glanced back one more time. Apolline was still standing where he'd left her, watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read. Beside her, an older French wizard was speaking urgently in her ear, but her attention remained fixed on Harry.
Let the games begin, he thought with satisfaction. Tomorrow would bring the real test, but tonight had been a promising start.
The opening ceremony was officially over, but Harry had the distinct feeling that the real competition had only just begun. And he intended to win that one too.
TBC.
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