The opening ceremonies were everything Harry had heard European magical events could be: excessive, theatrical, and genuinely impressive. Each nation’s team paraded into the main arena behind enchanted banners that shifted and moved with their national symbols. The British contingent was slightly smaller compared to some of the larger delegations, but their entrance drew substantial applause.
Harry and Daphne walked side by side, their team robes pristine and formal. Harry caught Tonks waving enthusiastically from one of the lower spectator boxes, Gabrielle bouncing beside her with equal excitement. He managed a small wave back before focusing on the ceremony.
After the obligatory speeches from tournament officials and various dignitaries, the brackets were displayed on massive magical screens floating above the arena. Harry studied the pairings carefully. His first opponent in the men’s division would be from Spain, someone he’d never heard of but who had apparently won his national qualifiers convincingly.
Daphne’s initial matchup looked equally challenging. Her opponent was from Sweden who specialized in ice magic, according to the brief profile displayed alongside her name.
“Nervous?” Daphne murmured as they filed out of the arena toward the competitor staging areas.
“Excited,” Harry corrected. “This is what we’ve been working toward.”
“Good answer.”
The tournament structure was straightforward. Individual competitions ran simultaneously across multiple arenas, with tag team matches scheduled for the afternoons. Winners advanced through standard elimination brackets until only champions remained.
Harry’s first duel began less than an hour after the opening ceremonies concluded. The Spanish, Miguel Santos, proved to be a skilled offensive duelist who favored fire-based spells and aggressive tactics. He opened with a barrage of flame whips that would have overwhelmed many opponents.
Harry simply adapted. He’d trained with Moody specifically for handling sustained magical assaults, and Santos’s aggressive style created predictable patterns. Deflect, redirect, counter. The match lasted three minutes before Harry caught his opponent with a well-timed stunner that slipped through an overextended offensive position.
“Winner, Potter, Great Britain.”
The referee’s announcement drew polite applause from the crowd. Harry helped Santos to his feet, shook his hand, and moved on to watch Daphne’s match on one of the auxiliary screens.
She faced her Swedish opponent with characteristic precision. The ice specialist attempted to control the battlefield through environmental manipulation, creating frozen patches and crystalline barriers. Daphne countered with her own ice magic, matching and exceeding her opponent’s techniques while simultaneously launching offensive spells that forced constant defensive reactions.
“Winner, Greengrass, Great Britain.”
Harry grinned as Daphne stepped down from her platform, looking satisfied but not particularly challenged. Their eyes met across the competitor area, and they shared a moment of mutual understanding.
This was just the beginning.
XXXXX
Fleur’s first match took place the next day, and it drew the largest crowd of the opening round. The French witch faced off against a German competitor who clearly expected her aggressive curse work to overwhelm the beautiful Veela. Instead, Fleur demonstrated why she’d won her national qualifiers.
She moved like water, her defensive techniques flowing seamlessly into counterattacks that left her opponent constantly off-balance. Her spellwork combined precision with creativity, using charms and transfiguration in ways most duelists wouldn’t consider in combat situations.
“She’s good,” Harry observed from where he and Daphne stood watching from a viewing platform reserved for competitors.
“She’s excellent,” Daphne corrected. “That combination she just used, redirecting his curse into a transfigured shield that then attacked him? That’s advanced tactical thinking.”
“Winner, Delacour, France.”
Gabrielle’s cheering could be heard even from their elevated position. The young girl was practically bouncing with excitement, waving a French flag enthusiastically while Tonks grinned beside her.
The days continued with systematic progression through the rounds. Harry faced a competent but unimaginative duelist from Austria in his second match, winning decisively. Daphne demolished a creative Italian witch who relied too heavily on flashy spell combinations without proper defensive grounding.
The pattern was becoming clear. The truly skilled competitors were separating themselves from those who’d simply been the best available from smaller national pools.
Back at their stay, Harry and Daphne reviewed the matches over dinner.
“Now it gets harder,” Daphne said, studying her tournament bracket. “I’ve got Svetlana Kozlov in the quarterfinals. She won the Russian national championships for the past two years.”
“The lightning specialist?” Harry had done his research on the likely opponents.
“The same. Very aggressive, very powerful, minimal finesse but incredible raw magical strength.”
“You’ll adapt. You always do.”
Daphne smiled. “And you’ve got Johann Schmidt. German national champion, known for his methodical approach and superior defensive technique.”
“Should be interesting,” Harry agreed. “Moody’s training focused heavily on breaking through strong defenses.”
Their tag team bracket looked equally challenging. After easily defeating a Polish team in their opening match, they’d face a skilled Hungarian partnership that had been competing together for three years.
“One match at a time,” Daphne said, echoing Professor Flitwick’s advice. “We focus on what’s immediately in front of us, adapt to each challenge as it comes.”
“Wise words.”
“I learned from the best.”
They reviewed tactical approaches and potential strategies until late into the evening before finally retiring to their room.
The days passed until it was time for Harry’s duel, and it brought increased intensity. Harry’s quarterfinal match against Schmidt proved every bit as challenging as expected. The German wizard’s defensive techniques were nearly flawless, his spell work precise and economical. He forced Harry to work for every opening, defending against attacks that would have overwhelmed most competitors their age.
But Harry had trained with Moody. He knew how to be patient, how to probe defenses systematically, how to create openings through accumulated pressure rather than single devastating attacks. The match stretched past ten minutes, both competitors demonstrating advanced magical skill and tactical understanding.
The decisive moment came when Schmidt attempted a particularly complex defensive configuration that required split-second timing across multiple shield layers. Harry recognized the technique from his studies and timed his attack to exploit the microsecond transition between shield rotations.
“Winner, Potter, Great Britain.”
The crowd’s reaction was significantly louder than after his earlier matches. This hadn’t been a simple victory. This had been a genuine contest between skilled opponents, and Harry had proven himself the better duelist.
Schmidt accepted defeat with good grace, shaking Harry’s hand firmly. “Excellent work. Your defensive adaptation was superior to my expectations.”
“You pushed me harder than most of my training partners,” Harry replied honestly. “Thank you for the challenge.”
Meanwhile, Daphne faced Svetlana Kozlov, and the Russian witch lived up to her reputation, opening with aggressive lightning-based attacks that crackled with raw power. Her magical strength was genuinely impressive, her offensive capabilities exceeding what most duelists had demonstrated.
Daphne countered with precision rather than power. She didn’t try to match Kozlov’s magical strength directly, even though she could. Instead, she used superior technique to redirect, deflect, and absorb the assault while looking for tactical openings.
The match became a study in contrasts. Kozlov’s overwhelming offense versus Daphne’s technical excellence. Power versus precision. Aggression versus adaptation.
Daphne won by outlasting her opponent. Kozlov’s assault eventually began to slow as magical exhaustion set in, and Daphne struck decisively when the openings appeared.
“Winner, Greengrass, Great Britain.”
The next day brought their tag team match against the Hungarian partnership. Viktor and Katalin Nagy had been dueling together since their second year at Durmstrang, and their synchronization showed it. They moved as a unit, their spell combinations flowing together seamlessly.
Harry and Daphne met them with equal coordination. Their months of intensive training had created a partnership that functioned almost telepathically. They anticipated each other’s movements, covered each other’s vulnerabilities, and created combination attacks that were greater than the sum of their individual capabilities.
The match lasted fifteen minutes of sustained, high-level combat. Both teams demonstrated advanced tactical thinking and superior magical skill. The crowd watched with genuine appreciation as the duel showcased partnership dueling at its finest.
Harry and Daphne won through superior adaptability. The Nagys were excellent, but their tactics were practiced and predictable. Harry and Daphne constantly evolved their approach, forcing their opponents to react rather than execute their preferred strategies.
“Winners, Potter and Greengrass, Great Britain.”
Tonks was waiting for them as they exited the competitor staging area, Gabrielle bouncing excitedly beside her.
“That was brilliant!” Gabrielle exclaimed. “The way you two moved together, it was like watching a dance. A very violent, magical dance, but still!”
“Thanks,” Harry said, accepting a water bottle from a tournament official. “Though I think we looked more coordinated than we felt. Those two pushed us hard.”
“That’s what made it exciting,” Tonks observed. “You weren’t just overwhelming inferior opponents. You were genuinely challenged and rose to meet it.”
“Speaking of challenges,” Daphne said, checking her bracket update on a nearby notice board. “Fleur advanced to the semifinals.”
“As did you,” Gabrielle pointed out proudly. “Which means if you both win, you face each other in the finals.”
“When we both win,” Daphne corrected with a small smile. “Let’s not pretend either of us plans to lose.”
Harry noticed Fleur approaching from across the competitor area. She’d clearly just finished her own quarterfinal match and looked slightly disheveled but triumphant.
“Congratulations, cousin,” she said, embracing Daphne warmly. “Your match was impressive. I watched on the screens between my own preparation.”
“As was yours,” Daphne replied. “That Italian girl never stood a chance once you started combining your charm work with offensive hexes.”
“She relied too heavily on shield strength without adequate mobility.” Fleur’s expression turned playful. “So, we meet in the finals?”
“Assuming neither of us loses our semifinal matches.”
“Which we will not.” Fleur glanced at Harry. “And you, Harry Potter? You have also advanced impressively. The German champion gave you quite a battle.”
“He’s skilled,” Harry agreed. “Made me work for it.”
“Good. Easy victories teach nothing.” Fleur’s smile widened. “Though I suspect your semifinal tomorrow will be more challenging still. I saw the bracket update. You face Marcus Thornfield.”
Harry nodded. He knew Thornfield by reputation. A fellow student from Hogwarts, former Grand Duke of their dueling club, known for sophisticated tactical thinking and advanced spell combinations.
“Should be interesting,” he said neutrally.
“Indeed.” Fleur studied him thoughtfully. “You know, most British wizards I have met are either overly formal or embarrassingly awkward around me. You are neither. It is refreshing.”
“I just treat people like people,” Harry said with a shrug. “Seems simpler that way.”
“Wise philosophy.” Fleur turned her attention back to Daphne. “I look forward to our match, cousin. Win or lose, it will be memorable.”
“Agreed.”
They parted ways cordially, each heading back to their respective accommodations to rest and prepare for the next round’s matches.
XXXXX
Far from the tournament excitement, in the shadowed depths of the Romanian wilderness, Fenrir Greyback stood over a makeshift camp where his pack rested between hunts. The moon was three days from full, but he could already feel its pull growing stronger in his blood.
He’d been traveling west for weeks now, leaving a trail of destruction across Eastern Europe. Villages burned. Communities shattered. His pack grew with each attack as he consciously selected the strongest survivors for conversion.
Antonius Rookwood’s letter had arrived that morning via a discrete courier who’d been smart enough to deliver it from a safe distance before disappearing into the forest.
Greyback read it three times, memorizing every detail.
Harry Potter. Daphne Greengrass. First years at Hogwarts.
Halloween night. Elstan Greyback, deceased.
Current location: Paris, France. European Dueling Championships.
He let the letter fall into their campfire, watching the parchment curl and blacken. The information aligned with whispers he’d been hearing for months, rumors he’d dismissed as impossibilities. First years couldn’t kill experienced werewolves. Couldn’t have the skill or power.
But if the information was accurate, if these children had truly killed Elstan...
Greyback smiled, and it was not a pleasant expression.
He turned to his second, a scarred Norwegian named Varulf who’d been with him for nearly a decade. “How many can travel quickly?”
“Thirty, maybe forty if we push,” Varulf replied. “The rest are still adjusting to their new condition.”
“Forty will be enough.” Greyback’s voice was a low growl. “We move at nightfall. West, toward France.”
“The tournament?”
“Among other things.” Greyback’s fingers traced the crude map he’d been marking with their progress. “Paris has always been well-defended against creatures like us. Strong wards, competent aurors, difficult to penetrate.”
“So we avoid it?”
“No.” Greyback’s smile widened. “We use it. The tournament creates opportunities. Increased traffic, distracted security, thousands of magical signatures making individual tracking more difficult. If we’re careful, patient, we can position ourselves near the city.”
“And then?”
“Then we wait. Watch. Learn their patterns.” Greyback’s eyes glinted in the firelight. “The tournament ends eventually. Competitors return home. And accidents can happen anywhere.”
Varulf understood. “You want them alive.”
“Initially.” Greyback’s expression darkened. “I want to understand how first years killed my brother. Want to know their capabilities, their techniques, their weaknesses. Then...” He didn’t need to finish the sentence.
“It’s risky,” Varulf observed. “Targeting them during an international event draws attention we might not want.”
“Everything worth doing carries risk.” Greyback stood, stretching his considerable frame. “Besides, we’re not attacking during the event. We’re simply positioning ourselves for when opportunity presents itself.”
“You think they’ll be vulnerable afterward?”
“Everyone is vulnerable eventually.” Greyback began issuing orders to the gathered pack members. “We travel light and fast. Avoid unnecessary attention. No random attacks between here and France. We stay focused on the primary objective.”
The pack responded with discipline. Greyback had built this group carefully, selecting not just for physical capability but for intelligence and self-control. These weren’t mindless beasts. They were soldiers in his growing army.
As they prepared to move out, Greyback thought about his brother. Elstan had been reckless, aggressive, often stupid. But he’d been family. The only family Greyback had left after decades of persecution and prejudice from the magical world.
And now he was dead. Killed by children barely old enough to hold wands properly.
The insult of it burned. Not just that Elstan was gone, but how he’d been killed. If experienced aurors had cornered him, if powerful wizards had brought him down, Greyback could have accepted it. Respected it, even.
But first years? That required investigation. Required understanding. Required vengeance that went beyond simple killing.
“We’re ready,” Varulf reported, the pack assembled and prepared for rapid travel.
Greyback nodded. “Then we move. Stay quiet, stay focused. We have a long journey ahead of us.”
They disappeared into the Romanian night, forty werewolves moving with purpose toward France and whatever awaited them there.
XXXXX
The tournament’s penultimate day brought the semifinals, and the atmosphere around the competition grounds had shifted noticeably. The casual spectators who’d attended the early rounds had been replaced by serious magical practitioners who understood what they were watching.
Harry’s semifinal match against Marcus Thornfield drew a substantial crowd. The older Hogwarts student had impressed throughout the tournament with his sophisticated tactical approach and advanced spell work.
“Good to see you made it this far,” Thornfield said as they took their positions. “Though I’ll admit, I was sure you’d make it. First year rising through the ranks at Hogwarts and now competing in a European tournament. It would’ve seemed ambitious to an outsider.”
“Ambition pays off sometimes,” Harry replied neutrally.
“Indeed it does.” Thornfield’s expression was focused but not unfriendly. “I haven’t forgotten our previous bout. Let’s see how well you hold up against someone with a bit more experience on the circuit.”
The match began with careful probing from both sides. Thornfield’s opening attacks were measured and careful, testing Harry’s defenses. Harry recognized the approach and responded in kind.
For the first few minutes, it was more chess match than duel. Both competitors maneuvering for position, gathering information, looking for patterns in their opponent’s technique.
Then Thornfield shifted strategies, launching a complex combination attack that required Harry to defend simultaneously against multiple angles. It was sophisticated magic, the kind that came from years of advanced study and practice.
Harry adapted. He’d trained specifically for handling complex magical assaults, and his response was both efficient and effective. He didn’t just defend. He used Thornfield’s own attack momentum to create counterattack opportunities.
The match evolved into a genuine showcase of advanced dueling. Thornfield’s experience and technical knowledge versus Harry’s superior training and natural adaptability. The crowd watched with genuine appreciation as both competitors demonstrated skills far beyond what most students their ages could achieve.
Harry won by finding a pattern in Thornfield’s defensive rotations. The older student favored a specific shield configuration when transitioning between offensive sequences, and Harry timed his attack to exploit that microsecond vulnerability.
“Winner, Potter, Great Britain.”
Thornfield accepted defeat graciously, shaking Harry’s hand with obvious respect. “Excellent work again. You’ve truly earned your place, Potter.”
“Thank you. Your combination techniques were impressive. I had to work hard to find an opening.”
“That’s what makes competition valuable,” Thornfield replied. “We both learned something.”
Harry’s victory meant he’d face the winner of the other semifinal, a formidable Romanian duelist named Alexandru Popescu who’d been dominating his bracket with aggressive curse work and superior magical power.
Meanwhile, Daphne prepared for her own semifinal match. Her opponent was a skilled Bulgarian witch whose defensive techniques had shut down every previous challenger.
The match proved to be exactly the kind of tactical challenge Daphne excelled at solving. Her opponent’s defenses were strong but static, relying on practiced formations rather than dynamic adaptation. Daphne simply evolved her attacks faster than her opponent could adjust defensive strategies.
“Winner, Greengrass, Great Britain.”
Which meant, as Gabrielle had predicted with gleeful certainty, Daphne would face Fleur in the women’s finals.
The cousins met at the edge of the competitor area after their respective matches concluded, both looking satisfied but not particularly surprised by the outcome.
“So,” Fleur said with a smile. “We meet in the finals after all.”
“As expected,” Daphne replied.
“Will it be awkward? Dueling family in such a public forum?”
“Only if we make it awkward.” Daphne’s expression was thoughtful. “We’re both here to compete at the highest level we can. That doesn’t change just because we’re related.”
“Good.” Fleur’s smile widened. “Because I intend to win, cousin or not.”
“So do I.”
Gabrielle bounced over to join them, Tonks following at a more sedate pace.
“This is so exciting!” Gabrielle exclaimed. “My favorite people facing each other in the finals. Though I’m not sure who to cheer for. Can I cheer for both of you?”
“You can cheer for good dueling,” Fleur suggested diplomatically.
“But that’s so boring! I want to pick a side.”
“Pick France,” Fleur said immediately.
“Pick whoever you think will win,” Daphne countered.
Gabrielle looked between them, clearly torn. “Can I decide during the match based on who’s performing better?”
“Absolutely not,” both older girls said simultaneously, then laughed.
Tonks shook her head with amusement. “You’re all mental. In the best way possible, but still mental.”
That afternoon brought the tag team semifinals. Harry and Daphne faced a highly coordinated German partnership that had been competing together for four years. The match was their longest and most challenging yet, pushing them to their absolute limits.
They won through superior adaptability and trust. When their practiced combinations failed against the Germans’ prepared defenses, they improvised new approaches on the fly. Their ability to read each other’s intentions without verbal communication proved decisive.
“Winners, Potter and Greengrass, Great Britain.”
The victory put them in the tag team finals against a French partnership that included Fleur and her teammate, a skilled wizard named Antoine Dubois.
“Well, this just got interesting,” Tonks observed as the finals bracket was posted. “Harry and Daphne versus Fleur and her partner. Family versus family, nation versus nation. Very dramatic.”
“It’s just competition,” Daphne said, though her eyes sparkled with anticipation.
“Right. Just competition. Between cousins. At an international tournament. With national pride on the line.” Tonks grinned. “Totally casual.”
The finals were scheduled for the following day, giving all competitors time to rest and prepare. The tournament officials had structured the schedule to allow maximum recovery between semifinals and finals matches.
That evening, Harry and Daphne reviewed their potential opponents carefully. They’d watched Fleur and Antoine’s semifinal match, studying their tactics and coordination.
“They’re good,” Harry observed. “Fleur’s versatility combined with Antoine’s offensive strength creates a balanced partnership.”
“They’ve been competing together for over a year,” Daphne added. “Their synchronization is solid, though not quite as instinctive as ours.”
“Because we’re together?”
“That, and because we’re better,” Daphne said with a slight smile. “But we can’t underestimate them. Fleur is genuinely excellent, and Antoine’s power can compensate for tactical gaps if we’re not careful.”
They planned and strategized late into the night, developing multiple approaches for different scenarios they might face. By the time they finally retired for bed, both felt as prepared as possible for the challenges ahead.
XXXXX
The finals day dawned bright and clear over Paris. The tournament organizers had scheduled all three final matches for the afternoon, giving spectators time to arrive and building anticipation throughout the morning.
The individual finals would be first, men’s and women’s running one after the other on the main platform. The tag team final would follow as the grand conclusion to the entire tournament.
Harry faced Alexandru Popescu in the men’s final. The Romanian wizard was everything his reputation suggested: powerful, aggressive, skilled, and completely focused on overwhelming his opponents through superior magical strength.
The match was brutal. Popescu’s assault was relentless, his curse work devastating, his magical power genuinely impressive. He forced Harry onto the defensive immediately, launching attacks that would have ended the match against lesser opponents.
But Harry was not a lesser opponent. He knew how to defend against sustained assault. He knew how to be patient, how to conserve energy, how to wait for his opponent to create openings through their own aggression. And above all, he knew he didn’t need to hold back forever.
The turning point came twelve minutes into the match. Popescu had been maintaining his aggressive pace through sheer magical strength, but even his considerable reserves weren’t infinite. When his assault finally began to slow, Harry struck with devastating precision.
One spell was all it took, and his bludgeoning hex sheared through his opponent’s shield like a hot knife through butter.
“Winner, Potter, Great Britain.”
The crowd’s reaction was thunderous. Harry had just won the European Youth Dueling Championship’s men’s division in his first year of competition. The achievement was genuinely historic.
Popescu shook his hand with obvious respect despite his defeat. “You defended better than anyone I’ve faced. Your patience and tactical thinking are exceptional.”
“Your power is incredible,” Harry replied honestly. “If you’d caught me even once with those curses, the match would have ended immediately.”
“I disagree. You were holding back. And even then you didn’t let me catch you.” Popescu smiled. “Congratulations, champion.”
A few minutes later, Daphne and Fleur faced each other in the women’s final. The crowd watched with intense interest as the cousins prepared to duel.
“Good luck,” Fleur said as they took their positions.
“You too,” Daphne replied.
The match began with characteristic caution from both competitors. Neither wanted to make an early mistake that might prove decisive. They circled and probed, testing defenses and looking for patterns.
Then Fleur attacked with the speed and precision she’d been holding in reserve. Her spell combinations were creative and sophisticated, forcing Daphne to defend against attacks coming from unexpected angles.
Daphne countered with ice magic, using environmental manipulation to control the battlefield while simultaneously launching offensive spells. The contrast in their styles created a fascinating spectacle: Fleur’s versatile charm work versus Daphne’s focused elemental specialization.
The match stretched past fifteen minutes, both witches demonstrating abilities that impressed even the most experienced observers in the crowd. They were genuinely matched, neither able to gain a decisive advantage through pure skill.
The decisive moment came when Daphne recognized a pattern in Fleur’s defensive transitions. The French witch favored a specific shield configuration when switching between offensive and defensive stances, and Daphne timed her attack to exploit that weakness.
“Winner, Greengrass, Great Britain.”
Gabrielle’s reaction was torn between joy for her cousin and disappointment for her sister. She settled for enthusiastic applause for both.
Fleur accepted defeat graciously, embracing Daphne warmly. “Excellent work, cousin. You earned that victory completely.”
“You pushed me harder than anyone else in the tournament,” Daphne replied honestly. “If you’d caught me with that combination you used in the middle section, I wouldn’t have recovered.”
“Perhaps next year we’ll have a rematch.”
“I look forward to it.”
The tag team final drew the largest crowd of the entire tournament. Harry and Daphne versus Fleur and Antoine represented not just a contest between skilled partnerships, but a symbolic clash between British and French magical traditions.
The match lived up to expectations. Both teams demonstrated advanced tactical thinking and superior coordination. Antoine’s power combined with Fleur’s versatility created a formidable partnership, while Harry and Daphne’s instinctive synchronization allowed them to execute complex strategies without verbal communication.
For twenty minutes, the platforms became a showcase of partnership dueling at its absolute finest. Combination attacks, coordinated defenses, tactical adaptations, and magical creativity all on display for the appreciative crowd.
Harry and Daphne won through superior endurance and adaptability. As the match stretched longer, their training with Moody showed its value. They maintained their tactical flexibility even as magical exhaustion began to affect both teams, while Fleur and Antoine gradually became more predictable as fatigue limited their options.
The final combination that ended the match was textbook Potter-Greengrass coordination. Harry created an opening with a perfectly timed disruption charm, and Daphne exploited it with precision that left both French competitors unable to continue.
“Winners and European Youth Tag Team Champions, Potter and Greengrass, Great Britain.”
The crowd erupted. The British supporters were ecstatic, while even the French spectators applauded the genuine excellence they’d witnessed.
Fleur and Antoine accepted defeat with good grace, shaking hands warmly and congratulating their opponents on a well-fought victory.
“You two are exceptional together,” Fleur said honestly. “That final combination was perfect.”
“Your partnership is impressive as well,” Harry replied. “You gave us everything we could handle.”
“Next time, perhaps we’ll be better prepared,” Antoine added with a slight smile.
“We look forward to the rematch,” Daphne said.
The awards ceremony was elaborate and ceremonial. Harry received his individual championship medal and trophy, Daphne received hers, and then they stood together to accept the tag team championship as the British national anthem played for the assembled crowd.
Tonks was waiting for them as they finally escaped the immediate post-ceremony chaos of interviews and congratulations.
“European Champions,” she said, pulling them both into enthusiastic hugs. “Both individual and tag team. That’s absolutely mental. Do you realize how rare that is?”
“We’ve been told,” Harry admitted, still feeling slightly overwhelmed by the attention.
Gabrielle bounced over, nearly tackling Daphne with the force of her hug. “You were amazing! Both of you! I can’t believe I got to watch that in person!”
“Thank you for cheering,” Daphne said, laughing at her cousin’s enthusiasm.
“I cheered for everyone,” Gabrielle admitted. “Though maybe a little bit louder for you during the finals.”
Fleur joined them, looking tired but content despite her defeats. “Congratulations again, cousin. You’ve brought honor to your family and I can acknowledge that even if you’re representing a different nation.”
“You were brilliant as well,” Daphne replied warmly. “Second place in individual competition and in tag team. That’s impressive by any standard.”
“But not first,” Fleur said with a wry smile. “Which you have reminded me I must work harder if I want to defeat you next time.”
“We’ll work harder too,” Harry pointed out.
“Then the next tournament should be even more interesting.”
They celebrated that evening with their friends and supporters, accepting congratulations from competitors and officials who’d been genuinely impressed by their performance. The tournament had been everything they’d hoped for and more, pushing them to their limits and proving they could compete at the highest levels.
As the evening wound down and they finally found a quiet moment together, Harry and Daphne stood on a balcony overlooking the illuminated Paris skyline.
“European Champions,” Daphne said softly, leaning against Harry’s side. “It still doesn’t feel quite real.”
“Give it time,” Harry replied, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “Once we get home and everyone starts treating us differently, it’ll feel real enough.”
“People already treat us differently.”
“Fair point.” Harry pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “But we did it. Everything we worked toward all year. We proved we belong at this level.”
“Together,” Daphne murmured.
“Always together.”
Below them, the City of Light sparkled with magical and mundane illumination, beautiful and vibrant and utterly indifferent to their triumph. But that was fine. They had each other, they had their achievements, and they had the future stretching out before them full of possibility and promise.
Whatever challenges came next, they would face them the same way they’d faced everything else.
Together.
XXXXX
Three days after the tournament concluded, Fenrir Greyback and his pack of forty werewolves arrived in the forests outside Paris.
They’d traveled carefully, avoiding populated areas and magical detection. Greyback had learned patience over his decades of survival, and he applied those lessons now.
Paris was heavily warded against dark creatures. The French Ministry maintained sophisticated detection systems specifically designed to identify and track beings like werewolves. Direct assault on the city would be suicidal, and Greyback hadn’t survived this long by being stupid.
But the tournament had created exactly the opportunity he’d anticipated. Thousands of magical signatures moving in and out of the city, international portkey traffic, distracted security forces. The perfect cover for positioning his forces nearby.
Varulf crouched beside him in the undergrowth, studying the distant city lights. “The tournament ended three days ago. Most competitors have already left.”
“But not all,” Greyback replied. “And we’re patient. We watch, we learn their patterns, and we wait for opportunity.”
“The British pair?”
“Still in the city, according to our observers.” Greyback had sent several of his more human-appearing pack members to gather information from the magical districts. “Celebrating their victories, accepting congratulations, enjoying their moment of triumph.”
“Makes them vulnerable?”
“Eventually.” Greyback’s expression was calculating. “Everyone lets their guard down eventually. Gets comfortable, stops checking their surroundings as carefully, assumes they’re safe.”
“And when they do?”
Greyback smiled, and it was a predator’s expression. “Then we remind them why complacency kills. But not yet. Not while they’re still in the city, still surrounded by protection.”
“We wait for them to leave Paris?”
“We wait for the right moment.” Greyback turned away from the distant lights. “Make camp. Rotate observation posts. I want to know their movements, their companions, their patterns. And I want to be ready when opportunity presents itself.”
The pack settled into the forest. They would wait, watch, and prepare. Greyback had learned long ago that vengeance served hot was satisfying but risky. Vengeance served cold, calculated, and precise was far more effective.
Harry Potter and Daphne Greengrass had killed his brother. For that, they would pay. But the payment would come at a time and place of Greyback’s choosing, when all advantages were on his side.
He could be patient. He’d waited years for lesser vengeance. He could wait a few more days for this.
The moon hung in the sky above them, four days from full. Soon, very soon, the pack would be at their strongest. And when that time came, when the right opportunity presented itself...
Greyback smiled into the darkness and waited.
To be continued...