The tournament venue was… quite something.
Harry had expected something grand given French tastes, but the reality exceeded imagination.
The Stade de Magie stood in its own pocket dimension, heavily warded and accessible only through specific portals scattered throughout Paris. The main arena could seat fifty thousand spectators easily, with smaller auxiliary arenas surrounding it for simultaneous matches.
The architecture blended classical Roman amphitheater design with distinctly magical flourishes. Floating observation platforms drifted overhead, rune-enhanced shields separated competitors from audiences, and the dueling floors themselves were inscribed with runes that adapted to different magical styles.
“This is incredible,” Daphne breathed as they emerged from the competitor entrance into a preparation area beneath the stands.
The space was organized chaos. Duelists from across Europe moved about in their national colors, some warming up with practice spells, others huddled with coaches discussing last-minute strategies. The air practically hummed with concentrated magic and nervous energy.
Harry had just begun examining the various practice dummies set up for last-minute preparations when a familiar voice called out.
“Oi! Over here!”
He turned to find Tonks weaving through the crowd toward them, her hair currently a vibrant purple that matched her casual robes. She’d clearly forgone any pretense of subtlety today, and her grin was wide enough to split her face.
“Tonks!” Daphne’s face lit up with genuine pleasure. “You made it!”
“Course I made it. You think I’d miss watching you two show these Continental types how it’s done?” Tonks pulled them both into enthusiastic hugs. “I had to trade three shifts and promise Kingsley I’d write up five incident reports I’ve been avoiding. Totally worth it though.”
“We’re glad you’re here,” Harry said truthfully. Having a friendly face in the crowd was really appreciated.
Tonks stepped back and looked them both up and down with exaggerated appraisal. “Look at you two. All official in your team robes. Very proper. Very serious.” Her expression turned sly. “Very betrothed.”
Daphne rolled her eyes though she was smiling. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely starting. You two move fast, I’ll give you that. One minute you meet, next minute you’re shopping together, then you’re study partners, then you’re training together, and suddenly BAM! Engaged before you’re even out of first year.” Tonks shook her head in mock amazement. “Some of us mere mortals need years to figure out if we like someone enough to date them, but not you two. Straight to the marriage contracts.”
“It’s not quite that simple,” Harry protested, though he was grinning too. Tonks had a way of making everything seem lighter, easier to bear.
“Sure it isn’t. That’s what everyone says.” Tonks winked. “But seriously, congratulations and all that. You two are good together. Even a half-blind Auror could see that, and most Aurors are at least a quarter blind from all the hexes we take to the face. Then they need specialized treatment, with some having creepy balls for eyes.”
“How eloquent,” Daphne said dryly.
“I try.” Tonks glanced around the preparation area with interest. “So, nervous? Terrified? Ready to show everyone why Britain produces the best duelists in Europe?”
“We haven’t produced the best duelists in Europe for about thirty years,” Harry pointed out. “According to Professor Flitwick’s summary of past tournaments, anyway.”
“Details, details. This year’s different. This year you’ve got the Boy Who Lived and the Fiery Queen of Ravenclaw representing us.”
“Don’t call me that,” Daphne said, though there was no real heat in it.
“Why not? It’s a brilliant nickname. Strikes fear into the hearts of your enemies; makes you sound explosive and dangerous.” Tonks paused. “But rather contradictory given your affinity towards ice magic.”
Before Daphne could respond, another voice joined the conversation, this one carrying a distinct French accent and rather melodious to hear.
“Daphne! There you are!”
Harry turned to see two young women approaching. The older one was striking, with silvery-blonde hair that fell in a shimmering cascade past her shoulders and features that seemed almost too perfect to be entirely real. She wore French team robes in blue and red, and moved with a sort of unconscious grace that drew eyes from everyone nearby.
The younger girl beside her looked similar enough to be her sister, though her features still carried some of childhood’s softness. Her hair was the same silvery-blonde, her eyes the same shade of blue, but she hadn’t quite grown into her beauty yet. She wore casual robes rather than team colors.
‘Veela,’ Harry thought.
“Fleur! Gabrielle!” Daphne’s face brightened further. She pulled away from their group to embrace first the older girl and then the younger one. “I didn’t know if you’d arrive before the opening ceremonies.”
“We came early,” Fleur said, her accent slightly there, not obscuring her words. “I wanted time to prepare properly, and Gabrielle insisted on being here to watch.”
“Of course I insisted,” the younger girl said. “Did you think I would miss my favorite cousin competing? Or meeting Harry Potter himself?”
Her gaze shifted to Harry with unconcealed interest. Not the simpering, blushing interest of a few of the Hogwarts girls who could barely speak to him, but genuine, enthusiastic fascination. Her eyes were bright with excitement.
“You must be Harry,” she continued, stepping forward without hesitation. “I’m Gabrielle Delacour. I’ve read everything about you. Well, everything that’s been published, anyway, and I know most of it is probably rubbish, but the core facts must be true, mustn’t they? You defeated You-Know-Who as a baby, and Daphne says you’re brilliant at Defense Against the Dark Arts, and you’re representing Britain in your first year competing which is quite rare actually.”
She paused for breath, and Harry seized the opportunity to respond before she could continue her rapid-fire monologue.
“It’s nice to meet you, Gabrielle. And yes, some of those things are more or less accurate, though the details tend to get exaggerated in the retelling.” He offered his hand, which she shook with enthusiasm. “Daphne’s mentioned you and Fleur. She thinks very highly of both of you.”
“As she should. We’re clearly the best cousins anyone could ask for.” Gabrielle grinned, unabashed. “But really, I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you. Do you know how famous you are? Even in France people talk about you. The Boy Who Lived, you’re a legend here too. And you’re also dating Britain’s most promising witch in my dear cousin!”
“Betrothed to, actually,” Tonks interjected helpfully. “They’ve upgraded recently.”
Gabrielle’s eyes widened. “You’re betrothed? Daphne, you didn’t mention that in your last letter!”
“The last letter was written before it was finalized,” Daphne said, shooting Tonks a look that promised retribution later. “And we were planning to tell you in person anyway.”
Fleur had been watching this exchange with amusement dancing in her eyes. Finally, she stepped forward, extending her hand to Harry with a smile that most men would have stumbled over themselves to receive.
“I am Fleur Delacour,” she said. “Daphne’s cousin, though perhaps not as enthusiastic as Gabrielle about meeting famous witches and wizards.”
Harry shook her hand politely, meeting her eyes without flinching. He felt a subtle pull, like standing near a warm fire on a cold day, but nothing overwhelming. The Flamels’ Occlumency training had strengthened his natural resistance to mental influences, and the Veela allure registered as just another type of subtle compulsion to be acknowledged and set aside.
“Nice to meet you,” he said simply. “Daphne’s told us you’re competing in the women’s singles division.”
Something flickered in Fleur’s expression. Surprise, maybe, or interest. Most wizards his age either stared at her stupidly or tried too hard to appear unaffected while clearly struggling. Harry’s genuine indifference seemed to intrigue her.
“I am,” she confirmed. “Though I did not expect to face my dear cousin in the competition. The brackets were posted this morning, and we are on opposite sides. If we both win all our matches, we will meet in the finals.”
“When we both win all our matches,” Daphne corrected with a slight smile. “Let’s not pretend either of us plans to lose before then.”
“Confident.” Fleur’s smile widened, taking on a competitive edge. “I like it. Though you should know I have been training specifically for this tournament since last summer. I intend to win.”
“So do I.”
The two cousins regarded each other with identical expressions of fond challenge. This was clearly an old dynamic between them, competition wrapped in affection and mutual respect.
“Well then, this should be entertaining,” Tonks observed. “Family rivalry on an international stage. Very dramatic.”
“It’s not rivalry,” Gabrielle protested. “They’re not going to hex each other or anything. It’s just normal competition between talented witches who happen to be related.”
“Still sounds like rivalry to me.”
“Sounds wrong to you then.”
Tonks grinned unrepentantly.
Fleur’s attention returned to Harry, her expression taking on a playful quality. “So, Harry Potter. The famous Boy Who Lived, completely unaffected by Veela allure. That is quite rare, you know. Most wizards at least react a little.”
“I’ve had some training in mental defenses,” Harry said, keeping his tone polite but not encouraging. “Helps with various types of magical influence.”
“How practical.” Fleur stepped slightly closer, and Harry noticed Daphne watching with barely concealed amusement. “And here I thought perhaps you simply had extraordinary focus. Or maybe you are simply devoted entirely to your betrothed?”
“Both, actually,” Harry replied evenly. “But mostly I’m just not easily distracted.”
Fleur let out a genuine laugh, without any hint of offense. “Fair enough. I appreciate honesty.” She glanced at Daphne. “You chose well, cousin. I was beginning to wonder if you would ever find someone who could match your intensity.”
“I got lucky,” Daphne said, moving to stand close to Harry in a gesture that was both possessive and comfortable.
“We both did,” Harry added, slipping his arm around Daphne’s waist naturally and pulling her close.
Gabrielle watched this interaction with delight. “You two are adorable together. Absolutely adorable. I’m so happy for you, Daphne. And Harry, you should know that if you ever hurt her, the entire Delacour family will hunt you down. We’re very protective.”
“As you should be,” Harry said seriously. “Though I promise that’s not something you’ll ever need to worry about.”
“Good answer.” Gabrielle beamed at him. “You’re much better at this than I expected. Most famous people are either arrogant or awkward, but you seem pretty normal. Well, as normal as someone who defeated a Dark Lord can be.”
“It wasn’t me, technically,” Harry corrected. “I was just a baby and don’t remember anything, so I’m not sure that counts.”
“It definitely counts,” Gabrielle insisted. “That’s the one that made you famous in the first place.”
“Well, if you say so.”
Tonks had been listening to this exchange with growing amusement. Now she spoke up again. “So, Gabrielle, since you’re clearly a fan, do you want me to share some embarrassing Harry stories from our Auror training? I’ve got a few good ones.”
“You were not in Auror training,” Harry remarked dryly. “You were already an Auror. Just because we were being trained by Moody doesn’t make it Auror training.”
“Details,” Tonks waved her hand dismissively before she began to tell, in her usual exaggerated manner, snippets of their training with Moody, adding certain embarrassing touches to events that…
“That never happened,” Harry rolled his eyes, making Tonks grin.
“Are you sure? Because I remember it very clearly.”
“You’re making things up.”
“Probably,” Tonks admitted cheerfully. “But it’s fun watching you squirm.”
Fleur shook her head, though she was smiling. “Your British humor is very strange.”
“That’s not British humor,” Daphne said with a fond smile. “That’s just Tonks being Tonks.”
“I resent that,” Tonks said without heat. “I’m a perfect representative of British culture and dignity.”
“Your hair is purple.”
“Which is both cultural and dignified, thank you very much.”
They continued bantering easily, the tension of the upcoming tournament momentarily forgotten in the comfort of friendly conversation. More competitors filtered through the preparation area, some casting curious glances at their group. Harry noticed several duelists staring at Fleur with obvious interest, though she seemed entirely accustomed to such attention and ignored it completely.
After a few more minutes, Fleur glanced at a delicate watch on her wrist. “I should go finish my preparations. My first match is in the afternoon and I want to review my strategy once more.” She smiled at Harry and Daphne. “Good luck to both of you. I look forward to seeing you compete.”
“Same to you,” Daphne said warmly. “Try not to get eliminated before I get a chance to duel you.”
“Don’t worry, I will have enough in the tank for you,” Fleur promised solemnly, though her eyes danced with humor. She turned to leave but she paused and looked back at Harry. “It was interesting to meet you, Harry Potter. I think perhaps the stories do not do you justice.”
“The stories rarely do anyone justice,” Harry replied.
“True enough.” With a final wave, Fleur departed, moving through the crowd with that same unconscious grace that drew eyes like moths to flame.
Gabrielle watched her sister go with obvious affection. Then she turned back to Harry and Daphne with a more serious expression. “Before the tournament starts officially, there’s something we should discuss. About Hermione.”
The casual atmosphere shifted immediately. Harry felt his stomach tighten slightly at the name. They’d been expecting this conversation, but that didn’t make it easier.
“How is she?” Daphne asked quietly. “Your last letter said she was making progress, but that was almost a month ago.”
Gabrielle guided them to a quieter corner of the preparation area, away from the main flow of competitors. Tonks followed, her expression losing its playful edge and becoming more focused.
“She’s doing better,” Gabrielle said carefully. “Not recovered, not entirely herself yet, but better than she was when she first arrived at Beauxbatons.”
Harry remembered that Halloween night with painful clarity despite the months that had passed. The werewolves attacking Hogwarts, the chaos and fear, finding Hermione cornered by Elstan. They’d arrived in time to stop the worst from happening, but barely. The werewolf hadn’t bitten her, hadn’t infected her, but the attempted assault had left psychological scars that no spell could heal.
“The Beauxbatons administration was very accommodating given the circumstances. They placed her in my year since we’re the same age, and Daphne asked us to look after her.”
“Which you did,” Daphne said. It wasn’t a question.
“Of course. She’s your friend, which makes her our friend too. Family takes care of its own.” Gabrielle’s expression was earnest. “The first month was very difficult, as you already know. She barely spoke to anyone. Attended classes but didn’t participate. Sat alone at meals. She was present physically but not really there, if that makes sense.”
“Trauma response,” Tonks said quietly. “I’ve seen it in Aurors after bad missions. The mind shuts down parts of itself as protection.”
“Yes, exactly that.” Gabrielle nodded. “The school provided a mind healer, someone who specializes in trauma. Hermione has been seeing her twice a week since she arrived. That’s helped, I think. At least she started talking again after a few sessions.”
“What about socially?” Harry asked. “Has she made any friends?”
“A few. Slowly.” Gabrielle’s expression turned thoughtful. “She gravitates toward the library, naturally. Spends hours there studying, even more than necessary for classes. I think it’s where she feels safest, surrounded by books and knowledge. Familiar territory.”
“That sounds like Hermione,” Daphne murmured. “Even at Hogwarts she practically lived in the library.”
“There’s a group of girls in our year who’ve been good to her. Invited her to study with them, made sure she wasn’t alone during meals, that sort of thing. Hermione doesn’t always accept the invitations, but they keep offering. That’s important, I think. Letting her know she has options without pressuring her.”
Harry felt a mixture of relief and guilt. Relief that Hermione was being cared for, that she had people watching over her. Guilt that he and Daphne hadn’t been able to prevent the attack entirely, that their intervention had come seconds away from being too late.
“Has she mentioned us?” Daphne asked. “Or Hogwarts?”
Gabrielle hesitated. “Sometimes. Usually in the context of her studies. She’ll say things like ‘At Hogwarts we learned it this way’ or ‘My friends there taught me a different approach.’ But she doesn’t talk about the attack. Won’t discuss it at all outside of her sessions with the mind healer.”
“That’s probably healthy,” Tonks said. “Processing trauma takes time. Can’t rush it.”
“The mind healer says the same thing. She told Hermione’s parents that recovery will be measured in months, possibly years. There’s no specific timeline for this sort of thing.”
Harry recalled his own thoughts of that day, the ones that still filled him with rage and grief. The sight of the werewolf’s snarling face, of Hermione’s terrible state and her terrified screams, of being just a second slower and arriving to find something irrevocable had already occurred. They’d prevented the worst, but the damage had already been done.
He’d learned to compartmentalize those fears through Occlumency training, to lock them away in mental rooms where they couldn’t overwhelm him. But they still existed, still enraged him beyond explanation when his guards were down.
If he struggled with it despite not being the direct victim, he couldn’t imagine what Hermione was dealing with.
“Is she angry with us?” Harry asked quietly. “For not getting there sooner?”
Gabrielle looked at him with surprise. “Angry? No, not at all. If anything, she feels grateful. She wrote about it once in a letter to her parents that she showed me. Said that you and Daphne saved her life, that she owes you everything.”
“We don’t want her to feel like she owes us anything,” Daphne said firmly. “We did what anyone would have done.”
“But not everyone could have done what you did. Not everyone would have been brave enough or skilled enough.” Gabrielle’s voice was gentle but insistent. “Hermione knows that. She doesn’t feel indebted in a bad way. She’s just grateful to be alive, grateful that her friends were there when she needed them most.”
“Does she want to see us?” Harry asked. “Would that help or make things worse?”
“I don’t know,” Gabrielle admitted. “We haven’t discussed it specifically. But she did say she might try to attend some of the tournament matches. Not today, the crowds would be too overwhelming, but maybe later in the week when things are less intense.”
“If she does come, tell her to find us afterward,” Daphne said. “Or before, or whenever she’s comfortable. We’d love to see her, but only if she’s ready for that.”
“I will.” Gabrielle smiled slightly. “She’ll appreciate knowing you’re thinking of her.”
They stood in silence for a moment, each processing the conversation in their own way. Around them the preparation area continued its organized chaos, competitors warming up and coaches shouting last-minute advice. The contrast between the festive tournament atmosphere and the serious nature of their discussion felt jarring.
“The important thing,” Tonks said eventually, “is that she’s somewhere safe, somewhere she can heal without pressure. Beauxbatons sounds like it’s been good for her in that regard.”
“It has been,” Gabrielle confirmed. “The environment is different from Hogwarts. Less competitive in some ways, more focused on artistry and precision than raw power. That seems to suit Hermione. She’s thriving academically, even if she’s still struggling personally.”
“That’s progress,” Harry said. “Maybe not as much as we’d hope for, but progress nonetheless.”
“Exactly.” Gabrielle’s expression brightened slightly. “And the mind healer is optimistic. She thinks Hermione will make a full recovery eventually. It will just take time and patience and continued support.”
“Which she’ll have,” Daphne said firmly. “From us, from you and Fleur, from her new friends at Beauxbatons. She’s not alone in this.”
“No, she definitely isn’t.” Gabrielle reached out and squeezed Daphne’s hand. “Thank you for trusting us with her care. I know it couldn’t have been easy to send her away, even knowing it was for the best.”
“It wasn’t easy,” Daphne admitted. “But staying at Hogwarts after what happened would have been worse. She needed a fresh start, somewhere without constant reminders of what happened and thankfully didn’t.”
“She’s getting that at Beauxbatons. And when she’s ready, when she’s healed enough, maybe she’ll want to come back to Britain. Visit, at least. See her old friends properly.” Gabrielle’s smile turned more genuine. “But for now, she’s where she needs to be. And that’s what matters.”
Harry felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders. The guilt wouldn’t disappear entirely, probably never would, but knowing that Hermione was making progress helped. Knowing that people were looking after her, that she wasn’t suffering alone, made the weight a bit more bearable.
“Thank you for telling us all this,” he said to Gabrielle. “And for taking care of her. It means more than you know.”
“Family takes care of its own,” Gabrielle repeated. “And friends of family are family too. Besides, Hermione’s brilliant. Once she’s fully recovered, I think she’s going to do incredible things. We’re lucky to know her.”
“We are,” Daph agreed softly.
A loud gong echoed through the preparation area, magically amplified to reach every corner. Conversations died as competitors turned toward the sound.
“Attention all participants,” a magically projected voice announced in French-accented English. “The opening ceremonies will commence in fifteen minutes. All competitors please proceed to the assembly staging area. I repeat, all competitors to the staging area in fifteen minutes.”
The preparation area erupted into motion. Duelists began moving toward designated exits, coaches shouted final encouragements, and the nervous energy that had been simmering all morning suddenly reached a boiling point.
“That’s our cue,” Daphne said, squaring her shoulders.
“Indeed it is.” Harry felt his own nerves steady, the pre-competition jitters transmuting into focused anticipation. This was it. Everything they’d trained for was about to begin.
Gabrielle hugged them both quickly. “Good luck! I’ll be cheering for you from the stands. Well, for you individually and as a team, and for Fleur, but mostly for her when it’s her versus Daphne since you’re British and she’s French and I’m French too, so it’s complicated.”
“We appreciate the complicated support,” Harry said with a grin.
“I’ll be in the stands too,” Tonks added. “Look for the purple-haired witch making excessive amounts of noise. That’ll be me.”
“Subtle as always,” Daphne said fondly.
They exchanged final goodbyes and well-wishes before Gabrielle and Tonks headed toward the spectator entrances. Harry and Daphne joined the flow of competitors moving toward the staging area, both of them falling into the focused mindset they’d cultivated through months of training.
The staging area was vast, easily large enough to accommodate all sixty-four men’s singles competitors, all sixty-four women’s singles competitors, and all thirty-two tag-team pairs. National teams clustered together, creating islands of color throughout the space. British white and blue stood out among French blue and red, German black and gold, Spanish red and yellow, and dozens of other combinations.
Professor Flitwick found them quickly, his expression proud despite his attempt at professional composure. “There you are. Everything all right? Ready for this?”
“As ready as we’ll ever be,” Harry said.
“Good. Remember everything we discussed. Trust your training, trust each other, and don’t try to be something you’re not.” Flitwick adjusted his hat unnecessarily. “You’re going to do wonderfully. I can feel it.”
The gong sounded again, three times in rapid succession.
“That’s the signal,” Flitwick said. “Form up with your divisions. Men’s to the left, women’s to the right. The procession will begin momentarily.”
Harry found his place in the men’s formation, standing with other competitors from various nations. Daphne moved to the women’s side, catching his eye once and offering a small smile before turning forward.
Music began to play, a grand orchestral piece that swelled through the staging area. The massive doors at the far end began to open, revealing sunlight and the roar of over fifty thousand spectators beyond.
“Competitors of the European Dueling Championships,” the announcer’s voice boomed. “Present yourselves!”
The procession began.
Harry moved forward with his division, stepping out of the staging area and into the main arena. The sound hit him like a physical force. Fifty thousand people cheering, applauding, and shouting encouragement in a dozen different languages. The stands rose steeply on all sides, every seat filled, faces blurring together into a sea of color and motion.
The dueling floor was enormous, easily fifty meters across, its surface inscribed with intricate runes that glowed faintly in the sunlight. Above them, the floating observation platforms held dignitaries and judges, their robes marking them as officials of various European magical governments.
Harry walked with his division to the center of the arena, the choreographed movements of all competitors practiced and precise. The women entered from the opposite side. They formed up in two massive blocks, over a hundred young witches and wizards representing the best magical talent Europe had to offer.
The music reached a crescendo and then cut off abruptly. Silence fell across the arena, broken only by the whisper of wind and the flutter of national flags ringing the stands.
“Welcome,” a voice thundered from the central observation platform. An elderly wizard stood there, his robes marking him as the French Minister of Magic. “Welcome to the two hundred and seventh European Youth Dueling Championships!”
The crowd erupted again. The Minister waited for the noise to die down before continuing.
“For two weeks, we will witness the finest young magical minds and talents in all of Europe compete for glory, for honor, and for the pride of their nations. From Britain to Bulgaria, from Sweden to Spain, from Germany to Greece, they have come. They have trained. They have prepared. And now, they will show us what magic truly means!”
More cheering. Harry felt the energy of it thrumming through his bones.
“Let the games begin!” the Minister declared, raising his wand high.
A massive firework erupted from his wand tip, exploding high above the arena. Other officials added their own magical displays, creating a spectacular show of light and color that drew gasps and applause from every corner of the stadium.
The opening ceremonies continued with speeches from various officials, displays of magic from past champions, and presentations of the tournament brackets. Harry’s name appeared on the massive magical scoreboard floating above the arena, his first opponent listed beside it. Christophe Laurent from Belgium, just as Professor Flitwick had mentioned.
When his name appeared, a section of the crowd cheered particularly loudly. Harry spotted British flags waving, including one held by a purple-haired figure who was jumping up and down with enthusiasm. Tonks, making herself known.
Eventually the ceremonies concluded. The competitors dispersed to their various preparation areas, the afternoon’s matches about to begin. As Harry walked off the arena floor, he caught Daphne’s eye across the space. She mouthed “Good Luck” and winked, blowing him a kiss. He chuckled, returning the sentiment.
Whatever came next, whatever challenges these two weeks would bring, they were ready.
The tournament had officially begun.
To be continued...