A pale blue figure glided lightly along the empty fourth-floor corridor.
She looked around warily, pressed her back against the wall beside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom door, and peered through the crack with her bright blue eyes.
After the second task of the Triwizard Tournament, Fleur Delacour—the champion of Beauxbatons—had not devoted herself to preparing for the third task, nor had she developed the slightest interest in the boys of Hogwarts. Instead, she had acquired a new hobby: for a full week, she had been quietly observing the man who called himself "Professor Moody."
Peering intently through the crack in the door, she was certain of one thing.
That was not Alastor Moody.
It had to be Sirius Black.
He sat alone in the empty classroom, rocking lazily on the back legs of his chair, arms folded, looking entirely too comfortable for a vigilant retired Auror.
Nothing about him suggested the serious, cautious, and neurotic ex-Auror she had heard so much about. Everything about him suggested the unruly, free-spirited substitute teacher she had been quietly watching for the past two months.
Mustering her courage before the corridor could fill with students, Fleur pushed open the door and walked straight up to him.
"You are the ugliest one," she said haughtily.
She still harboured a grudge over his remark by the Black Lake.
"What?" The magical eye spun in its socket. Moody lowered the front legs of his chair and fixed her with an unblinking stare.
"Stop pretending, Sirius Black." Fleur smoothed her long, silvery hair, her voice cool and certain.
The magical eye paused for a fraction of a second.
"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Miss Delacour," said Professor Moody, his scarred face twisting into a sneer. "A sincere suggestion: visit Madam Pomfrey and have her see to that rather poor eyesight of yours."
He rattled off the sarcasm quickly, clearly intending to send the proud Miss Delacour packing.
Fleur did not move. She watched him raise the curved flask to his lips—a habit meant to conceal nothing, yet revealing everything—and his magical eye began to spin rapidly again.
"Sirius Black, I know it's you," she said. "Is that Polyjuice Potion in that little bottle?"
She sat down in the chair across from him and crossed her legs.
Her legs are quite lovely, Sirius noted, before he could stop himself.
"Go ahead and admit it," she said, "before I make it public."
Sirius felt a wave of irritation wash over him. "How did you find out?"
Nobody else had noticed. How had she managed it?
"That's how," Fleur said, shifting her posture just slightly.
She could hardly admit that she had slipped into this classroom under a Disillusionment Charm more times than she could count. That would be as good as confessing that she had been wandering freely through Hogwarts Castle using an advanced concealment charm—behaviour no one at Hogwarts would applaud, however harmless it was.
She certainly couldn't admit that she had been secretly watching him. That would be tantamount to confessing that Fleur Delacour, champion of Beauxbatons, had developed a small, strange, and wholly inconvenient fascination with Sirius Black. That was far more damaging than the Disillusionment Charm.
"You just... figured it out... like that?" Sirius repeated her words slowly, studying her. "You are the only person in this entire castle who worked it out on their own."
"C'est mon honneur." She shrugged, looking pleased with herself.
"Pourquoi vous êtes si attentif à moi?" The scarred face offered her an ugly smile, and his real eye fixed itself on Fleur's proud, striking face.
He spoke French with an accent that was at once dangerous and oddly pleasant. Fleur did not know of any other British wizard who could speak French so fluently, with such agreeable pronunciation.
He had even told her once that he only knew a little French.
Are all British wizards this modest? she wondered, a flicker of scepticism crossing her mind.
"Why aren't you answering? Go on," he pressed.
"I don't know," Fleur said, her lips pressing together.
She genuinely wanted to know why she had developed this inexplicable curiosity about him.
"And just what do you intend to gain by impersonating someone else?" she asked, turning the question back on him.
She suspected he was planning something.
Sirius tightened his jaw, unwilling to answer. He changed the subject instead.
"If you keep paying this much attention to me, I'll start thinking you're infatuated with me—like some lovesick student." He smiled unpleasantly, fully intending to mortify the French girl who had, without any invitation, wandered into his affairs.
Then—Merlin willing—she would leave him alone.
"Absolutely not. Not with that face, at any rate!" Fleur's fine brows drew together in indignation. "Are you questioning my taste?"
"I think you're being rather shallow," he said, pointing first to his face, then to his chest. "Beauty isn't just about this. It's about what's in here. Do you understand?"
Fleur was genuinely taken aback. She had not expected a man like Sirius Black to hold such an unusual view on appearance—novel, and not entirely unpleasant.
"Miss Delacour, you should know what this face represents," Sirius said, more seriously now. "The man who wears it is a decorated Auror. Every scar is a medal earned hunting Death Eaters. He gave everything to that cause—his youth, his health, his life. Every time he drew his wand, he did so believing he might not survive. Every duel was fought without certainty of a tomorrow."
"Oh—I'm sorry," Fleur said quickly. "I had no intention of disrespecting Professor Moody. I have great admiration for his contributions to the peace of the wizarding world. He is, I think, a man with a very good heart."
"I'll accept that apology on his behalf," Sirius said lazily. "You may leave now."
"No!" Fleur sat up straighter, crossing her arms. "Wait—were you just lecturing me like I'm your student? You're not my teacher! And you were the one who accused me of being infatuated with you first. I was simply stating my personal preferences. I am not satisfied with that face—that is a fact."
"So you're saying my real face would be more to your liking?" he asked, a suspicious smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
Fleur did not answer directly. She reached up and twisted a strand of her long silver hair into a loose braid, then let it fall.
After a long pause, she said, "That's none of your concern."
This, of course, was a form of tacit agreement—very much in the manner of Fleur Delacour.
"My point still stands," Sirius said, with slightly less mockery now. "You ought to apologise properly. Alastor Moody shouldn't be judged by his appearance. He is an exceptional Auror." A beat. "Judging by looks is far too superficial."
"I never said he wasn't capable. I respect his contributions." Fleur's lips set into a stubborn line. "But don't people always look at my face and ignore everything else about me? By your logic, there are very few truly un-superficial people in the world. As for you—you're not superficial, you're simply unpleasant—" She tilted her chin up. "And I should add: you're a very clumsy impostor. You've left far too many gaps. You can't even fake it properly."
A surge of annoyance rose in Sirius's chest.
"Miss Delacour, you've never met Moody in person. What grounds do you have for saying I played the part poorly?" he said, his expression darkening.
"I may not have seen him," Fleur said, lifting her chin, "but I have seen you." Her English grew more clipped as she warmed to the subject. "You have too many tells. This kind of deceptive magic requires complete immersion. You need to believe that you are him—not that you are pretending to be him."
Sirius disliked being accused with no basis. But Fleur's words were not merely sarcastic—they rang with a certain sincerity, the kind that comes from careful observation rather than spite.
He kept his expression still and waited to hear what else those sharp lips of hers had to say.
"When you're teaching, you behave like Alastor Moody—alert, twitchy, suspicious. But the moment class ends, you revert entirely to yourself. The ease, the slouch, the casual arrogance." She looked him up and down with an expression of resigned disapproval, shook her head, and delivered her conclusion: "Your greatest problem is that whenever you're alone, you rush to be yourself. You can't resist it."
"That's... fair," Sirius said, the irritation leaving his face, replaced by something more candid. He sat up a little straighter and admitted it without fuss. "I've always felt that if I don't do something that's purely me in my spare time, the day is wasted. I think of it as 'having my own time.'"
"Having your own time," Fleur murmured, glancing at him sideways. "You seem to love your life quite a lot." The observation didn't quite fit the image she had of him—this lazy, apparently unbothered man who seemed to care about nothing.
Though, to be fair—when he transformed into that great black dog, one could see it clearly enough: an energy, a delight in simply being alive.
"How could I not?" Sirius said, his tone light and offhand, as though discussing the weather. "You probably have no idea what kind of life I used to live. Every day now, freedom feels like something I've stolen."
He was, perhaps, more forthcoming with her than he had meant to be.
Perhaps it was simply the right moment, the right atmosphere. Perhaps it was the long, pale line of her neck when she tilted her face upward, or something in her manner—a quality she carried without knowing it—that told him:
She would not betray him. She was here out of curiosity, nothing more, playing her own game, the way she always had.
Sirius had already noticed it. Fleur Delacour's deep blue eyes were full of open, unguarded curiosity—not calculation or malice.
"Oh... I've heard about it," Fleur said, her haughty expression fading.
For the first time, the full weight of it settled on her: Sirius Black had spent eleven years in Azkaban.
She realised something people often overlooked—something easy to forget because of his careless, irreverent manner—that the damage Azkaban had done to this man had never truly stopped.
His appearance had changed; he no longer looked as gaunt and hollowed out as he once had. But a shadow still lingered beneath everything, a hidden wound that his lightness of spirit did not entirely conceal.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly.
What else was there to say? Fleur could not bring herself to offer hollow words about "looking forward" or "letting go." She had no right to. How could someone who had never suffered such a thing tell someone who had to simply move on?
Sirius Black—as his dancing made plain—was, at heart, a flamboyant and captivating man. He was charming when he waltzed, she had to admit. But he was most himself when he danced the tango: the exhilarating footwork, the clean, precise turns, the unrestrained pulls, the searing eye contact, the musicality that seemed to come from somewhere bone-deep.
In the tango, Sirius Black blazed with life.
He had a free soul that loved freedom above everything else.
And yet this very man had had the best years of his life stolen from him—imprisoned in the darkness and hopelessness of Azkaban for a crime he had not committed, an experience she could not begin to imagine.
"I'm sorry," she said again, more quietly. "I'm truly sorry for what happened to you."
Sirius looked at her, caught off guard.
He had expected her to keep her beautiful, proud chin in the air and mock him, or simply get up and leave.
No one had ever said that to him before.
Not Peter Pettigrew, who had faked his own death and framed Sirius for betraying James, leaving him to bear everyone's contempt.
Not Bartemius Crouch, who had sent him to Azkaban without so much as a trial.
Not the crowds who had insulted and misunderstood him, who had kicked him when he was down and thrown every scrap of mud they could find.
None of them had ever said they were sorry.
And now here was this French girl—who had no connection to his misery whatsoever, who had done him no harm—looking at him with an uneasy, quietly stricken expression, telling him she was sorry.
Sirius had long told himself he didn't need those words.
His pride wouldn't allow him to need them. He was not the sort of weak-willed person who required comfort and sympathy to patch up what Muggles might call PTSD—Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder—not that he'd admit knowing the term.
And yet when he looked at her now, his vision blurred, just for a moment. Fortunately, the prosthetic eye made the brief shine in his real one rather harder to detect.
"Hmm," Sirius said, quickly changing the subject. "Is that why you came? To apologise out of nowhere?"
"Of course not! I—" Fleur faltered. She had come to confirm her suspicion—to confirm that she was right, that he really was Sirius.
But now she was here, what was the point of exposing the secret?
Merlin, what was she doing?
"I'd like to make a deal," she said, gathering herself, her eyes darting sideways as she crossed her arms. "I'll teach you how to maintain a disguise. I have some experience with this kind of deceptive magic. In exchange, you'll teach me to become an Animagus."
Sirius looked at her with undisguised suspicion.
Has she gone completely mad? Instead of preparing for the final task, she's putting her energy into this?
"I don't need a deal like that. It doesn't sound as though it would benefit me in the slightest," he said. "You should be focusing on the Tournament—"
"Otherwise, I'll tell everyone that Professor Moody is an impostor," Fleur interrupted pleasantly, with a half-smile.
Blackmailing Sirius Black and watching surprise break across his face—she was surprised how easily it came to her.
She had to admit, it felt rather satisfying. Far more interesting than being trailed by a pack of admiring boys.
Sirius stared at her, the brief warmth he had felt curdling into exasperation.
"Do you think I'm easy to push around?" he said flatly, his face darkening at being blackmailed—again—by this girl.
Fleur said nothing. She tilted her head and regarded him with the serene air of someone who already knew they had won.
Damn it all. When had he—Sirius Black—ever been handled like this?
Even in Azkaban, he had never bowed his head to anyone.
And now he was being manipulated, repeatedly, by one French girl.
"Can't you simply go to the library and read a book?" he said, through gritted teeth.
"If becoming an Animagus were that straightforward, there wouldn't be so few registered practitioners—and they wouldn't be quite so rare in the wizarding world," Fleur said coolly, a sly glint in her eye.
She was pleased with herself. Typical of her.
"What a load of—that's because the people studying it weren't trying hard enough," Sirius muttered darkly.
What infuriated him most was the sudden, sinking realisation that he had no leverage at all.
He could not simply say, "Do your worst." To protect the operation at the graveyard, he needed to maintain his cover. Any exposure would render the entire plan meaningless and risk alerting Voldemort.
He studied her with a look of grim uncertainty. She looked back at him with the fearlessness of someone who had no idea what he was truly capable of—as though he were not a wizard who had survived Azkaban for over a decade, but some naive boy whose weakness she'd spotted and neatly pinned.
There was no fear in those blue eyes. Only an open, almost innocent boldness.
This is dangerous, Sirius thought. She really ought to be more careful.
Fleur Delacour had no idea what he could do. He was no saint. He could easily point his wand at her and cast a Memory Charm, if she were just an ordinary exchange student. But she was Beauxbatons' champion. Any unusual incident involving her would bring Madame Maxime down on Hogwarts like a thunderstorm, and he could already imagine that particular disaster unfolding.
He was, thoroughly, under her thumb.
Sirius tapped his wand against his knee, glaring at her smiling face, and said irritably, "Fine. I'll teach you. But let me be very clear: this is not something just anyone can master. If someone turns out to have all the looks and none of the talent, that is not my fault."
"That's none of your concern," Fleur said sweetly, her smile turning triumphant. "No time like the present. I want to begin tonight. Eight o'clock, beneath that great ugly willow tree. I want to see the black dog."
Sirius snorted, sat rigid in his chair, and watched the insufferable Beauxbatons champion glide toward the door.
She moved with the ease of a dancer, her silver hair shimmering at her waist, impossibly eye-catching.
Merlin. Sirius dragged a hand through his hair. Why did she always have to get under his skin like this?