The tension in the room seemed to thicken, and Fleur's grip on Harry's forearm grew tighter, her nails pressing into his sleeve.
Harry sensed her unease—she clearly didn't relish the idea of him defending her—but his protective instincts roared at the way Malfoy was addressing them.
"You dare speak to me like that?" the Malfoy scion hissed indignantly. "You're nothing but an interloper—an outsider she's taken pity on."
Harry felt the familiar heat of anger rising within him, prepared to boil over. He even felt Ash moving beneath his robes, readying himself to strike.
'Let me handle this, please,' Fleur's voice resonated inside his head.
The request surprised him and it took deliberate effort not to snap back at Malfoy.
He wrestled down his temper and marvelled at the sudden mind channel, questioning how Fleur had formed the connection wandlessly.
Steadying herself, Fleur turned fully to the French Malfoy, chin lifting by a fraction. "You," she began, her tone cool yet cutting, "will not speak to Harry that way. I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks." She spoke with a crisp precision, each syllable laced with an accent that only sharpened her meaning. "And don't presume I belong to anyone, least of all you. That is laughable."
A charged silence followed her words, pressing upon the knot of onlookers who had begun to gather. Malfoy's nostrils flared, ready to lash out, but Fleur forged on before he could speak.
"Your arrogance is embarrassing," she stated, allowing her disgust to show. "You think your family name entitles you to demand my time, criticise my choices, and insult whomever you please? Shame on you—and on your family for its obvious disregard of your upbringing. You're just like your British cousin."
A muscle in Malfoy's jaw tightened. "You dare group me with that inbred imbecile?" he spat, words stumbling in his hurry to defend himself. "I am no Draco Malfoy—I'm the rightful heir to a far more distinguished—"
"Distinguished?" Fleur interrupted, disdain cool and unwavering. "Any name you boast means nothing if you conduct yourself with such poor grace. You might as well be a common peasant."
Their voices rose, drawing in more of the party-goers. Harry felt the hush in the air, as though everyone had paused mid-conversation or dance to watch the confrontation unfold.
'If he's anything like Draco, that must have hit the right spot.'
Malfoy stepped forward, near enough that Harry caught the venom in his eyes.
"You dare question my honour and status in front of all these people?" the boy snarled. "You humiliate me—"
"No," Fleur cut in, her composure bordering on glacial. "You humiliated yourself."
From the corner of his eye, Harry noticed Malfoy's hand twitch towards his robes, no doubt seeking his wand. Acting on instinct, Harry had his holly wand out in an instant, aimed squarely at Malfoy's chest. Startled, Malfoy froze, his wand half-drawn.
Harry's voice came out tight and controlled. "I wouldn't," he cautioned, the implicit threat clear.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, and several onlookers visibly steeled themselves for what might come next.
"That will be quite enough," a smooth voice interjected, firm though devoid of open hostility.
Sebastian Delacour stepped forward, commanding attention with easy confidence. Dressed in deep gold robes, he looked every inch the influential wizard. A single measured glance from him rooted Malfoy to the spot.
"What, may I ask, is the cause of this disruption?" he inquired, words calm yet tinged with a steely edge. His gaze flicked between Malfoy, Harry, and Fleur.
Malfoy endeavoured to collect himself, offering the older wizard a shallow bow. "Monsieur Delacour, there appears to have been a misunderstanding—"
Sebastian silenced him with a raised hand. "I've heard enough, thank you." He switched to French, his tone quieter but still commanding. "Leave at once. Your family's name does not permit you to harass my daughter." His gaze narrowed in warning.
Red-faced, the Malfoy scion bowed stiffly and backed away. The circle of spectators parted, allowing him to retreat behind a swirl of pastel robes, though whispers followed in his wake.
As the crowd began to disperse, the tension remained behind. Even once people resumed their conversation and dancing, the hush lingered around Sebastian, Fleur, and Harry.
Sebastian turned, giving Harry a brief, measured look before focusing on his daughter.
"Are you hurt?" he asked in French, his voice softening with a barely perceptible concern.
"I'm all right," Fleur replied in the same language. She straightened her posture, determined to project composure. "It was a small matter."
Sebastian's gaze flicked briefly to Harry, then back. "We should speak privately," he said, nodding towards a quieter corner of the hall. It wasn't a suggestion so much as a directive.
Fleur hesitated, her fingers pressing lightly against Harry's arm in a subtle signal to let her deal with this. Harry inclined his head, stepping aside but remaining near enough to intervene if necessary.
Once they were a bit removed from the lingering onlookers, Sebastian's voice dropped to a low murmur. "I had hoped you would avoid making a scene tonight," he remarked, slipping easily back into that polished, almost diplomatic tone. "Instead, half the hall is gossiping about your spat with that boy—and," he added, giving Harry a fleeting glance, "the Hogwarts champion."
Fleur inhaled sharply. "Let them gossip. He started it, not me." She switched to English, presumably for Harry's benefit. "And you're wrong to dismiss the Hogwarts champion. Harry's been more of a gentleman tonight than most of the people in that room."
Sebastian's eyebrow twitched. "That may be so, but you know perfectly well what is expected of you—by Beauxbatons, by our Ministry, and by your family. Frankly, I'm disappointed." He paused, his next words clipped. "Do you truly think associating with a Hogwarts champion, someone entirely outside our circle, brings you any credit?"
Fleur's expression hardened. "I get to decide that. Besides," she added, voice growing quiet but determined, "I've no intention of staying in France after graduation."
He looked truly startled, shock flickering across his features before he concealed it. "You can't mean that," he said, voice hushed and urgent. "You belong with your family. Leaving would sever you from everything—"
"From your everything," Fleur corrected. Though her voice wavered ever so slightly, her gaze did not.
'This must be so hard for her,' Harry thought.
While he couldn't truly relate due to his parents' deaths, he felt Dumbledore's betrayal gave him some understanding of her situation.
He resisted the urge to hex Sebastian—Fleur needed to handle this herself.
Fleur's father exhaled slowly, reining in whatever he was about to say. "You risk burning bridges that cannot be rebuilt," he warned, his voice just a shade gentler, laced with what might have been genuine sadness.
"Then so be it," Fleur answered, keeping her composure by the barest thread.
For a moment, father and daughter simply regarded one another, the shared silence thick with unspoken recrimination. Finally, Sebastian dipped his head. "Very well." He stepped back. "You've made your position clear. I only hope you won't come to regret it."
With a sweep of his robes and the understated scent of fine cologne, Sebastian moved away, leaving that corner of the hall still charged with the aftershock of confrontation.
Fleur let out a faint, shaky breath. Harry approached, setting a gentle hand on her arm. "Fleur?" he murmured.
She turned, eyes bright with tears she refused to shed. "I'm all right," she whispered unsteadily. "I just… I need a minute."
Harry nodded, concern and affection mingling powerfully within him. "If you'd rather step outside…?"
She mustered a tremulous smile and nodded. "Yes, I'd like some fresh air."
He bent to kiss her temple, then guided her through the thinning crowds. Madame Maxime shot them a pointed look but didn't intervene as they made their way towards the exit.
As they walked, Harry couldn't stop but appreciate the ritual he had undergone—being taller than your girlfriend was nice…
Once outside, the cool night air closed around them. The moon glowed in a deep velvet sky, and Harry felt relief loosening the tightness in his chest.
Fleur glanced up at the castle spires, then turned to him with a grateful expression. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice soft as if not to disturb the hush of the evening. "For staying by me. For… everything."
He saw the gentle reflection of moonlight in her eyes and felt a fierce tenderness well up in response.
"Always."
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Chapter 88: Stalker
Chapter 89: Neville Longbottom
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Chapter 96: The Impostor