Harry sat in the drawing room of the chateau, nursing a glass of French wine he hadn't actually touched. Narcissa sat opposite him while Amelia stood by the window, looking out at the grounds below. Clarisse perched on the arm of the sofa, her fingers gently playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.
"He's going to try something," Amelia said, breaking the silence. "That display today wasn't just competitive aggression. It was a statement."
Harry set down his untouched wine, his fingers drumming against the armrest. "Let the prick try."
"Harry—" Narcissa began, but he cut her off with a shake of his head.
"I'm not being high-handed about this, Cissa. I saw what he did to Rodriguez. I know what he's capable of." Harry said calmly. "But whatever Dolohov thinks he's going to accomplish, it won't work. I've faced worse than him."
"That's not the point," Clarisse interjected, her accent thicker than usual as worry crept into her voice. "The point is that he should not have such animosity toward you at all. You have never met before this tournament, non?"
"No, we haven't," Harry confirmed, leaning back in his chair. His eyes found the ceiling, tracking the ornate molding as his mind worked through the problem.
"Which bothers me about this whole situation even more," Amelia muttered. "The way he looked at Harry that first night, before they'd even met each other? He wasn't just sizing him up. He recognized him somehow. All that glaring was not normal."
"He either has a personal grudge for some reason, or someone has hired him," Narcissa's voice was grave. "For what? It's anyone's guess."
"But why?" Clarisse asked, genuine confusion in her voice. "What would someone gain from targeting you at an international tournament? It makes no sense."
"Doesn't have to make sense," Harry remarked darkly. "Could be a test. Could be someone settling an old grudge against the Peverell line. Or it could be nothing. We could be reading too much into a competitor's posturing."
None of them believed that last possibility.
"Harry, deep down, we all know what's really happening here," Narcissa said in concern.
Harry's lips quirked in a humorless smile.
"We do. And the question is whether he's going to keep it within the boundaries of the tournament or if he's planning something more direct. Either way, I'm ready for it. If he wants to face me in the arena, I'll show him exactly why that's a bad idea. And if he tries something outside the rules?" Harry's smile turned predatory. "Then the gloves come off entirely, and he'll find out I'm not some soft target he can brutalize like he did Rodriguez."
"If you both face each other in the tournament, and given what we saw today that seems likely, Dolohov will have a legitimate opportunity to hurt you badly within the bounds of the tournament."
"Good," Harry said simply. "Let him try. In fact, I'm counting on it. Because the moment he crosses the line from competition to genuine attempt at harm, I'll have all the justification I need to respond in kind. And unlike Rodriguez, I won't be caught off guard by his techniques."
He caught Narcissa's worried look and softened his tone slightly. "I'm not going to do anything stupid, Cissa. I know you're concerned, and I appreciate it. But you have to trust that I can handle this."
"It's not your capability I doubt," Narcissa replied quietly. "It's the situation itself. Something about all of this feels wrong."
"I feel it too. But worrying about it won't change anything. We move forward, we stay alert, and we deal with whatever comes."
Amelia moved away from the window. "I'm going to send some inquiries back to Britain. See if there's any intelligence about Dolohov's connections or activities that might explain his behavior. It's a long shot, but better than sitting here guessing."
"Do it quietly," Harry cautioned. "If there is something larger going on, I'd rather not tip anyone off that we're looking into it."
If Dolohov wanted a real fight, Harry would give him one. And by the end of it, whoever had pointed the Bulgarian at him would realize they'd made a serious miscalculation about what kind of wizard Harry Peverell actually was.
-Break-
The tournament progressed expectedly, and in no time, they had reached the closing stages. Harry had already advanced through his semifinal against the German champion with relative ease. No showing off, no unnecessary displays of power, just clean and precise spellwork that left no doubt about the outcome. The German had been skilled, but outmatched, and had acknowledged it with grace.
Now Harry sat in the stands between Narcissa and Amelia, watching as the second semifinal was announced. The arena had been repaired from the previous matches, the polished floor gleaming under the enchanted sunlight that streamed through the crystal dome overhead.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer's voice rang out, magically amplified to reach every corner of the venue. "Our second semifinal will determine who faces Lord Peverell in tomorrow's championship final. From France, the enchantress whose flames have captivated audiences—Mademoiselle Apolline Deschanel!"
The crowd erupted as Apolline entered, and Harry took a moment to stare. Her tournament robes seemed to shimmer as she moved, the silver and blue fabric catching the light in ways that were probably enhanced by subtle charm work. Her platinum hair was pulled back in an intricate braid that left her features fully visible, and even from a distance, Harry could see the fierce determination in her eyes.
With a smile, he recalled her words right after he'd won his semi-final. She had made it clear in no uncertain words that he should wait for her and that she couldn't wait to properly… tangle with him. The way she'd said that left no doubt as to what she truly meant, and she'd left after sharing a meaningful smile.
He was brought out of his musings when the announcer continued.
"And from Bulgaria, the wizard whose power has dominated every match—Antonin Dolohov!"
The crowd's enthusiasm was significantly dampened as Dolohov emerged from the opposite entrance, his dark robes stark against the arena's bright surroundings. Where Apolline moved with fluid grace, Dolohov walked with predatory purpose, his eyes fixed on his opponent with the same cold intensity Harry had seen him use on every other opponent.
"This should be interesting," Amelia murmured as the two champions took their positions. "Deschanel is good, but after what we've seen so far..."
"She needs to keep her distance," Harry murmured, his eyes tracking their movements as they took their positions. "His power is in close-quarters combat, with curses that are hard to dodge and almost impossible to block. If she lets him get close, it's over."
"Her mobility is her greatest asset," Narcissa agreed. "And her fire. It's not something that can be countered by conventional shields."
The referee's voice boomed across the silent arena. "Begin!"
The duel exploded into life.
Dolohov didn't waste a moment, his wand slashing through the air, sending a trio of sickly purple curses screaming toward Apolline. Harry's breath hitched slightly as he recognized the spell.
Apolline didn't try to shield. As Harry had predicted, she moved. She spun away, her robes flaring around her as the curses impacted the floor where she had stood, gouging deep furrows into the polished stone. Even as she moved, her wand was already in motion.
With a graceful sweep, she unleashed a torrent of silver fire. It wasn't a jet or a bolt, but a living, flowing river of flame that spread across the arena floor, forcing Dolohov to retreat. He erected a shimmering black shield, and the waves of veela fire slammed against it, sizzling and eating away at the magic.
"She's fast," Amelia observed, leaning forward. "Faster than I expected."
"Veela reflexes," Narcissa said. "Enhanced by her training. But look at how much power Dolohov is putting into his shield. He's not taking chances."
Dolohov was forced to abandon his shield and leap back as the silver flames licked at his boots. His expression soured, annoyance replacing his earlier contempt. He retaliated with a volley of blasting curses, trying to punch a hole through her relentless assault.
Apolline met them head-on. She shaped her fire into a swirling vortex, a beautiful but deadly barrier that absorbed his spells and grew stronger with each impact. She was controlling the battlefield, keeping him on the defensive.
"She's doing it," Narcissa said. "She's keeping him off balance."
"It's costing her," Harry countered quietly. "Maintaining that level of elemental control requires immense concentration and power. She can't keep it up forever. Dolohov knows that. He's just waiting."
As if on cue, Dolohov changed tactics. He stopped throwing powerful, flashy curses and switched to a series of smaller, faster hexes. They weren't meant to cause damage, but to disrupt. A tripping jinx here, a disorienting charm there. Small annoyances designed to break her concentration.
One of them got through. A simple sticking charm caught the hem of her robes, causing her to stumble for a fraction of a second.
It was all the opening Dolohov needed.
He moved with blinding speed, closing the distance while she was momentarily off-balance. The nerve-severing hex he'd used on Rodriguez shot from his wand. Apolline twisted, her veela reflexes allowing her to avoid the worst of it, but it grazed her shoulder. Her left arm went limp, hanging uselessly at her side.
A gasp went through the crowd.
"He's fought veela before," Harry noted. "Or something similar. He knows how to handle elemental manipulation."
Apolline cried out in pain, but her eyes blazed with fury, not fear. The silver fire around her turned a molten gold, pulsing with raw, untamed power. She was pushing past her limits, drawing on the deeper, more volatile aspects of her heritage.
Her eyes went fully silver, her veela nature taking over completely. The temperature in the arena spiked dramatically, and Harry felt genuine concern as he recognized what she was attempting.
"She's going for a full veela fire manifestation. That's risky even when not injured."
"It's also heavily frowned upon," Amelia added. "Using full transformation abilities is technically allowed, but it's considered unsporting. Puts her on par with Dolohov's borderline curse work."
The flames that erupted from Apolline were nothing like her earlier displays. These were primal, silver-white and gold mixed in a maelstrom of heat and power. The fire took shape, forming into a massive bird, easily twenty feet tall that screamed its challenge across the arena.
The crowd gasped, many covering their faces against the heat that reached even the stands. This wasn't just magic, it was raw veela power.
Dolohov's wand moved in complex patterns, and Harry felt his jaw tighten as he recognized the spell building. It was dark magic, no question about it. Not illegal in the technical sense—nothing that would cause permanent damage if healers intervened quickly—but definitely crossing into territory that most duelists avoided.
The curse that erupted from Dolohov's wand was midnight black, shot through with veins of purple. It met Apolline's avian fire head-on, and the collision was spectacular. Fire and dark magic warred for dominance, the arena's protective wards straining to contain the power being thrown around.
"Whoever wins this exchange wins the match," Harry said quietly. "They're both going all-in."
For a moment, it seemed Apolline might actually prevail. Her veela fire pushed forward, its flames burning away at Dolohov's curse, driving him back step by step. The veela's face was set in fierce concentration, sweat beading on her forehead from the effort of maintaining such powerful magic while injured.
But Dolohov had more left in reserve. His lips moved in what looked like a silent incantation, and suddenly his curse doubled in intensity. The black and purple magic surged forward, overwhelming the flames and continuing straight toward Apolline.
The veela tried. Her wand came up, and a barrier of flame appeared between her and the incoming curse. But she was exhausted, injured, and had poured too much into her attack. The shield lasted barely a second before Dolohov's curse tore through it.
What happened next made the crowd gasp in horror.
The curse struck Apolline center mass, and she went down hard. Her back arched, a scream tearing from her throat as dark magic ravaged her. The curse didn't leave visible marks but caused immense agony—attacking the victim's magic itself rather than their physical body.
The referee was already moving, his wand raised as he cast the termination spell that would stop the duel and neutralize any ongoing area-wide effects. The protective magic slammed down over the arena.
Apolline lay on the arena floor, barely conscious, her body trembling with aftershocks from the curse. Her robes were scorched, and even from the stands Harry could see how pale she'd gone.
"Winner, Antonin Dolohov," the referee announced, his voice tight as he declared the result. "Healers to the arena immediately."
Healers rushed forward, surrounding Apolline as they started casting diagnostic spells and stabilization charms. Harry watched as they worked, his hands clenched into fists. The curse had been brutal, more brutal than necessary to secure victory.
But Dolohov had wanted to make a statement.
And he was about to make another one.
As the healers carefully levitated Apolline onto a stretcher, Dolohov walked across the arena. He stopped at the edge of the stands, his eyes scanning the crowd until they found Harry. The look he gave Harry was unmistakable—hungry, anticipatory, and promising violence.
Harry stared back, his expression cold and utterly without fear. If Dolohov thought what he'd done to Apolline would intimidate his next opponent, he was about to be severely disappointed.
The stare-off lasted perhaps ten seconds, though it felt longer. Dolohov smiled—that same cold, predatory smile from the day before—and turned to leave the arena.
The announcer's voice echoed through the arena once more, pulling their attention back to the official proceedings. "Ladies and gentlemen, tomorrow's championship final will pit Lord Harry Peverell of Britain against Antonin Dolohov of Bulgaria. The match will begin at noon. Thank you all for attending today's duels."
As the crowd began to disperse, Harry had his eyes fixed on the spot where Apolline had fallen.
Tomorrow's duel wouldn't be a sporting match or a display of magical prowess for the crowd's entertainment.
Tomorrow would be a fight, pure and simple. And only one of them would walk away from it unscathed.
As they made their way out of the arena, he could feel eyes on him—other spectators wondering if the British champion would suffer the same fate as the French veela, or if he would prove capable of matching Dolohov's brutal efficiency.
Tomorrow, they'd all find out.
-Break-
That evening, Harry found himself standing outside Chateau Deschanel with Clarisse at his side. He had to admit that it was impressive, its pale stone walls and elegant architecture speaking of old money.
"Are you sure about this?" Clarisse asked as they approached the entrance.
"Yeah. Just wanna check on her and maybe offer some words of encouragement. You know, cheer her up a bit."
Clarisse smiled at that. "You are sweet, but I am sure Apolline will find ways to turn even your concern into flirtation."
"I'd expect nothing less," Harry replied dryly.
Apolline's tournament had ended, and scheming she might've been, but now he didn't have those concerns.
The chateau's interior matched its exterior—elegant without being ostentatious, every piece of furniture and decoration chosen with care.
Moments later, two figures descended the grand staircase.
Monsieur and Madame Deschanel were in their late forties, both carrying themselves with elegance and regality that showed their old-blood nobility. Monsieur Deschanel was tall and distinguished, his dark hair greying at the temples, while his wife possessed the same platinum blonde hair as her daughter, with the enhanced beauty of veela heritage.
"Lord Peverell," Monsieur Deschanel greeted, extending his hand. "This is an unexpected pleasure. I trust you are well after your own matches?"
"Quite well, thank you," Harry replied, accepting the handshake. "I wanted to check on Mademoiselle Apolline's condition, if that's acceptable."
"Very thoughtful," Madame Deschanel said, her English accented but flawless. "Apolline is recovering well, thanks to our healers. She will be pleased to receive visitors, I think. The girl has been restless all evening."
"She hates being confined to bed," Clarisse added with obvious affection. "Even when injured."
Monsieur Deschanel's expression grew more serious. "What happened today was... unfortunate. Dolohov's approach was legal, but barely so. I have filed a formal complaint with the tournament committee, though I doubt it will result in any action."
"The rules are clear, even if we dislike how some choose to interpret them," Harry said diplomatically. "I appreciate your concern for the tournament's integrity."
"You face him tomorrow," Madame Deschanel observed. "Are you concerned?"
Harry met her eyes steadily. "I'm prepared. Whatever Dolohov brings to the arena, I'll match it."
Something in his tone must have convinced them he meant it, because both parents relaxed slightly. Monsieur Deschanel nodded approvingly. "Good. That man needs to be taught that brutality is not the same as skill. Perhaps you will be the one to demonstrate that lesson."
They exchanged a few more pleasantries—discussion of the tournament, the quality of the French countryside, nothing too substantial—before the Deschanel parents excused themselves with gracious smiles.
"She is in her chambers," Madame Deschanel said, gesturing toward the stairs. "Clarisse knows the way, of course."
As they ascended the magnificent marble staircase, Clarisse gestured vaguely at a series of portraits lining the wall.
"My mother served Madame Deschanel for twenty years," she said softly, a nostalgic smile touching her lips. "Apolline and I grew up in this house. We used to slide down this banister when no one was looking. I remember once we knocked over that ugly vase on the pedestal at the bottom. Apolline used her accidental magic to piece it back together before anyone noticed. It's still crooked if you look closely."
"That must have been nice," Harry smiled.
Clarisse smiled, a distant look entering her eyes. "It was. Is. There is this alcove in the east wing—we used to hide there when we were supposed to be attending our tutors' lessons. Apolline would practice her fire magic, very small flames at first, while I would read to her from forbidden romance novels we'd stolen from the library." She laughed softly. "Her mother caught us once. She was furious about the fire, but I think she was more concerned that we'd taken her private collection of books."
Harry chuckled at the image of young Apolline and Clarisse getting into trouble together.
They reached a door at the end of a long corridor, and Clarisse knocked softly before pushing it open. "Apolline? Are you decent? I have brought you a visitor."
"Who would visit me at this hour?" came Apolline's curious voice from within. "Unless you have brought me a handsome healer to ease my suffering?"
"Close enough," Clarisse replied, stepping aside to let Harry enter.
The chamber was large and elegant, dominated by a massive bed with silk hangings. But Apolline wasn't in bed—she stood by the window, silhouetted against the moonlight streaming in. She wore a silver nightdress that left very little to the imagination, the pale silk clinging to her curves and stopping at mid-thigh. Over it she'd thrown a matching satin robe which she hadn't bothered to close it properly, leaving her cleavage prominently displayed.
She turned as they entered, and a genuine, loving smile lit up her face when she saw Clarisse. However, her brows lifted when her eyes landed on Harry.
"Monsieur Peverell," she said, genuinely surprised. "This is unexpected. I thought you would be preparing for tomorrow, not visiting someone who was defeated so brutally."
"You're hardly defeated," Harry replied, stepping further into the room. "You gave Dolohov the fight of his life. Another minute and things might have gone very differently."
Apolline gracefully moved away from the window, and looking at her, Harry couldn't tell if there was still any lingering pain from the curse.
"You are kind to say so, but we both know I lost. Badly, as it turned out. That curse was..." She trailed off, seeming to search for the right word. "Unpleasant."
"Unpleasant," Clarisse repeated dryly, moving to embrace her friend. "Ma chérie, you were screaming. That was more than unpleasant."
"Well, I did not wish to alarm Monsieur Peverell," Apolline said lightly, returning the embrace. "He might think me weak."
"I think you're one of the most skilled duelists I've seen in years," Harry said honestly. "That veela manifestation you conjured was magnificent. The power control alone was impressive, let alone managing it while injured."
Apolline's smile became more genuine at the praise.
"High praise from the tournament's undefeated champion," she purred, her flirtatious demeanor returning. "Sadly, it wasn't enough. It seems all my careful plans to manipulate the tournament were for nothing. We could have had a 'climactic' final encounter. Such a shame."
Harry chuckled. "A shame indeed. I was looking forward to it."
"Oh, I'm sure you were," Apolline murmured, her blue eyes dancing with mischief. Her gaze swept over him meaningfully. "I was so looking forward to tangling with you properly. To feel the full force of your power directed at me. The anticipation was… exhilarating."
Clarisse, standing by the fireplace, let out a quiet smirk, shaking her head at the palpable sexual tension she could feel between the pair. "Apolline, the man came to check on your health, not to be seduced."
"Can I not do both?" Apolline asked innocently, moving to sit on the edge of her bed and patting the space beside her in invitation. Her nightdress rode up slightly, exposing her soft, creamy thighs. "Come, sit. I promise not to bite. Unless asked nicely."
Harry caught Clarisse's eye, saw her amused smirk, and decided playing along wouldn't hurt. He moved to sit beside Apolline and turned to take her in. The setting was more intimate than any of their previous encounters, and the nightdress and gown combination left very little to the imagination. He was only human.
"How are you really feeling?" he asked, ignoring her provocative comment. "That curse was nasty. I've seen similar magic before, and I know it doesn't just fade quickly."
Apolline's expression sobered slightly. "The healers have done good work. My magic feels... tender, I suppose is the word. Like a muscle that has been strained too hard. It will recover with rest, but casting anything substantial will be painful for at least a few days." She looked down at her hands. "My tournament would've been over, even if I had somehow won today."
"You would have made the finals," Harry said. "Without question. Dolohov didn't take you lightly, and he had to use magic he probably wasn't planning to reveal just to beat you."
"Such sweet lies you tell," Apolline murmured, but her smile told him that she appreciated them anyway. "But it is kind of you to try to soothe my wounded pride along with my wounded magic."
"It's not lies," Clarisse interjected, settling into a chair near the window. "I watched the memory of that duel, Apolline. You were magnificent. Had he not resorted to that final curse, I believe you could have won."
Apolline sighed, reaching up to touch the spot where Dolohov's curse had struck. "Maybe. But such is the nature of competition, non? We do what we must to win, and sometimes that means crossing lines we might prefer to avoid." She turned to look at Harry, her expression serious now. "I used veela magic that is generally frowned upon. Full transformation, allure as a weapon, primal fire beyond what most consider sporting. I cannot complain too much about his tactics when I was willing to employ similar methods."
"And manipulating the entire roster with veela attendants ranks where on that list?" He asked with a chuckle.
"I don't regret doing that at all," she replied, shrugging. Harry's eyes dropped to the jiggle of her tits for a moment before moving back to her face.
"I didn't think you would. Still, there's a difference between using your natural abilities and purposefully attempting to cripple your opponent," Harry pointed out. "What you did was manipulative, aggressive but fair. What he did was..."
"Brutal," Apolline supplied. "Unnecessary, given he had already secured victory. But again, legal within the tournament's framework." Her hand dropped to her lap, fingers twisting in the silk of her nightdress. "It is a shame, really. I had such plans for our duel."
"Oh?" Harry asked, noting the shift in her tone.
Apolline's smile returned, though it carried a note of regret. "Oui. I had intended to manipulate you quite thoroughly throughout the tournament, leading up to our inevitable match in the finals. Flirtation, seduction, subtle psychological warfare designed to keep you slightly off-balance." She laughed softly. "After Clarisse failed, I thought I'd have to take the matter in my own hands, but you turned me down instantly. It hurt, you know? When you point blank said no to that dinner. I'd made such plans. It seems all my careful planning has come to nothing. My little games ended with me on my back in an arena, rather than with you on your back in a bedroom."
The raw sexuality of that statement would have made a lesser man blush. Harry just chuckled, appreciating her directness. "I guess you'll have to save those plans for another time."
"If there is another time," Apolline said, her tone growing more flirtatious. "Though I confess, I find myself quite disappointed that we will not get to tangle with each other properly. I had been so looking forward to it."
The double meaning was unmistakable, and Clarisse rolled her eyes from her chair. "You are incorrigible. The man visits you out of concern and you turn it into seduction."
"Can you blame me?" Apolline gestured toward Harry. "Look at him. Powerful, intelligent, and handsome enough to make even a veela's heart beat faster. And after what you told me about your time together?" She fanned herself dramatically. "It would take a saint to resist, and I have never claimed to be saintly."
Harry felt the heat in the room rise slightly—whether from Apolline's words or her veela nature, he couldn't quite tell. "Clarisse has a talent for vivid storytelling, I've noticed."
"She does," Apolline agreed, her eyes locked on his. "But in this case, I believe her words did not do justice to the reality. She seemed quite... affected by the experience. It takes considerable skill to leave such an impression on her. To have her accept you as her Master? I never expected to see the day."
Clarisse rolled her eyes. "Do you have to talk about this while I am in the room?"
"Why not?" Apolline asked innocently. "You were quite enthusiastic in your descriptions. I thought you would enjoy revisiting the memories."
"Apolline Deschanel, I swear—"
Harry laughed. "As entertaining as this is, maybe we should return to more appropriate topics before Clarisse spontaneously combusts from embarrassment."
"Very well," Apolline conceded, and it was easy to tell from her smile that she was thoroughly enjoying herself. "Though I must say, it truly is a shame I will not get to face you in the arena. I had such plans for how I would move, what I would wear, the spells I would use. Every detail designed to distract and entice while still proving my capabilities." She sighed dramatically. "All that preparation wasted."
"I wouldn't say wasted," Harry replied, his voice dropping to match her sultry tone. "You've certainly proven your capabilities to everyone who watched today. And as for distraction..." His eyes traveled suggestively over her current state of dress. "I'd say you're quite effective even without the arena setting."
Apolline's breath caught, her pupils dilating as she followed the movement of his eyes. The veela allure that constantly surrounded her intensified slightly, making the air feel thick and warm.
"You are a dangerous man, Monsieur Peverell. So few have the confidence to return my flirtations with equal intensity."
"I rarely back down from a challenge," Harry said, maintaining eye contact. "Regardless of the setting."
The sexual tension in the room was now palpable enough that even Clarisse seemed affected by it, her own allure flaring as she shifted in her chair. "Perhaps we should discuss tomorrow's final? Before you two combust or forget I am still present?"
Apolline laughed, but she did pull back slightly from the intimate intensity of the moment. "Oui, you are right. But I must say, Clarisse, watching you squirm is almost as enjoyable as the flirtation itself."
"I do not squirm," Clarisse protested, though her flushed cheeks suggested otherwise.
"You absolutely do, ma chérie." Apolline turned her attention back to Harry, her expression growing more serious despite the lingering amusement in her eyes. "In truth, Lord Peverell, I did hope you would visit tonight. Not merely for the pleasure of your company, though that is certainly welcome, but because I wished to speak with you about tomorrow."
Harry's own demeanor shifted to match hers. "About Dolohov."
"Oui." Apolline stood, moving back toward the window. "I am not the only one who has noticed his animosity toward you throughout this tournament. From the first evening, his eyes have found you in every crowd, every gathering. The way he looks at you..." She trailed off, wrapping her arms around herself despite the room's warmth. "It is not the gaze of a competitor assessing an opponent. It is something darker."
"I've noticed," Harry acknowledged, rising to join her by the window. "His behavior has been unusual from the start."
Apolline nodded, her reflection in the darkened glass showing genuine concern. "What happened to me today—that was not merely competitive brutality. I have seen Dolohov duel before, in exhibitions and smaller tournaments. He is always aggressive, always pushes the boundaries, but what he has done in this tournament, what he did to me… it went beyond even his usual methods." She turned to face Harry directly. "I believe it was a message intended for you."
"He wanted me to see exactly what happens to those who face him when he's not holding back."
"Does that concern you?" Apolline asked, searching his face. "Because it should. I am not weak, Lord Peverell. I am a skilled duelist from a powerful magical lineage, and he took me apart like I was nothing more than an apprentice. The curse he used at the end—it was designed to cause maximum suffering while remaining technically legal. That shows he's someone who enjoys inflicting pain, not simply someone who fights to win."
"I know," Harry said quietly. "I've met his type before. The kind who view combat as an opportunity to hurt people with society's permission."
Apolline's hand reached out, her fingers brushing against his arm in concern. "Then you understand why I worry. This is not a tournament duel you are walking into tomorrow. This is something else entirely. Dolohov has targeted you specifically, and I do not believe his intentions are wholly competitive."
"You think he means to seriously harm me," Harry stated rather than asked.
"I think he means to destroy you," Apolline corrected bluntly. "Within the rules if possible, but I would not put it past him to bend or break those rules if he believes he can get away with it. After all, it is not uncommon for… accidents to happen in the arena. The man fights like someone with nothing to lose and everything to prove."
The silence that followed was heavy. Clarisse had moved to stand beside Apolline, her hand finding her friend's in support. Both women looked at Harry with genuine concern, waiting for his response.
Harry let out a slow breath, organizing his thoughts. "I appreciate your concern. And I'm not dismissing it—I know Dolohov is dangerous, and I know whatever game he's playing goes beyond simple competition." He met Apolline's eyes steadily. "But you need to understand something. I'm not anyone he's defeated in this competition so far. No offense intended."
"None taken," Apolline said softly.
"Dolohov caught you all off guard with his brutality that kept on rising," Harry continued. "The others because they weren't expecting that level of aggressive cursework in what should have been a sporting match. You because you were already injured when he hit you with his finishing curse. But I'm going into tomorrow's duel with my eyes wide open. I know what he's capable of, I know what he's willing to do, and I know he's not going to show me any mercy."
"And that is enough?" Clarisse asked. "Knowing is enough to protect you?"
Harry's smile was sharp. "Knowing is what lets me prepare properly. And trust me when I say I have no intention of giving Dolohov the satisfaction of putting me down the way he did Apolline. If he wants to fight dirty, I can match him. If he wants to cross lines, I know where those lines are and exactly how far I can push back without breaking the rules." He paused, then added more quietly. "And if he does break the rules, then I'll show him exactly why that's a terrible mistake."
Apolline studied his face for a long moment, then slowly nodded. "You have faced worse than him, haven't you? I can see it in your eyes. You are not afraid because you have already survived things that would break most wizards."
"Everyone has their battles," Harry replied diplomatically, not willing to elaborate on the specifics of his past experiences. "Let's just say I'm well-prepared for whatever Dolohov brings to the arena."
"Then I will trust in your capabilities," Apolline said, though her voice was filled with concern for him. "But please, Lord Peverell, be careful. I know you are confident, and you have every right to be based on what I have seen of your skills. But Dolohov is not just skilled—he is vicious. There is a cruelty in how he fights that goes beyond tactics or strategy."
"I'll be careful," Harry promised, before a glint entered his eyes. "But tell me, why does my wellbeing matter so much to you? Why does the final tomorrow make you so concerned for me? We've only known each other a few days."
Apolline's smile returned, sultry and knowing. "Because, my dear lord, you still owe me that dinner you agreed to on the night of the opening ceremony. I would be quite disappointed if you were unable to fulfill that obligation because you let yourself get cursed into unconsciousness."
"Ah, so it's purely about the dinner," Harry said, matching her playful tone.
"Purely," Apolline confirmed, but the sheer lust and desire in her eyes couldn't be missed. Harry felt her allure caress his magic and smirked. "But I am also curious to see what you are truly capable of when pushed to your limits. Dolohov may be brutal, but you..." She moved closer, her hand reaching up to rest against his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the fabric of his robes. "You have power you keep carefully controlled. I would very much like to see what happens when you stop holding back."
The air between them crackled with tension, Apolline's veela nature responding to proximity and attraction while Harry's own magic rose to meet it. For a moment, they simply stood there, close enough that he could smell her perfume and feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
"Maybe you'll get that chance," Harry murmured. "But I make no promises about the dinner if you plan to spend the entire evening trying to seduce me."
"Would you prefer I didn't?" Apolline asked, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
"I didn't say that."
Clarisse's pointed cough broke the moment. "As much as I am enjoying watching you two dance around each other, it is getting late and Lord Peverell does have a rather important duel tomorrow. Perhaps we should let him return to his preparations?"
Apolline stepped back reluctantly, though her hand lingered on Harry's chest for a moment longer than necessary. "Oui, you are right. But I must say, I find his company far more appealing than sleep."
"The feeling is mutual," Harry admitted. "But Clarisse is right. I should go. Make sure I'm properly rested for tomorrow."
"Then go," Apolline said, though her tone suggested she'd rather he stayed. "But remember what I said about being careful. I meant it. Return in one piece, Lord Peverell. You owe me that dinner, and I intend to collect."
Harry took her hand, bringing it to his lips and dropping a soft kiss. "I'll do my best to remain intact. But I have to say, having someone as beautiful as you concerned for my wellbeing is excellent motivation to win."
Apolline's breath caught at the kiss, her eyes widening slightly. "You truly are dangerous."
"Only when necessary," Harry replied with a smile.
As he and Clarisse moved toward the door, Apolline called out one last time. "Lord Peverell?"
He turned back to find her still standing by the window, the moonlight making her nightdress nearly translucent and highlighting every curve.
"Win," she said simply. "Not just for yourself, but for all of us who fell to that monster's brutality."
Harry held her gaze, seeing the genuine emotion beneath her usual seductive facade. "I will. I promise."
The last image he had as they left the room was Apolline silhouetted against the window, her arms wrapped around herself, the confident seductress replaced by a woman genuinely worried about what tomorrow might bring.
As he and Clarisse descended the stairs and made their way through the chateau, Harry found himself more determined than ever to make good on that promise.
And if Dolohov wanted to cross the lines once again? Well, he would be ready for that too.
TBC.
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