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The golden carriage glided through the French countryside with an ethereal smoothness that made Harry almost forget they were moving at all. Through the enchanted windows, vineyards and rolling hills blurred past in impressionistic swirls of green and gold. The Abraxan horses pulling them were magnificent creatures, their wings were glimmering like crystals, and giving them a second look, Harry realised their wings were made of hundreds of diamond-shaped crystals.
"Magnificent beasts," Newt commented, leaning forward to peer out the window. "Did you know Abraxans can fly continuously for up to twelve hours without rest? Their wing structure is remarkably efficient—"
"Newt," Andromeda interrupted gently, settling her traveling robes with elegance. "Perhaps we should discuss more... practical matters?"
Harry noticed the way his adoptive mother's posture had subtly shifted since they'd entered France. She sat straighter, her voice carrying the refined tones of her Black family upbringing. Even Ted seemed more formal, though he maintained his characteristic dry humor.
"Ah, yes," Newt's expression grew more serious as he turned from the window. "There are certain... precautions we should discuss before we arrive." He cleared his throat diplomatically. "As I mentioned earlier, Minister Delacour's wife, Apolline, is half-Veela. Which means their daughters—"
"Are quarter-Veela," Nymphadora finished, rolling her eyes. "I already knew that, Newt. It's not exactly a state secret." Her hair, currently a respectable auburn thanks to Andromeda's training, flickered with brief pink streaks. "Besides, it's not like I'm going to be affected by some magical allure."
"That's what I'm worried about," Ted muttered under his breath, earning a sharp look from his wife.
Andromeda reached over to pat Nymphadora's hand. "Of course you'll behave appropriately, dear. You're a Tonks, after all. We have standards to maintain."
Harry shifted in his seat, remembering last year's conversation with Newt about Veela allure. Back then, it had seemed like an academic discussion—interesting but not personally relevant. Now, with the memory of how his pulse had quickened when he'd thought about seeing Fleur again...
"I danced with Fleur for the opening waltz last year," Harry said carefully, "and the allure didn't affect me at all. We had normal conversations."
Newt's eyebrows rose slightly as he studied Harry. "Ah, but that was last year, my boy. You were still... shall we say, magically immature in certain respects." His eyes twinkled knowingly. "Tell me, Harry—have you started noticing girls?"
The question hit Harry like a Bludger to the chest. His eyes involuntarily flicked toward Nymphadora, taking in the way her hair caught the carriage's magical lighting, how her laugh made something warm flutter in his stomach. Then his mind wandered to other faces: Crystal-Harmony's scales shifting to reveal human features, Fleur's elegant smile, even the way Daphne's eyes sparkled when she was particularly pleased with herself, Hermione's brown eyes shining when she got an answer right.
Heat rose in his cheeks, and he looked down at his hands. "I... that is..."
"Ah," Newt said knowingly, a slight smile playing at his lips. "I see. Well then, that changes things considerably."
"Wait, what changes things?" Nymphadora asked, looking between Harry and Newt with growing concern. "What does noticing girls have to do with anything?"
"Veela allure affects people differently depending on their magical maturity," Newt explained, settling back into his seat. "Children are largely immune—their magical development hasn't reached the point where they're susceptible to that particular type of influence."
Harry nodded, remembering their previous conversation. "But once someone reaches adolescence..."
"Exactly," Newt confirmed. "The same hormonal and magical changes that make young wizards notice the opposite sex also make them vulnerable to Veela allure."
"So Harry wasn't affected last year because he was still basically a kid," Nymphadora said, understanding dawning in her expression. "But now that he's... developing..."
"Now I'm potentially at risk," Harry finished grimly. The idea of losing control of himself, of his own thoughts and actions, made his skin crawl. He'd spent years learning to master his emotions, to think before he spoke, to present himself as competent and mature.
"But there must be ways to resist it, right?" Nymphadora pressed, her hair cycling through worried yellow tones. "I mean, surely not every teenage wizard turns into a drooling idiot around Veela?"
"Oh, there are ways," Newt nodded. "Strong mental discipline helps immensely. Wizards with particularly powerful wills can often resist the effects, though it requires considerable effort."
"What about building up resistance over time?" Nymphadora asked. "Like how you can build immunity to certain potions with small doses?"
"An excellent analogy," Newt said approvingly. "Prolonged exposure to Veela allure can indeed help someone develop a tolerance. Think of it like building immunity to a particular magical influence—small, regular doses over time help the magical system adapt."
"How long would something like that take?" Tonks asked.
"Months, typically. Sometimes years, depending on the individual and the strength of the Veela in question." Newt's expression grew more serious. "Though I should stress, it's not a perfect defense. Even someone with significant resistance can still be... affected under the right circumstances."
"Affected how?" Nymphadora pressed.
"Well, the stories vary," Newt said thoughtfully. "Some young wizards become tongue-tied and clumsy. Others become overly eager to please, making grand gestures to impress. I once knew a young man who challenged three other wizards to duels just to win a quarter-Veela's attention." He chuckled. "None of them could duel worth a damn, mind you."
Harry felt his stomach drop. "And we're going to be around two quarter-Veela at the same time."
"Ah, yes," Newt said with what Harry felt was unnecessary cheerfulness. "Multiple sources of allure can indeed compound the effect. I've heard tales of young wizards whose brains simply turned to complete mush when faced with more than one Veela. Couldn't string two coherent thoughts together."
"Now you're just trying to frighten him," Andromeda said firmly, though Harry caught the concern in her voice.
"Not at all," Newt protested. "I'm simply being thorough. Better Harry knows what he might face than be caught off guard."
"So what you're telling me," Harry said slowly, "is that no matter how careful I am, I might end up making a complete fool of myself?"
"Well," Newt said thoughtfully, "it's possible you might have some natural resistance. Your... unique magical heritage might provide some protection. And you've already demonstrated considerable mental discipline for someone your age."
"Might?"
"Magic is unpredictable, Harry. Especially when it comes to interactions between different types of magical beings." Newt's expression grew more serious. "The important thing is to be aware of the risk. If you feel yourself becoming... unusually eager to impress, or if your thoughts start becoming unclear, then you'll know what's happening and that is something that helps."
Harry nodded grimly. At least if he was aware of it, he might be able to fight it. Though the idea of losing control of his own mind, even temporarily, still made him feel sick.
"Don't look so grim," Ted said, speaking up for the first time in several minutes. "It's not like they're going to enchant you into doing anything truly dangerous. Worst case scenario, you might embarrass yourself a bit."
"That's exactly what I'm worried about," Harry muttered.
"Harry," Andromeda said gently, "you've shown remarkable composure in far more challenging situations. A little magical influence isn't going to undo years of training and natural good sense."
"Besides," Nymphadora added with a grin, "if you start acting like an idiot, I'll just morph into McGonagall and give you detention. That should snap you out of it."
Despite his worries, Harry found himself smiling. "You'd do that at a formal diplomatic ball?"
"If it keeps you from making a complete fool of yourself? Absolutely."
As the golden carriage began its descent toward the French Ministry, Harry pressed his face to the enchanted window, watching the landscape transform below them. Rolling vineyards gave way to meticulously maintained gardens, and then—there it was.
The French Ministry of Magic rose before them like a dream made manifest in stone and starlight. Even having seen it once before, Harry felt his breath catch. The palace stretched across the horizon in a symphony of elegant architecture, its countless windows catching the late afternoon sun like diamonds. Spires twisted skyward with impossible grace, connected by delicate bridges that seemed to float unsupported through the air. Gardens cascaded in terraced splendor down the hillsides, their magical flora creating patterns of color that shifted and danced in the breeze.
"Merlin's beard," Nymphadora breathed, her face pressed against her own window. Her hair had gone completely silver in shock, matching the palace's gleaming walls. "That's... that's actually their Ministry?"
"Indeed it is," Newt said cheerfully, consulting his pocket watch. "Though officially, it's called the Palais de la Magie. The French have always believed that magical governance should be as beautiful as it is functional."
Harry shook his head in renewed wonder. Last year, he'd been too nervous and overwhelmed to fully appreciate the architecture. Now, with a year of diplomatic experience behind him, he could better understand what he was seeing. This wasn't just a government building—it was a statement of magical philosophy, a declaration that magic itself was meant to be beautiful.
"How the hell does our Ministry look like a bloody tomb compared to this?" Nymphadora asked, her voice faint with disbelief.
"Language, dear," Andromeda said automatically, though her own eyes were wide as she took in the approaching palace. "Our Ministry has its own... understated elegance."
Ted snorted. "Understated is one word for it. Though I'd call entering through a grimy telephone box that hasn't been cleaned since the Victorian era more 'aggressively mundane' than elegant."
Andromeda shot her husband a reproachful look. "Edward."
"What? I'm not wrong," Ted said with unrepentant humor. "Remember the first time you had to use the visitor's entrance? You spent ten minutes trying to figure out if the phone actually worked or if it was some sort of elaborate prank."
"The British approach to magical concealment has always prioritized function over form," Newt said diplomatically. "Though I must admit, the French method does have a certain... flair."
Harry grinned, remembering his own first encounter with the Ministry's telephone box entrance. "At least we don't have to worry about tourists trying to take pictures of our government building."
"True," Ted conceded. "Though I suspect that has more to do with the Muggle-repelling charms than any aesthetic considerations."
The carriage settled onto the landing platform with the barest whisper of sound, the Abraxan horses folding their magnificent wings as they touched down. Through the windows, Harry could see other carriages arriving and departing, their passengers dressed in the elegant robes that seemed to be the standard for French magical society.
A liveried footman approached their carriage. He wore robes of deep blue trimmed with silver, and his bow was so perfectly executed it might have served as a textbook example of diplomatic protocol.
"Right then," Newt said, gathering his briefcase and checking that it was properly secured. "Remember what we discussed about first impressions. The French appreciate proper etiquette, but they also value wit and intelligence. Don't be afraid to engage in conversation, but..."
"But don't try to be something I'm not," Harry finished. "I remember."
The footman opened their carriage door with a flourish, offering a steady hand to help them descend. "Bienvenus au Palais de la Magie," he said in perfectly accented French. "Welcome to the Palace of Magic."
Harry stepped out first, automatically checking his formal robes and adjusting his posture. The afternoon air was warm and carried the scent of magical flowers. Before them stretched a magnificent staircase of white marble, easily fifty feet wide, leading up to gates that looked like they'd been crafted from liquid gold.
The stairs were busy with foot traffic—witches and wizards in elegant robes moving up and down with the easy confidence of people who belonged in such splendid surroundings. Some carried official-looking documents, others engaged in animated conversations that probably involved matters of magical governance Harry could only guess at.
He turns to offer Tonks his hand as she navigates the small steps in her formal robes.
"Don't you dare let me fall," she mutters, accepting his help. "These shoes are trying to murder me."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Harry murmurs back. "Though if you do trip, please aim away from the fountain. I don't fancy explaining to the French press why a British metamorphmagus went swimming in their decorative water feature."
She snorts, successfully reaching solid ground. "Prat."
Andromeda emerged with the natural grace of someone born to elegant surroundings, though Harry caught the slight widening of her eyes as she took in the full scope of the palace. Even with her Black family upbringing, this level of magical opulence was clearly impressive.
Newt brought up the rear, his briefcase held carefully in both hands. Harry could swear he heard a faint scratching sound from within—probably Itisa expressing her opinion about being confined during such an interesting arrival.
As they gathered at the base of the marble staircase, Harry became aware of the attention they were drawing. Several passing witches and wizards had slowed their pace, their conversations dropping to murmurs as they glanced in the group's direction.
"C'est lui... ?" he heard one wizard say to his companion.
"Le garçon des journaux," the other confirmed. "Harry Potter, le créateur de talismans."
"But he's so young," another wizard said with perfect English. "I thought surely the reports were exaggerated."
Harry kept his expression pleasant and neutral. This was all him, they didn't recognise him because of what his parents did, but because of what he, what he himself did. He had done this.
"'Arry Potter!" a young witch called out in heavily accented English, pointing in his direction. "Ze one who made ze contract with Italy!"
More heads turned, Harry straightened his shoulders and offered a polite nod to the gathering crowd, drawing on all of Andromeda's etiquette training.
"Should we expect this everywhere we go?" Nymphadora muttered, her hair cycling nervously between auburn and pink.
"Fame has its inconveniences," Harry replied quietly, though he managed a slight smile. "Though I have to admit, being known for magical innovation is better than being known for surviving something I can't even remember."
As they passed through the golden gates into the palace's entrance hall, Harry felt his breath catch for the third time that day. The soaring space was even more magnificent than he remembered—crystal columns twisted skyward like frozen waterfalls, their surfaces reflecting light in patterns that seemed almost musical. Floating chandeliers drifted overhead in lazy circles, casting rainbow patterns across marble floors so polished they looked like mirrors.
But it wasn't the architectural splendor that made Harry's pulse quicken. Two figures were approaching across the vast hall, their footsteps echoing with quiet authority on the marble floor.
Minister Victorien Delacour looked exactly as Harry remembered—tall, distinguished, with the kind of effortless elegance that seemed to be standard among French magical officials. At thirty-nine, he carried himself with the confidence of someone born to lead, his blonde hair was short. His robes were a deep midnight blue.
But it was his daughter who commanded Harry's attention.
Fleur Delacour had been beautiful at fourteen. At fifteen, she was... extraordinary. Her silver-gold hair caught the light from the floating chandeliers, creating an almost ethereal halo around her face. She'd grown taller since last year, her movements carrying a new grace that spoke of increasing confidence. Her robes—a pale blue that perfectly complemented her eyes—seemed to flow around her like liquid silk.
Good lord, Harry thought, feeling momentarily stunned. She's...
But even as the thought formed, Harry felt his mental discipline reassert itself. He straightened his shoulders, drew on every lesson Andromeda had drilled into him, and stepped forward with the poise of someone who belonged in such company.
"Ministre Delacour," Harry said, executing a precise bow while attempting his carefully practiced French. "C'est un grand honneur de vous revoir. Merci de nous accueillir si généreusement." It is a great honor to see you again. Thank you for welcoming us so generously.
His accent was still imperfect—the rolled 'r's gave him particular trouble—but the words came out clearly and with genuine warmth.
Minister Delacour's face broke into a pleased smile. "Ah, Monsieur Potter! Your French improves remarkably. Though please, we shall speak English for the comfort of your companions." He stepped forward, extending his hand in greeting. "Welcome back to France. I trust your journey was pleasant?"
"Indeed it was, sir. The Abraxans are magnificent creatures," Harry replied, accepting the handshake. "Though I admit, the view from the carriage pales in comparison to your palace. It seems even more beautiful than I remembered."
"You are too kind," the Minister said, though his expression showed he was pleased by the compliment.
His accent makes Fleur's lips twitch into a smile—not mocking, but genuinely amused. "Your French has improved," she says in accented English. "Though you still sound like you are trying to speak around a mouthful of treacle."
"Fleur," her father says warningly, but Harry laughs.
"Well, that's an improvement from last year when you said I sounded like I was choking on a baguette," Harry replies easily. "I'll take treacle as progress."
The Minister's eyebrows rise slightly—perhaps not used to his daughter's teasing being returned so readily. Harry notices movement in his peripheral vision: Tonks unconsciously smoothing down her robes, Ted standing a bit straighter, even Newt adjusting his bow tie. The allure at work, affecting everyone except...
Except him. Fleur is beautiful, yes, but it's the same appreciation he might have for a particularly stunning piece of art or a complex spell matrix. There's no fog in his mind, no compulsion to stare or stammer or make a fool of himself.
"We have prepared rooms in the Royal Quarters for you and your party," Minister Delacour announces, and Harry's careful composure nearly cracks.
The Royal Quarters. The same wing where visiting heads of state stay. The honor is so far beyond what he expected that for a moment he can't formulate a response.
"You are too kind," Andromeda says smoothly, covering for Harry's momentary silence. "We are deeply honored by such generosity."
"Nonsense," the Minister waves away the thanks. "After what Monsieur Potter did for our relationship with the Royal Sea Horses, it is the least we can offer. Now, I'm sure you are tired from your journey. Fleur, perhaps you would show our guests to their accommodations?"
"Bien sûr, Papa." Fleur's hand slips through Harry's arm with the natural ease. "Come, I will show you why French hospitality is superior to all others."
"What have you been up to since last year? Still making fountains that play music?" Harry asked with a teasing smile.
Fleur's expression brightened considerably. "Ah, you remember! Yes, though I 'ave moved on to more... ambitious projects. I am now participating in ze Europe Duelling Club for Young Wizards and Witches."
Harry stopped walking entirely, his surprise evident. "There's a European duelling circuit? For students?"
"You did not know?" Fleur looked genuinely shocked. "Mon Dieu, 'ow insular is British magical education? Yes, of course there is a circuit. Students from all ze major magical schools compete—Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, Seravella, ze Spanish Institute..."
"But not Hogwarts," Harry said, his mind racing. "I had no idea this existed. How does it work?"
They resumed walking as Fleur launched into an enthusiastic explanation. "Each school selects their best duelists from ze fifth, sixth, and seventh years. We compete in both individual and team formats, with matches 'eld at different schools throughout ze year. Ze final tournament is in June, usually in Switzerland—neutral ground, you understand."
"That sounds incredible," Harry said, and meant it. "What kind of spells are allowed? Is it traditional duelling rules, or more... practical applications?"
"Both, depending on ze category," Fleur replied, clearly pleased by his interest. "Traditional duelling follows ze old forms—very formal, very precise. But there is also what we call 'practical combat,' which allows for more... creative approaches to magical confrontation."
Practical combat, Harry mused. That sounds much more useful than the formal duelling we learn at Hogwarts.
"And you compete in both categories?" he asked.
"Mais oui. Though I must admit, I prefer ze practical combat. Traditional duelling, it can be... 'ow do you say... stuffy? Too concerned with proper form and not enough with actual effectiveness."
Harry grinned. "Spoken like someone who's actually been in real magical confrontations."
Fleur gave him a sharp look. "And 'ow would you know what that sounds like, Monsieur Potter?"
"Let's just say that formal duelling techniques don't always translate well to... unexpected situations," he said diplomatically.
"Hmm," Fleur murmured, but her expression suggested she was filing that comment away for future consideration. "Well, perhaps you would be interested in observing some of our training methods while you are 'ere? I think you might find them... educational."
"I'd love that," Harry replied honestly. "Though I should warn you, British duelling instruction is probably rather primitive compared to what you're used to."
"Primitive, perhaps," Fleur said with a slight smile, "but if ze stories are true, you 'ave practical experience that most students lack entirely. Experience, it can be worth more than perfect technique."
They turned another corner, and Harry was struck by the sight before them. The corridor opened into a circular chamber with walls of pure crystal, through which magical fish swam as if the walls contained water rather than stone. The effect was breathtaking—like being inside an aquarium.
"Merlin," Harry breathed, stopping to stare. "How do they...?"
"Papa commissioned it from ze best magical architects in Europe," Fleur said with obvious pride. "Ze crystal walls are enchanted to create ze illusion of water while maintaining their structural integrity. Ze fish, they live in dimensional pockets within ze walls themselves."
"That's... that's incredible magic," Harry said, watching a school of golden fish swim past at eye level. "The level of precision required for something like this..."
"You appreciate good magical work," Fleur observed, and there was approval in her voice. "Most visitors just see ze pretty fish and miss ze real artistry involved."
"Well, I have been learning to work with magical materials," Harry replied. "You develop an eye for craftsmanship when you're trying to create something that won't explode in your face."
"I read about your new talisman," Fleur says, her tone shifting to something more serious. "The one the Italians purchased. Most of its abilities are defensive, non? Shield reinforcement, curse deflection, environmental protection. Why not more offensive capabilities? Most craftsmen focus on attack abilities."
Harry considers his answer carefully. This is the kind of question that reveals how someone thinks about magic, about protection, about the purpose of his work.
"Because," he says slowly, "the best victory is the one where you don't have to fight at all. Any fool with a wand can throw curses. But keeping someone alive long enough to get home to their family? That takes real magic."
Fleur stops walking, turning to study him with those impossibly blue eyes. For a moment, her carefully maintained sophistication slips, revealing something more genuine underneath.
"Most boys your age would want to create weapons," she says quietly. "To prove how powerful they are."
"I've seen what weapons do." Harry thinks of Tom Riddle's diary, of the basilisk's deadly gaze, of Voldemort's casual cruelty. "Power isn't about how much damage you can cause. It's about what you choose to protect."
"C'est très sage." She resumes walking, but her grip on his arm is different now—less formal, more genuine connection. "You surprise me, Harry Potter. Last year you were a nervous boy trying not to trip over his own feet. Now you speak like someone much older."
"Yeah, well, negotiating with magical governments ages you prematurely. I'm basically thirty in diplomatic years."
"Thirty? Oh là là, practically ancient. Should I fetch you a walking stick?"
"Only if it's enchanted. I have standards."
"Speaking of standards," Fleur's teasing tone returns full force, "how is your friend with the interesting hair? The metamorphmagus? She seems very..." She pauses, looking back at the girl in question before looking back at Harry, searching for the right word. "Colorful."
"Tonks is brilliant. Completely mental, but brilliant. She's already training to be an Auror, actually. Says she wants to be the one wearing my talismans rather than just hearing about them."
"And the others you mentioned in your letters? The Lovegood girl who sees things differently?"
"Luna's... Luna." Harry smiles thinking about his peculiar friend. "She sent me a letter last week warning me about Dabberblimps in French cheese. I'm still not sure if she was joking."
"What about the Royal Sea Horse Princess? Your letter about that adventure was fascinating."
"Crystal-Harmony's doing well. She's actually planning to visit the surface this summer. First time walking on legs instead of swimming with a tail. Should be interesting."
"You collect the most unusual friends." Fleur observes. "A metamorphmagus, a seer, a sea princess..."
"Says the quarter-Veela teaching me about magical theory between dueling matches," Harry counters. "How's Gabrielle, by the way? Still convinced about her matchmaking plans?"
Fleur groans dramatically. "Pire que jamais—worse than ever. She has created a scrapbook. With pictures from newspapers about your talisman success. She shows it to every visitor and announces that you are her future brother-in-law."
"A scrapbook? That's... dedicated."
"She is eight years old and completely convinced she is cupid. Last week she tried to order wedding invitations with her pocket money."
Harry laughs, the sound echoing through the corridor. "Please tell me someone stopped her."
"Maman caught her at the Floo. Though I think she was more amused than angry. Gabrielle can be very persuasive when she wants something." Fleur's expression softens. "She asks about you often. You made quite an impression last year when you spoke to her in French."
"My terrible French, you mean."
"Your terrible French that you learned specifically to communicate with use at a boring political dinner." Fleur's voice carries something Harry can't quite identify. "Most teenage boys would not bother."
They arrive at an ornate door marked with the Delacour family crest. Fleur waves her wand in a complex pattern, and the door swings open to reveal a suite that makes Harry's room at the Tonks house look like a broom cupboard.
The ceiling is enchanted to show the night sky, but not just any night sky—constellations wheel overhead in accelerated time, showing the progression of the heavens across seasons. The furniture appears to adjust itself to whoever approaches, chairs rising or lowering to perfect height, desks expanding or contracting based on need.
"Merlin's shaggy...socks," Tonks breathes, finally finding her voice. "This is... this is..."
"The Royal Suite," Fleur says simply. "There are four bedrooms—Harry, you have the East room with the sunrise enchantments. Miss Tonks, the North room has color-changing walls that respond to emotional states—I thought you might appreciate that. Mr. and Mrs. Tonks, the West room has a paired harmony charm for couples. And Mr. Scamander," she smiles slightly, "the South room has reinforced expansion charms on the closets, in case you need to store any... luggage."
Newt clutches his briefcase a bit tighter. "How remarkably thoughtful."
"The formal ball—Papa is calling it 'Le Grand Bal'—begins tomorrow evening," Fleur continues, her attention returning to Harry. "Until then, you are free to explore the palace and the magical quarter. Though," her eyes sparkle with mischief, "if you are not too tired, there will be a show tonight in front of the Palace of Versailles. Les Étoiles Dansantes—very beautiful, very French. You might enjoy it."
"That sounds wonderful," Andromeda says, clearly in her element with formal social planning. "What time does—"
"Eight o'clock," Fleur answers smoothly. "I could return to collect you, if you wish?" The question is directed at the group, but her eyes linger on Harry.
"We'd appreciate that," Harry says, then adds with a slight grin. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble. I've heard it's adequate. For a French school."
"Adequate?" Her eyebrows rise dangerously. "Oh, Harry. You clearly need education. I will collect you tomorrow morning and show you why Beauxbatons is the most beautiful magical school in the world. Perhaps," she adds with false sweetness, "you can take notes to improve that Scottish castle you British insist on calling a school."
"Careful, Delacour. That Scottish castle has produced some of the finest wizards in history."
"Yes, and most of them immediately left Britain to work elsewhere. Curious, non?"
She's gone before Harry can formulate a proper response, leaving behind only the faint scent of something floral and the sound of Tonks letting out a low whistle.
"Bloody hell," Tonks says, flopping onto one of the self-adjusting couches. "She's the most beautiful girl in the world. It's not even fair. It's like... like someone took moonlight and starshine and French superiority complex and just..." She makes a vague gesture. "Made a person out of it."
"Were you affected by the allure?" Andromeda asks, concern coloring her voice.
"I... maybe?" Tonks frowns, her hair shifting to a confused orange. "Not like you described it. I didn't want to throw myself at her feet or anything. Just... wanted to impress her? Make her think I was interesting?" She groans. "Oh Merlin, I probably looked like a complete idiot standing there gaping."
Ted laughs, settling into a chair beside his wife. "You looked fine, sweetheart. Though you were rather quiet."
"That's worse! Since when am I quiet? She probably thinks I'm some boring British witch who can't string two words together." Tonks covers her face with her hands. "And Harry! You absolute prat, how were you just... talking to her? Having actual conversation like a normal person?"
Harry considers this, replaying the interaction in his mind. The allure should have affected him—Newt's warning made that clear. But there'd been nothing, no fog or compulsion or overwhelming desire to agree with everything Fleur said. If anything, he'd been more aware, more present, enjoying the verbal sparring for its own sake.
"Apparently," he says with a small smirk, "I'm immune."
"Of course you are," Tonks mutters. "Because having a Nundu for a pet and creating revolutionary magical items and getting letters from Magizoology legends wasn't enough. Now you're immune to Veela allure too."
"Don't forget speaking Parseltongue and walking away from Voldemort twice," Ted adds helpfully.
"Thanks, Dad. Really helps."
Newt has been quiet through this exchange, studying Harry with an expression that suggests he's cataloging observations like one of his creatures. "Immunity to Veela allure is quite rare," he says finally. "Usually it indicates either exceptional mental discipline, prior exposure to mind-affecting magic, or..." He trails off.
"Or?" Harry prompts.
"Or a magical creature inheritance that provides natural resistance. But that's quite unlikely in your case." Newt's tone is carefully neutral. "Simply a strong will, I expect. Combined with your natural tendency to treat everyone as equals regardless of their appearance."
It's a compliment and a deflection wrapped together, and Harry recognizes it as such. But he's too tired from the journey and too aware of tomorrow's challenges to pursue it further.
"Whatever the reason," he says, moving toward his assigned room, "I'm grateful for it. The last thing I need is to make a fool of myself at an international gathering because my brain decided to take a holiday."
"Where's the fun in that?" Tonks calls after him. "Making a fool of yourself is a time-honored British tradition! Ask Dad about the time he tried to impress Mum by—"
"And that's quite enough family history for one evening," Andromeda interrupts firmly. "We should all rest. Tomorrow will be a very full day."
Harry enters his room and stops again, marveling at the space. The sunrise enchantments Fleur mentioned are already beginning to work—the eastern wall shows the faintest hint of pre-dawn light, though it's well past sunset. His trunk has been placed near a wardrobe that's already organizing his clothes by formality and weather appropriateness.
A soft meow draws his attention to Newt, who's entering with his briefcase.
"I thought they might appreciate a bit of freedom," the magizoologist says, opening the case.
Itisa emerges first, in her housecat disguise but radiating indignation. Confined! her body language screams. In a box! Like common luggage!
"I know, girl," Harry soothes, reaching down to scratch behind her ears. "But we couldn't exactly have you wandering around during the arrival. International incident and all that."
She allows the attention for a moment before stalking off to explore the room, tail held high in continued protest. Hedwig follows more sedately, ruffling her wings and fixing Harry with a look that suggests she found the entire experience beneath her dignity.
"They'll forgive you by morning," Newt says with the confidence of long experience. "Probably. Well, Hedwig will. Itisa might hold a grudge for a few days."
"Wonderful." Harry watches as Itisa discovers the enchanted ceiling and immediately tries to bat at a passing constellation. "Any other warnings about tomorrow? Hidden Veela relatives? Secret tests of character? Ancient French curses?"
"Just be yourself," Newt advises, moving toward the door. "You've handled ministers and magical creatures and dark wizards. A school visit and a ball should be well within your capabilities."
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