"Look at that," Luna pointed at a shop window displaying what appeared to be animated teapots having a violent disagreement. "They're re-enacting the Goblin Rebellion of 1612. Very educational."
Harry watched as one teapot sprouted tiny arms and attempted to strangle another with what might have been a miniature chain. "That's educational?"
"History should be entertaining. Otherwise people don't remember it." Luna pressed her face against the glass. "I wonder if they do requests. The Giant Wars would be fascinating with the proper choreography."
They moved on, Luna stopping every few feet to examine something that caught her attention. A gargoyle door knocker that actually gargled. A display of self-stirring cauldrons that had somehow achieved synchronized swimming. A poster advertising "Madame Puddifoot's Tea Shop: Where Romance Blooms (Excessively)."
"That place is a nightmare," Harry observed, eyeing the frilly pink curtains visible through the window. "Roger Davies took his girlfriend there last year. Said there were actual cherubs flying around dropping rose petals."
"How delightfully horrifying." Luna tilted her head. "Do you think the cherubs are paid? Or are they enslaved? Someone should look into the ethics of decorative cherub labor."
"I'm not sure cherubs have a union."
"They should form one. Workers' rights are important, even for mythological creatures used as romantic ambiance."
A group of Hufflepuff third-years passed them, giggling about something. One of them glanced at Harry, elbowed her friend, and they both quickly looked away. Not hostile. Just... awkward. Not sure how to act around the alleged Tournament cheat.
Zonko's Joke Shop rose ahead, its windows a riot of color and chaos. Dungbombs, Hiccup Sweets, Nose-Biting Teacups, and Screaming Yo-yos competed for attention.
"Oh, we must go in," Luna declared. "The Nargles love joke shops. All that concentrated mischief attracts them like moths to flame."
Inside was even more overwhelming than the window display suggested. Every surface was covered with products designed to cause minor havoc. Fake wands that turned into rubber chickens. Stink pellets guaranteed to clear a room in thirty seconds.
Luna immediately gravitated toward a display of Fanged Frisbees. "Fascinating. The teeth are independently articulated. I wonder what they eat."
"Fingers, probably," Harry said, keeping a safe distance.
"That would explain why they're banned in three countries."
Harry found himself drawn to a rack of more practical items. Extendable Ears—useful for surveillance. Decoy Detonators—perfect for creating distractions. A dark powder...he was sure he could use that with...
"Harry."
Luna's voice made him look back at her. She'd appeared at his elbow, holding what looked like a rubber duck wearing a tiny pirate hat.
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Turning fun into strategy. Your face gets very serious and you start mentally dueling invisible opponents." She held up the pirate duck. "This is a rubber duck. Its primary function is to look ridiculous while wearing nautical accessories. It cannot help you survive the Tournament."
Harry blinked at the duck. "Right. Sorry."
"You don't have to apologize. But you do have to stop thinking about combat applications for joke shop products." Luna turned the duck over, examining its tiny eye patch. "Unless the application is 'making people laugh,' in which case, proceed."
"The Darkness Powder could be funny. If used correctly."
"The Darkness Powder could also be tactical, which is what you were actually thinking." She set down the pirate duck and picked up a pair of Extendable Ears. "These too. You were mentally cataloging their surveillance potential, weren't you?"
"Maybe."
"Definitely." But she was smiling. "Buy something fun this time,"
"Okay," he said. "Just fun. I can do that."
"Prove it. Buy something completely impractical."
Harry surveyed his options. His eyes landed on a box of Nosebleed Nougats—eat one end, get a nosebleed that looks serious enough to get you out of class. Eat the other end, nosebleed stops immediately.
"These," he said, grabbing the box. "Completely impractical. I'm not even trying to skip any classes."
"Improvement," Luna acknowledged. "But I can still see you thinking about faking injuries to avoid social situations."
"Am not."
"You absolutely are. That little muscle in your jaw twitches when you're plotting."
Harry forced his jaw to relax. "Fine. I'll also get..." He grabbed a Screaming Yo-yo at random. "This. Which has no practical application whatsoever."
"Except annoying your dormmates."
"That's not tactical, that's just being a good housemate. Building character through adversity."
Luna laughed—a bright, clear sound that made several other customers glance over in surprise. "Much better. Now we're having fun."
They paid for their purchases—Harry's impractical items and Luna's pirate duck, which she insisted needed a good home—and stepped back out into the cold.
They wandered without direction, just following the curve of the street. Past the post office, where dozens of owls hooted from the rafters. Past Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop, its window displaying eagle-feather quills that supposedly improved handwriting by at least two letter grades. Past a bookshop whose name Harry didn't catch but whose window display of "Banned Books: Now Legal (In Some Countries)" made Luna pause with interest.
"We're not going in," Harry said firmly.
"I wasn't going to suggest it. Much." Luna's attention shifted. "Oh, look. Gladrags."
The clothing shop's windows were elegantly dressed with the kind of robes that cost more than Harry wanted to think about. Dress robes in midnight blue with silver embroidery. Day robes in rich burgundy. Traveling cloaks lined with fur that was probably from some exotic magical creature.
"I saw Fleur here once," Luna said conversationally. "She was examining dress robes. Looking very French and disapproving."
"Yeah?"
"Very disapproving. The kind of disapproving that suggests the robes were offensive to her aesthetic sensibilities." Luna glanced at him sideways. "She has very strong opinions about fabric quality. And about people who allegedly cheat in tournaments."
"Luna—"
"I'm not saying anything." Her expression was perfectly innocent. "Just observing. The Nargles observe too. They're very interested in the way certain people's magical signatures interact."
"That's not a real thing."
"It is,"
Eventually, they started looking into more shops, until eventually, Luna pointed a finger at a certain shop.
The curiosity shop had been exactly what its sign promised. Luna had purchased a small crystal that supposedly contained "captured moonlight" and spent ten minutes explaining to Harry why this was scientifically fascinating despite being obviously fake.
Harry had bought nothing, but he'd enjoyed watching Luna negotiate with the shopkeeper about the metaphysical properties of the moonlight crystal. The conversation had involved extensive discussion of Nargles, quantum mechanics, and whether moonlight could technically be "captured" if it was just reflected sunlight anyway.
They emerged back onto the street. The village had grown quieter, many students already making their way back to the castle for dinner. The shops would close soon.
"One more circuit?" Luna suggested, tucking her moonlight crystal carefully into her pocket. "The Nargles say we should walk past the Shrieking Shack. They find the residual energy fascinating."
"The Shrieking Shack is in the opposite direction."
"Is it? How curious. The Nargles must have their cardinal directions confused." Luna linked arms with him again. "Let's go this way instead."
They turned down a side street that curved back toward the main road, their footsteps echoing off the close-packed buildings. The shadows were longer here, the afternoon chill more pronounced away from the busier thoroughfares.
Then Harry heard it—a voice he recognized, loud and self-satisfied, carrying down the narrow street with the kind of projection that suggested its owner expected everyone to listen.
"—absolutely brilliant reflexes. That's what makes a good Seeker, you see. Not just speed, but anticipation. Knowing where the Snitch will be before it gets there. I've been cultivating that skill since my third year—"
Harry's steps slowed. Luna's grip on his arm tightened slightly.
They rounded the corner and found exactly what Harry had dreaded.
The Beauxbatons delegation stood in a loose cluster outside Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop, their blue uniforms standing out against the weathered stone. Eight students, maybe nine, all looking various degrees of uncomfortable, bored, and quietly mutinous.
And holding court in front of them, gesturing expansively with both hands like he was conducting an orchestra only he could hear, was Roger Davies.
Roger looked exactly like someone who'd been given an audience and intended to make the most of it. His Ravenclaw prefect badge gleamed on his chest, polished to an almost blinding shine. His hair was artfully tousled. His robes were immaculate, and he stood like someone who had practised looking important in a mirror.
"—top marks in Transfiguration last year," he was saying, apparently mid-boast. "Professor McGonagall herself said my technique was exceptional. I'm quite talented, really. It's all about wand control and—"
"The Nargles are very thick around that one," Luna murmured.
Harry couldn't have said it better himself.
The Beauxbatons students looked like they were attending their own funeral. Sophie stood near the back, arms crossed, expression glazed with the kind of boredom that suggested she'd stopped listening twenty minutes ago. Margaret kept glancing at her watch with increasing frequency. Laurent had actually sat down on a nearby bench, head tilted back, possibly asleep.
And Fleur—
Fleur stood slightly apart from the group, arms crossed, face carved from ice. She looked like a statue of disapproval given human form. Her blue eyes were fixed on Roger with an expression Harry recognized from the tour: the look she'd given the dungeons, the Quidditch pitch, anything she'd deemed beneath her standards.
Except now that look was aimed at a person.
Roger seemed oblivious. Or perhaps he simply didn't care. He kept gravitating toward Fleur like a moth drawn to flame, apparently unaware that this particular flame would happily incinerate him.
"Of course, Quidditch isn't my only talent," Roger continued, stepping closer to Fleur. His voice went up half an octave. "I'm also quite popular among the seventh-years. Leadership qualities, you understand. Natural charisma. People tend to—Fleur, are you listening?"
Fleur's expression didn't change. "I am experiencing the sound of your voice, yes."
"Brilliant! So as I was saying, charisma is really about confidence—" Roger puffed out his chest, "—and knowing your own worth. I've always been confident. Even as a first-year, professors commented on my—"
"Are we going to see the end of Hogsmeade?" Sophie interrupted, her French accent thick with irritation. "Or are we going to 'ear about your entire life 'istory?"
"I'm providing context," Roger said, somehow managing to sound both defensive and pompous. "You can't appreciate Hogsmeade without understanding the kind of people who—"
"We understand people fine," Margaret cut in. "We are standing next to one right now. It is very educational."
Several French students snickered. Roger's ears went pink.
"Well, if you'd rather not have a proper tour—"
"At zis point," Fleur said, her voice cold enough to frost glass, "I would rather 'ave no tour zan zis."
Roger's expression flickered—hurt, then defensive, then aggressive. He turned back to the group, squaring his shoulders. "You know what? I'm doing you a favor. Volunteering my time to—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
His eyes had found Harry and Luna standing at the corner, watching.
The change in Roger's expression was instantaneous. Hurt pride transformed into something gleeful and vicious, like a dog that had just spotted prey.
"Well, well," Roger called out, his voice loud. "If it isn't the cheater himself."
Every head turned. The Beauxbatons students, who'd been quietly suffering through Roger's monologue, suddenly looked interested. Fleur's attention sharpened like a blade coming into focus.
Harry felt Luna's hand tighten on his arm. He took a breath, forced his expression neutral, and tried to walk past.
"Not interested, Davies."
Roger stepped directly into his path, blocking the narrow street. "Of course you're not interested. Cheaters never want to discuss their crimes."
Up close, Roger looked worse than Harry had realized. His eyes were bloodshot, probably from staying up too late. His carefully cultivated appearance couldn't quite hide the tension in his jaw, the desperate edge to his smile.
"Tell me, Potter," Roger continued, louder now, playing to his audience. "How does it feel to steal someone else's glory? To cheat your way into a competition you have no business entering?"
The French students had formed a loose semicircle, watching with the kind of fascinated attention reserved for public spectacles. Sophie looked uncomfortable. Margaret's expression was neutral. Laurent had woken up and was now leaning forward with interest.
Fleur stood very still, arms still crossed, face unreadable.
"How did you do it?" Roger pressed, stepping closer. "Confundus Charm on the Goblet? Dark magic? Or did you just lie really, really well? You've always been good at that, haven't you? Making people believe you're something you're not."
Harry's hand was already on his wand beneath his cloak. Not drawing it. Just resting there. Ready.
"Used to think you were decent," Roger continued, warming to his theme. "Clever, talented, bit arrogant but aren't we all. Turns out you're just a fraud. Glory-seeking fraud who couldn't wait three years for his turn."
"Roger—" Harry tried.
"What's next? Going to claim you accidentally stumbled into the Chamber of Secrets too?" Roger's laugh was ugly. "Or that the Basilisk just happened to be there when you arrived? Convenient how danger always seems to find you, isn't it? Almost like you're seeking it out. Chasing attention."
Several Beauxbatons students shifted uncomfortably. Even they could hear how this was escalating, moving from accusation to cruelty.
Roger was breathing hard now. "Always thought you were so special, didn't you? Boy-Who-Lived, youngest Seeker in a century, teachers' favorite. Couldn't stand that Cedric was getting attention for once. Couldn't stand not being the center of everything."
His voice rose to something close to a shout. "Had to cheat your way into the Tournament to steal his moment! Had to make it all about Harry Potter again!"
The street had gone quiet. Even the wind seemed to have stopped.
Harry looked at Roger. Saw the desperation behind the aggression. The fear that without this, without tearing someone else down, he'd disappear back into irrelevance.
Something in Harry's chest loosened. Not forgiveness. Not even pity. Just... exhaustion.
He stopped trying to walk past. Turned to face Roger fully. Let his expression settle into something calm and cold and utterly unbothered.
"You done, Davies?" His voice was quiet but it carried. "Or do you need a few more minutes to make yourself feel important?"
Roger sputtered. "What—"
"It's fascinating, really. Watching you perform." Harry's tone was conversational, almost academic. "All this posturing, all this noise. Is it exhausting? Pretending to be significant?"
"How dare—"
"You know what I find most interesting about you, Davies?" Harry talked over him, each word precise as a cutting curse. "You're Ravenclaw's Quidditch captain. Seventh-year. Top of your classes, supposedly. Prefect. All these accomplishments."
He paused, let the silence stretch.
"And yet the only time anyone notices you is when you're tearing someone else down."
Roger's face flushed scarlet. Several Beauxbatons students' expressions shifted.
Harry pressed on, voice still quiet, still devastatingly calm. "Three years we've been in the same house. Three years you've watched me. Watched me get attention you think you deserve. Must be frustrating. Being so accomplished and yet so..." He trailed off, as if searching for the word. "...forgettable."
"You little—" Roger's hands clenched into fists.
"I didn't ask for any of this." Harry's voice dropped even lower, more dangerous. "Not the Tournament, not the attention, not the suspicion. But you? You're eating this up. Finally, finally people might pay attention to Roger Davies. Not because you've done anything worth noticing. But because you're attacking someone everyone else hates."
Margaret was actively wincing now. Sophie looked disturbed. Even Laurent, who'd seemed eager for drama, appeared uncomfortable.
"That's not bravery, Davies." Harry's exhaustion bled through into his voice. "That's just... sad."
Roger was trembling. "At least I didn't cheat! I am not jealous. At least I have honor!"
"You have attention." Harry met his eyes steadily. "There's a difference. And judging by how desperately you're clinging to it, I'd say you know it."
For a moment, Harry thought Roger might actually swing at him. His fist pulled back slightly, shoulder tensing—
But then Roger's eyes shifted. Found an easier target.
"Of course you are with her, Potter." Roger's voice dripped with venom as he rounded on Luna. "Takes one freak to recognize another, doesn't it?"
Luna blinked at him mildly, radish earrings swaying gently. "I'm not a freak. That's a very reductive term."
"Does everyone at Hogwarts who associates with Potter have to be insane?" Roger laughed, high and cruel. "Or is that just a bonus?"
"I'm not insane. The Nargles have simply told me things you're not equipped to understand."
"See?" Roger gestured at her like she'd proven his point. "Completely mad. No wonder you two are friends. Both outcasts. Both freaks. Perfect match."
Harry was ready to curse him to oblivion; he didn't care what Roger said to him. Everyone knew he wasn't worth shit, but talking badly to Luna was a step too far.
But Luna's hand closed over his wrist.
She looked at Roger with those protuberant eyes that saw more than anyone gave her credit for.
"It's interesting that you mention jealousy, Roger."
Roger started to interrupt but Luna continued, implacable as tide. "You've been jealous of Harry since his first year. Everyone knows it. You were a fourth-year when he made Seeker. You've never stopped being bitter about it."
"I am not—"
"Now the school has gone stupid and thinks Harry entered himself," Luna continued, still in that same pleasant, dreamy tone. "And here you are, showing everyone how much of a man you are. Attacking someone who tried to walk away. Calling people names. Getting angrier and angrier because the attention you're so desperate for comes with people seeing exactly what you are."
Several Beauxbatons students looked genuinely impressed now.
"Except you're not showing strength," Luna finished, head tilted like she was observing a particularly interesting insect. "You're showing exactly what you've always been. A jealous boy screaming for attention."
Roger's face went from red to purple. His whole body was shaking.
"We have no reason to stay here," Harry said quietly to Luna.
They turned to walk away.
"That's right, run away!" Roger shouted after them, voice cracking. "That's what cheaters do! That's what cowards—"
Harry kept walking. Luna beside him. Not responding. Not engaging.
"You Think You CAN JUST...DIFFINDO!"
The word rang out behind them.
Harry's hand was ready to use a shield, ready to make this idiot eat snow. He started to turn, the shield charm on his lips.
"Expelliarmus." A voice shouted.
But Roger's wand wasn't in his hand anymore.
It arced through the air, spell fizzling to nothing mid-incantation. Someone had disarmed him mid-curse, the timing so precise that Roger hadn't even realized what happened until his hand closed on empty air.
The wand reached the apex of its arc.
Fleur Delacour caught it without even seeming to try, her own wand extended in a straight line toward Roger, her face carved from marble and contempt.
The street went absolutely silent.
Roger stood frozen, shock and fear warring on his face. The Beauxbatons students stared, mouths open. Even Harry was really surprised by what he saw.
Fleur looked at Roger the way someone might look at something they'd scraped off their shoe.
"Pathétique," she said, voice cold enough to freeze fire.
Roger found his voice. "He—he's a cheater—"
"I do not care." Each word was a shard of ice. "You attack someone from behind? With their back turned? Zis is what you call honor? Zis is what you call bravery?"
Her accent thickened, fury barely leashed beneath perfect composure. "You are not a man. You are a coward. A pathetic, jealous coward."
"But he—"
"You do not attack someone from behind. Ever. Zis is not dueling. Zis is not honor. Zis is cowardice."
She turned to her fellow students, disgust radiating from every line of her body. "We no longer need zis... little boy." She practically spat the words. "We will explore Hogsmeade on our own. I would rather get lost zan spend one more moment with someone so lacking in honor."
Immediate murmurs of agreement. Sophie looked relieved. Margaret was already moving away from Roger. Laurent was nodding emphatically.
Fleur turned back to Roger and tossed his wand at him with casual disdain.
He fumbled the catch, nearly dropped it, had to grab it with both hands to keep it from hitting the ground.
She didn't wait to see if he succeeded. Didn't even spare him another glance. Simply walked past him like he'd ceased to exist.
But as she passed Harry, she paused.
Just long enough for her eyes to drop to his hand.
His wand was in his grip.
Their eyes met.
Realization flickered across her face. Harry hadn't been helpless. Hadn't needed rescuing. Had been ready to defend himself.
Fleur thought back on the day he performed for his school, and she knew Harry was far better with his wand than an insect like Roger could ever hope to be.
Something shifted in her expression. Then she continued walking, the other Beauxbatons students falling into step behind her, their French voices already beginning animated discussion of what had just happened.
Harry stood very still, watching them go.
"Why did you step in?"
The words left his mouth before he'd consciously decided to speak. Loud enough to carry down the street.
Fleur stopped. Turned back.
"I thought you hated my guts," Harry continued, wondering why she went out of her way to protect him, not that he really needed protection to begin with.
She took three steps back toward him. Stood there with her arms crossed, chin raised, every inch the aristocratic French girl who'd looked at Hogwarts with disdain.
"I do not hate you, Potter." Her voice was precisely controlled. "I dislike you."
"I dislike that you acted like our friend during ze tour of ze castle. I dislike that you were charming and clever and made us feel welcome." Her eyes flashed. "Only to reveal yourself as a cheat. Someone who takes shortcuts instead of earning their place."
Harry could understand her feeling hurt, thinking that all of that had been just an act by him.
"But what Roger Davies tried to do?" Her voice hardened further, cold fury barely restrained. "Zat is even lower zan cheating. Attacking someone from behind, with their back turned, when they tried to walk away. Zat is not competition. Zat is not rivalry. Zat is cowardice."
She met his eyes directly, unflinching.
"I may think you are a cheat. But I will never respect someone who attacks another person from behind." She paused, let the words settle. "Zere are rules, Potter. Zere are lines one does not cross."
Harry simply stared at her; her passive allure easily bounced off his body, not affecting him. "For what it's worth," he said quietly, "I didn't cheat."
Her expression didn't soften. "Perhaps. Perhaps not."
"But you were ready to defend yourself just now." Her eyes flicked to his hand, still resting on his wand beneath his cloak. "Your wand was already in your 'and."
Harry shrugged. "Professor Dumbledore didn't choose me to perform for the school only because I can make a light show," Harry said, and Fleur agreed with him.
Fleur seemed like she wanted to say something. For a moment, she seemed like she wanted to talk with him like she used to before this whole mess started, but then her expression was a mask again.
Instead: "You should be more careful, Potter. Not everyone will wait for you to turn around before attacking. And not everyone will step in to stop it."
"I know." Harry met her gaze steadily. "But thank you anyway."
She turned and walked away, rejoining her group without looking back.
They disappeared around the corner, French voices fading into the evening air.
Harry and Luna stood in silence.
Roger had already fled—when, Harry hadn't noticed. The street was empty except for them and the lengthening shadows.
"That was interesting," Luna finally said.
Harry let out a breath. "That's one word for it."
"She doesn't hate you as much as she thinks she does."
Harry gave her a sharp look. "What makes you say that?"
Luna's expression was serene, knowing. "Because if she truly hated you, she would have let Roger curse you. Sometimes the Nargles show us truth even when we don't want to see it."
They walked back toward the castle in silence, but Harry's mind wouldn't stop circling back—to Fleur's expression when she caught Roger's wand. To the contempt in her voice when she called him a coward. To the brief moment when she'd noticed Harry's wand was ready. To her words: "Even lower than cheating."
She thought he was a fraud. Believed absolutely that he'd cheated his way into the Tournament.
But she'd stepped in anyway.
Because apparently Fleur Delacour had lines she wouldn't cross. Rules she wouldn't break. Standards she maintained even when dealing with people she despised.
Harry touched his wand beneath his cloak, still warm from his grip.
The Tournament was in two weeks. The Dueling Race in three days.
And Fleur Delacour was somehow more complicated than he'd ever anticipated.
"Come on," Luna said, tugging his arm gently. "We should get back before dinner ends. The house-elves make excellent treacle tart on Saturdays, and you need more than butterbeer and chocolate in your system."
Harry let himself be led toward the castle, toward whatever came next.
Behind them, Hogsmeade settled into evening quiet.
The day off was over.
Tomorrow, the training would resume.
But for now, Harry had one more memory to add to the collection: Fleur Delacour, standing in a Hogsmeade street, calling Roger Davies a coward.
That was something he would not forget for a long time.