She turned up her nose at the gossip mongers in her squadron, becoming increasingly irritated at their sheer stupidity and audacity. The stupidity of their outrageous rumours about the fight they'd hardly witnessed, and the audacity to question the might of the wizard they were going to be attending to very soon.
Even when away from her boisterous colleagues, she couldn't escape the gossip.
The sheer amount of propaganda running rampant in the Ministry had blown her away when she'd returned from her brief break, a break that had been forced upon her as a result of that day. The Disobedience Day, when she'd lost the love of her life to the Death Eaters.
She scrunched her eyes shut, the dreadful memories of that day still too fresh and too raw.
They'd walked into a trap so laughingly easily that, in hindsight, they should've been well poised to avoid. The International Campgrounds had been overrun with Death Eaters the minute the Dark Lord took his stand, and her squadron and three others had been assigned the painful task of getting the civilians to safety through their portkeys. But who would've even thought that the same people running around like headless chickens in a frenzy to escape the Dark Lord, were actually the agents of the Dark Lord sent to capture the Aurors. And when the Aurors had resisted, they'd opened fire.
She'd taken two cutting curses to her body, barely surviving as the others had come around to help. Thankfully, not every country's Aurors had the explicit orders to stay behind their own grounds, and the German and Finnish Aurors had come around at the nick of time to help.
The screams of her colleagues breathing their last after having their organs torn apart or their limbs forcibly twisted still continued to haunt her senses. Only the thought of her six year old son, the one lifeline she had left in this world, kept her will strong enough to stay sane.
Their portkeys had stubbornly refused to take them away even after the fight had ended, and she and her living colleagues had barely enough time to calm themselves before they were thrust into the midst of yet another chaos, this one even deadlier than the previous one.
While she had duelled one Death Eater after another in a frenzy, a large part of her was worried about her husband and son who were probably still among the spectators, watching the finals which the latter had begged his parents for time and again for the past few months. By some stroke of luck, she and her squadron had been assigned the World Cup duty, to which they could also bring families along. Her son had been overjoyed and hadn't stopped talking about the match since he'd received the news, and as she was done with her work, she had been meaning to join her family in the stands too.
But that was all thrown out of the way by the Dark Lord and his blasted Death Eaters.
The luck she'd been counting on had run out quite quickly, but she'd still not quite felt it though, not until she'd been notified by the British Ministry of Magic about her family's plight.
She blinked away the fresh tears that sprung to her eyes at the thought. Her husband had taken no less than half a dozen curses while shielding their son from the Death Eaters, and he'd only collapsed and breathed his last when he'd successfully carried the six year old boy to the British DMLE ground, safely and soundly, all the way from the stands on foot.
Until that day, she'd felt immense pride at the thought of belonging to one of the most elite Auror squads in the world. That day, she'd realized that her husband had done more, sacrificed more in that single night, than most of the Aurors in the Ministry did or even had the guts to do in their entire lifetimes.
"Camille!"
She snapped out of her reverie just as the Head Auror reached her.
"We're ready, Camille." he said gently, as if she was a delicate doll that could break any moment. She hated it, though she knew he meant well. He was one of the good ones, after all.
"Let's go, Marc," she said, discreetly wiping at her cheeks to not allow her traitorous tears to interrupt her at her job. "I'm ready too."
Marc smiled and then led her to a small briefing hall filled with no less than twenty Aurors. They were all standing in their groups, talking amongst each other as they waited for the announcement to be underway.
"….they even say he physically hit the Dark Lord and sent him sprawling!" cackled Michel, one of the most talkative people Camille knew. He was standing with his back to her, speaking to his two friends.
"That's amazing!" the energetic Antoine said, his eyes goggling at the admission. "He's even more powerful than I thought!"
The third friend, the reserved Serge rolled his eyes but didn't say anything. His demeanour itself was enough for Camille to know that he took it all as a joke. She herself didn't know whether to be amused or irritated at the rumours.
Marc joined them then, sporting a dry smirk. "You should be grateful that Delacour isn't here to hear you three fangirling over Potter. He'll throw you out, right after killing you."
"Don't count me with them, boss," said Serge with a frown. "I maintain my own opinion."
"And what is your opinion?" Marc asked interestedly.
Serge shrugged. "He's just a kid. There's no evidence to suggest that he's the one who is gonna be the saviour of the world."
Antoine snorted, some of his anger leaking through. "Says the one who wasn't even there. I was and I saw it all. We wouldn't be alive if it weren't for him."
Michel nodded. "A lot of us owe him our lives."
Camille couldn't help but shake her head as she listened to varying opinions on the day that had changed so many lives for the worse. The general consensus about Harry Potter in the Auror squadrons ranged from awe to complete hero worship, and she couldn't help but understand exactly where the sentiment was coming from.
That day when she'd been fighting for her life, not even knowing if she'll be left alive to go see her family again, Harry Potter had come and single handedly given them hope that the Dark Lord wasn't all powerful. That he could be fought, and like any other foe, he and his forces could be subjugated with enough skill and power, both of which he himself boasted in abundance.
When the famous duel between him and the Dark Lord had been underway, there had been a moment of pure standstill when thousands were either holding their breath or scrambling to know just who was winning. And those mad scrambles and those hitched breaths weren't merely because of the spectacle, but because that duel had essentially held their lives in its conclusion.
So Camille had no problem with the hero worship and the arse kissing and the pure, unadulterated faith that the British were putting in one man. Not even when it was rightfully deserved. And people like Serge infuriated her the most, because people like him brought scepticism when none was necessary and drained hope and will power from people when it was most necessary. People like him complained about heroes when one was present and whined about nobody coming to save the day when none rose up to the occasion. People like him would happily kiss the arse of undeserving politicians but a little hero worship of someone who rightfully deserved it would be too belittling to comprehend.
"Don't tell me that you don't like him too?" Marc chortled at Serge. "Even if it doesn't concern our job, it's still nice to see some common sense in this wing of the Ministry."
Antoine gasped in shock and Camille wasn't sure she could believe her ears. She'd thought that if anyone could understand, it would be Marc. He'd been one of the most dedicated Aurors on the job, promoted to Head Auror in record breaking time of merely four years. Not only that but he'd been one of the few who understood how hard it was to lose someone so close, when his fiancee had been killed in the uprising two years ago. Camille really thought that at least he would understand the need for heroes like Harry Potter.
"I'm not saying I don't like him," protested Serge, "it's just that making him out to be some kind of messiah isn't doing anyone a favour. Especially the public."
"I disagree," Michel said quickly, "The public needs exactly this right now. They need someone to believe in, if at all we're gonna witness more uprisings from the Dark Lord."
Marc hummed in agreement but didn't comment. Instead, he turned to catch her eye, beckoning her to come join them. Camille shook her head, but obeyed.
"Rumour has it that Delacour is quite angry at the request of personal escort from the Minister." Marc said as Camille came to stand with them.
"Why? What's gotten into him?" Michel asked.
Camille knew a little bit of why, but couldn't say.
"Maybe he doesn't like his daughter hanging out with him," Antoine replied dryly.
Antoine snickered. "I've heard that Potter is quite the ladies man. So I'll guess Delacour is just being a protective dad."
"Or he's just pissed that he has to escort a fourteen year old boy to the Minister." Serge added.
Marc shrugged while Camille frowned. If Delacour didn't remember the other incident, then Camille wasn't going to bring it up. But she knew that if she could, she had two things to thank Harry Potter for today.
She exchanged a look with the Head Auror and the glimmer in his eyes told her that he had some idea of what she was thinking. She smiled, thankful that she'd had his support throughout her career. Delacour could be quite a hard arse, and recently, with the added pressure, he'd been downright abusive to his Aurors. One such incident was truly at the forefront of her mind as the man in question came in through the door, his gruff demeanour putting off most of the whispers.
"Potter and his friends will be arriving in ten minutes," Delacour said crisply, "everyone should be in position in five. Let's go."
"Who is the team leader?" someone from the back asked. Camille wanted to know this too.
Delacour's expression only became darker. "You'll know soon."
Camille only hoped it wasn't who she was thinking of as she readied herself to activate the portkey strapped to her belt.
~~ .
Le Passage des Sorciers was considered one of the most beautiful places in Europe, and for good reason. Harry's first thoughts on landing were surprisingly pleasant; instead of the slightly grimy hustle of Diagon Alley, he found himself in an open, sunlit courtyard flanked by buildings of exquisite, pale stone, adorned with wrought-iron balconies overflowing with raucous laughter and vibrant flowers.
His feet rested on a cobblestone path wounding away beneath archways draped with shimmering, enchanted vines, leading into a network of elegant streets where various shopfronts could be seen boasting their offerings under curved windows and intricate carvings. The scent in the air was subtly floral and decidedly light, and Harry couldn't help but appreciate it and even prefer it over the muggy atmosphere of Diagon Alley.
He took a moment just to breathe it in, as did his companions. Unlike the familiar, slightly chaotic energy of London's magical alley, this felt much more curated, almost like a living work of art. He was eager to see what lay around the next corner and explore it to his heart's content but contained himself just in time to see a few Aurors appearing around the corner, probably from hiding.
A rather busty, auburn haired woman in a light blue pantsuit came up to him with a wide smile and extended her hand. In the few seconds that it took for her to reach him, he'd already noticed two things about her. One, with the way she was walking and her general demeanour, she was definitely not a trained Auror, and two, the top three buttons of her shirt were undone, exposing just enough skin to be sensual but not unprofessional.
"Welcome to France, Mr. Potter," she said in her airy voice, and Harry couldn't help but feel that the French were laying it on thick, "My name is Juliette Moreau. I'm going to be your escort for the day. Shall we?"
Harry suppressed a snort at that and nodded, shaking her hand.
"Pleased to meet you, Ms. Moreau. Lead the way." he said neutrally, choosing to not let his eyes wander. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction up close.
As soon she turned her back to him, he exchanged an amused glance with Claire who leaned into him to bring her mouth to his ear. "Is she good at anything other than escorting?"
He pursed his lips to suppress his mirth.
They went past a series of interesting shops and finally stopped in front of what looked like a confectionery shop.
"This is our portal to the boarding gates for Beauxbatons." Moreau explained as she walked in, followed by Harry.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of spun sugar, rose-flavored nougat, and warm cinnamon pastry. The walls were painted in pastel hues of blue and lavender, and floating sweets drifted gently in display cases. Harry followed Moreau with cautious steps, Claire practically skipping beside him.
Fleur walked just behind, her stride graceful—though Harry noticed her eyes flicking to him every few moments before darting away just as quickly. She hadn't said a word since greeting him earlier, and Harry wasn't sure whether she was just shy or whether she had something on her mind that she couldn't voice. Whatever it was though, Harry didn't have any interest in knowing. Claire, by contrast, was entirely unbothered by anything.
Moreau then stopped and presented them with a tray of dancing eclairs encased in golden wrappings. "Students like to take a handful as they pass through," she explained which to him felt so much like something they would only do in France; free confectionary before boarding a carriage to school.
He grabbed a few as they came to stand before a wall that glimmered softly with the breeze.
"We just have to pass through this wall to gain entrance to the boarding gates." Moreau explained.
"Right, after you then," Harry said quickly and firmly, and stared at the nonplussed witch until she nodded jerkily and walked right into the translucent wall. He heard a snort from behind him and couldn't guess who it was. Maybe one of the Aurors.
Smirking, he and Claire followed Moreau who were followed by Apolline and Gabrielle in a more sedate pace.
It was like walking through warm silk. The golden light slipped over his skin, and for a heartbeat he felt weightless. Then the sensation vanished, and he was standing in an open courtyard of pale marble and delicate vines, bathed in the cool, clear light of the French countryside.
Beyond the courtyard, rolling hills stretched in gentle layers, dotted with small glimmering lakes and wind-tousled orchards. A crescent-shaped platform of pale stone overlooked the valley below, and waiting at its edge were nearly a dozen carriages of silver and ivory, each one hitched to a pair of proud, winged horses the colour of moonlight.
They were massive beasts, each with a glossy mane and feathered wings that shimmered faintly even as she stood there, ready to fly. The nearest one let out a sharp snort as it stamped its hoof, mist curling from its nostrils.
Claire linked her arm through his, smiling at Moreau. "Thank you, we'll find our way from here."
Almost as a dismissal, she began to take him away to a carriage at the edge of the lake, with Fleur following closely at his other side, her long strides making her silvery blonde hair sway in the breeze.
"Your usual carriages?" he asked knowingly.
Claire nodded. "My favourite," she said happily as she left him to go stand by the horse, rubbing her hands on its mane. The soft neigh she received made Harry feel as if she knew the gentle beast personally.
"And yours?" he turned to Fleur who looked confused.
"Mine?"
"Which is your favourite carriage?" he clarified.
She shrugged, meeting his gaze with a little hesitation. "I don't have one," she said softly, "I usually take the ones that my friends are in."
He raised an eyebrow, letting a thin smile grace his lips. "And who are your friends?"
Fleur looked undecided between confusion and irritation. Finally, as he's predicted, irritation won out and her inner Veela heritage came to assert its dominance.
He noticed how she raised her chin and folded her arms to look at him bravely. "Why do you want to know?"
He laughed. That made her pause, her firm expression dwindling.
"Don't worry, I was simply curious." He patted her on the arm, "By the way, I wanted to thank you for helping Hermione and Claire during the Cup. You were very brave, entering the fight like that. Brave and fierce."
Fleur blushed beet red at the praise, unexpected as it was for her, looking like she didn't know what to say or do except murmur a soft Merci to him.
"No, no," he said, "It should be me who should be thanking you. You could've left anytime with your family but you didn't. You stayed and fought, and you did so better than most the Aurors I know. So, thank you."
This time Fleur found her voice, clearing her throat and taking his free hand in the grasp of her own. "You don't need to thank me. You saved my mother and my sister. We're in your debt."
He schooled his features and narrowed his eyes, leaning forward a little. "So…you fought because you wanted to repay my debt?"
"NO!" Fleur exclaimed in shock, colour draining out of her face as she wondered how her admission could be interpreted so wrongly. "Of course not! I—we are very grateful, but that's not why I wanted to fight—I—your family was in danger and I—we wanted to help you! I wanted to—"
Harry couldn't keep up his stern facade any longer and burst into laughter.
Fleur looked at him incredulously. "Wha—you tricked me! You—" she struck his arm once and then twice before his contagious humour made her double over in laughter as well.
Claire looked on silently from a few steps away, hiding her amusement at the explosive conclusion of the tension between Fleur and Harry.
"I thought you didn't like me," the quarter-veela said to him after she'd regained control of her breath.
"What made you think so?" Harry asked quickly, although he did have some idea of what she may be referring to. He'd never given her the time of the day for as long as he'd seen her. It was almost a testament to her character that her pride hadn't been hurt as he'd paid more attention to her little sister and mother than to her, even when she'd been staying so close to him.
"You never talked to me!" she retorted somewhat sharply, her inner Veela heritage raging through a little, "I thought you were avoiding me. Or maybe you didn't want me in your home."
He appeared a little guilty at that. "No, it's not that," he murmured, "I just thought you weren't so talkative in my presence you might still be reeling with the shock of the World Cup."
She nodded, easily accepting his explanation. She looked like she wanted to say something more but then Claire was coming up to them, pointing towards the Aurors.
"I think it's time for us to leave," she said, "they're probably getting restless by now."
Harry nodded, pulling her forward to embrace her. Laying a kiss on her forehead, he gave her a smile. "Off you go, then."
He held out a hand to help her on to the carriage, and when it was Fleur's turn, he did the same for her. Her hand felt soft and warm in his, and the ghost of her fingers remained even after she'd seated herself in the carriage.
He threw her a smile as he stepped back and the two majestic horses raised their forelegs in the air in tandem.
And then they were off, the carriage hurrying over the plains and then sweeping into the air with another gust of cool, refreshing breeze. Harry shook his head, marvelling at the magic on display. This was so much cooler than sitting on a train for eight hours.
"Mr. Potter," said Moreau, stepping forward to resume her duties again. This time, her face did show a little fissure of restraint. "Are you ready to go see the Minister?"
Taking pity on her, Harry turned to her and gave her a brilliant smile and willed his coiled magic to relax around him. "Please, Ms. Moreau. Thank you."
Almost instantly, the creases on her forehead disappeared as she regained her confidence once more. Nodding, she turned expertly on her heel to take him and his remaining companions back to the portal.
"This way," she said brilliantly. Harry dutifully followed her, putting an arm around Gabrielle who giggled as she snuggled into him. Apolline shot him a wry smile at that.
"She's very fond of you," she whispered to him as an apology for her daughter's antics.
"I don't mind," he murmured, looking at the hyperactive little blonde who, like her elder sister, would one day grow up to be just as beautiful and fierce. "She's a good kid."
And he meant it. Gabrielle was a little younger than Dorea, and had the same innocence within her that he wanted to protect. The world was turning crueler by the day, and he'd be damned if he let young and innocent children suffer the consequences of people who deserved a fate worse than death.
~~ .
"Minister Dumont is very particular about his time, Mr. Potter," The Head of the DMLE, Sebastian Delacour, told him as they walked along the crystal white corridors of the French Ministry of Magic. "I haven't told him why we were delayed. I was expecting you to do that."
The tone of his voice rubbed Harry the wrong way. He already didn't like the man, and now, his haughty and patronizing tone had him use his Occlumency to keep his emotions in order to reply in a firm but neutral, That isn't a problem.
Harry's lack of reaction must have grated on Delacour because his scowl deepened. "Why did Fleur not come visit me before leaving for Beauxbatons?" he asked, raising a manicured eyebrow in a severe, questioning tone.
Harry shrugged, feeling a strange, perverse enjoyment from making him mad. "I don't know. You should ask her that."
"Why were you late then?" he asked accusingly.
Harry clucked his tongue, as if in reprimand for his tone, not that the man realized. "I was just saying good-bye to Claire and Fleur."
"Yes, Gauthier," Delacour's lips curled at the name, "I'm sure it was because of her."
Harry snorted. "Have you seen your daughter? Nobody could make her do something she doesn't want to do."
Delacour held open a door for him, pausing to glance at him sideways.
"What do you know about my daughter, Mr. Potter?" he asked sharply.
Harry smiled at the man. "Not much. But I'm planning to get to know her better soon."
And before he could hear the reply from the irritating man, he let the door close behind him, coming face to face with the French Minister of Magic.
~~ .
Étienne Dumont was a strange wizard.
That had been Harry's internal monologue for the past ten minutes as the French Minister for Magic led him through the alabaster corridors of the Ministry's northern wing—opulent, sun-drenched, and far too polished to be comforting. Dumont spoke with the honeyed lilt of a statesman trained to disarm with every syllable, and he used it liberally.
"Now Mr. Potter," he said with a delicate smile, "France owes you a debt. The way you conducted yourself during the chaos at the World Cup, well, the world watched. And many of us were impressed."
Harry inclined his head. "I did what anyone capable would've done, Minister."
"Oh, but I daresay that's not true." Dumont's voice dropped to a lower register, more intimate. "Plenty of wizards ran. Plenty fought and lost. But you showed remarkable poise. Deadly instinct, too. Some might say you were born for this."
There was a note in the man's voice that made Harry's spine twitch. Something practiced and coiled beneath the pleasantries. The kind of tone that suggested masks and motives. Probably a politician through and through.
"I'd rather not be," Harry replied quickly, not missing a step. And he meant it too.
Dumont laughed softly, the sound echoing against the gold-veined walls.
"Of course, of course. But sadly, the times choose the heroes, don't they? Speaking of which—" he gestured, and the corridor opened into a towering atrium with a magical mural of a French magical district blooming across the ceiling, "let's speak of more important things, and I daresay, more time critical."
Harry followed, a bit wary now.
"This Dark Lord of yours—Tom Riddle, yes?"
Harry didn't answer immediately. "Yes."
"A… curious figure. Charismatic, certainly. Dangerous, without doubt. But what puzzles me is this: What does he want?"
"To conquer," Harry said flatly.
Dumont's expression darkened by a fraction. "Then you think he won't stop in Britain?"
"No," Harry replied. "He's testing the boundaries. Gathering strength. If you think you're safe because of a Channel, you're mistaken."
Dumont was silent a moment, hands clasped behind his back. "That is precisely what worries me."
Then, with an elegant pivot, he turned and gestured. "Come, let me show you something. You've been cooped up in ministries and parlours for far too long."
Harry blinked, surprised at the sudden change. "Where?"
"To the Rue de Lueur," Dumont said, almost fondly. "One of the finest magical streets in France. Think of it as our Diagon Alley—only with better taste."
Harry, having already seen one better version of Diagon Alley today, raised a curious brow as he wondered just how many more beautiful magical districts did the country possess.
They stepped through a wrought-iron archway tucked between two bakeries in the heart of Marseille, where the unfiltered sunlight spilled down on the cobbled alleys, making Harry look up in a bit of a jealous huff.
Rue de Lueur lay before them—twisting and lovely, with polished stone streets, floating lanterns, and storefronts that seemed a bit too inviting for him to pay attention to the ramblings of a politician.
He resisted the urge to sigh. He could spend the day here and not even realize it!
"Charmed?" Dumont asked with a smile.
Harry took it all in. "It's beautiful."
"France does not rush her magic," Dumont said, a hint of pride in his tone, "We let it ferment. We let it age." His steps were unhurried as they moved down the boulevard. "Britain, I find, does not have this patience."
Harry didn't answer. He knew he was being baited, but the man's tone was too smooth to argue against without sounding defensive. Besides, he couldn't argue, not when he couldn't even come up with a better argument in his own head.
"Young wizards, boys with skill and destinies shouldn't be thrown to the wolves and expected to rise," Dumont continued, casually examining a silver wand on display through a shop window. "In France, we believe in nurturing the wielder first."
"And yet here I am," Harry said dryly, "If no one steps up, they've already won."
Dumont laughed, a sound that was oddly pleased. "I couldn't argue."
They strolled past a cafe where floating menus buzzed over heads and a painter's studio where the oils on canvas moved to mimic the real skies outside. Claire probably already loved this place. Fleur as well perhaps, though he needed to probably pay more attention to what she liked.
"I must ask," Dumont said finally, "do you believe that war is inevitable?"
"I think war has already begun," Harry replied, his voice low.
They stopped at the edge of a square where a large marble fountain poured golden water into a decorated basin.
"It was not long ago, Mr. Potter," Dumont said, "that Grindelwald sought to turn this very continent into his playground of ideals. Europe remembers war. Europe bleeds for it still. That is why I worry. Because your Dark Lord—he does not seem to be interested only in Britain. He seems more theatrical, if you get my meaning. That's always dangerous."
Harry didn't deny it.
"I've heard he's already moved pieces into France."
"Rumours," Dumont said, raising a hand. "And rumours are dangerous. But perhaps…" he glanced at Harry sidelong, "you would know more than I do."
"I know he doesn't care about borders," Harry said simply. "Or flags. He cares about power. And where he finds weakness."
"Which is why we must not be weak." Dumont nodded. "A lesson, I think, your own Ministry forgot until you reminded them at the World Cup."
They turned the corner then, and the street grew quieter—richer. The stores here didn't advertise with floating signs or performative magic. Their wealth was in understatement. An entire window display of enchanted gloves twitched like they had opinions. A jewelry store had no visible gems—only soft music, and velvet drapes that rustled like silk whispers.
And then they passed a strange looking shop called La Maison du Sang Ancien.
It was an auction house, ancient and brooding. The glass was dark and charmed against prying eyes, but Harry could see enough.
Gilded cages. A dais. And thick catalogs bound in dragonhide.
"Magic older than governments," Dumont murmured. "They buy and sell rare creatures here, and some forbidden artifacts. Sometimes even rare memories."
Harry's stomach twisted. "That's allowed?"
"Our laws are much more moderate than yours, Mr Potter," Dumont said smoothly. "What you call grey or dark magic, we call it our heritage and ancient magic. Besides, it keeps the worst from going underground."
Harry moved to answer to but then a crack sounded through the alley, like lightning snapped through the street.
Screams followed.
People scattered like leaves in a storm as the reinforced walls of La Maison du Sang Ancien split open from the inside, crashing outward in a spray of wood and steel. A monstrous form leapt free, chained bracers still clinging to its front limbs, smoke and shattered sigils trailing behind it.
Its leonine body rippled with unnatural power, tail twitching, a barbed scorpion's end glinting with venom. Its humanoid face twisted into a cruel snarl as its wings flared, ripping through the air with unnatural speed. The beast's crimson eyes scanned the street, intelligent and furious at the same time.
When it roared, windows rattled and shattered and people screamed as they tried to escape.
Harry drew his wand.
Dumont's bodyguards were already there and moving him as six black-robed figures appeared out of thin air and surrounded the Minister in a protective sphere. A dome of transparent magic flared around them.
"Take the Minister to safety!" one barked.
"No," Dumont protested, "I should—"
"It's not safe, Minister! It's a fucking manticore!"
But Harry wasn't listening to them anymore.
People were running but some were already falling in the stampede, too close to escape. Shops were slamming their wards shut. A man tripped near the bakery, trying to drag his child with him, and the manticore turned toward them, its lips peeling back in a sick mockery of a grin.
Harry sprinted.
He didn't think. He had no time to plan.
He simply moved between the beast and the civilians and lifted his wand.
The manticore's venomous tail arched, its raging crimson eyes landing on Harry for the first time.
Its wings snapped forward like blades.
Its roar split the air.
And Harry stood alone, wand raised, eyes hard.
Right then, he thought grimly, his brain spinning as it tried to grasp the trouble he was in this time, let's make some international news then, eh?