The days that followed the Great Hall incident had Hogwarts buzzing. Everywhere one looked, students were found whispering amongst themselves as they discussed the fallout of the scheme Malfoy had concocted to humiliate Harry Potter, only to have the tables turned on him. The incident had left a mark on everyone, and not only the physical kind.
No one could truly stop talking about it –the badges, the shock, and the fact that Draco Malfoy and a huge chunk of Hogwarts' student body had fallen victim to their own arrogance.
The Slytherins were in disarray. Many who had worn the badges and had subsequently been hurt had started to distance themselves from Malfoy, not wanting to be associated with him anymore, especially when it concerned his continuing failed attempts to get one over Harry Potter.
The changes had been subtle at first – a few choice seats left empty near his little group at the Slytherin table during meal times, fleeting glances exchanged behind his back, and it had slowly morphed into full-on avoidance. It was so blatant that even the students from other houses had taken notice.
Daphne had told Harry that there were students from older years who were highly regarded in the house and had finally started to speak out against Malfoy and his little plans, even challenging his self-proclaimed leadership over the house. It did not mean that things had fully changed, but the shift in dynamics in the House of Snakes was clear.
The other three houses merely watched this development, both curious and amused. They had always seen Slytherins portraying a united front in public, so to see this crack in their armor after this incident was refreshing, to say the least.
For most of them, the badge incident was more of a failed prank than a malicious attack, though there was no lack of voices, mostly girls who adored Harry, who made it known to the famed rumor mill that they believed the intent behind the badges had been far darker.
Harry knew Regina had a role in this particular rumor but he could not be sure. It was not as if the girl would admit it. She was too much of a tease to confirm or deny anything.
The Ravenclaws were relatively unbothered if one did not count the few students who had worn those badges, and they were mostly content in keeping to themselves. A few did seem to debate the ethics of introducing those badges in the first place, and some paid them any mind, but they were mostly left ignored.
One thing was assured though. The entire school had learned a lesson that day, and it came as no surprise to anyone when stricter measures were introduced by the staff concerning contraband. Unrecognizable magical items would be treated with suspicion, and professors seemed more intent on cracking down on items that were not explicitly approved.
The Weasley twins were the most affected by this development. Earlier, they would use other students to test their products on, but after the incident with Malfoy's badges, most of the students had become more cautious and they did not seem to be getting as many volunteers. There were still a few though who could not care less about anything else and happily tried out their products for a quick sickle or two, but overall, it had become a chore.
Amid all the developments, Harry maintained an air of quiet neutrality. If anyone expected him to gloat or revel in the aftermath, they were sorely disappointed. He wasn't the least bit interested in petty triumphs. He knew Malfoy's game, and frankly, he considered the entire spectacle necessary.
It wasn't fully about humiliating Draco—it was also about making it clear that Harry was no one's punching bag. The arrogant, pureblooded, pampered brat had made his move, and Harry had played him like a fiddle, not that the students knew it. He had exposed the cruelty behind the humiliating plan Malfoy had devised to target him. As far as Harry was concerned, they all deserved what they got. Malfoy's cronies, the students who blindly followed his lead and accepted those badges, and even Draco himself. They had chosen to target him, and they had paid the price.
Although it did not do enough to the blonde ponce himself. Harry did not know what punishment he had been dealt apart from that silly excuse of an apology that he'd read out in the Great Hall the next day and the obvious points deduction. Those detentions with Snape obviously did not count.
Despite multiple rumors and speculations regarding Malfoy's punishment, he still carried himself with his signature swagger. It was only someone with a trained eye – like he and Daphne – who would notice the slight shift in his demeanor. He still strutted around, unaffected by the words and actions of his fellow students, barked orders at Crabbe and Goyle, treated Pansy as his personal plaything in public, and sneered at anyone who crossed his path, but something was missing.
His bravado seemed a little… diminished. The spark of superiority that kept his head held high and his eyes bright with pride did not seem as bright anymore. His comments had a lot less bite to them, the use of slurs had lessened considerably, and his sneers felt forced. It was as though the incident and whatever followed with him and the professors had taken some air out of him but he refused to acknowledge it.
In public, he treated the entire situation as if it was some trivial mishap. He shrugged off any responsibility, guilt, or blame with a careless wave of his hand, often mocking if anyone talked about it in front of him.
However, both Daphne and Regina had informed Harry how, in the private moments, when he thought no one was watching him, they could see the insecurity creep into his posture. In the common room, he wasn't as assertive and was often found slouching. The truth was out there – Draco Malfoy was not as untouchable now as he once believed himself to be, and he knew it as well. The situation regarding the leadership in Slytherin seemed to corroborate this little fact.
The day had started as usual, and Harry made his way out of the Gryffindor common room, ignoring the stares directed his way that had become routine now. He could not hide a smirk when he saw a few students still nursing their chests though, knowing what had caused it.
The Great Hall was sparsely crowded as he took a seat away from where a few students sat. His breakfast appeared in front of him instantly and Harry dug in.
He had a long day today. The First Task was almost at hand and he still had no clue which breed of dragon he would be up against. Since he'd come to know about those creatures being involved in the task, he had devoted most of his time to research.
Daphne had been stellar in helping him out, compiling the dangerous attributes and weaknesses of each dragon they could dig up. She was also adept at theorizing which dragons would most probably be involved, and Harry agreed. They would not import dragons from the other corner of the world, most likely, which meant dragons from nearby European countries.
Yet, there was no shortage of harmful breeds, from the Norwegian Ridgeback to the Ukrainian Ironbelly or even the Hungarian Horntail. He hoped he would get a relatively docile dragon like the Welsh Green or Swedish Short-Snout, but he was not too optimistic, knowing his track record.
In any case, he needed to do something about the dragonfire. The combat suit had arrived the previous day and as expected, Daphne's uncle had done a brilliant job with it. They had spent the entire evening testing out its durability and they had concluded that Harry would be almost safe from any physical attack. The hide was resistant to impact and low-level curses and hexes, but dragonfire was a different beast altogether. And if he got a poisonous dragon… well, that would add another variable to the mess.
The entire time had been spent researching obscure spells as well as working on creative uses of spells already known to them and progress had been rather slow. He truly needed to get a move on and finalize a strategy if he wanted to have a chance.
Harry was brought out of his musings when he heard a gasp to his right and he glanced over, finding a boy from his house who he didn't know staring wide-eyed at the front page of the Daily Prophet. Rolling his eyes at the overdramatic nature of the wizarding populace when it came to that rag, he resumed his meal.
Suddenly, his eyes widened as he felt something raw and primal course through him. It came from behind him and he turned around sharply. His brows furrowed when he saw almost every student looking in the same direction and as his eyes followed suit, he realized the aura was coming from none other than the French champion herself.
Fleur Delacour's face was scrunched up in rage as she gripped the morning edition of Daily Prophet, harshly enough to almost tear it into two. Her eyes were narrowed as she glared at the paper, and Harry wondered just what had twisted her knickers so much to make her this upset.
It also gave him an insight into her power though, and he had to admit she was a formidable witch.
He watched on as she shot out of her seat and without any glance toward anyone, threw the paper on the table and strode out of the Great Hall. Almost every eye remained fixated on the silvery blonde girl on her way out and the moment she vanished out of sight, the hall erupted into furious whispers.
Harry turned back to his meal and resumed eating slowly, but he found his eyes darting toward the same boy who had gasped earlier. He had left as well, but the newspaper remained neatly folded on the table. With a quick flick of his wand, he summoned the paper over to himself and spread it.
"Oh boy, that doesn't look good," he muttered under his breath and began reading.
IS FLEUR DELACOUR'S VEELA CHARM THE REAL MAGIC BEHIND HER SUCCESS?
As the excitement builds toward the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, a subtle tension lingers in the air at Hogwarts. And no, dear readers, it's not the dangerous tasks that have the students whispering in the corridors—it's the increasingly evident manipulation of one particular champion: Fleur Delacour, the Beauxbatons representative whose Veela heritage raises more questions than answers about her fairness in this competition.
While the Triwizard Tournament is meant to showcase raw magical talent, grit, and the ability to outsmart the fiercest of foes, it seems that Miss Delacour is leaning on a rather different set of skills.
Her Veela ancestry, long associated with seductive charm and a manipulative allure, cannot be ignored. Veela, as you well know, are infamous for bewitching men with little more than a glance, bending their will, and clouding their judgment. And with Miss Delacour, the evidence of this manipulation is starting to unfold right before our eyes.
The question at the heart of the matter is this: how much of Fleur Delacour's success so far is due to her magical abilities—and how much is due to the irresistible allure of her Veela heritage? And it is success indeed, my dear readers, to have your name amongst the greatest witches and wizards of your age, to have it known to the entire world that you are the best Wizarding France has to offer.
One must ask whether Fleur Delacour has been playing a far more subtle and dangerous game. From her entrance into Hogwarts, it was clear to many that Miss Delacour's talents did not merely lie in spellcasting. The flutter of lashes, the sultry smile, and that unnervingly perfect demeanor—have these attributes swayed opinions in her favor more than her actual capabilities?
Already, there are murmurs around the castle about how easily Miss Delacour has wormed her way into the good graces of several key figures at Hogwarts. Her fellow Triwizard Champions – Harry Potter, Cedric Diggory, and Viktor Krum – all seemed overly courteous to her during the Weighing of the Wands ceremony. But one might allude it to them being polite gentlemen – something I would also like to believe.
What about the photographs then, I ask? I do not believe I am the only one who sees how Fleur Delacour seemed to command the place of prominence in every photograph she found herself in, or how close her interactions seemed to be with a certain champion. Coincidence? Or has one fellow champion already fallen prey to her Veela charm? After all, Veela have a reputation for leaving men utterly besotted, willing to grant them favors without a second thought. And Miss Delacour's three opponents are all young, adolescent males.
One has to wonder: as Fleur Delacour flutters through this tournament with her icy grace and subtle smiles, how many people—students, staff, judges, fellow competitors—are truly under her spell?
Take, for instance, Madame Maxime. The towering headmistress of Beauxbatons has not hesitated to speak of her pupil's "great promise," but one cannot help but question the objectivity of her praise. Could Miss Delacour's innate ability to sway people's emotions be what Madame Maxime might be referring to? After all, it would not be the first time a Veela has turned heads and clouded minds to get what they desire. In a tournament designed to test true skill, is it fair that one competitor has such a natural advantage in bending others to her will?
It is unsettling to imagine that, rather than facing the tournament as an equal, Miss Delacour might exploit her unique heritage to secure an unfair advantage at every turn. How can the other competitors, who must rely on wit and courage alone, hope to stand their ground against someone who can sway opinions with a mere flick of her hair?
Let us not forget, dear readers, that Veela are not merely charming. When crossed or threatened, they are capable of unleashing a terrifying transformation—fierce creatures capable of controlling fire and destruction. Could this be Fleur Delacour's hidden weapon? Is her icy demeanor a cover for a dangerous volatility that will manifest when things don't go her way? Competitors and judges alike would do well to tread carefully, lest they provoke the rage of a woman whose heritage carries more danger than meets the eye.
Of course, Miss Delacour's supporters will be quick to defend her, claiming that her beauty and Veela blood are nothing more than a harmless trait. But I ask you, is it harmless to use one's magical allure to influence others in such a high-stakes competition? Is it harmless when the very essence of fairness—one of the founding principles of the Triwizard Tournament—might be eroded by a competitor who holds sway over others without even raising her wand?
We've already seen glimpses of Fleur's power at work. Several Hogwarts students—especially the boys—have been caught staring dreamily after her, completely oblivious to their surroundings. Even the professors seem unusually forgiving of her occasional aloofness and disdain for the Hogwarts way of life. And how many of these moments have we chalked up to youthful admiration, when in truth, it may be something far more sinister?
There's also the question of how Fleur plans to handle the tasks themselves. Will she face the challenges head-on, relying on her wits and skills like her competitors? Or will she employ the same manipulative charm to weaken her opponents or coax others into helping her along the way? One cannot forget that a Veela's ability to sway minds does not stop with mere flirtation. Could she, with a well-placed smile and a soft-spoken word, convince others to let her gain an unfair advantage in the competition?
In a tournament where champions must rely on their own abilities, it seems profoundly unjust that Fleur Delacour may be able to tilt the scales through a means unavailable to her competitors. While her fellow champions seem to be practicing relentlessly for the dangerous task ahead, Fleur Delacour seems to breeze through her days at Hogwarts, knowing full well that a single look can do more than hours of hard work for her rivals.
As we look to the first task, one can't help but question what kind of message this sends to the magical community. Are we prepared to celebrate a champion who, rather than standing on her own merit, leverages a controversial heritage of allure to tip the scales in her favor? Is this what the Triwizard Tournament has come to—where charm and beguilement trump hard-earned skill and courage?
Only time will tell how Fleur Delacour will fare in the trials to come, but one thing is certain: her competitors are not simply up against a witch. They face the deeply ingrained powers of a Veela descendant, powers that might be harder to fight than any challenge this tournament would throw at them. And in a tournament that is supposed to be about fairness and fortitude, that is a deeply troubling thought indeed, unless the organizers and the judges take actions to level the playing field, so to speak.
"Yep. It's not looking good," Harry muttered and sighed as he put the newspaper away, finishing up his breakfast quickly. As he got up, his eyes met Daphne who sat over at the Slytherin table and he gave her a discreet nod. The blonde nodded back before getting back to her meal, and Harry slowly made his way out of the Great Hall.
He wondered just what Daphne would think of that article. Knowing the beef that existed between the two girls, he felt she would find the entire thing hilarious.
Anyone with even a speck of a brain could detect the agenda in Skeeter's article, but there lay the point. Her articles were not made for those with intelligence. She targeted the sheep who let others form opinions for them, people who lacked critical thinking skills, and they became her weapons.
After how the Wand Weighing ceremony had ended, Harry had a feeling that Skeeter would come out with a scathing article against them. None had entertained her, refusing to be interviewed by the woman in private, and had made her follow their demands of not interviewing with a Quick-Quotes Quill. As such, Harry had felt that they would all be targeted by Skeeter. However, the end of the ceremony had been borderline explosive, with Fleur and her headmistress ensuring Skeeter was banned from Hogwarts grounds for the duration of their stay here in Britain.
As such, the focus had shifted to the French, with dear Miss Delacour as the primary target. The three of them who remained did catch some strays in the article, but they were by no means the targets.
Harry believed Skeeter had done the best she could if her objective was to go after Fleur Delacour. Her veela heritage was the most glaring point regarding her, it was akin to striking at the sore spot. She must have believed it was going to hurt Delacour, and right before the First Task as well.
However, Harry did not share that opinion. Sure, Fleur Delacour was prideful and haughty, considering most of the things beneath herself. However, he had seen so far that she was a powerful and knowledgeable witch, and a highly competitive one at that. If anything he'd understood about her was right, this incident would light a fire inside her and she would come out to perform in the First Task with everything she had at her disposal. That made her a challenge – one he found himself relishing to conquer.
Daphne had already told him what she wanted him to do to her, and as much as the thought enticed him, the idea of conquering Fleur Delacour at her very best was equally as exciting.
The First Task was almost here, and his preparations were still not over. His focus needed to be on point now. Daphne's desires could wait. It was time to prepare for the task in earnest.
-Break-
It was Saturday – the day before the First Task, and the students in the third year and above had been permitted to go to Hogsmeade. Harry had been hard at preparation, getting down spells at a pace that would have made even the most avid enthusiast of magic shiver in envy. It was Daphne who had unceremoniously cut his little session off, to his surprise, and with her arms crossed over her chest, she had told him in no uncertain terms that he should go and enjoy the day.
"You've got a big day tomorrow, and it won't do to tire yourself out before you even get to the task. Have a light day and relax. You've prepared more than enough already…" she'd said, and in a quieter voice, added, "Not to mention that ritual you did. It's surely going to benefit you tomorrow."
He could agree with that. His magic felt more fluid and potent, not to mention his ability to heal from injuries had been amplified. The only drawback – if one could even call it that – from the ritual was also overcome thanks to a certain enthusiastic brunette who had been ecstatic at the idea of him going to Hogsmeade. She'd offhandedly said that she'd be fine to accompany him should he wish, much to his amusement, but he'd politely declined, wanting to keep their interactions as confined to the bedroom as possible. He did not want to give anyone more fuel to use against him, even though students already talked about him and Regina being together.
Winter was coming, and the chilly breeze of late autumn sent shivers through the students and residents of Hogsmeade alike as they walked down the cobblestone pathways. Harry walked on his own, ignoring the glances cast his way.
He spotted a certain reporter who had been banned from Hogwarts grounds walk out of The Three Broomsticks with her photographer, and it was perhaps his fortune that the woman quickly apparated away. The reason became clear soon enough when he saw an irate Madame Maxime stride out of the pub, startling a group of students who jerked back in surprise. The woman's eyes darted around before they fell on the students, and with a polite smile, she apologized for startling them and made her way back inside the pub.
'Well, that would've been slightly entertaining,' Harry thought with a chuckle as he resumed walking. He did not have any agenda here in Hogsmeade, and the only reason he'd even come here was because of his dear blonde aide who wouldn't take no for an answer. As such, all he did was wander around aimlessly, even snagging a mug of butterbeer from The Three Broomsticks an hour or so later. The pub was brimming and he believed it would remain crowded, considering there were students from three schools as well as several officials around for the tournament.
He quickly took his leave, although he did not miss how his magic responded to the busty barmaid of the pub, or how she kept giving him lingering glances as she worked. Perhaps that was also the reason why she served him before several customers who had ordered in advance. He decided to humor her a bit, eager to see if he was interpreting it correctly, and he cast a not-so-subtle glance at her splendid assets that she was the proud owner of, making sure she saw what he was doing. The woman's eyes flashed with something he did not recognize and once she had levitated a couple of glasses over to the table in the distance, she slowly sauntered over to where he sat on the stool at the bar.
"Now then, if it isn't our dear champion himself," she said with a smirk, and Harry quietly sipped the butterbeer, watching how her eyes remained trained on him. Her gaze drifted downward, and she mimicked his gulp, her tongue darting out and licking her lips gently as she gazed deep into his emerald orbs. Harry put the mug on the counter and stared back at her.
"Glad to see I have your support, Madam Rosemerta," Harry replied. "It's scarce these days, so I'll have you know it means a lot."
"The name's Rosalie, but you can call me Rosie, Harry," she said candidly, even taking liberty with his name, not that he minded. The signal was already strong, and he could feel his magic singing. How long had it been since he'd had sex? He wondered.
'Ah yes. Last evening.'
Regina had wanted to go for another round, but he had been so busy with his training that he had to deny her. Daphne had joined them once again, and Harry had to admit that the stoic look on her face as she watched them go at it did seem a bit unnerving. The blonde had to pull the deviant off his cock and force her to dress up so that they could leave Harry on his own so that he could get back to his practice.
Shaking his head slightly in amusement, Harry returned his attention to this blonde bombshell who leaned against the counter. He had a splendid view down the front of her dress that had the strings undone, showcasing the swell of her large tits and a huge amount of cleavage. Being the hot-blooded young man that he was, and coupled with his runic blessings, it was impossible for him to not let his eyes feast on the sight, and Rosemerta watched on in silent approval.
"Not really subtle, are you?" She asked in amusement.
"Can you blame me, Rosie?" Harry asked with a grin, making her smirk at him. "And I don't know why, but a part of me tells that you want me to."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she smirked as she shrugged, and Harry's eyes could not miss the enticing movement.
He gazed back at her in mirth and replied, "Sure you don't. Can I get a refill?"
The woman grabbed his mug without taking her eyes off him and turned around, and Harry shook his head when he saw her deliberately push her shapely behind more than necessary. The woman's butt pushed against her dress as she bent over, filling his mug up with more butterbeer.
Harry shifted his eyes and gazed back at her as she turned around and placed his mug on the counter, watching as he began drinking once again.
"It's not working, I'll have you know," Harry remarked, putting the mug on the counter. "You won't find me blushing or making a fool of myself like those other prats if you show off a bit."
"Oh?" She smiled widely. "And who says I'm doing anything to make you blush or make a fool of yourself? I'm just being myself."
"You do know how old I am, right? You're older than my parents would've been if they'd been here."
"And yet I see you checking me out with that look in your eyes," she whispered, a predatory gleam in her eyes.
"And what is this look, exactly?"
Rosemerta's smirk widened. "You need me to spell that out for you, Harry? I'm sure you've seen your fair share of it yourself. Hell, you must be seeing it in my eyes right now."
That was as good an admission as any, and that left no doubt in his mind now. The ritual had shown its effect once again, and this woman wanted him. Bad.
"I guess," he remarked, taking a gulp once again. "But I see many wizards around this pub who have the same look in their eyes. Why not go for any of them?"
"I guess I have my taste," she replied.
"Your taste is a wizard who's just reached the age?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.
"You're of age. That's all that should matter, right?" She quipped instantly. "Who cares how long ago it happened? And going by the grapevine, what really matters is very promising indeed."
Her gaze shifted downward, and Harry did not need to be a genius to figure out that she was talking about him and Regina, and how chipper Regina used to be nowadays. Only one thing had changed, and it didn't take much to figure out what was the reason behind her good mood in the past few weeks.
"I see," he murmured.
"Tales of your exploits up in the castle do reach here as well, you know," she remarked casually as she stood back up, serving another small group that came over to place their order. Harry felt their eyes on them and glanced over, sneering when he saw one wizard's hand rub his chest, almost as if he'd been reminded of what had happened to him.
Rosemerta served their drinks and the group left, leaving them alone.
"Where was I? Oh yes, your exploits… A really charming girl, Regina is. Completely opposite of both her parents and that brat of a sister of hers. Sometimes, I wonder if she's adopted or something."
"So she's the one behind all this, eh?" Harry asked shrewdly.
"Don't get mad at her for this little scheme now," Rosemerta chuckled, although her eyes still gleamed with the same look that had remained in them since he'd arrived in the pub. "We're close, she and I. She just confided in me when I asked her."
"And being the little deviant she is, she gave you a recommendation. Is that so?"
"Can you think of a higher praise, Harry?" Rosemerta purred. "You should be flattered, if I'm being honest. It's a sign of the huge respect she has for your… capabilities."
Harry could not help but chuckle at that.
"Alright," he nodded. "I can see the logic in that."
"Good," Rosemerta smirked. "The First Task is tomorrow, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"Nice. I'm sure she'll take care of you before that, but if you still find yourself on that adrenaline high after the task, I'll be here, waiting."
And there was the direct invitation. Harry gazed at the smirking woman before he cast his gaze around. A few people were sneaking glances at him, the usual ones, he reckoned, and he turned back to the woman.
"Well then," he said as he got up, placing a couple of galleons on the counter. "I believe we've got ourselves an arrangement."
Rosemerta merely smirked as Harry turned around and walked away. What he missed though was a pair of sapphire blue eyes framed by lustrous golden tresses that followed him on his way out before falling on the busty barmaid.
Daphne bit her lower lip gently as she released a soft sigh and she rested her forehead on her hands, a frown on her face.
"What the hell is wrong with me?" She whispered, her words getting lost in the chatter of the lively pub.
TBC.
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