Back at the "Tent" (a.k.a. The Holo-Quinjet That Could Pass for Glamping)
The glamoured Quinjet looked like it had been designed by a collaboration between Stark Industries and a very caffeinated Lily Potter. The air smelled faintly of espresso and ozone. Enchanted windows shimmered with ward runes. Somewhere in the distance, a self-cleaning coffee machine grumbled like it was sentient and a little passive-aggressive about not being thanked.
Harry strolled in with the swagger of a man who just bodied a Death Eater hit squad before breakfast. His red-and-gold armor shimmered in places where spellfire had kissed it, and his cloak trailed behind like it had a dramatic ego of its own. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a wizarding romance novel titled Hex Me, Daddy. Following him were four of the deadliest, most gorgeous women on the planet—Tonks with her chaos curls and shit-eating grin, Jean with her eyes glowing faintly from residual Phoenix energy, Natasha slinking like a jungle cat who just got fed, and Ororo, regal as a queen even when casually tossing her braid over her shoulder like a lightning goddess who owned the weather and the room.
In the command room, James Potter stood with one hand in his pocket, sipping a conjured latte like this was casual Tuesday family viewing. Next to him, Sirius Black looked like someone had just handed him front-row seats to a reality show starring his favorite godson. Ted Tonks, meanwhile, was clinging to his herbal tea like it was the only thing keeping him from fleeing to Tibet.
On the screen in front of them, the Death Eaters were having what could best be described as a collective spiritual crisis. Lucius Malfoy was slumped in a chair like he'd just learned he'd lost his family fortune and been turned into a meme. Crabbe and Goyle Sr. looked like extras in a disaster movie. Nott Sr. had fully peed himself, and the way he was shaking suggested he now associated the word "Phoenix" with therapy.
"Let me guess," James said, not even looking up from his cup. "You couldn't just beat them. You had to stage it like a Broadway finale."
Harry tilted his head, all faux innocence. "Dad, please. I'm a creature of aesthetics. I didn't plan to blow up three stone columns and air-juggle Lucius into a tree. It just… happened. Naturally."
"Like spontaneous combustion," Jean muttered, brushing soot from her shoulder.
"We were literally mid-cuddle," Tonks added, hopping onto a desk with a bounce. "I'd just found the perfect position—my arm under Natasha, legs wrapped around Harry, cheek resting on Ro's thigh. Peak snuggle alignment. And then—boom. Wand-waving dickbags."
Natasha sighed theatrically. "And just when I was about to fall asleep. Rude."
Ted looked like he was trying to unhear everything. "Do any of you not overshare?"
"Ask better questions," Ororo said calmly.
Sirius clapped Harry on the shoulder. "That's my boy. Taking down fascists and then returning to your regularly scheduled cuddle pile. Honestly, I'm touched."
"Gross," Tonks said, but she grinned and nudged Harry with her knee. "He did look hot doing it, though."
"Obviously," Jean said. "He always looks hot doing it. Have you seen his thighs?"
James raised a finger. "I have, and as his father, I'd like to request we stop that sentence right there."
"Too late," Natasha smirked. "I have very detailed knowledge of said thighs."
Ted actually choked on his tea.
Harry just shrugged, entirely unbothered. "I contain multitudes. Protector of the realm. Slayer of Dark Lords. Snuggle champion. Occasional destroyer of pants."
Ororo leaned into him, her hand sliding under his jacket. "Speaking of destruction... the way you launched Lucius into a pine tree? Very satisfying."
"Ten points for the landing," Jean added.
"Eleven for the dramatic hair flip afterward," Natasha said, eyes twinkling. "Honestly, you were insufferable. I loved it."
"I do try," Harry said modestly.
Ted rubbed his temples. "Okay. Okay. Deep breath. So, no casualties?"
"Only dignity," Tonks said. "Theirs. Ours is intact and glowing."
James peered at the screen. "Is that Goyle Sr. whispering 'fiery sex angels'? Should I be worried?"
"No," Harry replied. "But maybe keep him away from romance novels for a while."
Sirius looked like he was having the best night of his life. "Kid, you just took out a death squad while being spooned by four war goddesses. You're basically living my dream. Except better dressed."
"Thank you," Harry said. "Finally, someone notices the tailoring."
Tonks slipped down and wrapped her arms around Harry from behind. "We're still adrenaline-high. You're not sleeping yet."
"Agreed," Ororo said, her voice like warm thunder. "Come, mon cœur. Let us exhaust you properly."
Jean was already tugging at his collar. "Your punishment for being too hot in combat."
"And too smug," Natasha added. "You need to be humbled. Thoroughly."
Ted raised a hand. "I swear to Merlin, if anyone says the word 'thrust'—"
"Thrust," Tonks whispered in his ear.
Ted screamed internally.
Harry just smirked. "Night, Dad. Night, Uncle Pads. Ted… maybe go meditate. Or drink something stronger."
"Or forget how to understand English," Ted muttered.
The four women were already dragging Harry away like a sacrificial offering to the gods of pleasure. There was giggling. There were murmured threats that sounded an awful lot like promises. And there was a suspicious thud followed by Natasha's voice saying, "That was only round one, Revenant."
James turned off the screen.
"No point watching the Death Eaters flail all night," he said. "We all know who really got punished."
"Lucius?" Sirius asked.
James grinned. "Ted."
Ted was just staring at the hallway, muttering about earplugs and therapy.
"Cheers to Harry," Sirius said, lifting his mug. "Boy-Who-Moans, Prince of Harems, and Sexiest Man Alive."
James clinked his cup against it. "Long may he reign."
Somewhere in the distance, there was another bang, a soft gasp, and what sounded very much like Harry saying, "Wait, two at once?!"
Ted wept into his tea.
—
The next morning smelled like victory, bacon, and unapologetically smug pancakes. Magic-sizzling, golden-brown stacks floated onto plates with buttery precision. Coffee that could probably fuel a jet—or at least keep Tony Stark awake—was brewing in a gleaming chrome espresso machine that looked way too clean for what went down last night.
In the glamoured Quinjet's dining room—think Weasleys' kitchen meets Stark-level brunch bar—James Potter leaned back in his chair like a man who knew he'd raised a public menace and was obscenely proud of it. His dark hair was artfully tousled, his stubble annoyingly perfect, and his smirk could probably be weaponized.
"Well," James said, sipping his Ethiopian roast like it was whisky, "at least he didn't level the entire jet. Just emotionally scarred Ted."
"I am right here," Ted Tonks muttered, clutching his mug like it was a holy relic. His eyes were the color of trauma and bad decisions. "Also, no lie, someone moaned in Latin. LATIN. Who does that?"
"You'd be surprised," Sirius said with a lazy grin. His feet were propped on the table, his plate a structural engineering nightmare of waffles, whipped cream, and enough syrup to drown a hippogriff. He looked entirely too pleased for someone who hadn't lifted a finger since shoulder pads were in style.
Andromeda, serene and sharp-eyed, didn't look up from her book as she buttered toast without looking. It was witchcraft. Possibly literal.
"It was Jean," she said. "And I believe the Latin was orgasmum mihi duriorem facito, pater!"
Ted groaned like someone being exorcised.
Lily Potter, wearing a lavender dressing gown and sipping tea with the grace of a murder queen, arched a brow. "To be fair, Ted, we did warn you. You said, and I quote, 'I can handle it.'"
"I meant emotionally!"
Rose, Harry's little sister and a red-haired chaos elemental in her own right, looked up from her tower of pancakes. "Well, you can't. And now I need therapy. Thanks."
"You're fourteen," James reminded her.
"Exactly," she said, taking another bite. "Peak trauma-absorption age."
Right then, the inner door hissed open with all the dramatic timing of a soap opera finale.
Enter: The Morning After Avengers.
Harry led the charge like a man who'd just walked off the cover of Hot Wizard Monthly. Hair artfully disheveled. Emerald eyes bright and just a little smug. His red-and-gold shirt clung like it had been personally blessed by a fanfiction deity.
Tonks was right behind him, sporting his hoodie like a trophy and walking with the loose-limbed satisfaction of someone who had thoroughly conquered a demigod. Her bubblegum-pink hair was in full chaos mode, one sock was missing, and she looked like trouble wrapped in glitter and caffeine.
Jean Grey floated in next—yes, floated—like her feet couldn't be bothered. Her tank top had a rip in the most aesthetically flattering place, her hair a shimmering red waterfall that practically screamed, I transcended last night and I liked it.
Natasha Romanoff—the Black Widow—strode in with bruises like accessories and leggings that should've come with a warning label. Her tank top read: I Can Kill You with My Pinkie. She was smirking.
And then there was Ororo.
The weather goddess floated in, robe fluttering dramatically, barefoot and glowing like a thunderstorm in human form. There were claw marks on the silk that definitely hadn't been there yesterday.
"Morning, sweetheart," Lily said sweetly. "Girls. Delightful homicide last night."
Rose spat orange juice onto her plate.
Harry dropped into a chair like royalty on vacation. "Morning, Mum. Sleep well?"
Lily smiled like a panther. "We managed, once the lightning and Latin chanting died down."
Andromeda lifted her cup. "I would've helped, but I was mid-dream about Idris Elba. Priorities."
Jean leaned over and kissed Lily on the cheek. "Thanks for not interrupting."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Lily said. "Though Ted nearly broke the sound barrier running to the bathroom."
"Not my fault!" Ted barked. "Jean ignited! She literally lit up like a celestial torch!"
Tonks shrugged. "To be fair, that was when I—"
"Stop talking," Ted groaned. "Some of us still want to believe in peace."
"You married a Black," Sirius said. "There is no peace. Only flair."
Natasha grabbed a mug of coffee and took a sip like it owed her money. "Also, that espresso machine? Very flammable."
Andromeda sighed. "Which one of you—"
"Jean," everyone said at once.
Jean raised a delicate finger. "Technically, Tonks startled me."
"You bit me," Tonks said.
Jean smiled. "Affectionately."
Harry stirred his coffee and said innocently, "So... What did you guys do while we were gone?"
"Watched The Princess Bride," Lily said, as though that explained everything. "Didn't blow up anything."
"Didn't set the coffee machine on fire," Andromeda added.
"Didn't dent the ceiling," Rose offered helpfully.
"Oh, come on," Tonks muttered. "That dent was already there."
"It really wasn't," Ted said. Then muttered, "In Latin."
Jean smirked. "For the record, that was Harry's fault."
Harry raised both hands, unapologetic. "I contain multitudes."
Ororo kissed the top of his head as she passed. "You contain bruises."
"From you," he said. "Proud of that, by the way."
Suddenly—bang. Commotion outside.
Boots on metal. Raised voices. A ripple of magic so sharp it sliced through the air like a guillotine of secrets.
Everyone froze.
James was up in a blink, wand in hand, easy and deadly.
Lily's eyes narrowed, her tea forgotten. The kind of look that said you're about to deeply regret your life choices.
Storm-clouds curled around Ororo's hands.
Jean's pupils glowed faint gold.
Harry stood slowly. His smile vanished. "Well," he said darkly. "That's new."
Tonks cracked her neck. "They picked the worst time."
"Or the best," Natasha said, spinning a knife from her sleeve.
Andromeda closed her book calmly. "Let's not ruin breakfast unless we have to."
Rose grabbed her wand and stood. "Too late."
The door hissed open.
Harry stepped forward, a war god in pajama pants, flanked by four very dangerous women who all had one thing in common: they had not finished breakfast.
Whoever was on the other side?
They were about to find out what post-coital vengeance looked like—with flair, fire, and possibly more Latin.
—
The Quinjet's gangway dropped with a hiss like a snake about to strike. Magic clashed with tech at the edges, sending up little puffs of steam and sparkles that probably violated at least three safety codes. Ministry robes flapped in the breeze, Aurors lined up like they were trying out for the cover of Wizarding Vogue: Tension Edition.
At the head of the wizarding delegation was Cornelius Fudge, looking like a nervous melon with legs stuffed into a green bowler hat. His forehead glistened with the kind of sweat you only get when you realize you're about to make a complete prat of yourself in front of a global paramilitary agency. Beside him stood Dolores Umbridge, the human equivalent of a paper cut: tiny, pink, and unnervingly painful. And next to her, looking like she'd rather be literally anywhere else, was Amelia Bones.
Inside the Quinjet, the corridor shimmered. Out walked the chaos crew: Harry, Lily, Ororo, Jean, Tonks, Natasha, Sirius, James, and Ted—all in various states of "We just rolled out of bed and still look better than you." Pajama pants, tank tops, wild hair, unapologetic yawns. They looked like they had breakfasted on chaos, espresso, and spite.
Lily stepped forward first, cool and composed like a lioness in pearls.
"Minister. Madam Bones. Miss Umbridge," she said with the kind of grace that could cut glass. "What a surprise. This isn't a social call, is it?"
Fudge puffed up like a toad trying to flirt. "No, no, certainly not! We're here on—er—official Ministry business. There's been a... misunderstanding."
Harry stepped out, shirtless under an open hoodie, emerald eyes like twin spells. He sipped his espresso and looked at Fudge like he was a stain on the mug.
"You mean the part where your Death Eater buddies roasted a muggle campsite and tried to shank a toddler in his sleep?" he asked, tone casual, burn level: incinerate.
Umbridge gave her usual simpering giggle, which sounded like nails on a chalkboard married a blender. "Allegedly, dear. Allegedly. These men are respected members of our society."
"Yeah? So was Gilderoy Lockhart. Remind me how that worked out again?" Tonks said, crossing her arms. Her bubblegum-pink hair sparked like she was one eye-twitch away from turning Umbridge into a flamingo.
Fudge waved that away like it was just annoying pollen. "Regrettable, yes, but they must be returned to Ministry custody. You have no jurisdiction."
"Actually," Lily said, smile lethal, "we have full authority. As SHIELD operatives, we intervened to prevent mass civilian casualties."
Umbridge narrowed her eyes. "SHIELD is a muggle organization. It has no standing in our world."
Amelia Bones, who had been quietly exuding the vibe of a woman keeping her last nerve in a jar for emergencies, stepped forward. "Dolores. Enough."
Everything stopped. Even the wind seemed to pause for dramatic effect.
Amelia turned to Lily, expression respectful. "I told them before they strutted over here like concussed peacocks. SHIELD is recognized by the ICW. Has been since 1945."
Lily nodded. "Margaret Carter. Founder. Worked with Dumbledore and Flamel during the Grindelwald War. Maybe read a book sometime, Dolores."
Fudge, now floundering like a fish at a spelling bee, blustered, "But the Ministry must investigate! Maybe they were Imperiused—"
"Ah yes," Sirius said, sauntering out with a coffee mug that read 'Marauder for Life.' "Because people under the Imperius Curse often scream 'For the Dark Lord' while stabbing children. Totally normal."
Natasha, dressed in what might technically still count as pajamas if the world was feeling generous, arched an eyebrow. "We have magical logs, Pensieve memories, biometric scans, and confessions. Also, one of them farted and said Voldemort blessed it."
Jean muttered, "I'm still recovering from that mental image."
Fudge's mouth opened. No sound came out.
Lily crossed her arms. "They're not going anywhere. You can send a formal inquiry to SHIELD Legal. And Dolores? Next time you knock, don't bring a cosplay army."
Umbridge turned puce. "You can't be serious!"
"No," Harry said, stepping forward, emerald gaze gleaming. "I'm Harry. He's Sirius. Try to keep up."
Sirius bowed dramatically. "At your flamingo-colored service."
Tonks elbowed him. "Don't insult flamingos."
Ororo stepped up beside Harry, lightning faintly crackling at her fingertips. Her voice was soft, dangerous. "And next time? You try this again, you better be ready for a storm."
Fudge tried one last gasp. "You can't just defy the Ministry!"
Amelia gave him a look usually reserved for toddlers and Death Eaters. "We're leaving. Now. Before you embarrass yourself any further."
She gave Lily a tight nod. "Don't let them go. I'll handle the rest."
Lily inclined her head. "With pleasure."
The Aurors turned and began retreating. The gangway hissed shut behind them.
Jean stretched and groaned. "Now I really need more coffee."
"And a nap," Tonks added. "Preferably on Harry."
"Called it!" Jean said.
Natasha smirked, slipping an arm around Harry's waist. "Ladies, there's enough of him to go around."
"Not wrong," Ororo said, pressing a kiss to Harry's cheek.
Harry looked around at the chaos, the women, the retreating bureaucrats, and grinned like the king of the breakfast battlefield.
"Well," he said, sipping his coffee. "Who wants waffles?"
From deep inside the Quinjet, Rose yelled, "Can someone bring me the Latin dictionary? Ted's crying again!"
Ted's voice followed: "I am not crying! It was a very emotional vocabulary list!"
James strolled in with bedhead and a piece of toast. "Please tell me Fudge cried."
Sirius clapped him on the back. "Oh, he sweated like a Kneazle in a dog park."
Harry raised his mug in salute. "To war criminals in jail, breakfast sass, and dangerously hot girlfriends."
"Cheers," they all echoed.
The Quinjet lifted into the morning sky, leaving scorch marks and one very confused Cornelius Fudge behind.
—
Meanwhile – French Ministry Campgrounds, near the Quidditch World Cup Stadium
Sunlight slinked through the mist like it was trying to sneak past an awkward family breakfast. The trees around the French Ministry camp stood tall and still, like they were pretending nothing horrific had happened last night. Which would've been a bold-faced lie.
The bodies? Gone. The blood? Scrubbed away with charm and elbow grease. The trauma? Still hanging in the air like the smell of burnt toast.
Fleur Delacour sat under the canopy outside her family's reinforced tent, a heavy Ministry-issue blanket wrapped around her like armor. It smelled faintly of lavender and antiseptic potions. Her little sister, Gabrielle, lay curled beside her, snoring softly into Fleur's thigh like a kitten that had seen too much.
Fleur had not slept. Not a wink. Her brain refused to shut up.
Because every time she closed her eyes, she saw him.
The armor. The claws. The eyes that glowed like dying embers. And the way he moved—like a predator wearing a boy's body.
Le Revenant.
Her bête.
"Did you hear?" someone stage-whispered nearby.
Fleur didn't even try to pretend she wasn't listening. She cocked her head like a nosy owl.
"They say he's Harry Potter."
Fleur's heart actually pulled a hamstring. Harry Potter?
"You mean the Harry Potter?" asked a British witch in a Ministry green robe. "The twin brother of Rose Potter?"
"The Boy-Who-Supposedly-Died-in-a-Gas-Explosion Harry Potter," added a French wizard who had clearly dumped half a bottle of hair gel on his head that morning.
"Mais non," Fleur muttered. "He is dead."
"Apparently not," the witch continued. "They say he was rescued. Raised somewhere secret. SHIELD, maybe?"
Fleur blinked.
"SHIELD?" Gabrielle mumbled, lifting her head groggily. "Zat's ze American group with ze guns and ze scary acronym, non?"
Fleur shushed her gently. "Shh. Les commères speak."
A second witch leaned in. "He looks older than he should be. He's only fourteen, but he could pass for twenty."
"Tall, too," the Frenchman chimed in. "Broad shoulders. Built like a bull. Gorgeous in a terrifying way."
Fleur's stomach did something very unladylike.
"And he does wandless magic," added another voice. "No wand. No incantation. Just whoosh, and the Death Eaters go flying like Quidditch bludgers."
Gabrielle sat up, eyes wide. "Wandless magic? Like ze Revenant?"
Fleur didn't answer. She was too busy trying not to hyperventilate.
"He wasn't alone either," said a new voice with the tone of someone who lived for drama. "There were girls with him. Four of them. One metamorphmagus. Two redheads. One with dark skin and white hair. All stunning. All deadly."
"Un harem?" the Frenchman squeaked.
"Non," another corrected quickly. "Do not call it zat. Not if you like your limbs attached."
Fleur stood up so fast her blanket hit the grass like a defeated towel. Her parents, sipping café under the canopy, looked up in surprise.
"Fleur?" Appoline blinked, brushing a lock of platinum hair out of her face. She looked like a goddess on vacation. "Darling, are you all right?"
"We must find him," Fleur said, marching like a woman possessed.
Sebastian stood, his tall frame cutting a commanding silhouette. "Find who?"
"Harry Potter," she replied, throwing the blanket aside like it had offended her. "Le Revenant."
"Fleur, ma chérie, you were just attacked last night," Sebastian said in his deep, smooth voice. "You need rest."
"Non. What I need is to thank the man who saved Gabrielle's life. Who saved my life. With my eyes. Face-to-face."
Appoline gave her husband a look that said, let her do this or sleep on the couch. She sighed. "Fine. We're coming with you."
Gabrielle hopped to her feet, barefoot and fire-eyed. "Moi aussi."
"Put shoes on, Gabby," Fleur muttered.
Ten minutes later, they were flanked by a squad of French Aurors, cutting through the campgrounds like a very well-dressed search party. Fleur asked everyone she passed.
"Avez-vous vu Harry Potter?"
"Where is le Revenant?"
"He is tall. Handsome. Looks like he eats monsters for breakfast?"
Responses ranged from unhelpful to awestruck.
"She's determined," one Auror murmured.
"She's a Veela," the other replied. "When they know, they know."
Fleur did know. Her magic knew. Her soul knew. It wasn't just attraction.
It was gravity.
He was her equal. Not someone she had to hide her fire for. Someone who thrived in fire.
And if he had other lovers? Fleur had two words: lucky girls.
She'd always liked women anyway.
"Over there!" an Auror shouted. "Clearing near the woods. They were camped there."
Fleur surged forward, Gabrielle on her heels, hair bouncing in righteous determination—
Just in time to see a sleek black aircraft rise from the trees. It was shaped like a predatory bird, turbines glowing blue, cloaked in the kind of tech that made wizards mutter about Muggles and heresy.
"A Muggle aircraft?" someone asked.
"Non," said an older Auror grimly. "That's SHIELD. Quinjet. Custom stealth."
Sebastian's jaw clenched. "They're leaving."
Fleur froze, staring up at the vanishing jet.
He was gone.
She let out a shaky breath. Not a sob. But in the same family.
"He's gone," Gabrielle said softly, appearing beside her.
Fleur didn't answer right away. She was too busy memorizing the sky.
Then she whispered, "Non. Not forever."
She turned to her family, wind catching her hair like a movie moment. "I will find him. Even if I have to chase him across ze world."
Magic stirred around her, gentle and electric. As if the world itself agreed.
Appoline raised a brow. "Well, at least it will be a dramatic love story."
"Zat is ze only kind worth having," Fleur said, chin high, eyes fierce.
And Gabrielle grinned. "Zut alors. He has no idea what's coming."
—
French Ministry Campgrounds – Delacour Tent, Later That Morning
The Delacour tent was one of those magical wonders that looked like a posh two-person camping tent on the outside but had the square footage of a Versailles guest suite on the inside. Chandeliers swayed slightly from the gentle breeze of enchanted fans. The smell of freshly baked croissants battled bravely against the more stubborn scent of singed peacock feathers from the campfire incident the night before. (Long story. Not Fleur's fault. Probably.)
A high-pitched screech echoed from outside.
"Was that... a peacock again?" Gabrielle asked, looking up from her doll's hair, which she had been braiding with the ferocity of a mini stylist prepping for Paris Fashion Week.
Appoline didn't even flinch. "Non. That was just your sister's aura reacting to stress."
"Maman!" Fleur huffed, storming into the main sitting area, cheeks pink with outrage and possibly residual dream-fog. "He is leaving! I have to go after him."
At the corner table sat Sebastian Delacour, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, legs crossed like a man who had survived war, taxes, and raising daughters. He looked up from his morning papers, one eyebrow already halfway to Mount Everest.
"Fleur. Mon coeur. You are not chasing some teenage vigilante across the world because he gave you a swoon."
Fleur's arms flailed in protest. "It was not a swoon! It was an awakening!"
"Of your hormones," Sebastian muttered.
Fleur placed her hands on her hips, channeling the divine fury of every woman ever told to calm down. "He is my bête."
Gabrielle popped up again from her cushion fortress. "I thought his name was Harry?"
Fleur turned to her like a very dramatic soap opera lead. "Yes, Gabrielle. Harry. But 'bête' means something deeper."
"Like a monster?"
Appoline sipped her tea without looking up. "Like a soulmate with abs."
"Merci, Maman," Fleur said, pointing at her like she was winning a courtroom case.
Sebastian pinched the bridge of his nose. "You do not even know what he looks like! You saw him in a helmet. He could be hideous."
"Non. He is tall, muscular, wears red and gold armor like he stepped out of a painting in a Roman cathedral. And did I mention tall?"
"He is also quatorze!"
"I am dix-sept!" Fleur fired back. "That is practically the same age, en France! It is not illegal, it is romance!"
Appoline snorted tea up her nose and turned to hide her laughter.
Gabrielle, confused but determined, asked, "Is he your boyfriend now?"
Fleur softened instantly, kneeling beside her sister. "Non, mon ange. But I think he could be someone very important to me."
"Because he saved me?"
Fleur nodded. "That, and... when I looked at him, I didn't feel small or silly. I felt seen."
Sebastian exhaled through his nose. The Dad Nose Sigh™. The one that signaled "I am trying very hard to stay reasonable before I start yelling in French."
"Fleur. I understand you feel a pull. But this is bigger than one moment. You have Beauxbatons. Your final year. The Triwizard Tournament!"
Fleur hesitated. That one hurt. She had been dreaming of the Tournament since she had heard it was to be reinstated. Her name was already on gossip lists titled Most Likely to Defeat a Dragon and Not Break a Nail.
"I can do both," she said. Not quite shouting. Not quite confident either.
"You cannot win a tournament if you are flying off to wherever this boy is hiding."
"He's not hiding, Papa. He is… waiting."
"Oh? And how do you know that, Miss Romantic Espionage?"
Appoline looked up from her tea. "Because Dumbledore wants him back."
That earned everyone's attention. Even Gabrielle froze mid-doll braid.
Sebastian nodded slowly. "The rumors are growing. That boy is Harry Potter. And Albus Dumbledore has been whispering into ears at the ICW. The Tournament is in England this year, and the Goblet... well, it's not just for fun anymore."
Fleur blinked. "You think Dumbledore will use the Goblet to bring him back?"
"Oui," Sebastian said grimly. "And if he does..."
"Then I will see him again."
Gabrielle whispered, "That sounds très romantic."
Appoline placed a warm hand on Fleur's shoulder. "You are not giving up, ma chérie. You are training. You will win this tournament. And when you stand before him again... you will be more than a girl with a crush. You will be a champion."
Fleur nodded. The weight in her chest was still there. But now it felt more like armor than a burden.
"Fine," she said. "I will wait. For now."
"Merci," Sebastian said, leaning back like a man who had just disarmed a magical bomb.
"But when he arrives at Hogwarts," Fleur added, one finger raised imperiously, "I am making my move."
"Fleur—"
"If he wants a harem, he better leave a spot for me. Because I do not let men who throw Death Eaters like baguettes get away."
Gabrielle gasped. "FL-EUR!"
"What? I like girls too! It's called having options!"
Sebastian groaned into his hands.
Appoline kissed his temple. "Welcome to parenting a Veela, mon amour."
"Zut alors," he muttered.
Gabrielle threw a pillow at him. Fleur caught it mid-air like a goddess with reflexes. Then she winked.
Her bête didn't know it yet.
But she was coming.
---
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