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Harry led the group of Beauxbatons students down a wide corridor lined with moving portraits, their occupants peering curiously at the foreign visitors. Several portraits called out greetings in broken French, which earned polite waves from most of the students and an eye-roll from Fleur.
"And here we have the Central Hall," Harry announced, pushing open a set of ornate double doors. "The social heart of Hogwarts, where all four houses come together."
The Beauxbatons students filed through the entrance and immediately fell silent. The Central Hall was magnificent—a soaring circular space with a vaulted ceiling painted to resemble the night sky. Floating candles cast warm light over comfortable seating areas arranged around the room's perimeter. Students were everywhere, while the centerpiece dominated the space: a towering statue of the four founders of Hogwarts.
Each founder stood at a cardinal point, their stone forms captured mid-gesture. Godric Gryffindor held his sword aloft, Helga Hufflepuff cradled a golden cup, Rowena Ravenclaw bore an ornate diadem, and Salazar Slytherin grasped an ornate locket. Magic seemed to shimmer around each figure, giving them an almost lifelike presence.
"Mon Dieu," whispered Sophie, one of the Beauxbatons girls. "It is... impressive."
"Impressive, yes," Fleur said coolly, circling the statue with critical eyes. "Though rather theatrical, don't you think? All zis drama and posing. It seems designed more to intimidate zan to inspire."
Harry smiled pleasantly. "The founders weren't interested in looking pretty—they were interested in building something that would last a thousand years."
"And yet," Fleur replied, running a finger along Ravenclaw's stone robes, "at Beauxbatons, we believe beauty and substance need not be mutually exclusive. But zen again, we 'ave always been more... sophisticated in our approach."
"How fortunate for you," Harry said, his tone remaining cheerful despite the clear dig. "Though I've always found that true sophistication doesn't need to announce itself quite so loudly."
Before Fleur could respond, another group entered the hall. Cedric Diggory appeared with a cluster of Durmstrang students, their dark fur-lined robes a stark contrast to the Beauxbatons' powder blue. The Durmstrang students looked appropriately grim and serious, their eyes constantly scanning for potential threats.
"Harry!" Cedric called out with a grin. "How's the cultural exchange going?"
"Brilliantly," Harry replied, moving toward his friend. "I'm learning all sorts of things about international diplomacy."
The two groups mingled, and immediately the atmosphere shifted. Several Beauxbatons girls had spotted a familiar figure among the Durmstrang delegation and were whispering excitedly to each other.
"Is zat—?" Sophie began, pointing discretely.
"Viktor Krum," confirmed another girl, her voice slightly breathless. "Ze Seeker from ze World Cup!"
Krum, for his part, looked deeply uncomfortable with the attention. His famous scowl deepened as he noticed the French girls staring, and he moved closer to his Durmstrang classmates as if seeking protection.
Harry and Cedric stepped aside, speaking in lowered voices while keeping watchful eyes on their respective charges.
"So," Cedric said with a knowing smirk, "how are you finding our French visitors? That blonde one seems particularly... attentive to your every word."
Harry glanced over at Fleur, who was indeed watching him, though her expression suggested she was planning something unpleasant rather than romantic. "Attentive, yes. Though I suspect she's thinking of creative ways to set me on fire with her Veela heritage."
Cedric's grin widened. "Well, there are worse ways to burn, if you know what I mean."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Cedric, honestly. Your mind lives permanently in the gutter."
"Says the boy who's been flirting with the most beautiful witch in three countries for the past hour."
"That wasn't flirting," Harry protested. "That was... competitive intellectual discourse."
"Right," Cedric nodded sagely. He glanced toward the Durmstrang girls, several of whom were stealing glances at him. "Speaking of which, I think some of your new neighbors are interested in sampling the famous Diggory charm."
Harry followed his gaze and grinned wickedly. "Should I let them know there's not much pie to share?"
"Shut up," Cedric laughed, shoving Harry's shoulder. "At least I don't have a French ice queen plotting my destruction."
"Ice queen implies coldness," Harry mused, watching as Fleur gracefully approached Viktor Krum with a confident smile. "I'd say she's more like dragon fire—beautiful from a distance, but liable to incinerate anyone who gets too close."
They watched as Fleur introduced herself to Krum in what sounded like perfectly accented Bulgarian. The Quidditch star's perpetual scowl softened slightly, and he actually spoke with her without much stuttering.
"Show off," Harry muttered.
"Jealous?" Cedric teased.
"Hardly. I'm just noting her... comprehensive education."
"Her comprehensive education, or her comprehensive—"
"Finish that sentence and I'll tell Professor Sprout about what really happened to her prized Whomping Willow saplings," Harry warned.
Cedric held up his hands in surrender. "Message received."
The Durmstrang boys maintained their stoic expressions but Harry noticed several sneaking glances at the Beauxbatons girls. The French students, for their part, seemed divided between fascination with Krum's celebrity and mild intimidation by the Durmstrang students' grim demeanor.
"Your lot seem more sociable than mine," Cedric observed. "Half the Durmstrang students look like they're expecting an attack at any moment."
"Can you blame them? After the World Cup..." Harry's expression grew more serious. "Though I suspect Fleur could handle herself against pretty much anyone."
As if summoned by his words, Fleur appeared beside them with grace. "Messieurs," she said with a polite nod that managed to convey both acknowledgment and dismissal. "I 'ope you are not gossiping about your charges like schoolgirls."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Harry replied smoothly. "We were actually discussing the architectural merits of the Central Hall. Cedric was just saying how the theatrical elements really bring out the space's sophisticated design."
"He was saying no such thing," Fleur said flatly. "You were discussing me."
"That's quite presumptuous," Harry said, fighting a smile.
"It is not presumption when one can read lips, Monsieur Potter," she replied sweetly. "A useful skill when dealing with... 'ow did you say? Dragon fire?"
Cedric made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh or a cough.
"You are not helping, Diggory." Harry said in a quiet voice.
"Indeed? And what does Monsieur Diggory think of ze... substance beneath all zis beauty?"
Cedric, caught between his friend's verbal sparring and diplomatic necessity, managed a diplomatic smile. "I think Hogwarts has its own unique charm, just as I'm sure Beauxbatons does."
"Diplomatic," Fleur approved. "Your friend could learn from your example, Monsieur Diggory."
"Oh, Harry's plenty diplomatic when he wants to be," Cedric said with barely suppressed laughter. "He just prefers the direct approach."
"Like a Bludger to the face," Harry added helpfully.
"Ze direct approach," Fleur repeated, her accent making the words sound almost dangerous. "How very... British."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Harry said cheerfully.
"Take it 'owever you wish," Fleur replied with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Though perhaps you should know that in France, we 'ave a saying: 'The fool who provokes the Veela often finds himself dancing in flames.'"
"In Britain, we have a saying too," Harry countered. "'Don't threaten me with a good time.'"
Cedric choked on air. "Harry!"
The tension was broken by Sophie approaching their group. "Fleur, shall we continue ze tour? Some of ze others are eager to see more of ze castle."
"And Viktor is looking like he might hex the next person who asks for an autograph," she added in rapid French, clearly not expecting the British boys to understand.
"Tell him to try a Confundus Charm on his own face," Harry replied in passable French. "Worked for Gilderoy Lockhart for years."
"Of course," Fleur said, immediately shifting back into polite guest mode, though Harry caught the calculating look in her eyes. She turned to Harry with exaggerated courtesy. "Please, Monsieur Potter, do continue with your... educational demonstration."
Harry bowed slightly. "It would be my pleasure, Miss Delacour. Though perhaps we should skip the greenhouses. I'd hate for you to encounter anything too... direct for your sophisticated sensibilities."
"I think I can 'andle whatever you British consider dangerous," Fleur replied archly.
"Famous last words," Cedric muttered.
As the groups began to separate, Cedric leaned close to Harry. "You know she's going to be trouble, right?"
Harry watched Fleur rejoin her classmates, noting how they unconsciously gave her space while still clearly deferring to her opinion. He caught her glancing back at him, and for just a moment, her controlled mask slipped and he saw something that looked almost like interest.
"Cedric," he said with a grin that was equal parts anticipation and challenge, "I'm counting on it."
"Your funeral, mate," Cedric laughed. "Though what a way to go."
"Shut up and go charm your Durmstrang admirers," Harry said, pushing his friend away. "Some of us have actual work to do."
"Is that what we're calling it now?" Cedric called back as he walked away. "Work?"
Harry ignored him, turning back to the Beauxbatons group with renewed determination. Fleur was watching him again, one perfect eyebrow raised in silent challenge.
"And this," Harry announced, pushing open a heavy wooden door, "is one of my favorite rooms in the castle."
The Beauxbatons students filed into a large, circular chamber with vaulted ceilings. Afternoon light streamed through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air. The room was mostly empty except for various portraits lining the walls and a few ancient-looking desks pushed against one side.
"It looks like... nothing," Pierre observed, clearly unimpressed.
"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," Harry said with a grin. "This room contains one of Hogwarts' simpler puzzles. Perfect for warming up your brain between classes."
Sophie stepped forward, examining the walls. "But I see nothing special."
"Exactly," Harry said, moving toward a large gilt frame on the far wall. Unlike the other portraits, this one was completely blank—just an empty canvas. "This portrait has been here for centuries, but it only reveals itself to those clever enough to solve its puzzle."
Several students moved closer, intrigued despite themselves.
"What kind of puzzle?" asked Camille.
Harry pointed to a small silver plaque beneath the frame. "The inscription gives you a hint, but it's in Old English. Basically, it says 'Light guides the lost.' Helpful, right?"
"Typically British," Fleur commented from near the doorway. "Obscure clues for ze sake of being mysterious."
"Or," Harry countered, "teaching students to think creatively. But I suppose at Beauxbatons, you prefer your puzzles pre-solved and served on silver platters?"
Before Fleur could retort, a flutter of movement caught their attention. A butterfly—luminous blue with silver-edged wings—had emerged from behind one of the other portraits.
"Oh!" Sophie exclaimed. "It's beautiful!"
"That's our key," Harry said, drawing his wand. "Now watch. Lumos."
The tip of his wand lit up, and something remarkable happened. The butterfly, attracted by the light, began flying toward him in lazy circles.
"The butterfly follows the light," Harry explained, moving his wand slowly. "And if you lead it to the right place..."
He began walking toward the blank portrait, the butterfly trailing behind his wand like a pet on an invisible leash. The other students followed.
"This seems unnecessarily complicated," Jean muttered.
"Most worthwhile things are," Harry replied, not taking his eyes off the butterfly.
As they reached the blank portrait, the butterfly suddenly burst into brilliant light, dissolving into sparks that swirled across the empty canvas. Colors bloomed across the surface like spilled paint, forming shapes and figures.
The picture revealed itself slowly: a night scene showing a wizard in star-covered robes standing before a constellation map. Above him, the stars seemed to move, rearranging themselves into different patterns. In his hand, he held what looked like a crystal sphere containing a miniature galaxy.
"Magnifique," breathed one of the French students.
"It changes every time," Harry explained. "Never the same image twice. This one seems to be showing—"
"Nicolas Flamel," Fleur said quietly.
Harry turned to her, surprised. "What?"
She stepped closer to the portrait, her blue eyes studying the details. "Ze constellation pattern—it's alchemical. And ze sphere in his hand contains ze symbol for ze Philosopher's Stone. This is depicting Flamel's discovery of celestial influences on transmutation."
Harry stared at her, genuinely impressed. He'd seen this particular image only once before, and it had taken him and Terry twenty minutes to work out what it meant.
"That's... exactly right," he admitted.
Their eyes met across the space between them. For just a moment, there was no animosity, no verbal sparring—just mutual recognition of quick intelligence. Fleur seemed almost surprised by his acknowledgment, a faint pink touching her cheeks.
Then she seemed to catch herself, lifting her chin. "It was obvious to anyone familiar with alchemical history."
"Of course," Harry said, but without his usual sarcasm. "Though most people don't recognize seventh-century constellation patterns at a glance."
"Perhaps British wizards should study more," Fleur replied, but her tone lacked its usual bite.
Sophie looked between them. "How long does ze picture last?"
Harry cleared his throat, turning away from Fleur. "About an hour. Then it fades back to blank, and the butterfly returns. Ready for the next person to solve it."
"C'est brillant," Laurent said admiringly. "We have nothing like zis at Beauxbatons."
"No?" Harry asked, grateful for the distraction. "What kind of puzzles do you have?"
As the students began discussing various magical challenges, Harry caught Fleur studying the portrait with genuine fascination, her fingers hovering near the frame as if wanting to touch it.
So she does appreciate some things about Hogwarts, he thought. Even if she'd rather hex herself than admit it.
"The classrooms are mostly on the first through fourth floors," Harry explained as they left the puzzle room. "Though Astronomy is obviously at the top of the tower, and Potions is in the dungeons because Professor Snape apparently enjoys the aesthetic of eternal gloom."
He pushed open the door to the Transfiguration classroom. "This is where Professor McGonagall terrorizes students into turning mice into snuffboxes."
The Beauxbatons students peered inside, taking in the high windows and neatly arranged desks.
"It's very..." Sophie searched for a diplomatic word, "traditional."
"You mean old," Harry grinned. "It's fine, you can say it. The desks are probably the same ones Dumbledore used as a student."
"At Beauxbatons, we 'ave individual workstations with adjustable surfaces," Fleur commented, running a finger along one of the worn wooden desks. "And ze lighting automatically adjusts to prevent eye strain."
"How modern," Harry replied. "Here, we rely on windows and candles like savages. Though somehow we've managed to produce decent wizards for a thousand years. Must be dumb luck."
Fleur's eyes narrowed. "I did not say—"
"Moving on!" Harry interrupted cheerfully, leading them to the Charms corridor. "Professor Flitwick's classroom is through here. Fair warning: he's excitable about advanced spellwork and might try to recruit you for his Charm Club if you show too much interest."
They peeked into several more classrooms, the French students making comparisons—not always favorable—to their own school. Harry took it in stride, occasionally making self-deprecating jokes about Hogwarts' medieval amenities.
Finally, they reached the main stairwell, and Harry paused dramatically. "Now, for one of Hogwarts' most... interesting features."
He gestured to the vast open space filled with staircases—dozens of them, crisscrossing at various levels, some leading to visible doors, others seeming to end at blank walls.
"Mon Dieu," someone whispered.
As if on cue, one of the staircases began to move, swinging slowly from one landing to another with a grinding sound of stone on stone.
"Zey MOVE?" Sophie squeaked, grabbing Harry's arm. "But—but 'ow do you get anywhere?"
"Carefully," Harry said. "And with good timing. Also helps to ask them nicely."
"You are joking," accused one of the boys.
"Only partially. The staircases have a schedule, but they're also a bit... temperamental. They like to keep things interesting." Harry stepped onto the nearest staircase. "Come on, perfectly safe."
The group followed hesitantly. They'd made it halfway up when the staircase shuddered and began to swing.
Sophie shrieked, clutching the banister. Several others gasped and grabbed for support. Harry noted with interest that while everyone else flailed, Fleur simply shifted her weight, maintaining perfect balance as if she were standing on solid ground. Her expression didn't even change.
"It's fine," Harry assured them. "The stairs won't drop you. There are about seventeen different safety charms to prevent students from falling. We're very safety-conscious here at Hogwarts."
"Zen why is zat staircase upside down?" Jean pointed to a staircase above them where two first-years were walking on what should have been the underside.
"Oh, that's just showing off," Harry said. "Tuesdays, right?"
The staircase stopped at a different landing than where they'd aimed.
"And now we are lost?" Camille asked nervously.
"Now we take the scenic route," Harry corrected. "This way leads past where I once fought a troll. First year. Good times."
Most of the group laughed, assuming he was joking. Pierre made exaggerated fighting motions. "Oh yes, ze famous Harry Potter, troll fighter!"
"It was only a mountain troll," Harry said modestly. "Twelve feet tall, maybe. Nothing too dramatic."
More laughter, but Harry noticed Fleur watching him carefully, her head tilted slightly. When she caught him looking, she raised an eyebrow.
"What, Miss Delacour? Don't believe in trolls?"
"I believe you were elevent in your first year," she said simply. "And zat even British education would not pit first-years against mountain trolls."
"You'd be surprised what passes for normal around here," Harry replied. "Last year we had dementors. This year, we get beautiful French students. I'd call that an improvement."
A few of the girls giggled, but Fleur's expression remained skeptical.
Another staircase moved unexpectedly, causing more yelps. Again, Fleur adjusted without apparent effort, her robes swirling gracefully around her.
"How do you do that?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.
She looked at him coolly. "Do what?"
"Balance like that. Everyone else is stumbling around like drunk Nifflers, but you're acting like the stairs are solid."
For a moment, she looked like she might not answer. Then: "Ballet. My mother insisted. Seven years of lessons."
"Ballet?" Harry couldn't hide his surprise. "I wouldn't have guessed."
"No? What would you 'ave guessed? Zat I simply float everywhere on Veela wings?" Her tone was sharp.
"Actually, I was going to guess extensive training in looking superior while standing on moving surfaces," Harry shot back. "But ballet works too."
She almost—almost—smiled. "It teaches balance and grace. Useful for more zan just dancing."
"Clearly," Harry agreed, then called to the group, "Almost there! Just three more potentially moving staircases to go!"
The collective groan that followed made him grin.
As they descended into the dungeons, the temperature dropped noticeably, and the cheerful chatter of the Beauxbatons students gradually faded to nervous whispers. The stone walls seemed to press closer with each step downward, and the flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows that danced menacingly across the ancient stonework.
"Mon Dieu," Sophie murmured, pulling her silk robes tighter around herself. "It is so... dark down 'ere."
"And cold," added another student, his teeth beginning to chatter. "Why would anyone choose to 'old classes in such a place?"
Fleur's voice cut through the complaints with typical precision. "Because zey want zeir students to feel as miserable as possible, obviously. Nothing says 'quality education' like freezing to death in a medieval dungeon."
Harry, walking ahead of the group, couldn't help but grin. "Now, now, Miss Delacour. The dungeons have their own unique charm. The dampness builds character, and the constant threat of hypothermia really keeps you alert during lessons."
"'Ow delightful," Fleur replied dryly. "At Beauxbatons, we prefer our learning environments to not resemble torture chambers."
"Each school has its own philosophy," Harry said with exaggerated solemnity. "We believe suffering strengthens the soul. Plus, it's excellent preparation for the real world—which, as I'm sure you know, is rarely warm and comfortable."
A Beauxbatons boy named Jean-Claude looked around nervously. "Are we... are we safe down 'ere? Zis place feels 'aunted."
"Oh, it's definitely haunted," Harry confirmed cheerfully. "The Chained Colen patrols these corridors regularly. Lovely fellow—died with chains dragging behind him, you know. Makes a terrible racket, but you get used to it."
Several students exchanged alarmed glances, and Sophie moved closer to her friends. "Per'aps we could skip zis part of ze tour?"
"Absolutely not," Harry said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "We're here to meet my favorite teacher. He's simply dying to meet you all."
Fleur raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Your favorite teacher works in zis... charming environment?"
"Oh yes. He's quite passionate about his subject. Very... intense in his approach to education. I thought you might appreciate meeting someone who takes academic excellence as seriously as you do."
The group continued down the corridor, passing empty classrooms and storage rooms filled with mysterious bubbling cauldrons. Finally, Harry stopped before a heavy wooden door from which emanated the sound of a familiar, silky voice delivering what was clearly a scathing critique of someone's work.
"Ah, perfect timing," Harry said, his grin becoming positively wicked. "Class is in session."
Before anyone could protest, he pushed open the door and strode into the Potions classroom with the confidence of someone walking into his own sitting room.
The dungeon classroom was exactly as unwelcoming as the rest of the lower level—dim, cold, and filled with the unsettling sight of pickled creatures floating in jars along the walls. Professor Snape stood at the front of the room, his black robes billowing dramatically as he loomed over a cauldron that was producing an alarming amount of purple smoke.
"...pathetic excuse for a Shrinking Solution," Snape was saying to a terrified-looking Gryffindor fourth-year. "Even a first-year with half a brain could manage better than this travesty. Ten points from Gryffindor for your spectacular incompetence, Mr. Thomas."
The classroom was filled with fourth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins, all of whom were trying very hard to avoid Snape's attention while working on their potions. The sudden appearance of Harry and a dozen foreign students caused every head in the room to turn.
Snape's dark eyes fixed on Harry with the kind of look usually reserved for something particularly unpleasant that had been tracked in on someone's shoe.
"Potter," he said, his voice dripping with enough venom to stock a poison cabinet. "What. Are. You. Doing. Here."
Harry's expression brightened up as if he were greeting an old friend. "Professor Snape! I was just thinking how lonely you must get down here in the dungeons, so I brought some company. These are our visitors from Beauxbatons Academy—they're very eager to observe British teaching methods."
Snape's jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder his teeth didn't crack. "Get. Out."
"Oh, but Professor," Harry continued with devastating politeness, "surely you want to show off your renowned expertise to our international guests? I've told them all about your... unique approach to education."
Behind Harry, Fleur was watching this exchange with growing amusement, her initial disdain for the dungeons temporarily forgotten in the face of what was clearly about to become spectacular entertainment.
Meanwhile, the male students in the classroom had caught sight of Fleur and were having what could only be described as collective nervous breakdowns. Dean Thomas, who had been the target of Snape's earlier criticism, was now staring at Fleur with his mouth hanging open, completely forgetting about his ruined potion. Seamus Finnigan had gone so pale that his freckles stood out like spots, and he appeared to have forgotten how to blink.
The Slytherin boys weren't faring much better. Draco Malfoy had frozen mid-stir, his silver spoon suspended over his cauldron as he gaped at the Beauxbatons students. Theodore Nott had actually dropped his ingredients, and they were now scattered across his desk while he continued to stare helplessly.
"Close your mouths," Snape snarled at his students, "before you start attracting flies."
This had the effect of snapping a few students back to awareness, but most continued to stare. One particularly unfortunate Gryffindor—Harry thought it might be Neville's cousin or something equally insignificant—was actually drooling slightly.
Fleur, who ignored the reactions of the boys around her, stepped forward with regal composure. "Professor Snape, I presume? I am Fleur Delacour from Beauxbatons Academy. We are 'onored to observe your teaching methods."
Snape's expression suggested he would rather be observed by a pack of rabid werewolves, but years of dealing with Ministry officials and international relations forced him into grudging politeness.
"Miss Delacour," he said through gritted teeth. "How... delightful."
"Ze dungeon atmosphere is quite... atmospheric," Fleur continued, her tone suggesting she was commenting on a particularly interesting species of slug. "Very authentic medieval ambiance."
Harry had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. Even Fleur, for all her criticisms, was clearly enjoying Snape's barely contained fury.
"Yes, well," Snape said, his voice reaching new levels of silky menace, "some of us prefer substance over superficial comfort. Unlike certain other educational institutions that shall remain nameless."
"Indeed," Fleur agreed with perfect composure. "Though I must say, ze students 'ere seem very... attentive."
This was true in the worst possible way. The male students were still staring at her with expressions ranging from dreamy to desperately hopeful. One Slytherin had actually started combing his hair with his fingers, apparently hoping to improve his chances of catching her attention.
"BACK TO WORK!" Snape roared suddenly, causing half the class to jump and several cauldrons to bubble over. "All of you! And if I see one more person gawking like a brain-damaged troll, you'll be writing lines until your hands fall off!"
The students scrambled back to their potions, though several continued to steal glances at Fleur when they thought Snape wasn't looking.
"Zis is how you teach?" Fleur had stepped forward, examining the classroom with critical eyes. "With threats and intimidation? At Beauxbatons, we believe encouragement yields better results zan fear."
The dungeon went completely silent. Even the cauldrons seemed to stop bubbling.
Snape's eyes glittered dangerously. "How... progressive. Perhaps at Beauxbatons, you can afford such gentle methods. Here, we deal with students who might accidentally poison themselves without proper... motivation."
"Or perhaps," Fleur countered coolly, "zey make mistakes because zey are too frightened to think clearly."
"Miss Delacour," Snape's voice had gone silky soft, which anyone who knew him recognized as extremely dangerous, "when you have taught for as many years as I have, perhaps your opinion on pedagogical methods will carry weight. Until then..."
"Until zen, I will continue to observe zat fear is ze tool of those who cannot inspire respect through competence alone," Fleur finished smoothly.
Snape had gone very still. "Potter," he said without looking away from Fleur, "you have detention. Every night for the next week."
"Absolutely, Professor," Harry agreed cheerfully. "Looking forward to it."
"And remove your... guests... before I remove points from Ravenclaw equal to your IQ."
"That seems harsh on Ravenclaw," Harry mused. "That's a lot of points."
"OUT!"
"We're going," Harry said quickly, ushering the French students toward the door. "Lovely seeing you as always, Professor. Same time next week?"
As they filed out, Harry caught sight of Hermione looking deeply annoyed at the boys still gawking at Fleur. Ron had actually stood up from his seat to get a better view, nearly knocking over his cauldron in the process.
The door slammed shut behind them with enough force to echo through the corridor.
"Well," Harry said brightly, "that went better than expected. He didn't actually hex anyone."
"'E is horrible," Sophie said, wide-eyed. "How can 'e speak to students like zat?"
"Years of practice," Harry replied. "Though I have to say, Miss Delacour, that was either very brave or very foolish."
Fleur smoothed her robes, looking unruffled. "I do not like bullies."
"Neither do I," Harry admitted. "Though I usually handle Snape by being annoying rather than with logical arguments. Your way was more... elegant."
She looked at him sharply, as if searching for mockery. Finding none, she simply nodded.
"Though I should warn you," Harry added as they climbed back toward the upper floors, "Snape holds grudges like other people hold onto family heirlooms. He'll remember that."
"Let him," Fleur said simply.
Despite himself, Harry felt a flicker of respect. Fleur Delacour might be insufferably superior about many things, but she'd just gone toe-to-toe with Snape in defense of a stranger.
Maybe there was more to her than Veela allure and French snobbery.
Or maybe, he thought as she made another cutting remark about the dungeons' ventilation, she just enjoys arguing with authority figures as much as I do.
The climb to the Astronomy Tower was long, winding up through the castle's heights. By the third landing, several of the Beauxbatons students were breathing heavily.
"How... many... stairs?" Pierre gasped.
"Just a few more flights," Harry said, not even winded. "The view's worth it, I promise."
"Easy for you to say," Jean panted. "You probably run up and down zese every day."
"Only when I'm late for class," Harry grinned. "Which is most days, honestly."
They finally emerged onto the tower's observation deck just as the sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon. The collective gasp from the French students made the climb worthwhile.
The view was spectacular. The Great Lake shimmered like molten gold in the evening light, the Forbidden Forest stretched dark and mysterious to the east, and the mountains rose majestically in the distance. Hogsmeade village was visible as a collection of chimney smoke and twinkling early lights.
"Oh," Sophie breathed. "It's beautiful."
"Not bad for a primitive British castle," Harry said, moving to lean against the parapet.
The students spread out along the tower's edge, pointing out various landmarks to each other. Harry found himself drifting toward a quieter section where Fleur stood alone, gazing out at the landscape with an unreadable expression.
"Admitting you're impressed might not kill you," he said mildly.
She didn't turn. "I 'ave seen many beautiful views."
"But not this one," Harry pointed out.
"No," she agreed quietly. "Not zis one."
They stood in surprisingly comfortable silence for a moment. The wind played with Fleur's silvery hair, and Harry caught himself watching the way the sunset turned it to gold.
"You can see ze stars well from 'ere?" she asked unexpectedly.
"Best spot in the castle," Harry confirmed. "Professor Sinistra says the magical field around Hogwarts actually enhances celestial visibility. Something about the intersection of ley lines."
Fleur nodded slowly. "We studied zat theory. Ze magical resonance can act as a lens for cosmic energies."
"Exactly," Harry said, surprised they were having an actual conversation. "It's why divination by stars is more accurate here than in most places. Not that I believe in divination much."
"Non?" She turned to look at him. "You do not think ze stars influence our lives?"
"I think people see what they want to see in the stars," Harry replied. "But the magic itself—the way celestial bodies interact with magical fields—that's fascinating."
"In France, we say 'Les étoiles inclinent mais ne nécessitent pas,'" Fleur said. "Ze stars incline but do not compel."
"I like that," Harry admitted. "Suggests influence without removing choice."
She studied him with those impossibly blue eyes. "You are not what I expected from a Hogwarts student."
"Let me guess—you expected someone who drools on himself and can barely string together a coherent thought?"
A tiny smile tugged at her lips. "Perhaps not quite zat bad."
"Well, we aim to exceed expectations," Harry said. "Even if they're insultingly low to begin with."
And just like that, the moment of civility shattered.
"I did not mean—" Fleur began hotly.
"Of course you didn't," Harry cut her off. "You never mean to insult anyone. It just happens naturally, like breathing."
"And you never mean to be insufferably arrogant," she shot back. "Yet 'ere we are."
They glared at each other while the sunset painted everything in shades of fire.
"Harry!" Sophie called from across the tower. "Can you show us ze telescope?"
Harry forced his expression back to pleasant. "Of course." He looked back at Fleur. "We should rejoin the others before you accidentally compliment something else about Hogwarts. Wouldn't want to strain yourself."
"Ze only strain," Fleur said coolly, "is pretending zis tour has been enjoyable."
"Then we have something in common after all," Harry replied with false brightness, walking away before she could respond.
The rest of the tower visit passed without incident. Harry explained the various telescopes, pointed out constellation markers, and mentioned which areas were off-limits.
"I can't show you the other common rooms," he explained as they prepared to descend. "House loyalty and all that. Same with professors' private offices or Dumbledore's chamber. But most of the castle is open to explore."
"What about ze library?" asked a studious-looking girl.
"Open to all, though Madam Pince guards it like a dragon guards gold. Damage a book and she'll have your head."
The Great Hall was beginning to fill as they arrived. The enchanted ceiling showed the first stars appearing in the darkening sky, and hundreds of candles floated overhead, casting warm light over the four long tables.
"Dinner is served at six," Harry explained, leading them toward the Ravenclaw table. "Breakfast starts at seven-thirty, lunch at noon. The food appears directly on the plates. You'll primarily sit with Ravenclaw, but you're welcome at any table. The houses usually don't mind visitors, especially international ones."
He gestured to the empty spaces that had been cleared. "We've made room for you here, but if you'd prefer to sit elsewhere any given meal, just let someone know."
The Beauxbatons students began taking seats, looking curiously at the golden plates and goblets.
"What kind of food—" Laurent began, then stopped as dishes began appearing.
Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, vegetables, soups, bread—the typical Hogwarts feast spread materialized.
"Mon Dieu," someone whispered. "So much food!"
"It's a bit heavy," Fleur observed critically. "All zis meat and starch. At Beauxbatons, we 'ave more refined options."
"I'm sure you do," Harry said tiredly. "Probably served on unicorn hair doilies with a side of phoenix tears."
"Don't be ridiculous," Fleur sniffed. "Phoenix tears would overpower ze delicate flavors."
Harry blinked, unsure if she was joking. The slight quirk of her lips suggested she might be, but with Fleur, who could tell?
Other Hogwarts students were filing in now, many casting curious glances at the French visitors.
"Well," Harry announced to the group at large, "I'll leave you to enjoy dinner. If you need anything, just ask any Ravenclaw. Or find me, I suppose, though I make no promises about being helpful."
A few students chuckled. Sophie waved goodbye, Pierre nodded, and most seemed genuinely grateful despite the evening's various tensions.
Fleur didn't look at him at all.
Harry started to walk toward his usual spot further down the table, reuniting with Luna, whose first words were: "So, when is the wedding? I've never seen two people work so hard to pretend they don't find each other fascinating."
It was going to be a very long tournament indeed.
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