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The morning sun streams through the kitchen windows as Harry stumbles in, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. Ted sits at the table, Prophet spread before him, while Andromeda flips what smells suspiciously like her famous cinnamon pancakes. Nymphadora is already there, her hair a cheerful bubble-gum pink as she steals bacon directly from the serving plate.
"Morning," Harry mumbles, sliding into his usual seat. Itisa leaps onto the table, purposefully knocking over the salt shaker with her tail.
"Itisa, off the table," Andromeda says without turning around. "Harry, there's fresh orange juice in the pitcher."
"She's just saying good morning," Harry defends, though he does scoop Itisa into his lap. She purrs smugly, having made her point about being acknowledged.
"So," Nymphadora grins wickedly, spinning her fork. "Ready for your big international debut? Going to impress all those fancy diplomats with your natural Potter charm?"
"Fuck off," Harry says cheerfully, pouring juice. "I've been to a French Ministry ball before, remember? I know what I'm doing."
"Language," Ted says mildly, not looking up from his paper.
"Oh yes, you're practically an expert," Nymphadora teases. "Tell me, what's the proper way to address a half-Veela without staring at her like a stunned flobberworm?"
Harry's ears go red. "I didn't stare at Fleur like—"
"'Oh Fleur, your eyes are like zee stars!'" Nymphadora affects a terrible French accent. "'Let me write poetry about your silver hair!'"
"I never said that!"
"No, but you thought it." She dodges the piece of toast Harry throws at her. "Face it, Harry, you're going to embarrass yourself. Probably trip over your own robes trying to bow."
"That's rich coming from you," Harry shoots back. "Didn't you knock over an entire suit of armor last week just walking down a Hogwarts corridor?"
"That armor jumped out at me!"
"It's been in the same spot for fifty years!"
Andromeda sets down plates of pancakes with a fond shake of her head. "Children, please. It's too early for war crimes at the breakfast table."
"She started it," Harry mutters, drowning his pancakes in syrup.
"Actually," Ted folds his paper, "I'm curious about this French trip. What exactly are you expected to do there, Harry?"
"Honestly? No bloody idea." Harry cuts into his pancakes. "Last year I just took notes and looked professionally interested. This year apparently I have to actually talk to a lot of people."
"Oh, you'll need to do more than talk," Nymphadora says gleefully. "You'll need to dance. With actual girls."
"I can dance!"
"Really? Show me your bow." Nymphadora stands, gesturing grandly. "Come on, demonstrate your sophisticated international gentleman skills."
Harry stands, affects what he thinks is a proper bow, and immediately catches his foot on the chair leg. He windmills dramatically before catching himself on the table, sending Itisa leaping to safety with an indignant yowl.
The kitchen erupts in laughter.
"Shut up," Harry groans, face burning. "That doesn't count. These aren't my formal robes."
"Oh yes, because formal robes are notoriously easier to manage," Nymphadora gasps between giggles. "Face it, you're doomed. You'll probably accidentally propose to someone's daughter."
"At least I won't morph into different people mid-conversation because I'm nervous," Harry retorts.
Nymphadora's hair flickers to embarrassed orange. "That was ONE TIME."
"You turned into McGonagall while talking to Snape!"
"I was stressed!"
"Children," Andromeda intervenes again, though she's clearly fighting a smile. "Perhaps we should focus on not humiliating the family name internationally?"
"No promises," Harry and Nymphadora say in unison, then grin at each other.
"You know what you need?" Ted suggests. "A code word. If things get too overwhelming, just say... I don't know... 'crumple-horned snorkack' and Tonks can create a distraction."
"Ooh, I could fake an injury!" Nymphadora brightens. "Dramatically faint into the punch bowl!"
"That's your solution to everything," Harry points out. "Remember the time you 'fainted' to get out of the Herbology class?"
"It worked, didn't it?"
"You knocked over three wizards!"
"Details." She waves dismissively. "The point is, I've got your back. If some pompous ambassador starts grilling you about theoretical runic applications, just give me the signal."
"What signal?"
"Tug your left ear three times."
"That's suspicious as hell."
"Fine, right ear twice?"
"Now you're just making things up."
Andromeda slides more bacon onto their plates. "How about you both try not to need emergency signals? Novel concept, I know."
"But where's the fun in that?" Nymphadora protests. "Besides, Harry's going to need all the help he can get..."
A polite cough from the fireplace interrupts her. Green flames flicker to life, and Newt Scamander's voice echoes through the kitchen.
"Terribly sorry to interrupt breakfast," Newt's disembodied voice says. "But I have rather urgent news. May I come through? I need to speak with all of you. Well, mostly Harry, but it concerns everyone."
Harry and Nymphadora exchange glances. The playful atmosphere evaporates.
"Of course, Newt," Andromeda calls. "Come through."
As the flames grow brighter, Harry quickly straightens his rumpled pajamas. Somehow, he suspects his morning is about to get a lot more complicated.
"Here we go," Nymphadora mutters, her hair shifting to nervous yellow. "So much for a peaceful breakfast."
Harry couldn't agree more.
The family quickly relocates to the sitting room, Harry still clutching his half-eaten piece of toast. He curls up in his favorite armchair while Nymphadora sprawls across the sofa, her hair now shifting between pink and nervous yellow like a mood ring having an identity crisis.
"Harry, my boy!" Newt Scamander tumbles through the Floo with his characteristic lack of grace, sending up a cloud of ash that has Andromeda discretely reaching for her wand. His traveling coat is singed at the edges, and there's what looks suspiciously like purple feathers stuck to his sleeve.
"Newt!" Harry jumps up, genuinely pleased despite the early hour. "What happened to your coat?"
"Ah, well, minor disagreement with an Occamy in Belgium. Apparently they don't appreciate being measured for research purposes." Newt brushes himself off, his eyes already lighting up as they land on Itisa, who's claimed the arm of Harry's chair like a small, furry gargoyle. "And how's our special girl doing? Any new developments? Has she shown any more wing manifestations? The color-changing abilities?"
Itisa's golden eyes narrow to slits. A low rumble starts in her chest—not quite a growl, but definitely a warning. Her tail lashes once, twice, with the precision of a metronome counting down to violence.
She remembers the last time he tried to 'examine' her, Harry thinks with dark amusement. The singed eyebrows took weeks to grow back properly.
"I wouldn't, Newt," Harry warns as the magizoologist takes an eager step forward. "She's been experimenting with fire breath lately. Ask Ted about his favorite armchair."
"Fire breath?" Newt's eyes go impossibly wider. "But that's absolutely fascinating! Nundu typically don't develop pyrogenic abilities—"
Itisa's rumble increases in volume. Tiny wisps of smoke curl from her nostrils, and the temperature in the room rises noticeably.
"RIGHT!" Newt backs up hastily, nearly tripping over the coffee table. "Perhaps we'll discuss that later. Much later. When she's... less combustible."
Ted enters with a tea tray, having anticipated the need for proper hospitality. "Newt, good to see you. Though I'm guessing from your urgency this isn't a social call?"
"Quite right!" Newt accepts a cup gratefully, though his hands shake slightly—whether from excitement or Itisa-related fear, Harry can't tell, but he was sure it was because of excitement. "I've come with rather urgent news. The French Ministry ball—it's been moved up. We leave via Portkey in four days."
Harry nearly chokes on his toast. "Four days? But I thought we had at least a week to prepare!"
"Yes, well, Minister Delacour has his reasons. Something about conflicting schedules with the Italian Consul and the lunar calendar affecting the venue's protective enchantments." Newt shifts uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact. "He's also... expanded the guest list. Considerably."
Oh fuck, Harry thinks, watching Newt fidget. That's his 'bearer of catastrophic news' face.
"Expanded how?" Andromeda asks, though her tone suggests she already knows she won't like the answer.
"He's invited magical dignitaries from across Europe. A sort of... international gathering. Very exclusive. Very important." Newt fidgets with his teacup, sending small ripples across the surface. "The Spanish Minister will be there, along with the German Staatsminister für Magie. Representatives from the Nordic Covenant. The Romanian Dragon Reserve Committee."
"That's... a lot of important people," Harry says weakly, his breakfast suddenly sitting like lead in his stomach.
"Oh, it gets better," Newt continues, looking genuinely apologetic now. "Nicolas Flamel has confirmed his attendance."
"WHAT?" Nymphadora's hair goes completely white with shock, then cycles through several alarming colors like a magical seizure. "Nicolas bloody Flamel? The actual six-hundred-year-old alchemist? The Philosopher's Stone Flamel?"
"Six hundred and sixty-seven, actually," Newt corrects absently. "He's quite particular about that. And yes, he's specifically asked to meet Harry. Something about 'innovative applications of transmutative theory in protective enchantments' and 'the boy who makes metals sing.'"
"But I can't—I don't know how to—" Nymphadora is babbling now, her appearance shifting rapidly. Her nose elongates, shrinks, goes crooked, sprouts whiskers, then returns to normal. "I'm supposed to talk to these people? Me? I knocked over the weapons display at Hogwarts just last week! And the week before that! It's becoming a tradition!"
"Deep breaths, Dora," Andromeda says calmly, though Harry notices her grip on her teacup has tightened enough to show white knuckles. "We'll manage."
"But I attended a ball in France last year," Harry protests desperately. "It was fine. I know the basics—bow, smile, don't insult anyone's mother..."
"Last year," Newt interrupts gently, "you were there as my assistant. Sure, some of them had heard of your Talisman, but it was a third level Talisman, and it was your first one, and for some reason, many of them were convinced you got lucky, but this time, you have created a second one, higher rank than the last one, and you have a contract with the Minister of Magic of Italy."
"This year," Newt continues, "you're Harry Potter, creator of the Phoenix Crown talismans. The boy who secured a forty-thousand Galleon contract with Italy. Every person in that room will want to speak with you. At length. About technical details I'm not sure even you fully understand."
"Fuck," Harry breathes.
"Language," Andromeda says automatically, but her heart clearly isn't in it. She's already thinking, Harry can see it in her eyes—that particular focused look she gets when planning Nymphadora's birthday parties or organizing charity events. "Who else, Newt? Better we know the full guest list now."
"Well, there's Madame Maxime from Beauxbatons. She's interested in your work for protecting her students during practical lessons. The Delacours will be there, naturally—"
"Fleur," Harry says, remembering the elegant quarter-Veela from last year. At least there would be one friendly face.
She wasn't the only one who thought Crystal Harmony might also be there, but Harry wasn't really sure. It would be her first time walking on land, and he wasn't sure she could be ready to walk into a ball and dance on top of that. The thought of her, her lips against his cheek, her beautiful face, made his heart do the funny thing that it did whenever he was near Nymphadora.
"Yes, and her younger sister. Gabrielle's quite excited to see you again, apparently. She's been telling everyone about 'the nice English boy who might marry Fleur.'"
Harry's face burns. "She's eight! She doesn't understand—"
"Then there's the Russian contingent," Newt continues, mercifully moving on. "Madam Kozlova is bringing several colleagues. They're quite eager to discuss the Moscow demonstration. They've apparently prepared a presentation on integration possibilities with their existing protective systems."
"A presentation?" Harry's voice cracks. "They want me to review a presentation? At a ball?"
"Russians," Ted says sagely. "They mix business with everything."
"Anyone else I should be terrified of?" Harry asks weakly.
"The Italian Minister will attend, along with her senior staff. They want to thank you personally for the Enhanced Talismans." Newt pauses, consulting a small notebook he's pulled from his pocket. "Oh, and several prominent curse-breakers from Gringotts. They're interested in the basilisk-scale applications."
"How do they know about—never mind." Harry slumps further. "Of course they know."
"There's also a small contingent from Ilvermorny, the Bulgarian Ministry's Senior Undersecretary, someone from the Japanese Embassy, and..." Newt trails off.
"And?" Andromeda prompts.
"And Cassiopeia Greengrass. She'll be attending as Charles's plus-one."
"I'm going to die," Nymphadora moans, her hair now a defeated gray. "I'm going to trip over my own feet and cause an international incident and start the next Goblin Rebellion by accidentally insulting someone's grandmother."
"You will not," Andromeda says firmly. She sets down her cup with a decisive click that makes everyone sit up straighter. "Because for the next four days, I'm going to teach you both everything you need to know."
Harry and Nymphadora exchange horrified looks.
"Mum," Nymphadora starts cautiously, "I appreciate the thought, but four days isn't enough time to—"
"No buts. I was trained in formal etiquette from the age of six. Every Black child was. We learned to navigate high society before we could properly hold a wand." Andromeda stands, and there's something different about her posture. Something that screams 'pureblood aristocrat' so loudly Harry almost expects her to start speaking with Narcissa Malfoy's drawl. "Which fork to use for each course, how to address foreign dignitaries based on the subtle differences in their title pronunciation, the proper depth of a bow based on rank, nationality. Nymphadora, go fetch my old etiquette books from the attic. The blue leather set with the silver clasps. NOT the red ones—those are for blood purist gatherings and we won't be needing those particular... techniques."
"There are different etiquette books for different types of gatherings?" Nymphadora asks weakly.
"Seventeen different categories, actually. Now go. Harry, clear the dining room table. We'll need space for practice settings."
"Practice settings?" Harry asks, though he's not sure he wants to know.
"Table settings, dear. The French use a different arrangement than the British. Fourteen pieces of silverware minimum for formal dinners. And if the Germans attend, there are specific glass placements that show respect for their traditions." She turns to Newt with the efficiency of a general organizing troops. "You'll help, of course. You know these people personally."
"I... that is..." Newt looks rather like he wants to disappear back through the Floo. Possibly to Belgium. The Occamy seemed safer.
"Excellent. You can provide personality profiles. Who's allergic to certain conversation topics, who feuds with whom, which delegates absolutely cannot be seated together without risking diplomatic incidents." Andromeda is in full planning mode now. "Ted, we'll need you to visit Twilfitt and Tattings. Formal robes for everyone. And Newt, when was the last time you owned dress robes that weren't held together by sticking charms?"
"I resent that. They're perfectly functional—"
"That's what I thought. You'll go with Ted." She claps her hands. "Nymphadora, why are you still standing there? Books. Now."
Nymphadora scurries off, her hair flashing anxiety-yellow with pink stripes. Harry starts to follow, but Andromeda catches his arm with surprising strength.
"Harry, this is important. These people—Flamel, Maxime, the Ministers—they're not just interested in your talismans. They're evaluating you. Deciding if you're someone worth investing in long-term, politically and financially."
"No pressure," Harry mutters.
"All the pressure," Andromeda corrects. "But you'll be ready. I'll make sure of it. The House of Black may be nearly extinct, but our training methods survive. Unfortunately for you."
She's already making mental lists. "Oh, and Harry? You'll need to prepare a short speech."
"A SPEECH?"
"Nothing elaborate. Two minutes on your innovations, your vision for international magical cooperation, perhaps a modest mention of future projects." She pats his shoulder. "In three languages minimum."
"Three languages?!"
"Well, you can't expect everyone to speak English. That would be terribly gauche." She glances at Newt. "I assume you can help with pronunciation guides?"
"I... yes?"
"Wonderful. We'll start with French and Italian, add German if we have time." She's in full mother-general mode now. "Where is that girl with my books?"
"FOUND THEM!" Nymphadora's voice echoes from upstairs, followed by a tremendous crash. "I'M OKAY! THE BOOKS ARE OKAY! THE VASE IS... LESS OKAY!"
"Reparo," Ted mutters, heading upstairs with his wand already out.
"At least she's consistent," Harry offers weakly.
Andromeda's eye twitches. "By the time I'm done with you both, you'll be able to navigate a formal dinner blindfolded. You'll know the genealogy of every major magical family in Europe. You'll be able to identify the nationality of a wizard by their bow alone."
"Is that really necessary—"
"And you," she points at Harry, "will be able to discuss your work without either underselling your achievements or sounding like an arrogant brat. It's a delicate balance."
Nymphadora returns, struggling under a stack of leather-bound books that look ancient enough to have personally offended Merlin. Her hair has settled into resigned pink with gray streaks.
"Found them," she pants, setting them down with a thud that rattles the windows. "Also found your old practice tea set. And... um... is this a curtsy guide?" She holds up a moving diagram of a witch in elaborate robes performing various bows.
"Perfect!" Andromeda takes the diagram. "We'll start with basic greetings. Harry, you'll need to know the difference between a bow to equals versus superiors versus someone whose country you've recently economically outmaneuvered. Nymphadora, we need to work on your metamorphmagus control. You can't have your appearance shifting during conversations."
"But it happens when I'm nervous! It's involuntary!"
"Then we'll practice until you're not nervous." Andromeda begins organizing the books with military efficiency. "Newt, you'll drill them on the important figures. Names, titles, achievements, topics to avoid, their favorite drinks, their political leanings, any recent scandals..."
"Topics to avoid?" Harry asks, already feeling overwhelmed.
"Never mention dragon pox to the Romanian delegation," Newt says seriously. "They lost their previous Minister to an outbreak. Very touchy about it. Don't discuss goblin rebellions around the German Staatsminister—his family was involved in suppressing the 1847 uprising and they're still sensitive. And whatever you do, don't bring up experimental potions around Madame Maxime."
"Why not?"
"Incident with a student. Partial transformation into a toad. The lawsuit is still ongoing."
Harry puts his head in his hands. "I'm going to cause an international incident."
"No," Andromeda says firmly, "you're not. Because for the next seventy-two hours, you're going to eat, sleep, and breathe proper etiquette. When I'm done with you both, you'll be absolutely, perfectly, unquestionably presentable."
The way she says 'presentable' makes it sound like both a promise and a threat.
"Now then," she opens the first book, and medieval script shimmers on the page. "Let's begin with the basics. The proper way to hold a teacup when discussing business versus pleasure versus subtle threats..."
As Andromeda launches into her first lesson, Harry catches Itisa's eye. His familiar looks remarkably amused by the whole situation, tail swishing with mirth.
Easy for you to enjoy, Harry thinks desperately. You just have to sit there and look mysterious. I have to remember which fork means I'm interested in someone's trade proposal versus their marriageable daughter.
But as he watches Andromeda transform from loving mother to society drill sergeant, and Nymphadora frantically taking notes while her quill leaves ink spots on her nose, Harry feels a warm surge of affection for his adoptive family despite his terror.
We're all mad here, he thinks. But at least we're mad together.
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The dining room table groans under the weight of china, crystal, and enough silverware to arm a small militia. Nymphadora stares at the place setting like it might bite her, while Harry carefully adjusts the angle of his fish fork—apparently, fifteen degrees off vertical could start a trade war with Norway.
"No, no, NO!" Andromeda's voice cuts through the afternoon air. "Nymphadora, you're holding the champagne flute like you're strangling a pixie. Gentle. Elegant. Like this."
"But Mum, my fingers don't—" Nymphadora's grip shifts, and the delicate crystal slips. Only Harry's quick Levitation Charm saves it from shattering.
"See?" Nymphadora gestures wildly, nearly knocking over the water goblet. "This is why I shouldn't go! I'm a walking disaster!"
"You're going," Andromeda says firmly. "And you'll be brilliant. Harry, show her the continental hold again."
Harry demonstrates, muscle memory from last year's crash course with Newt kicking in. "Thumb and two fingers, like you're holding a butterfly. The French think the British grip looks like we're preparing to club someone."
"Maybe I am," Nymphadora mutters, but she copies his hold. Her hair shifts from frustrated orange to concentrated purple.
"Better. Now, Harry, remind me—when greeting Madame Maxime?"
"Bow from the shoulders, not the waist," Harry recites. "Eye contact for exactly two seconds, then lower gaze. She's part giant, so showing the top of your head is a sign of trust, not submission."
"Excellent." Andromeda nods approvingly. "You see, Dora? Harry managed to charm half the French Ministry last year."
"I hid behind a potted plant for most of it," Harry admits. "But I did dance with Fleur without stepping on her feet, so... progress?"
"You danced with a quarter-Veela and lived to tell about it," Nymphadora says. "Meanwhile, I can't even walk across a flat surface without finding something to trip over."
"Speaking of which..." Andromeda waves her wand, and the furniture rearranges itself into an obstacle course. "Navigation practice. Both of you. Teacups balanced on your heads."
"You're joking," Harry says.
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
She doesn't.
The second morning finds them at Twilfitt and Tattings, where Madam Twilfitt herself emerges from the back room like a fashion predator scenting prey.
"Andromeda Black!" she exclaims, then catches herself. "Tonks, forgive me. Old habits."
"Think nothing of it, Margot." Andromeda air-kisses the older witch. "We need formal robes. International gathering at the French Ministry."
Madam Twilfitt's eyes gleam. "Say no more. Young Mr. Potter, if you'll step this way—goodness, you've grown! What are they feeding you?"
"Constant anxiety," Harry mutters, but he follows her to the fitting platform.
"Four inches taller than last year," she tuts, measuring tape whizzing around him like an angry snake. "We'll need to start fresh. Those beautiful green eyes... yes, I have just the thing."
What emerges from the back room makes even Andromeda nod in approval. Deep emerald robes with silver threading, cut to emphasize his height without making him look gangly. The material shifts between green and black depending on the angle, with subtle protective charms woven into the fabric.
"It brings out your eyes magnificently," Madam Twilfitt says proudly. "And the cut is French-influenced without being obsequious. You'll look properly British while acknowledging your hosts."
Harry examines himself in the mirror. He looks... older. More like the international businessman he's somehow become than the almost thirteen-year-old he actually is.
"Now, for the young lady—"
"Death," Nymphadora says immediately. "Black. Like my soul after two days of etiquette training."
"Absolutely not," Andromeda intervenes. "Something in midnight blue, I think. To complement her abilities without clashing when she shifts."
What follows is a battle of wills that ends with Nymphadora in flowing robes of deepest blue that shimmer with constellation patterns. They adapt to her metamorphmagus changes, shifting subtly to always flatter whatever form she takes.
"I look like a responsible adult," Nymphadora says, horrified.
"Exactly," Andromeda says smugly.
The morning of departure arrives too quickly. Harry triple-checks his expanded pockets—talismans for demonstration, basilisk scale samples in warded containers, business cards that Andromeda insisted on (charmed to translate themselves into the reader's native language), and a small vial of headache potion he suspects he'll need.
"Remember," Andromeda lectures as they walk toward the Portkey departure point, "if someone offers their left hand instead of right, they're indicating informal friendship. Unless they're from Romania, in which case—"
"It means they consider you family," Harry finishes. "And responding with your right hand would be insulting their entire bloodline."
"Good. Nymphadora?"
"Curtsy to sitting Ministers, bow to retired ones, nod to ambassadors unless they bow first, then match their depth minus two inches to show respect without subservience," Nymphadora rattles off. Her hair is determinedly pink today, though Harry can see yellow creeping in at the roots.
Newt meets them at the designated field, looking surprisingly presentable in robes that appear to have been made in the current century.
"Ah, excellent! Everyone ready? I've already secured Itisa and Hedwig in my case—they're having a lovely argument about sleeping arrangements. The National Portkey is almost ready."
"What's the difference between this and a normal Portkey?" Nymphadora asks as they approach what looks like an old wellington boot sitting in the middle of the field.
Harry beats Newt to the explanation. "Normal Portkeys only work within national borders. Country to country requires special Ministry authorization and way more magic. Plus customs checks on the other end."
"Exactly!" Newt beams. "You remembered from last year."
They arrange themselves around the boot—Ted and Andromeda with ease, Nymphadora gripping Harry's arm tight enough to cut off circulation.
"Ten seconds," Newt announces.
Harry's stomach clenches with more than Portkey anticipation. Somewhere across the Channel, Fleur Delacour is probably preparing for the ball with the same elegant efficiency she brings to everything. And soon, Princess Crystal-Harmony will arrive for her first steps on dry land.
Harry cannot wait to meet them again, and thinking about them, he feels the same funny feeling in his stomach.
"Three... two... one..."
The boot glows blue, and Harry feels the familiar hook behind his navel as the world blurs away. His last coherent thought before the Portkey whisks them to France is wondering if his etiquette training covered what to do when greeting a Sea-Horse Princess who's never walked on legs before.
Somehow, he doubts even Andromeda's books covered that particular scenario.
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The arrival platform materializes around them in a blur of color, and Harry's grateful for the cushioning charms as they land. This time, he manages to keep his feet, though Nymphadora stumbles into him with a muttered "Bollocks!"
"Language, dear," Andromeda says automatically, having landed like a proper witch. Ted steadies his wife with one hand while adjusting his new dress robes with the other.
They stand in the same vast hall Harry remembers from last year—crystal ceilings soaring overhead, gravity-defying fountains creating liquid art along the walls. The floating signs still dance helpfully in multiple languages, though Harry notices several new additions warning about "Unauthorized Metamorphmagus Transformations" and "Illegal Cheese Smuggling."
"Merlin's saggy left—" Nymphadora starts, staring at the opulent surroundings.
"Dora," Andromeda warns.
"—sock," Nymphadora finishes lamely. "This place is incredible. Why doesn't our Ministry look like this?"
"Because we're British, dear," Ted says dryly. "We prefer our grandeur with a side of dreary functionality."
Newt straightens his robes, patting his expanded case where Itisa and Hedwig are safely secured. "Right then, immigration desk. Remember, let me do the talking for any unusual questions."
They join the queue, and Harry notices how other travelers react to their group. Well-dressed witches and wizards, clearly here for the same gathering, though none approach them directly. A few whispered conversations in French include his name.
"Is it me," Nymphadora whispers, "or are people staring?"
"Your hair is cycling through rainbow colors," Harry points out.
Nymphadora looks up, catching her reflection in a floating mirror. "Shit! I mean—shoot. Nervous habit." She scrunches her face in concentration, and her hair settles to a respectable auburn.
They reach an available desk where a different official from last year—a stern-looking wizard with an impressive mustache—waits with quill poised.
"Documents," he says in accented English, somehow making the single word sound like a threat.
Newt presents their papers with practiced ease. "Scamander party, here for the Ministry gathering."
The official—Monsieur Laurent according to his badge—examines each document with the intensity of someone searching for reasons to deny entry. His expression remains neutral until he reaches Harry's identification.
"'Arry Potter," he says, and Harry notices several nearby officials glance over. "Ze young talisman creator, non?"
"Er, yes sir," Harry says, remembering Andromeda's lessons about respectful address.
Laurent's mustache twitches in what might be approval. "My nephew, 'e is an Auror from Italy. Your talisman saved 'is life two weeks ago from a curse, a nasty curse."
"I'm glad it helped," Harry says with a smile.
"Oui, as is 'is wife and three children." Laurent stamps Harry's papers with perhaps more force than necessary, but his eyes are warm. "Welcome to France, Monseigneur Potter."
The reaction ripples through the nearby desks. Harry hears rapid French that includes "talisman," "Italia," and what sounds like "forty thousand Galleons."
"Nymphadora Tonks," Laurent reads next, and Harry's best friend practically vibrates with nervous energy beside him. "Metamorphmagus?"
"Yes sir," Nymphadora squeaks.
"Registered?"
"Since age eleven, sir. Here's my certification from the British Ministry."
Laurent examines the document, then peers at her intently. "Demonstrate, s'il vous plaît."
"I—what?"
"A small change. For ze records."
Nymphadora glances at her mother, who nods encouragingly. With visible effort, she changes her nose to a perfect copy of Laurent's impressive schnoz.
"Bon," Laurent says, almost smiling. "Though perhaps choose a more... flattering feature to copy."
Nymphadora quickly returns her nose to normal, blushing furiously.
The rest of their documents are processed efficiently, though Harry notices Laurent makes several additional notes on his papers.
"Through ze security arch," Laurent directs. "And Monsieur Scamander? No fountain incidents this time, oui?"
"That was twenty-three years ago!" Newt protests.
"And yet, ze fountain still sings La Marseillaise every full moon." Laurent's mustache definitely twitches this time. "Enjoy your stay."
They approach the misty archway, Nymphadora gripping Harry's arm.
"What if it detects something weird about me?" she whispers.
"Then you'll fit right in with the rest of us," Harry assures her. "Deep breath."
They pass through together, the familiar tingling sensation washing over them. No alarms sound, though Nymphadora's hair flickers through several colors before settling back to auburn.
"See? Perfectly normal," Harry says.
"Nothing about this is normal," Nymphadora mutters. "We're going to a ball with Nicolas bloody Flamel."
"Language," Andromeda says, but she's smiling. "Come along, children. Ted, did you remember the gift for Minister Delacour?"
"Bottle of Ogden's Finest, 1947 vintage," Ted confirms. "Cost more than our house, but apparently he collects rare whiskeys."
"When in France," Andromeda says philosophically.
They navigate through the building, Harry pointing out sights from his previous visit—the self-translating berets, the wine fountain (now cordoned off with a sign reading "Under Repair Since 1970"), and a new addition of floating croissants that seem determined to feed everyone.
"Aggressive pastries," Nymphadora observes, dodging a particularly persistent pain au chocolat. "Is that normal here?"
"You should see the cheese wheels in the market district," Newt says cheerfully. "Absolutely devoted to their calling. Once chased a lactose-intolerant wizard for three blocks."
They exit onto a grand terrace overlooking the French magical quarter. Elegant buildings twist impossibly skyward, connected by bridges that may or may not exist depending on the viewing angle. The late afternoon sun bathes everything in gold.
"Transportation to ze Delacour estate leaves from Platform Seven," a helpful official informs them. "Ze Golden Carriage, every 'alf hour."
"Carriage?" Harry asks.
"Like the Beauxbatons ones," Newt explains. "Only these are pulled by Abraxans. Magnificent creatures."
As Harry thinks about his meeting with Nicholas Flamel, he knows how many people are at the ball. He feels someone nudging his shoulder, and he looks up and sees that it's Andromeda.
"Remember what I told you," she says quietly. "Choose happiness. The rest will follow."
The platform comes into view, where an actual golden carriage waits, pulled by four winged horses that shine like liquid sunlight. Other well-dressed witches and wizards are already boarding.
"Blimey," Ted breathes. "And I thought the Knight Bus was fancy."
"Harry!" Nymphadora hisses. "Those horses are the size of elephants!"
"Don't worry," Harry says, drawing on last year's experience. "They're very gentle. Just don't make sudden movements or loud noises."
"You're not helping!"
Harry knew that a lot depended on this ball; there would be many important people there, people with power, people with influence, but despite how much depended on this, despite the voice of the Greengrass witch repeating in his head. Harry, in that moment, was not afraid; he had managed this so far, he had done all of this by himself, and with the help of his friends.
He had created his first talisman with help from Daphne. He had managed to fight off Professor Quirrell, despite him being controlled by Voldemort with Itisa's help. He was able to create an even better Talisman the next year with Nym's help, and he was able to fight off Tom Riddle with Itisa's help, and now he had a Basilisk for A Pet.
He had made a contract with the Italian Ministry of Magic without the help of Cassiopeia or Fudge and his little pink frog creature.
Harry would not allow anyone to get the better of him, especially not Cassiopeia or Fudge.
Harry Potter would make sure that his future was his own, not what someone else had decided for him.
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