31.Vacation

Friday, 24th of July, 1992

Harry

After over half a year of waiting through red tape and excuses, the Ministry of Magic finally returned his mother’s wand to his hands. No wonder nothing got done in Wizarding Britain properly–Snape had been in Azkaban for nine months now, and the investigation had long been closed.

“Or perhaps they didn’t want to give a child a Traceless wand,” Sirius mused outloud before bursting out in laughter.

It also elicited a chuckle from Harry; he was just happy to have something from his mother.

Lily Potter’s wand was a swishy, polished stick out of willow with unicorn hair for a core. Harry had tried casting with it, of course; however, it felt cold and unresponsive in his hands, its magic coming slow and stilted.

It was as if the wand didn’t like him. A part of Harry tried to assuage himself that he simply had yet to win the wand’s loyalty. Ultimately, his mother’s wand was tucked away in his trunk, and he still used the trusty wand that had chosen him; the yew stick always felt right in his grasp, no matter what.

This summer was the best he had in his life. The colossal failure at the Gala aside, everything was going well, and living with Sirius was great.

The Potter estate wasn’t nearly half as grandiose as Malfoy’s. The twenty-seven acres of land were nestled deep within the Clwydian Range in northern Wales, far from civilisation. The closest village was over three leagues away, but it didn’t matter; the Potter lands were shielded from muggle eyes by magic. Not that it mattered much–the place was so secluded that there wasn’t even a dirt road connecting it anywhere, just a hilly woodland in all directions. If you wanted to get anywhere, you had to make it through the forest or apparate.

“If the muggles come over, all they’ll see is a dilapidated valley and have the subconscious feeling that they should head elsewhere,” Sirius had explained when they first arrived.

What had been a humble manor was nothing more than a blasted wreck after his grandfather Fleamont’s explosive failure to brew an experimental Dragon Pox cure for his grandmother Euphemia. What remained after over a decade of neglect from the adjacent greenhouse, the garden, and the quidditch pitch had all been covered by a lush growth of weeds, bushes, and young trees, along with some unwanted vermin like gnomes, doxies and feral forest pixies.

Nyx and Hedwig had turned hunting all the intruders into a fun game, the serpent far more than the owl–the ‘scaly princess’, as Sirius called her, had started to grow fast on her new diet. Meanwhile, Sirius and Harry had cleared the overgrowth over the course of two weeks. Alas, nothing could be saved from the wreckage that killed his grandparents, and his father had already collected whatever he could years ago.

The explosion had destroyed the building, but the wind, rain, cold, and time finished the remains.

Living in an expanded camping tent wasn’t bad, but he wanted to restore his grandfather’s house—not because he wanted a manor or anything as fancy as Malfoy had, but because this place was supposed to be his home, and Harry longed for a true place he could call his own.

It was admittedly a new concept to him. Privet Drive, his home in name only, had never felt as welcoming as Hogwarts had been, and neither of the two places had been his. The Burrow had become his home in all but name like Hogwarts had, but he was an outsider to both, a temporary visitor. Despite being small and crazily built, it was the heart of the Weasleys, but Harry had not been one, no matter how much he wished he was.

Once the idea of rebuilding the Potter House, where generations of his family grew up, entered his mind, Harry couldn’t get it out.

“I can contact a magical master specialised in building and masonry,” Sirius had said when Harry voiced his desire. “But it will cost plenty of gold, and we’ll probably have to wait a few months until they finish their current projects. Well, at least we’ll enjoy a full summer of camping!”

“Why not build the muggle way?”

“The materials and architecture, down to the very shape of the foundation, matter greatly for a magical home, especially if you want to weave in enchantments and protections into it,” was the solemn response. “It can be done with your average muggle house, of course, but far harder and less efficient.”

Living with his godfather was a dream come true, and true to his word, Sirius was quite laid-back, aside from the occasional “Brush your teeth.” It felt odd to have free access to food, sparring, magic, an ear to talk to, and advice whenever he wanted. The new yet fuzzy feeling of security made some of his worries melt away, allowing Harry to delve into magic practice fervently.

Yet, not everything was roses and sunshine.

He always knew planning wasn’t his strong suit. Hermione had been the one for all the planning and almost obsessive attention to detail—but she hated him now. Perhaps hate was a strong word, but she definitely didn’t like him. Worse, she was not his Hermione, the witch who had aided him through seven years of adversity. Even knowing that made it hard for Harry to accept it.

Hermione had always been stubborn and set in her ways, and in hindsight, the only reason they became friends was that fateful encounter with the trolls. Yet, for good or bad, a troll never cornered Hermione last year, and Harry was not even in the same House.

Having that friendship irrevocably torn away, never to exist in the form he remembered… It was a bitter feeling, but he had achieved what he had set out to do. Hermione was safe, completely uninvolved with his yearly near-fatal troubles.

But even with her help in planning, things often went awry—no, not often, but every time. He excelled at improvising and doing things on the fly. But even with all that improvisation, the Malfoy Gala had shown that he couldn’t do everything alone. Juno’s help had proven invaluable, even if he had managed to lose the diary.

He had decided to tell Bellatrix’s daughter about the diary in the spur-of-the-moment decision only because Harry was desperate and she loathed Voldemort. He almost regretted it a few moments later.

Was Juno trustworthy?

Harry was inclined to say yes, but after replaying the night of the Gala for the hundredth time in his mind, he realised something. Over a month later, he could begrudgingly admit that he couldn’t always do everything alone. There was only so much Nyx and Hedwig could aid him, and the cat was out of the bag.

Well, not entirely so. He had told Juno that the diary had been Voldemort’s Horcrux, but finding out what a Horcrux was would not be easy since even Hermione had failed to find anything but a mere mention.

Thus, Harry was torn. Should he confide everything in Juno and get some assistance so he doesn’t blindly search around in the dark, or continue as he had until now?

He couldn’t decide. Assistance would surely make things easier, but it would put his friend in peril, and it would mean he would have to explain why and how he knew these things, which Harry felt unwilling to do.

“Hey, I come from the future–sort of. A future where you don’t exist, Voldemort returns from the dead, and everything goes to shite as I had to die for the Dark Lord to become mortal.”

Yep, it sounded awkward and unbelievable. If anyone had told Harry this the last time around, he’d call them mental and stay away. He could, of course, lie–or give her pieces of the truth instead, like Dumbledore had done to himself over six years last time around.

But something feral inside of him rebelled at the mere thought. To this day, lying and just the thought of manipulating his friends made him feel dirty and guilty on the inside, and he didn’t want to be like Dumbledore, not in this.

Judging by her letters, Juno had been quite busy and would remain so until the end of the summer. While not referring to the Horcrux by name, she had written that they would speak more about that in person when school began.

None of these matters, however, addressed the issue. Harry had lost Tom Riddle’s diary, and he had no idea where it had gone. Looking back, he felt very foolish about his attempt. Even being lost in the Malfoy Gardens for long was unlikely, especially since the Muggle Protection Act had happened again, and Harry had read about how countless manors had been searched. If the Ministry had found the diary on the grounds, there was no doubt in Harry’s mind they would have recognised the dark magic, and the Malfoys would have become pariahs. The Daily Prophet certainly wouldn’t miss on the juicy scandal either.

The more likely option was that someone found it during the Gala–or the Malfoys did, and they got rid of it again. All things considered, Riddle’s diary was probably in the hands of someone completely unsuspecting.

Would the Chamber of Secrets open again in the coming year? Would Slytherin’s basilisk once again roam Hogwarts, putting the students’ lives at risk? Last time, they had gotten away with no casualties by sheer luck, but Harry knew a single gaze at the Great Hall at dinner would see hundreds killed in an instant. It would be easy to do it, and the mere possibility chilled his blood.

A piece of him couldn’t help but remember one of his long conversations with the headmaster in his Sixth Year.

“What intrigued and alarmed me most was that that diary had been intended as a weapon as much as a safeguard.”

And now, that weapon was quite possibly let loose because of his failure. Dumbledore’s words echoed in his mind and haunted his days, while Voldemort’s red eyes haunted his sleep without fail. Too often, he would wake up at the crack of dawn from the nightmares, the fiendish gaze and Voldemort’s cruel laughter lingering at the edge of his consciousness as a sinister reminder of what he was facing.

Yet as the weeks went by to the tedium of magical practice and study, Harry came to an unsurprising conclusion. The diary and its supposed new owner might be hard to find, impossible even, but he knew where the basilisk was—assuming the Chamber of Secrets was in the same location. It had to be there because Moaning Myrtle haunted the same second-floor bathrooms.

Before, Harry would have considered waiting in ambush outside the Chamber’s entrance, but it would be too passive. What if the Chamber was entered while he ate in the Great Hall or was practising, sleeping or attending classes?

The solution was simple. Harry decided to take the initiative this time instead of being a bystander like last year.

Kill the basilisk.

While hard, Harry had done it once before and now had ample time to prepare for a change. Slaying the enormous serpent wouldn’t solve the problem with the diary, but basilisk venom was the only way he knew of destroying Horcruxes. That and Fiendfyre, but the cursed flames were beyond his means to cast. Without the thousand-year-old snake that could murder with merely a gaze, the risk to Hogwarts and the students would be eliminated.

Spinning counter-clockwise, twist, and jab, “Ignis Sectum!”

A red belch sputtered out of his wand.

“I’ve never heard of that spell before,” Sirius said with amusement as he lazily lounged on a reclining chair nearby. They had just finished their daily duels, and Harry’s black t-shirt was damp with sweat from all the exertion, but he had plenty of power and magic to spare.

“It’s something I saw an older year use,” Harry mumbled. First-year students dabbling with spell creation was practically unheard of, but he had gotten tired of practising silent Transfiguration. “Ignis Sectum!”

The tug on his navel was almost distracting, followed by an angry shower of red sparks.

Sirius rubbed his chin. “Perhaps you’re lacking in power? A child’s magic has yet to thicken properly and is sparse besides. Or it could be something else. Have you tried mixing emotion and intent?”

Harry paused. “What do you mean?”

“The higher levels of conceptual magic are strengthened by emotions,” Sirius’ face grew solemn. “In fact, some cannot be cast without. Do you know of the Patronus?”

Or like the Unforgivable Curses. “…I do,” Harry sighed.

In truth, Ignis Sectum was a new spell, and it had taken him ten months of research to develop it out of sheer stubbornness. If a young Snape could do it, so could he!

Even his practice now was out of sentimentality more than anything else. Many cutting charms, hexes, jinxes, and curses existed, and this one was hardly any different in function aside from the searing aspect and the fact that he had invested countless hours into calculations and Arithmancy for it.

Looking back on things, creating the spell had been a colossal waste of time, for he already knew a cutting curse just as dangerous in Sectumsempra, but Harry did not regret it. It was… the fruit of his labour, and he couldn’t put it aside. He had put in the effort to making it, and nobody knew the spell existed or what it did, so he might as well master it.

Yet Sirius made a good point.

Harry’s Occlumency exercises were now stumping him after months of properly clearing his mind. Sticking to all of it had become second nature, just like breathing. Yet Harry remembered the rage, hope, despair, and determination that had given birth to the spell. The fury as Yaxley’s head rolled off and blood sprayed everywhere was seared in his mind.

Shaking his head, Harry cleared his mind like a crystal clear pool of water and focused on his desire to cut. Yet, he didn’t push his emotions aside as he usually did when casting, but the tangle of resolve, anger, and frustration swelled up within as his wand moved. “Ignis Sectum!”

The tug at his navel was so powerful it almost made him lurch as a crimson crescent shot out of the tip of his wand and landed on the rocky target Sirius had configured with a churning sizzle.

Sirius spat out his beer.

“Bloody hell,” he waved his wand, vanishing the mess. His face grew solemn as he stood up and approached the smoking stone dummy. “That looks pretty dangerous.” He carefully poked with his wand where the spell had left an angry, charred slice deep into the stone. “Lethal curse dangerous. This will probably slice through bone.”

“It took a lot out of me,” Harry groaned as his legs gave out, and he slumped on the chair. Yet his eyes wandered to the pale wand in his hand. It was pleasantly cool, but the amplified pull on his magic was familiar. He had felt it on All Hallow’s Eve as he confronted those trolls.

“I don’t know where you found such a spell,” Sirius turned to him, his face impassive. “But you shouldn’t cast this unless your life is in danger. Magic that requires emotion can easily twist your mind, so beware. I can start teaching you Occlumency.”

“I already know how to clear my mind and suppress my emotions.”

His godfather sat on the chair beside him and patted his shoulder, “That’s quite advanced for an aspiring second-year, but do you know how to keep your mind empty while letting your emotions flow?”

“Errr… that’s possible?”

“Of course,” Sirius gave him a wry smile. “Defending your mind is merely a part of Occlumency. A true Master Occlumens is supposedly in full control of his magic and mind.”

Harry perked up. “Are you a master Occlumens?”

“Not yet, but I’m close,” Sirius’s face darkened. “Or well, so I think. There wasn’t much else for me to do in Azkaban but practice. Truth be told, I wouldn’t even be close if all my grievances were not resolved upon my release. The mind is an odd thing. One day, I was angry and frustrated at myself, Wormtail, and the world. The next day, my problems were resolved, and everything turned around, and a barrier I’d never known about had disappeared.”

He coughed, “Anyway, forget about me. Mind magic is not something you can ignore if you want to become a powerful warlock.”

“Where do we start?”

“By resting,” Sirius snarked. “You keep pushing yourself too much, Harry. Each day with the morning jogs, studying, practice, and duelling. Hours upon hours without any respite–this is unhealthy. I don’t know how you aren’t tired of trying chantless Transfiguration–I remember being wrung out for days after spending countless hours on this in my sixth year. Some days, I feel exhausted just by watching you!”

“I am progressing well,” Harry protested breathlessly, indeed feeling like a sponge squeezed dry. The spell had taken far more from him than he expected. Yet, for all the exhaustion, the emptiness inside almost felt pleasant.

Serene, even, as if the curse had burned out all his frustration and anger.

His godfather shook his head and vanished the spilt can of beer.

“Perhaps you are,” his voice grew stern. “But there isn’t much I can teach you.”

“What do you mean?” Harry grumbled. “Our spars taught me a lot!”

His godfather had completely demolished him using purely Transfiguration after the first spar. It had been a humbling experience for Harry, who had been unchallenged for a year–any capable adult was more than his match.

“Well, yes,” Sirius conceded. “But it was just tricks. You already know all that boring theory, and your duelling form is very good. Your casting is swift, though I noticed you fall into a pattern.”

“A pattern?”

“Yeah, you’re steadily getting good. Your rhythm becomes predictable, and most of your improvement seems to be getting better at fighting me lately.” A tinge of admiration crept into his words. “In essence, your actual skills progress slower as now you get used to how I prefer to fight and most of my tricks.”

Harry tiredly rubbed his face. This made entirely too much sense. “And… how can I fix this?”

“Holiday! We shall go on a trip!”

The cheery response came like lighting out of a blue sky and only made him grimace. That certainly wasn’t the reaction his godfather expected as Sirius’ smile wilted, making Harry feel bad. A small part of him wanted to ease up and relax, to experience a proper holiday for the first time in his life, but the guilt of losing Riddle’s diary was gnawing at him on the inside.

Sure, a proper period of rest could be beneficial, but he didn’t deserve such a thing after screwing up so badly.

“I’d rather train,” Harry sighed. He had a thousand-year-old basilisk to kill, and all those monster-slaying books wouldn’t read themselves.

“But what if you could do both?” His godfather’s smile turned sly.

“How?”

“I know just the place. A nice, sunny beach, lots of hot birds in bikinis,” Harry rolled his eyes, yet Sirius continued with his charming cadence, “and an open international duelling ring. You get to test your mettle against opponents from various countries and schools of fighting and magic… and enjoy a nice afternoon at the beach when you tire. Different opponents will push and test your abilities in different ways, showing you where you are lacking in ways I could never do.”

“Fine,” Harry grudgingly agreed after a moment of tense silence. He let his gaze wander at the blue sky above again as exhaustion began to seep deep into his bones.

Yet, with the exhaustion came clarity. It made him realise he had only managed to cast the Ignis Sectum because the wand had helped him overdraw his magic and emotion. It was not good enough, for it meant he couldn’t consistently replicate his success, which was the first step to mastering a spell.

Nyx took that chance to slither and rest her now quite sizeable and rather heavy triangular head on his legs. “What is this talk of sand?”

Friday, 31st of July 1992

Sirius

“Welcome!” Sirius shook his hand with the tall Henry Taylor, whose grip was as tight as iron pincers. The Hawaiian shorts and summer shirt revealed thick, muscled limbs that reminded the wizard of Hagrid. “I am Sirius Black.”

The couple and their daughter had just arrived to check in at the classy hotel near the beach, and Sirius had swiftly moved to greet them.

“A pleasure,” the man smiled after inspecting him for half a minute. “I am Henry Taylor. This is my wife, Emilia,” the fiery-haired short beauty gave him a curt nod. “Lastly, my daughter Diana. Pardon me for my confusion, but you don’t look like…”

“Like a wizard?” Sirius laughed, patting his beach shorts and muggle shirt that effortlessly made him blend in the crowd. “Wizardfolk can blend in easily when they want to. Anyway, thank you for deciding to humour my invitation.”

“It is not a problem,” Henry inclined his head. “Diana did just ace the last of her exams last week, and we have never visited Corsica. I have heard very good things about Tamaricciu’s beaches.”

The young witch groaned; her bubbly smile was gone, and Diana looked like she had not slept a wink for the last week.

“Besides, it’s been a while since I tested my French,” Emilia said, hanging off her husband’s buff arm. With her wavy hair, the colour of dark copper, piercing grey eyes and pale skin, she was one of the prettiest women Sirius had seen, if quite short, and her daughter looked like a smaller version of her–a beauty in the making. “We were also hoping that we could see some magic. Diana claims she couldn’t show us anything because of some Statute of Secrecy and Underage Magic restrictions.”

“And we have some other questions about Magic and Wizarding Britain,” the man added gruffly. “Things she avoids answering every time we ask.”

“Ugh, Mum, Dad!” Diana hid her face in her palms. “We’re supposed to celebrate a birthday today. Can we, like, not talk about adult stuff right away?”

“Both can be arranged,” Sirius chuckled at her levity. Unlike Harry, she was acting refreshingly childlike. “I wouldn’t mind answering your parents’ questions, little lady. Anyway, let’s get to the courtyard for the celebration; they should have finished the arrangements by now. My godson should finish with his duelling jaunt within half an hour. I do hope you can finally drag the boy to the beach.”

The young witch frowned. “What, is Harry training until he forgets about everything around him again?”

“Guessed it in one!”

Leave it to Lily’s son to find a way to work harder on holiday, ignoring the calm, sandy beach and the pristine azure waters. That said, Harry seemed to have a great deal of fun wrangling with the other young wizards at the arena and easily won far more than he lost despite fighting opponents who were aspiring duellists at least three years his elder.

No, that was a lie. His godson took to fighting like a duckling to water and lost rarely and never the same way twice–it seemed that Harry had been dead serious with his desire to become a titan of magic. Some of the wizards he defeated would have given Sirius a run for his money when he was the same age.

It didn’t matter as much as how Harry smiled or how his green eyes lit up with joy.

This was the first of Harry’s birthdays that Sirius celebrated after leaving Azkaban. He wanted to make it special because his godson deserved joy and happiness.

Sirius had ten years of missed birthdays to make up for, after all. He knew Harry wasn’t much for celebration, feasting, pretty girls, games, and the usual stuff that would excite boys, so he had hired a smaller but completely private venue.

Inviting the Taylors had been surprisingly easy after bribing Hedwig to find them in the muggle world with enough bacon. The Carrow twins were far trickier, and Sirius had to wrangle with that git Reginald via letter for days, and the only thing that had won him over was the duelling ring and an appeal to his wife.

Unlike Diana’s parents, the cold Carrow had only shown up to drop off Hestia and Flora, paid for their stay, and disappeared, unwilling to mingle with muggles. Never had Sirius felt so awkward as he remained with the expressionless twin witches who had looked at him with perfect synchrony, expecting… he had no idea what, really. It didn’t help that Flora and Hestia felt twitchy around muggles as if they were rabid dogs who could attack at any moment. They only relaxed when they saw Diana.

Alas, Sirius had failed to invite the Patils, who said they had other plans, and his cousin Juno declined regretfully with the same excuse. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise since the whole event was organised at the last moment, including the reservations for the five-star hotel.

Sirius had never been big on planning, but it was worth it.

He would forever remember Harry coming down to a private courtyard for dinner. The exhaustion in his green eyes gave way to surprise, which almost instantly morphed into overflowing warmth and joy as they greeted him with a cheerful, “Happy Birthday, Harry!”

While his godson stood stunned under the small archway, Hestia and Flora approached in their black robes like two silent spectres. Harry found himself hugged from each side as the taller twins kissed one cheek each. For the first time ever, colour crept up their unhealthily pale skin, and the boy also flushed red and looked at him for help, but Sirius only winked.

“I expected more children,” Henry noted neutrally. “And I can’t help but notice that all of your godson’s friends are girls.”

His wife gasped, scandalised. “Henry!”

“What? I’m just stating the facts. Even the absent friends were all girls, and I must look out for my daughter.”

“It is an accurate observation,” Sirius admitted with an amused snort. “But from what I gathered, Diana approached him first, followed by the rest. Harry’s not one for socialising much, I’m afraid. But that argument can go both ways. My godson is the youngest here, and all the girls are taking advantage.”

Being a chick magnet was a natural talent, even if Harry couldn’t appreciate it yet—it seemed like he was still in the awkward phase of boyhood where girls were icky.

Henry’s face scrunched up, but he quickly schooled himself. “My apologies. Our daughter is precious to us.”

“Understandable,” Sirius amiably waved it away. “I imagine I would be much the same if I had a daughter. Anyway, let’s start the feast!”

The venue was perfect; it was in a flowery garden paved with glazed porcelain tiles and a table laden with enough courses to feed dozens of people, including a special cake. Sirius had paid extra to have the venue undisturbed until midnight and thus brought over some wizarding alcohol and placed a muggle-repelling charm at the entrance.

The gifts were brought to the table before the feast began, and Sirius was first with his stylish notebook bound in dragonhide.

“You might find this useful,” he patted Harry’s shoulder. “I know you don’t care much about pranks, but should you ever desire to officially join the ranks of the Marauders, I have written down all of our research and experiences here, especially that. Earning your name is daunting, but the results are undeniably worth it.”

A small part of him worried that his godson would disdain the idea of being a troublemaker, no doubt something inherited from his mother. Thankfully, Sirius was proven wrong as Harry picked up the gift with reverence in his eyes. “Thank you, Sirius. I will definitely read all of it.”

That was as good as a vow from the diligent boy, so perhaps he would become an Animagus even younger than they did. Regardless, Sirius would guide and support him every step of the way.

Next was Diana with a fancy bag of posh-looking muggle candy, and last were Hestia and Flora with the rare Kalloway’s Collection of Hexes and Counter-curses. Even Nyx, now over six feet long and looking quite scary, slithered out with a freshly caught squirrel for a gift, and it took about a quarter-hour to calm down Emilia, who had climbed on top of her husband like a koala.

Sunday, 1st of August 1992

The feast went great–for the children, at least. Sirius’ throat turned sore after answering Henry and Emilia’s neverending questions from Quidditch and flying to magic and school. His unfortunate incarceration had also been brought to light, and Sirius had been honest about it all. Truthfully, he could see that the more they delved into things, the more the muggle pair freaked out.

Emilia, who had been amiable throughout everything, frowned fiercely. “So you say my Ana will face scrutiny and prejudice for her origins?”

“Some, similar to how you treat your immigrants,” Sirius shrugged, noticing the similarities between the muggle world and his home. “Though from what I see, things have gotten quite better since I had been in school.”

“Is this why those with the unhealthy love for black robes look at me as if I’m a fire-spitting dragon?”

“Believe me, they would be screaming and hiding in fear if you were a dragon,” he laughed. “Those are quite dangerous.”

The answer only made them pale further to Sirius’ amusement.

“Poor clothing choices aside, my daughter wants to play this… Quidditch,” Henry scrunched up his nose. “I bought her a flying broom as promised, as she did stellar in her grades, and we want to watch her play. But she says we can’t visit the matches in the warts school because of magic.”

“Hogwarts doesn’t allow muggles to visit, but I suppose I can help you two inside if Diana truly makes the Ravenclaw Quidditch team,” Sirius proposed, uncaring that he would break quite a substantial number of archaic rules.

“That would be great!”

The talk turned to the duelling, and Sirius promised to bring them to the ring when the youth and the adults sparred, finally grabbing Henry’s attention. The girls succeeded where Sirius had failed, and Harry was dragged to the beach for over half an hour for the first time, even if the four stood out with their pale complexion amidst the crowd of bronze-skinned French and Italians.

Watching his godson play like a child was endearing, even if he seemed awkward about it. The Carrow twins looked twice as uncomfortable, their gazes roaming around the feast of bared flesh on display–the poor souls had probably never seen so much skin in one place before.

Perhaps the girls would soften Harry up and take him sightseeing. While their swimsuits were modest, they were old enough for his godson to finally notice them, even if he did his very best not to look.

Sirius even allowed his gaze to wander for the first time until it settled on a graceful, charming beauty with impossibly lush platinum hair and a skimpy bikini that revealed all of her ungodly body that had just arrived.

A pool of heat gathered behind his navel, and something tingled in his mind, but Sirius quickly shook it off.

“Henry!” Emilia hissed out as her husband’s glazed gaze was also drawn to the same woman, along with half the beach.

“Don’t blame him,” Sirius interjected. Sighing, he grasped Herny’s shoulder, giving the muggle man a jolt of magic, breaking him out of his stupor. “This is a veela, and their charm is magical. Literally.”

“A what?”

“A veela–a humanoid, magical creature with innate magical gifts that other witches and wizards lack. I didn’t expect to see one on a muggle beach.”

Diana’s mother gave him a level gaze. “How come you’re not affected, then?”

Sirius rubbed his casual beard, trying to suppress his rising desire. “I am. But it’s quite weak from afar and far easier to shrug it off once you know what it is.”

Since Hogwarts finished, Sirius avoided his usual casual hook-ups to set a proper example for Harry and show that his godson came first in everything, even if he liked joking about picking up birds. The time spent together with his godson was a thousand times more fulfilling than any amount of casual sex, but he did miss the thrill of the chase.

“My apologies, darling,” Henry ducked his head and turned his back to the veela, only to pull his wife into his embrace and lean down to give her a good, proper snog.

“Anyway,” Sirius coughed. “Do you two mind keeping an eye on the children?”

“Sure,” Emilia smiled shamelessly, still not letting go of her husband’s far bigger muscled frame. “Why?”

“Going to talk with the bird,” his voice turned husky. The flagrant display of affection had only stoked his lust. “I always wanted to date one.”

“I thought the charm didn’t affect you?”

Sirius laughed. “It doesn’t, but she’s still hot.”

Wednesday, 5th of August 1992

Fleur

Life as a veela was hard. Boys and men looked at you with mindless lust as if you were just an object to satisfy their cravings. Girls and women hated you for looking better. But being a veela was, first and foremost, lonely. After four years in Beauxbatons, she realised that most of those who approached her did so out of lust or envy, and she hated it. Fleur would have gone crazy without Adeline Laurent, her childhood friend.

Worse, your looks defined your success. When Fleur became first in her year, she heard the jealous femmelettes. “She must have charmed the teachers.”

All her effort in studying and magic had been dismissed for something she had no control over. It had gotten worse as the years flew by. “She must be polishing their wands to get such a good grade.”

“Don’t listen to those bitter slags,” Adeline always said. “They’re just jealous they’re not half as good or as pretty as you. Their resentment is a sign of your success.”

It was true, and it only made Fleur desire excellence more. The better she was in magic and appearance, the more they would seethe. She had taken to duelling, then, and showed an even greater talent and was the best in her year. Humbling all those fools who lusted after her also felt good.

So when rumours of a vicious British duellist taking down all sorts of challengers in Corsica reached her ears, Fleur naturally had to make her way there to prove herself yet again. It was also a matter of national pride, for those arrogant islanders needed to be reminded of their place. After her father had given his blessings, the journey of hundreds of miles was taken in a day with her friend’s trusty Bisat family rug instead of queuing three days for a portkey.

Or worse, act like a Brit and ride an uncomfortable broom for hours! Her derrière still felt sore from the last time she had to fly those abominable things.

It was her first time in Corsica, and Fleur could begrudgingly admit the island was lush and picturesque, with a hilly interior and beautiful sandy beaches.

It took her and Adeline a few hours to find the duelling piste nestled in a small, closed-off valley protected by muggle-repelling charms, paying a small fee to enter.

The stone benches were rather crowded with nearly a hundred spectators, and she could hear a hum of languages mingling in the air. British, Brazilian, Egyptian, Greek, Italian, Algerian, French, Spanish, and a mix of others she struggled to recognise. A good chunk of them were children. Fleur’s sharp senses could taste the air thicken with tension and anticipation. Yet her gaze was drawn to a familiar spark of fire. The feeling of contempt reared its ugly head as Fleur noticed a veela hanging off a handsome black-haired Englishman’s arms.

“I heard the Under Seventeen rounds are during the day,” Adeline’s mother explained softly. “The adult wizards and witches duel in the evening.”

The referee and host of the tournament was an old Corsican warlock with a snowy beard, and Fleur’s eyes turned to the stage where a short black-haired boy was duelling a taller youth with swarthy skin. Spells streaked through the air as both weaved around, dodged, blocked, and deflected, but the shorter boy was visibly faster in his casting. Within half a minute, he managed to strike his opponent with a stunner.

“Winner: Monsieur Potter!”

There were a few unenthusiastic claps that barely covered the minimum of politeness. Nobody cheered save for that Englishman with the veela on his arm and what looked to be a cosy family of three girls. The crowd must have gotten bored with the boy.

“Wasn’t Potter the name of that famous British child?” Mrs Laurent’s tone was dismissive. “The one that got rid of their small-time Dark Lord.”

A civil war that lasted five years wasn’t exactly small, but the British were heavily mocked in Magical Europe for it. Even half a century later, the scars of Grindelwald’s rise could still be felt all over the continent, both magical and muggle. Her grandmother had told her tales of how she had lost three of her sisters in the bitter struggle and seven of her friends. Scarcely any family on the continent remained whole or unscarred by the war by the time Grindelwald had been bested, and it was estimated that two-fifths of all pureblood houses had been extinguished.

That little insurrection on the Isles that barely lasted half a decade and meagre magical casualties was nothing in comparison.

Fleur frowned. “Everyone said that was just luck. A mere fluke of magic.”

“Perhaps it’s another one bearing the same name,” Adeline muttered, idly tugging her chestnut locks. “Isn’t Potter a common name in Britain? Regardless, I thought the rising duelling star would be taller. He looks like a child.”

“Height shouldn’t matter,” Fleur’s lips thinned. Inwardly, she was somewhat disappointed, expecting someone more formidable. But the skill she had seen earlier could not be denied. “I will fight him.”

Challenging a fighter in the arena was rather simple. You simply approached the referee, paid a small fee, and awaited your turn. The victor could remain on the duelling piste until defeated or tired.

The next challenger was a blonde, haughty-looking boy named Bernard, who looked to be her age.

After a short introduction, the duel began, and the French youth, who looked about fifteen, rushed Potter with a raised shield as if he wanted to wrangle him in melee like some muggle.

“Oh, they’re trying to win this way again,” she heard a disapproving snort from the crowd.

“Well, someone has to smash the arrogant Brit’s face in again, I say,” a mocking voice supplied.

Clearly, someone else had bum-rushed Potter in an attempt to pummel him like a brute. Yet the tactic failed because the black-haired boy brandished his wand, and Bernard slipped and fell on his arse and stilled as a Stunner struck him dead in the chest.

“Winner: Monsieur Potter!”

Once again, the victory was met with nearly no enthusiasm.

Nobody else seemed keen on challenging the Potter boy, so after three minutes of respite, it was her turn.

“And now we get to see Mademoiselle Delacour vs Monsieur Potter,” the referee gruffed. “Come now, face each other.”

There was even a moment of surprise in Potter’s gaze as her name was announced, but it disappeared like a leaf blown in the wind as his face turned expressionless, and all of his emotions visibly drained away. Her insides tensed for some reason; she had not felt this nervous even during her last year’s exams.

The two of them walked to face each other, and up close, she finally realised how small her opponent was–barely reaching her chin. Yet, despite his height and the rivulets of sweat that made his pale face glisten in the sun, Potter did not seem as young as she thought, especially because of his wiry body, which made her insides tense further. His eyes were a striking shade of emerald and had a hardness that she had only seen in her Father’s hit wizard colleagues. Even his face was bereft of any baby fat or naivete that clung to younger boys, and she struggled to pinpoint his age.

Her passive allure did not affect him, as his gaze remained crystal clear.

Fleur tensed and released the hold on her magic, blasting the annoying boy with a full third of her aura, but all she received was a mocking lift of his eyebrow as Potter remained as cool as a cucumber.

It took her a heartbeat to realise why she felt so strung up that she lost her cool. All of her instincts screamed that her opponent was dangerous.

“Wands out!” The referee came between them. “And now you bow.”

Fleur felt a lump form at the back of her throat, and her palms were sweaty, and even the crowd’s chatter turned distant as if someone had muffled them all. She found her hands flicking her silver-gold hair back, something she always did when nervous.

“Seven steps back,” the voice continued as Fleur carefully retreated, her gaze not leaving Potter. “On three. One. Two. Three.”

Fleur moved first as her wand was already brandished for a “Stupefy!”

Her stunner was dodged almost lazily as Potter stepped sideways while simultaneously bursting into action. His wand blurred as an angry barrage of spells erupted from the pale tip. To her horror, each spell was silent and lightning-quick, not muttered under his nose as she originally thought.

Fleur barely managed to erect a hasty “Protego!”

Her shield barely held, as she could feel the force of the magic bludgeoned into it. Even translucent cracks began to appear–if the spells were any stronger, her defence would crack open like an egg.

Her chantless repertoire was decent, but each spell required time to re-learn for silent casting, which was even more challenging to do in the heat of combat.

“Rictumsempra,” she burst into motion. “Impedimenta, Incarcerous! Incendio!”

Yet Potter was like a slippery eel, effortlessly weaving between the streaks of magic as his green eyes began to glow. The ropes were banished before they could land, and her flame charm was met with an ice wall. The flames didn’t even reach him as he twisted his wand, and the space between them exploded into a shroud of sizzling steam, veiling her opponent from sight.

Fleur’s heart was beating like a war drum as a premonition tingled at the back of her mind, and she barely managed to erect a silent Protego to catch an angry blue arrow aimed at her chest. Yet her silent shield was weaker and shattered like glass, making her tumble backwards.

It took her half a second to regain her footing, but the magical backlash of her broken shield left her mind reeling. Fighting against a silent caster was far more demanding than she expected. But she was not a nobody, but Fleur Delacour, the best Beauxbatons had to offer, and managed to quickly gather herself. Even so, the fight wasn’t looking pretty.

All she could rely on was her sight, yet it was now obstructed. It didn’t help that Potter was precise, quick, and aggressive in his attacks.

“Vent-” her spell was interrupted as she barely jerked away from what looked like a Stunner.

Just as she retreated and brandished her wand to blow away the steam, a figure erupted from it, and the pale wand aimed at her neck.

The world slowed down as Fleur watched with morbid fascination as the glowing tip of the wand moved faster than her body could react to, its tip dancing to completion with the familiar motion of the body-bind curse.

She was unwilling, but her right hand would never lift her wand fast enough to shield.

A mere witch would be defeated here, but Fleur was anything but. Letting go of her restraints, she poured all her magic into that fiery feeling and blasted the full might of her allure and then some more at Potter.

To her chagrin, he didn’t even slow down. His face remained completely unchanged as if her natural charm was an egg thrown at a rock, and Fleur would have thought the boy was unfeeling and her magic impotent if not for the imperceptible twitch in his lips and the fleeting glimmer in his green eyes.

The curse mercilessly struck her collarbone a moment later, and the sheer power of it blasted her off her feet, freezing her mid-air until she flopped down on the floor, defeated.

She, the prodigious Fleur Delacour, had lost to a mere boy in front of a whole crowd to see. Her back would have been bruised by the brutal fall if this wasn’t a duelling piste. Worse, her body was frozen in the most undignified pose of having her in permanent freefall, with her legs and hands outstretched as if reaching for the sky above. Thankfully, she was wearing shorts instead of a skirt…

“Winner: Monsieur Potter!” The now familiar announcement felt like a funeral dirge.

The feeling of defeat felt bitter on her tongue; all she could do was watch the impossibly blue sky as her body was rendered inert by the magic. Veela were creatures of air and fire, and like most of them, Fleur loved the vast sky and summer, but at this moment, it felt like the lack of clouds was mocking her.

A part of her mind tried to rationalise that losing a duel was not a big deal. Everyone had a bad day, and she had greatly underestimated her opponent. Perhaps this truly was Harry Potter, that infamous boy with powerful magic to vanquish a dark wizard as a babe. Perhaps it was not just the British blowing hot air as they usually did.

Yet deep down, Fleur knew those were lies in her mind, conjured to soothe her wounded pride and reduce the sting of defeat. The British cochon lacked manners, too; the ache where the spell had struck her collarbone throbbed painfully and would probably form a nasty bruise.

A moment later, a cold yet soothing magic went through her body, and Fleur could move again.

“Good fight.” A rush of anger curled in her gut at the annoying words spoken in English, and she raised her gaze to see her opponent’s hand reaching out to help her up. His clear green eyes showed no trace of gloating, mockery, or disdain, and she deflated.

Hesitantly, Fleur accepted the surprising callused palm and was pulled up. A tangle of emotions welled in her gut and almost made her choke.

It took her a few heartbeats to calm down, and she glanced at the sleepy referee. “I challenge him again!”