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Harry had decided to take a break from his vocal magic experiments, settling against his favorite oak tree with an apple he'd nicked from Mrs. Weasley's kitchen. The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy above, casting dappled shadows across the clearing where he'd been practicing for the better part of three hours.
Bloody hell, he thought, examining the small cuts on his throat from his latest roaring session. At this rate, I'll look like I've been wrestling with a particularly vindictive cat.
He raised the apple to take a bite, then paused as something caught his attention. Where his thumbnail had pressed against the fruit's skin, a perfect crescent-shaped indent had appeared—far deeper than it should have been from casual contact.
"That's odd," Harry muttered, turning the apple in his hand. The mark looked almost like it had been made by a small blade rather than a fingernail.
He examined his thumbnail more closely. It looked... sharper than usual. Longer, too, though only by a millimeter or so. As he watched, fascinated, the nail seemed to pulse slightly, then returned to its normal appearance.
Did I just imagine that?
Harry pressed his thumb against the apple again, this time paying careful attention to the sensation. For a moment, nothing happened. Then he felt it—a subtle shifting beneath the nail, as if something was trying to push its way out.
The thumbnail extended perhaps half an inch, hardening as it grew, and sliced through the apple's skin like it was made of butter.
"Bloody brilliant," Harry breathed, staring at his transformed digit. The nail had become almost translucent, with a wicked sharp point.
He concentrated on the sensation of change, trying to understand what was happening. It felt similar to the pressure that preceded his vocal magic, but localized to his fingertips. Like tiny versions of the energy that wanted to burst from his chest.
Can I do this with all of them?
Harry spread his hand flat against the tree bark beside him and focused on extending all five nails at once. The sensation was immediate and uncomfortable—not quite painful, but definitely strange. Like his fingertips were being stretched from the inside.
One by one, his nails began to grow. First his index finger, then his middle finger, each nail becoming longer and sharper as it extended. The process took nearly thirty seconds, and by the end, Harry was sporting five two-inch claws that looked capable of shredding through practically anything.
"Well, that's not terrifying at all," he said with a nervous laugh, flexing his fingers experimentally.
The claws moved naturally, as if they'd always been part of him. Harry tested their sharpness by dragging them lightly across the tree bark, leaving five parallel grooves in the wood without any effort at all.
These could definitely do some damage.
Harry spent the next twenty minutes experimenting with the basic mechanics. He discovered that extending the claws required conscious effort and concentration, but retracting them was as simple as relaxing his focus. The longest he could maintain them initially was about five minutes before his fingers began to ache from the strain.
"Right," he said, shaking out his hands as the claws retracted to normal nail length. "Let's see how far this can go."
This time, instead of stopping at two inches, Harry pushed harder. The uncomfortable stretching sensation intensified, bordering on actual pain, but he gritted his teeth and continued. Three inches. Four. Five.
At six inches, the claws looked genuinely monstrous—more like small daggers than fingernails. Harry tested them cautiously against a fallen branch, watching in amazement as they sliced through the wood like it was made of warm cheese.
Seven inches, he decided. Let's see if I can manage seven.
The final inch of growth was genuinely painful, like forcing bone and keratin to extend beyond their natural limits. But when Harry finished, he was sporting claws that could have belonged to some mythical beast.
"Merlin's beard," Harry whispered, barely recognizing his own hand.
He tested the seven-inch claws on a piece of deadwood roughly the thickness of his arm. The claws punched through it effortlessly, emerging from the other side without the slightest resistance. When Harry pulled his hand free, the wood split completely in half.
I could kill someone with these. Easily.
The thought sobered him instantly. These weren't just enhanced fingernails—they were weapons. Lethal ones.
Harry was so absorbed in examining his transformed hand that he didn't notice the sharp edge of a broken branch until it raked across his forearm, opening a three-inch gash that immediately began bleeding.
"Shit!" Harry yelped, instinctively jerking backward.
His sudden movement sent his clawed hand swinging wide, and he watched in horror as the razor-sharp nails carved five deep grooves in the oak tree's trunk. The cuts were so clean they looked like they'd been made by a chainsaw.
This is exactly why I need to be careful, Harry thought grimly, examining his bleeding arm. The cut wasn't deep enough to be dangerous, but it was certainly messy.
He retracted his claws immediately—which proved to be a mistake. Without conscious control, the retraction happened too quickly, and Harry's transformed nails caught briefly on his own skin, leaving shallow scratches across his knuckles.
"Brilliant, Potter," he muttered, now bleeding from both his arm and his hand. "Injure yourself with your own bloody claws. That's definitely going in the 'things to work on' column."
Harry spent the next hour practicing controlled retraction, learning to bring his claws back to normal length gradually rather than all at once. It required just as much focus as extending them, and the sensation was equally uncomfortable—like forcing his fingertips to shrink.
By the time he'd mastered smooth retraction, Harry had accumulated several more minor cuts from careless movements. His enhanced healing seemed to be handling them well enough—the scratches were already beginning to close—but the lesson was clear: these claws demanded respect.
Time to clean up the evidence, Harry decided, looking at the claw marks he'd left scattered around the clearing.
He extended his right hand's claws to a manageable three inches and approached the damaged oak tree. The five parallel grooves were deep enough to be visible from a distance—definitely not something he could leave unexplained.
"Diffindo," Harry said softly, focusing on the area around the claw marks.
His wandless cutting charm had improved dramatically over the past few days, and it responded immediately to his intent. The spell sliced through the damaged bark in a controlled pattern, removing the claw marks while making the cuts look like natural damage from wind or wildlife.
Not perfect, Harry assessed, but much less suspicious.
He spent another twenty minutes using Diffindo to camouflage the other signs of his claw practice, then gathered up the wood shavings and scattered them in different parts of the forest. By the time he finished, the clearing looked relatively normal—certainly nothing that would raise questions if someone happened to wander through.
As Harry prepared to leave, an interesting thought occurred to him. If he could extend claws and produce magical roars, what would happen if he combined the two abilities?
Probably nothing good, he admitted to himself. But I'm curious enough to find out.
Harry extended his claws to a moderate four inches and moved to the far edge of the clearing, well away from anything he didn't want to accidentally destroy. He took a deep breath, building the familiar pressure in his chest while maintaining focus on his transformed fingernails.
"Here goes nothing," he muttered, then released both abilities at once.
The roar that emerged was different from his previous attempts, stronger. But more significantly, the sound seemed to enhance his claws somehow. They gleamed, and when Harry tested them against a nearby rock, they cut through stone as easily as they had through wood.
The magic is amplifying itself, Harry realized with growing excitement. The roar isn't just sound—it's enhancing everything else I'm doing.
If his vocal magic could strengthen his claws, what other combinations might be possible? Could he enhance his wandless spells the same way? His physical strength?
One thing at a time, Potter, he told himself firmly. Master what you have before you start experimenting with combinations.
But as Harry retracted his claws and headed back toward the Burrow, his mind was already racing with possibilities. The lycanthropy wasn't just giving him individual abilities—it was creating a integrated system of enhanced capabilities that could work together in ways he was only beginning to understand.
The question was: how far could it go? And more importantly, what was he supposed to do with all this power?
Protect the people I care about, Harry decided. That's what matters. Everything else is just... details.
Though he had a feeling those details were going to become increasingly important as his abilities continued to develop. Especially if he kept discovering new ways to accidentally injure himself during practice.
Harry glanced down at his hands, which looked completely normal now that the claws had retracted. No sign of the deadly weapons he could extend at will, but there were soft pink marks left where the wounds had been.
Just like everything else about this condition, he thought with dark amusement. Perfectly innocent on the surface, absolutely lethal underneath.
Rather like himself, really.
Harry trudged back through the orchard as the sun began its descent toward the horizon, his body aching from exhaustion. Hours of magical experimentation had left him feeling like he'd been wrung out and hung up to dry, though he supposed that was the price of discovering you could grow retractable claws at will.
At least the bleeding stopped, he thought, flexing his fingers experimentally. The small cuts from his practice session had already healed completely, leaving only faint pink lines that would probably disappear by morning. Another benefit of his lycanthropic condition, apparently.
As he approached the back door of the Burrow, Harry could hear the familiar sounds of dinnertime preparation—Mrs. Weasley bustling around the kitchen, the twins arguing about something in loud whispers, and what sounded like Ron explaining Quidditch strategy to anyone who would listen.
Right. Normal family dinner. Act like you haven't spent the afternoon learning to grow deadly weapons from your fingertips.
Harry paused just outside the door to collect himself. His enhanced senses were picking up an overwhelming array of information—the scent of roasting chicken and herbs, the sound of Percy reading aloud from what was probably a Ministry publication, Ginny's distinctive laugh mixing with Hermione's more reserved chuckle.
Focus, Potter. Just because you can hear and smell everything doesn't mean you need to analyze it all.
Harry pushed through the door with what he hoped was a casual expression, immediately drawing the attention of most of the kitchen's occupants.
"There you are, dear," Mrs. Weasley said warmly, looking up from her stirring. "I was starting to worry you'd gotten lost in those woods."
"Just needed some quiet time to practice," Harry replied, which was technically true. "You know how it is with the lycanthropy training."
"Any progress?" Mr. Weasley asked with genuine interest, setting aside his evening copy of the Daily Prophet.
Oh, just learned I can grow seven-inch claws and use them to slice through stone. Nothing too dramatic.
"Some," Harry said carefully. "Getting better at controlling the enhanced senses, mostly. Still working on the magical applications."
Ron looked up from his animated conversation with the twins. "Brilliant! Maybe you'll be able to spot the Snitch from the other side of the pitch tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Harry asked, momentarily confused.
"The World Cup, mate!" Ron said with excitement. "Bulgaria versus Ireland! Viktor Krum versus the best Chasers in the world! It's going to be absolutely mental!"
"Ron's been like this all day," Ginny said with fond exasperation. "I think he's forgotten that normal people need to eat and sleep and do things other than discuss Quidditch statistics."
"Nothing wrong with being excited," Harry said, settling into his usual seat. As he did, Hermione shifted slightly in her chair, her knee brushing against his under the table.
"Harry's right," Mrs. Weasley said, levitating a plate of food in his direction. "Though I do wish you'd all remember that the Cup is supposed to be fun, not an excuse for complete chaos."
"Mum, it's the World Cup," Fred protested. "There's supposed to be a bit of chaos. It's tradition."
"The key word being 'bit,'" George added solemnly. "As opposed to the complete pandemonium that Ron's planning."
"I'm not planning pandemonium!" Ron objected. "I'm planning to watch the greatest Seeker in the world catch the Snitch in what's bound to be the most spectacular game in decades!"
"See?" Ginny said to Harry with a grin. "Mental."
Harry found himself relaxing into the familiar banter, letting the warmth of the Weasley family dynamic wash over him. His enhanced senses were still picking up far more detail than usual—he could smell the exact herbs Mrs. Weasley had used on the chicken, hear Percy muttering corrections to his latest Ministry report from across the room, even sense the subtle shifts in mood as different family members reacted to the conversation.
But instead of feeling overwhelming, it felt... grounding. Like being plugged into the emotional heartbeat of the house.
"What about you, Hermione?" Mrs. Weasley asked. "Are you looking forward to tomorrow?"
"Very much," Hermione replied, though Harry caught the slight flush in her cheeks as she glanced in his direction. "I've never been to a professional Quidditch match. Should be... educational."
Educational. Right. Harry had a feeling Hermione's education was going to involve a lot more than Quidditch tactics.
"Harry's going to love it," Ron continued. "First World Cup, greatest players in the world, and now he's got enhanced senses to catch details the rest of us will miss entirely."
"Just try not to get too overwhelmed," Arthur cautioned gently. "Large crowds can be challenging even for someone without lycanthropic condition. That many people, that much excitement... it might be quite intense."
Harry nodded thoughtfully. He hadn't considered how his enhanced senses might react to a stadium full of screaming fans. The family dinner was manageable, but thousands of people all experiencing intense emotions at the same time?
Something else to worry about tomorrow, I suppose.
"I'll be fine," Harry said with more confidence than he felt. "And if not, I've got excellent support staff." He glanced meaningfully at Hermione and Ginny, both of whom looked pleased by the acknowledgment.
The conversation shifted to logistics—departure times, what to bring, sleeping arrangements at the campsite. Harry participated when necessary, but found himself increasingly distracted by the subtle interplay happening beneath the surface of the family discussion.
Ginny kept finding excuses to get up and move around the kitchen, and each time she passed behind his chair, her hand would brush against his shoulder. Nothing obvious enough to draw attention, but enough to send small jolts of awareness through his enhanced nervous system.
Hermione was being more careful, but Harry caught her watching him when she thought no one was looking, her brown eyes warm with affection and something that looked like concern. Probably worrying about how his new abilities would handle the stress of tomorrow's crowds.
After dinner, as the family began dispersing to their various evening activities, Harry found himself helping with the washing up—partly out of politeness, and partly because it gave him an excuse to linger in the kitchen with Hermione and Ginny.
"So," Ginny said quietly, drying a plate with perhaps more attention than it strictly required, "tomorrow's going to be interesting."
"The Cup?" Harry asked, though he suspected she meant something else entirely.
"Among other things," Hermione said carefully, glancing around to make sure they weren't being overheard. "Large crowds, unfamiliar environment, lots of excitement and stress. It might be... challenging."
"For the lycanthropy, you mean," Harry said, understanding immediately.
"Exactly," Ginny replied. "All those people, all that emotional energy. Your senses could get completely overwhelmed."
Harry considered this as he scrubbed a particularly stubborn spot on a serving dish. "Any suggestions?"
"Stay close to us," Hermione said without hesitation. "Familiar scents and voices should help anchor you if things get too intense."
"Plus," Ginny added with a mischievous smile, "we can always create a distraction if you need to step away for a few minutes."
I bet you could, Harry thought, feeling his cheeks warm slightly.
"What about tonight?" he asked quietly, making sure his voice wouldn't carry to the sitting room where Ron and the twins were arguing about something involving Exploding Snap.
"Same as last night," Hermione replied softly. "Though maybe we should... discuss your training progress. You looked exhausted when you came back."
Harry nodded, glancing toward the stairs. "Ron's room again?"
"Actually," Ginny said thoughtfully, "maybe we should use my room tonight. It's further from everyone else, and the walls are thicker."
Probably wise, Harry thought.
The washing up finished more quickly than Harry would have liked, and soon the three of them were forced to rejoin the family gathering in the sitting room. Harry endured another hour of Ron's World Cup speculation and Mr. Weasley's gentle questions about his condition before finally declaring himself tired enough for bed.
"Big day tomorrow," he said with a yawn that was only partially feigned. "Probably best to get some rest."
"Good thinking," Mrs. Weasley agreed approvingly. "We'll be leaving quite early, and you'll need your energy for all that walking and camping."
Harry bid goodnight to the family and headed upstairs, his heart rate increasing with each step. In just a few hours, he'd be sharing more than just physical intimacy with Hermione and Ginny—he'd be revealing the extent of his magical development, showing them abilities that were becoming genuinely dangerous.
They need to know, he reminded himself. If we're going to do this, if we're going to be... whatever we are... they need to understand what I'm becoming.
In Ron's room, Harry quickly changed into his nightclothes and settled onto the bed to wait. His enhanced hearing picked up the sounds of the household settling down for the night—Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's quiet conversation in their bedroom, the twins' whispered planning session, Ron's heavy footsteps as he made his way upstairs.
Almost time.
Harry found himself absently flexing his fingers, feeling the familiar sensation that preceded claw extension.
Seven-inch claws, he mused. Sonic roars. Life magic. Enhanced senses and strength. What's next? Wings?
The thought should have been ridiculous, but given the trajectory of his development, Harry wasn't entirely sure it was impossible.
A soft knock on the door interrupted his musings. Harry's enhanced hearing had already identified the visitors—two sets of light footsteps, two familiar heartbeats, two scents that were becoming as recognizable as his own.
"Come in," he whispered.
Hermione entered first, wearing a practical nightgown and carrying what looked suspiciously like a notebook. Ginny followed, dressed in a silk robe that definitely hadn't come from the Weasley family wardrobe budget.
"Evening," Harry said softly, unable to keep the smile off his face.
"Evening," Hermione replied, settling onto the bed beside him. "We thought we should discuss your training before... other activities."
"Among other things," Ginny added with a grin, claiming the space on Harry's other side.
"Right then," he said, his voice rougher than intended. "Where should I start?"
For the next hour Harry explained his new claw ability, Ginny that it was amazing, while Hermione was concerned, especially when she noticed the pink marks left on his skin, they were healing and slowly disappearing, but not fast enough for her to miss them.
Hermione had made it clear right away how she felt about his new claw ability.
Harry could see the concern etched across Hermione's features as she gently took his hands in hers, examining the fading pink marks on his knuckles.
"Harry, these cuts could have been much worse," she said, her voice tight with worry. "What if you'd severed a tendon? Or hit an artery? Your healing abilities are impressive, but they're not instantaneous."
"But they are healing," Ginny pointed out, leaning closer to get a better look. "And honestly, Harry, the ability itself is incredible. Seven-inch claws that can cut through stone? That's not just useful—that's bloody amazing."
Hermione shot Ginny a sharp look. "Amazing? Ginny, he's literally growing weapons from his fingertips. Do you understand how dangerous that is?"
"Of course I do," Ginny replied, her tone remaining calm despite Hermione's obvious agitation. "But it's also exactly the kind of ability Harry might need. We live in a dangerous world, Hermione. Having every possible advantage isn't something to discourage."
Harry felt caught between them, understanding both perspectives. "The healing really is quite good," he said carefully, flexing his fingers to show how smoothly they moved. "The cuts barely lasted an hour, and I can already feel the marks fading."
"That's not the point," Hermione insisted, her grip on his hands tightening slightly. "What happens when you're in a stressful situation and accidentally extend them? What if you hurt someone you're trying to protect?"
"Then I'll learn better control," Harry said. "Just like I'm doing with wandless magic. These abilities aren't going away, Hermione. Worrying about them won't make them disappear."
Ginny nodded approvingly. "Exactly. And from what you've described, the claws respond to conscious intent. It's not like they're extending randomly."
"Yet," Hermione muttered, though she didn't release Harry's hands.
"Hermione," Harry said gently, "I appreciate the concern. Really, I do. But I can't spend every moment afraid of what I might become. These abilities are part of me now, and I'd rather learn to use them properly than pretend they don't exist."
Ginny shifted closer, her hand coming to rest on Harry's shoulder. "Besides, think about it practically. If someone threatens you—threatens any of us—having claws that can cut through stone could save lives."
"Or take them," Hermione said quietly.
"If necessary," Harry replied, the words coming out harder than he'd intended. "I don't want to hurt anyone, but I won't let people I care about get hurt because I was too squeamish to use every tool at my disposal."
Finally, Hermione sighed and released his hands.
"I suppose you're right," she admitted reluctantly. "I just... I worry about you, Harry. These changes are happening so fast, and some of them are genuinely frightening."
"They're not frightening to me," Ginny said softly. "They're impressive. Harry's becoming something extraordinary, and instead of being afraid of that, maybe we should be grateful he's on our side."
"How about a compromise?" he suggested. "I promise to be more careful during practice. No more experimenting without taking proper precautions. And maybe... maybe you could both help me train? Having someone there to watch for problems might prevent future accidents."
Hermione's expression brightened slightly. "You'd want us there while you practice?"
"I'd prefer it," Harry admitted. "Having you both involved would make everything feel less... isolated. And Ginny's right—these abilities could be useful for protecting people. Having input from the people I most want to protect seems like a good idea."
"See?" Ginny said, nudging Hermione gently. "Harry's being perfectly reasonable about this. And his healing really is remarkable—look, you can barely see the marks anymore."
Hermione examined Harry's hands again, and indeed, the pink lines had faded to almost nothing. "Your lycanthropic healing is accelerating," she observed, her academic curiosity overriding her worry for a moment. "That's... actually quite significant from a medical standpoint."
"There's my brilliant witch," Harry said with a smile, lifting her hand to press a soft kiss to her knuckles. "Always finding the fascinating details."
"And there's my fearless boyfriend," Ginny added with a grin, "growing claws and roaring at trees like some kind of magnificent beast."
"So we're good then?" he asked, looking between them. "No more worrying about the claw training?"
"I reserve the right to worry," Hermione said firmly. "But I'll try to be more supportive. And I definitely want to observe your next practice session. From a safe distance," she added quickly.
"Deal," Harry agreed. "Though fair warning—tomorrow's going to be interesting enough without adding magical experimentation to the mix."
Ginny's expression grew more serious. "About tomorrow... Hermione and I have been discussing how to help you manage the crowds at the World Cup."
"Oh?" Harry asked, settling back against his pillows as both girls moved closer.
"Sensory anchoring," Hermione explained, her hand finding his. "If you start feeling overwhelmed, focus on familiar touchstones. Our voices, our scents, physical contact. It should help ground you."
"Plus," Ginny added with a return of her mischievous smile, "if all else fails, we can always find you a nice quiet tent for some... private recovery time."
"I think I'm going to like this support system," he admitted.
Delacour Mansion
The afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows of the Delacour château's elegant drawing room, casting golden light across the silk wallpaper and crystal chandeliers. Fleur Delacour sat curled in her favorite velvet armchair, a thick tome on advanced transfiguration theory balanced on her lap.
"Fleur, ma chérie," her mother announced as she swept into the room, her own Veela heritage evident in her graceful movements. "We 'ave wonderful news. Your fazzer 'as secured tickets to ze Quidditch World Cup tomorrow."
Fleur's sapphire eyes flicked up from her book, a delicate frown marring her perfect features. "Ze Quidditch World Cup? Maman, surely you are joking."
"Non, ma fille. We leave tomorrow morning for England. Is zis not exciting?"
Fleur closed her book with more force than necessary, the sharp sound echoing through the room. "Exciting? Maman, Quidditch is... 'ow you say... brutish. Grown wizards flying around chasing after balls like children. It is beneath someone of my intellect."
At seventeen, Fleur Delacour had already earned recognition as the most promising young witch in France in over a decade. Her academic achievements at Beauxbatons were legendary, her magical prowess unmatched among her peers, and her beauty—enhanced by her quarter-Veela heritage—had already inspired three marriage proposals from influential French wizarding families.
"But think of ze people we will meet," her mother continued, settling onto the opposite sofa. "Ze Minister of Magic will be zere, and ze 'eads of important families from across Europe."
"I 'ave no need to impress anyone with my attendance at some sporting event," Fleur replied haughtily, tossing her hair. "My reputation speaks for itself."
The sound of footsteps in the hallway announced the arrival of Monsieur Delacour, a distinguished wizard whose gentle nature had always perfectly balanced his wife's more ambitious tendencies. Fleur's expression immediately softened.
"Papa!" Fleur exclaimed, rising gracefully from her chair and gliding toward him. "Please tell me you 'ave come to rescue me from zis madness about ze World Cup."
Monsieur Delacour chuckled, pressing a kiss to his daughter's forehead. "Ah, ma petite étoile, I take it your mozzer 'as told you about tomorrow's journey?"
Fleur's lower lip protruded in the slightest of pouts, her sapphire eyes widening in the expression that had rarely failed to sway her father throughout her childhood. "Papa, surely zere must be some mistake? Ze Delacour ball is tomorrow evening. I 'ave been looking forward to it for weeks. All ze most important people in French society will be zere, and I 'ave ze most beautiful dress..."
Her father's expression remained firm. "Fleur, ma chérie, sometimes ze most important opportunities come disguised as inconveniences."
"But Papa, it is just Quidditch," Fleur protested, her accent thickening with frustration. "What could possibly be important about watching people chase after ze Golden Snitch like trained animals?"
Monsieur Delacour guided his daughter back to her chair, settling beside her with the patient demeanor of a man who had spent seventeen years navigating his brilliant daughter's strong will.
"Tell me, ma fille, what do you know about ze English wizarding world?"
Fleur shrugged dismissively. "Zey are... adequate, I suppose. Zeir magic is traditional, conservative. Certainly not as sophisticated as French magical arts."
"And ze people? Ze families of influence?"
"I..." Fleur paused, her supreme confidence faltering slightly. "I 'ave not 'ad occasion to meet any, naturellement."
"Precisely," her father said gently. "In three months, you will attend 'ogwarts for ze Triwizard Tournament. You plan to win, oui?"
Fleur's chin lifted proudly. "Of course I will win. I am ze best student Beauxbatons 'as seen in a generation."
"And yet you know nothing of your competition," Monsieur Delacour observed. "Ze English students, ze professors, ze magical traditions zat will shape ze tasks you face."
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Fleur's perfect features. She had been so focused on her own superior abilities that she hadn't considered the strategic advantage of understanding her opponents.
"Ze World Cup will 'ost ze most important figures in British wizarding society," her father continued. "Ministers, department 'eads, ancient families, powerful witches and wizards. Tomorrow, you 'ave ze chance to observe zem, to understand 'ow zey think, 'ow zey interact. Such knowledge could prove... invaluable."
Fleur was silent for a long moment. "But Papa, from everything I 'ave 'eard, England is so... cold. And 'ogwarts itself—zey say it is nothing but a drafty, uncomfortable castle. 'ow can such a place produce worthwhile magic?"
"Ah," her father smiled, "and 'ere we come to ze 'eart of ze matter. You dislike it when people see only your beauty, non? When zey assume zat because you are lovely, you must be empty-'eaded?"
Fleur's cheeks flushed with indignation. "Of course! It is insulting when people judge me only by my appearance."
"And yet," Monsieur Delacour said quietly, "are you not doing ze same thing to zese English wizards? Judging zem by zeir... 'ow you say... exterior? Dismissing zem because zeir castle is cold or zeir customs seem simple?"
The rebuke was gentle but unmistakable, and Fleur felt heat rise in her cheeks for entirely different reasons. Her father was right—she who prided herself on her intellect was making the same shallow judgments she despised in others.
"Consider zis," her father continued. "England 'as produced some of ze most formidable wizards in 'istory. Merlin 'imself, whatever ze legends say about 'is origins. Ze recent war with You-Know-Who—zey may 'ave been 'primitive' by your standards, but zey defeated one of ze most powerful dark wizards in centuries."
"You think ze English 'ave more to offer than I 'ave assumed," she said slowly.
"I think," her father replied with a knowing smile, "zat a witch as brilliant as my daughter would not wish to enter any competition at a disadvantage. And dismissing your opponents before you 'ave even met zem... well, zat would be quite disadvantageous, non?"
Fleur was quiet for several minutes, her pride warring with her pragmatic nature. Finally, she sighed in defeat. "You make compelling arguments, Papa."
"I also think," he added with a twinkle in his eye, "zat a young woman as remarkable as yourself might find ze experience more... interesting than she expects. Ze English may surprise you."
"Perhaps," Fleur conceded, though her tone suggested she considered this unlikely. She stood gracefully, smoothing down her silk dress. "Very well, Papa. I will attend zis World Cup. But I maintain zat Quidditch itself remains a waste of time."
"Of course, ma chérie," her father agreed solemnly, though his eyes danced with amusement. "Ze Quidditch will be terrible. But ze people... ah, ze people might be fascinating."
As Fleur glided from the room to begin preparing for the journey, she found herself wondering despite her best efforts. What would these English wizards be like? Would they prove as tedious as she expected, or might her father's wisdom prove correct once again?
Either way, she thought with characteristic confidence, zey will certainly remember meeting Fleur Delacour.
The question was whether she would find them worth remembering in return.
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