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Harry's eyes opened to darkness; the window told him dawn wasn't far off. He lay still for a moment, listening to Ron's steady breathing from the bed across the room, and waited for the familiar taste of copper to flood his mouth or the Death Eater's terrified eyes to flash across his vision.
Neither came.
The memories were still there, tucked away in the back of his mind like scars that would never fully fade, but they didn't consume him the way they had even a few days ago. Instead, what he felt was restless energy, a need to move, to do something productive.
Harry slipped out of his camp bed as quietly as he could, grabbing the clothes he'd laid out the night before. His enhanced hearing picked up the soft creaking of the Burrow's old timbers, the gentle hooting of an owl somewhere in the distance, and Mr. Weasley's faint snoring from two floors down. Nothing suggested that anyone else was awake yet.
Perfect.
He dressed quickly and made his way down the stairs, skipping the third step from the bottom that always groaned loudly. The kitchen was empty and still. Harry considered leaving a note but decided against it. He wouldn't be gone long.
The morning air outside was cool and damp. Harry made his way toward the orchard, his feet finding the familiar path even in the pre-dawn darkness. His enhanced vision made it easier than it should have been, everything rendered in shades of gray that were almost as clear as daylight.
When he reached the clearing where he'd accidentally performed life magic weeks ago, he stopped short.
Hermione was already there.
She sat on a fallen log at the edge of the clearing, a thick notebook open on her lap. She looked up as Harry approached, completely unsurprised to see him.
"You're late," she said, though there was warmth in her voice. "I expected you ten minutes ago."
Harry blinked. "How did you..."
"You've been waking up earlier and earlier each morning this week," Hermione said, closing her notebook and standing. "And you have that look you get when you're determined to do something whether or not anyone approves. I know you, Harry Potter." She crossed the clearing toward him. "Did you really think I'd let you do this alone?"
Harry felt something warm settle in his chest. "I should have known better."
"Yes, you should have." Hermione held up her notebook. "I've been doing research. I think we can create a systematic approach to testing and developing your abilities."
Of course she'd been researching. Harry moved closer, peering at the notebook. Even upside down, he could see it was covered in Hermione's precise handwriting, with sections marked off and categorized.
"What have you got?" Harry asked.
Hermione's face lit up the way it always did when discussing something she'd researched thoroughly. She flipped open the notebook, revealing pages of neat columns and bullet points. "I've organized it into four main categories. First, physical enhancements: strength, speed, reflexes, endurance. We need baseline measurements so we can track any changes, especially around the full moon. Second, sensory abilities: sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch. These are clearly enhanced, but we don't know by how much or if there are limits."
She turned the page. "Third, transformation capabilities: the claws, the partial changes you've described, control over when and how these manifest. And fourth, magical interactions: how your lycanthropy affects your magic, whether it enhances certain spells or interferes with others, if there are new abilities like that life magic you performed."
Harry stared at the notebook, then at Hermione. "You did all this since yesterday?"
"I couldn't sleep," Hermione admitted. "I kept thinking about how to help you, and organizing information always helps me think clearly." She looked up at him, her expression serious. "We're doing this properly, Harry. Scientifically. With documentation and safety measures. No more accidentally discovering abilities in dangerous situations."
This made him love her even more. "Alright," he said. "Where do we start?"
"Physical baseline," Hermione said immediately, already moving to a clear area of the clearing. "I need to see what you can currently do so we have something to compare against later. First test: speed. Run from here to that large oak tree and back. I'll time you."
She pulled out a small brass device that Harry recognized as some kind of magical stopwatch. He positioned himself at what seemed like a reasonable starting point, feeling slightly ridiculous.
"Ready?" Hermione asked, her thumb hovering over the stopwatch. "Go!"
Harry ran. Not at full speed, not yet, just a comfortable pace that would have been a sprint before his transformation. The oak tree approached rapidly, and he touched it before wheeling around and running back.
He skidded to a stop in front of Hermione, barely winded.
She was staring at the stopwatch, her eyebrows raised. "Five point three seconds. Harry, that oak is at least forty meters away."
"Is that fast?"
"The world record for the 100-meter dash is under ten seconds," Hermione said, scribbling in her notebook. "You just covered approximately eighty meters in five point three seconds. If you scaled that up..." She did some quick calculations. "You could theoretically run 100 meters in about six and a half seconds. That's significantly faster than any human athlete."
Harry tried to process that. He knew he was faster than before, but having actual numbers made it feel more real.
"And you weren't even trying your hardest, were you?" Hermione asked, watching his face.
"No," Harry admitted. "I was holding back."
"Right. We'll come back to maximum speed later. First, let's test strength." Hermione pointed to a large fallen branch nearby, easily the width of Harry's torso. "Can you lift that?"
Harry approached the branch, wrapping his hands around it. The bark was rough against his palms as he crouched and lifted. The branch came up easily, far easier than it should have given its obvious weight. He held it over his head for a moment before setting it back down.
"Impressive," Hermione murmured, writing again. "That branch has to weigh at least seventy or eighty pounds. You lifted it like it was nothing."
They moved through a series of tests: jumping (Harry cleared nearly eight feet from a standing position), reflexes (Hermione tossed pebbles at him from different angles and he caught each one), endurance (running in place until Hermione told him to stop, which took nearly fifteen minutes before Harry started to feel genuinely tired). With each test, Hermione took meticulous notes, her quill scratching steadily across the pages.
Harry was in the middle of demonstrating his enhanced hearing, correctly identifying the direction and approximate distance of a bird call Hermione could barely hear, when a familiar voice spoke from the edge of the clearing.
"Starting without me? I'm hurt."
Both Harry and Hermione turned to see Ginny emerging from between the trees, fully dressed despite the early hour. She had her wand in one hand and an expression that was equal parts amused and exasperated. Harry realised he hadn't heard her because he had been too focused on the training.
"How long have you been there?" Hermione asked.
"Long enough to see Harry jump high enough to give a Chudley Cannons Beater a complex." Ginny crossed the clearing to join them, peering at Hermione's notebook with interest. "Merlin, Hermione, this is thorough. You've got diagrams and everything."
"Proper documentation is essential for any experiment," Hermione said, though she looked pleased at the compliment. "How did you know we'd be here?"
Ginny gave her a look. "Please. I've shared a room with you for weeks now. I know when you're planning something. And I know Harry's been restless." She turned to Harry with a slight smile. "You're not as subtle as you think when you're brooding at breakfast."
"I don't brood," Harry protested.
"You absolutely brood," Ginny and Hermione said in unison, then glanced at each other and grinned.
Harry felt his face warm. "Right. Well. Since you're here, you might as well help."
"Exactly my thinking." Ginny rolled up her sleeves. "What are we testing next?"
Hermione consulted her notebook. "I was going to move on to the transformation capabilities. Specifically, the claws."
Harry nodded. This was the part he'd been both anticipating and dreading. The claws felt like the most visceral reminder of what he'd become, what he'd done. But they were also undeniably useful, and if he was going to master them, he needed to understand them completely.
"Alright," he said. "Let's do it."
He closed his eyes, reaching for that part of himself that wasn't quite human. The wolf stirred immediately, eager and ready, and Harry felt the familiar sensation of his fingernails darkening and hardening. It didn't hurt, exactly, but there was a strange pressure as they pushed outward, growing longer and sharper.
When Harry opened his eyes and looked down at his hands, his nails had transformed into gleaming black claws that extended well past the length of his fingers.
"Bloody hell," Ginny breathed. "Those are properly wicked."
Hermione had already pulled out what looked like a measuring tape. "May I?" she asked, and when Harry nodded, she carefully measured the length of the longest claw. "Twenty point three centimeters. Eight inches, just as you estimated."
She jotted this down, then circled around Harry to examine the claws from different angles. "The curvature suggests they're designed for gripping and tearing rather than straight puncturing. And the way they taper to those points..." She reached out as if to touch one, then seemed to think better of it. "They're beautiful, in a terrifying sort of way."
"Let's test them," Ginny said, already moving toward a nearby tree. She drew her wand and tapped the trunk. "This should give us a good baseline. Harry, try cutting into the bark."
Harry approached the tree, raising one clawed hand. He pressed the tips against the bark experimentally, then drew his hand down in a controlled slash. The claws cut through the bark like it was parchment, leaving deep furrows in the wood beneath.
"Merlin," Harry muttered, staring at the damage. "I barely put any force into that."
"Try something harder," Hermione suggested, pointing to a large stone half-buried in the ground nearby. "See if you can scratch that."
Harry crouched beside the stone, pressing his claws against its surface. This time, he had to apply real force, and even then, the claws left only shallow scratches rather than deep cuts. The stone was clearly much more resistant than the wood had been.
"Interesting," Hermione said, writing furiously. "So there are limits. Not invulnerable, just extremely hard."
Ginny was examining a piece of metal she'd apparently brought with her, an old dented bucket from the garden. "Try this."
Harry slashed at the bucket. His claws left visible marks in the metal, scoring lines across its surface, but they didn't cut through the way they had with the wood. The resistance was somewhere between the tree bark and the stone.
"So wood is easy, stone is difficult, metal is intermediate," Hermione summarized. "That suggests the claws work best against organic materials. Which makes sense from an evolutionary perspective. Werewolves hunt living prey, not rocks."
"Comforting thought," Harry said dryly, but he was paying attention to how the claws felt as he used them. There was a rightness to the motion, like his hands knew exactly what to do. It was simultaneously natural and deeply unsettling.
"Now the important part," Ginny said, her tone turning serious. "Can you control them in a fight? It's one thing to slash at a stationary tree. It's another to use them when you're moving, when someone's fighting back."
"We're not actually fighting," Hermione said quickly.
"Not with intent to harm, no," Ginny agreed. "But Harry needs to practice precision. Right now, those claws are a weapon that might do more damage than he intends." She looked at Harry. "How fast can you retract them?"
Harry focused on pulling the claws back in. They retracted smoothly, shrinking and lightening until they were just fingernails again. He counted in his head. "About four seconds, maybe five."
"That's too slow," Ginny said bluntly. "If you're in a fight and need to switch between claws and hands quickly, five seconds is an eternity. Someone could hex you twice over in that time."
Harry tried again, focusing on making the transition faster. The claws extended... and retracted. Three seconds and a half.
"Better," Ginny said. "But you need to get it down to under a second. Ideally instant."
"How am I supposed to do that?" Harry asked, extending and retracting the claws again. It was starting to feel like flexing a muscle he'd only recently discovered he had.
"Practice," Hermione and Ginny said together.
For the next several minutes, Harry did exactly that. Extend, retract. Extend, retract. Over and over until the motion started to feel smoother, more natural. Hermione timed him periodically, calling out improvements. "2.85 seconds. 2.73 seconds. 2.69 seconds."
By the time Harry's hands were starting to ache from the repeated transformations, he'd gotten it down to just 2.57 seconds.
"Much better," Ginny said approvingly. "Keep practicing that. Muscle memory will make it automatic eventually."
Harry flexed his fingers, which were now tingling strangely. "What about the sonic roar?"
"Absolutely not," Hermione said immediately. "We're fifty meters from the Burrow at most. If you use that thing, you'll wake everyone up and probably shatter half the windows in the house."
"We need to test it somewhere more remote," Ginny agreed. "Maybe deeper in the forest, or..." She paused, thinking. "Actually, what about the old quarry? It's been abandoned for years, no one goes there, and it's far enough from any houses that the sound wouldn't carry."
"That's actually a good idea," Hermione admitted. "We could go this afternoon if—"
She stopped abruptly, her head turning toward the Burrow. Harry's enhanced hearing had already picked up the sound: the back door opening, and Mrs. Weasley's voice calling out.
"Harry! Hermione! Ginny! Breakfast!"
The three of them exchanged glances.
"How does she always know?" Ginny wondered aloud.
"Mothers have a sixth sense about these things," Hermione said, already gathering up her notebook and other supplies. "Come on. If we're late, she'll start asking questions."
As they made their way back toward the Burrow, the sun finally cresting the horizon and painting the sky in shades of gold and pink, Harry felt lighter than he had in weeks. The training had given him something concrete to focus on, a sense of purpose that went beyond just surviving with his new abilities.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked quietly.
Hermione smiled. "Obviously. We've only just started baseline testing. There's still so much data to collect."
"And I want to see how fast you can really run," Ginny added with a grin. "I bet you could give a Firebolt a run for its money."
"Let's not get carried away," Harry said, but he was smiling too.
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Since Harry arrived at the burrow weeks ago, the table has been more crowded than usual.
"There you are!" Mrs. Weasley said, turning from the stove with a spatula in hand. Her eyes swept over the three of them, lingering on Harry. "Harry, dear, you look better. Got some color back in your face finally."
Harry felt his cheeks warm as he slid into an empty chair between Ron and Hermione. "I'm feeling better, Mrs. Weasley. Thank you."
"Good, good." She bustled over and began loading his plate with eggs, bacon, sausages, and toast before he could protest. "You need to keep your strength up. Growing boy and all that."
"Mum, seriously, lay off," Ginny said, taking her own seat across from Harry. "He's got hands. Unless he forgot how to use a fork, I think he can handle a scoop of eggs without the royal treatment."
"I'm simply making sure he eats properly," Mrs. Weasley said, though she did stop adding food to Harry's plate. "Now all of you, eat up before it gets cold."
Harry looked down at the mountain of food in front of him and felt his stomach growl. He picked up his fork and started eating, and caught Mrs. Weasley's pleased smile from the corner of his eye.
"Blimey, Harry," Ron said around a mouthful of eggs. "Where were you lot this morning? I woke up and you were gone."
"Just went for a walk," Harry said, which was technically true. "Couldn't sleep."
"Me neither," Hermione added quickly. "I ran into Harry in the orchard."
"I saw them too," Ginny piped up, looking bored as she buttered her toast. "Just walking and talking. Sorry to disappoint, but it was about as scandalous as Percy's sock drawer."
Fred, who was sitting next to Charlie, raised an eyebrow. "A likely story. What were you really up to? Secret snogging sessions in the garden?"
"There was no snogging," Hermione said firmly, her face turning pink. "We were just talking."
"Course you were," Fred said, winking at George.
"Boys," Mrs. Weasley warned. "Leave them alone and eat your breakfast."
The conversation shifted to more mundane topics as everyone settled into eating. Bill mentioned something about the Gringotts account managers being particularly difficult lately, while Charlie launched into an enthusiastic description of a new batch of Norwegian Ridgeback eggs that had just arrived at the reserve.
"Fascinating as dragon reproduction is," Percy said stiffly, cutting into his bacon, "some of us have actual important matters to attend to today."
"Oh, we know, Percy," George said. "Very important Ministry business. Can't possibly share with us mere mortals."
Percy's ears turned red. "As a matter of fact, I have several meetings scheduled with the Department of International Magical Cooperation. We're coordinating a rather significant event this year."
"What event?" Ron asked.
Percy's mouth opened, then closed. He glanced at his father, who was very deliberately focused on his newspaper.
"That's classified," Percy said finally.
"Everything's classified with you," Fred said. "What are you coordinating? Another thrilling cauldron bottom thickness regulation?"
Bill snorted into his orange juice, earning a glare from Percy.
"Actually," Bill said, setting down his glass, "I need to head back to Egypt soon. There's an issue with a curse at one of the dig sites. Probably be leaving tomorrow morning."
"So soon?" Mrs. Weasley said, her face falling. "But you've only been home a week!"
"I know, Mum, but duty calls. Nasty bit of protective magic that's stumped everyone else." Bill shrugged, though he looked apologetic. "I'll be back for Christmas, I promise."
"I've got to head back to Romania in about a week myself," Charlie added. "Got to help prepare the reserve for winter. Dragons get cranky when the temperature drops."
Mrs. Weasley sighed but nodded. "I suppose I can't keep you all here forever, much as I'd like to."
"Well, you'll have me," Percy said, straightening in his chair. "I'll be returning to Hogwarts with the students this year. On official Ministry business, of course."
That got everyone's attention.
"You're going back to school?" Ginny asked, giving him a look that suggested he was insane. "On purpose? Did you run out of people to annoy at the Ministry?"
"As I said, official Ministry business." Percy's tone suggested he wouldn't be elaborating further. "I'll be there for the entire school year, representing the Ministry in an... advisory capacity."
Bill and Charlie exchanged glances across the table. Fred opened his mouth, probably to make another sarcastic comment, but Mr. Weasley spoke first.
"Yes, well," he said, sounding worried and frustrated. "Can't believe they're actually going through with it, but there we are."
Mrs. Weasley's head snapped toward her husband, her eyes sharp. She jerked her head meaningfully toward the other end of the table, where Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and the twins were all suddenly very attentive.
Arthur Weasley's eyes widened slightly. "Right. Yes. Well. Never mind that."
"Going through with what?" Fred asked immediately, leaning forward with interest.
"Ministry business," Mr. Weasley said, picking up his newspaper again. "Nothing that concerns you lot."
"We're of age," George protested. "Well, nearly. Birthday's in April."
"Seven months away is not 'of age,'" Mrs. Weasley said firmly.
Percy cleared his throat. "Even if you were of age, the matter is confidential and above your clearance level."
Ron repeated the words "clearance level" in a mocking tone that made Fred and George snicker. Percy's ears went red again.
"That's quite enough," Mrs. Weasley said. "Now then, have you all got your Hogwarts supply lists sorted? We'll need to go to Diagon Alley before term starts."
The subject change was so abrupt that it might as well have been accompanied by a loud gong. Harry saw Hermione frown slightly, her eyes moving between Mr. Weasley and Percy with obvious curiosity.
The adults told them to leave now, and Harry, Ginny, Hermione, Ron and the twins moved to the next room.
Ginny caught his eye. She raised one eyebrow, nodded toward the door, and gave Harry a look that clearly said, 'Are you seeing this drama?'
Harry understood what she wanted from him. He focused his enhanced hearing, letting it extend beyond his normal range. The murmured conversation suddenly became as clear as if the adults were speaking directly to him.
"—convinced Fudge that canceling would show weakness," Mr. Weasley was saying quietly. "After what happened at the World Cup, backing down from international commitments would make the Ministry look even more incompetent."
"After what happened at the World Cup?" Bill's voice, pitched low. "Seems mad to bring more international delegations to Britain. What if something else goes wrong?"
"The security measures will be considerably more robust this time," Percy said stiffly. "I've personally reviewed the protocols—"
"Beauxbatons and Durmstrang," Charlie interrupted. "Their delegations arriving in October, you said?"
Harry felt Fred shift beside him, leaning forward. When Harry glanced sideways, he found both twins watching him with expressions of intense concentration. They'd figured out what he was doing.
Ron started to whisper something, but Hermione immediately shushed him with a sharp look.
"The Triwizard Tournament," Mr. Weasley was saying, his voice heavy with concern. "Haven't held one in nearly two centuries, and for good reason."
"The Goblet of Fire will choose the champions," Bill said. "It's supposed to be impartial, but still. Only three students to represent their entire schools—"
"Dangerous tasks," Mrs. Weasley cut in, her voice tight with worry. "Students have died, Arthur. Died. And you're just going to let this happen?"
"I don't have a choice, Molly," Mr. Weasley said wearily. "The decision's been made at levels well above my pay grade. All I can do is try to make sure the proper safety measures are in place."
"Prize money is a thousand Galleons," Charlie added. "And eternal glory, or so the posters will say. That's a lot of temptation for young people."
Harry pulled his attention back to his side of the room, his heart beating faster. A tournament. At Hogwarts. With students from other schools.
He looked at his friends and found them all staring at him expectantly. Ginny was watching him with sharp, expectant eyes, though she was coolly taking a sip of juice. Fred and George were grinning like they'd just been told Christmas was coming early. Ron's eyes were wide with curiosity.
Only Hermione was frowning, her expression disapproving. "Harry," she whispered, leaning closer. "You shouldn't have been listening to a private conversation."
"Hermione, please," Ginny said, rolling her eyes. "They're doing that 'mysterious whisper' thing. It's basically a cry for attention. If they actually wanted a secret, they'd use a spell. It's practically rude not to listen."
"That doesn't make it appropriate!" Hermione hissed.
"What did you hear?" Ron asked urgently, ignoring Hermione entirely. "What's happening at Hogwarts?"
"There's going to be a tournament," he said quietly. "Two other schools are coming to Hogwarts. Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. They're arriving in October."
"What kind of tournament?" Fred asked, his eyes gleaming.
"The Triwizard Tournament, apperantly you get a thousand gallons if you win and eternal glory, whatever that means," Harry said.
Hermione's disapproval immediately shifted to concern. "The Triwizard Tournament? But that was discontinued 193 years ago because of the high casualty rate!"
"High casualty rate, you say?" Fred's grin widened. "Sounds brilliant!"
"When do we sign up?" George added eagerly.
Hermione stared at them. "Did you not hear the part about people dying?"
"But there's prize money!" Ron said, his voice rising with excitement before Hermione shushed him again. He continued in a whisper. "A thousand Galleons! Do you know what I could do with a thousand Galleons?"
"And eternal glory," Fred said dreamily.
"We'd be legends," George agreed.
"You'd be corpses," Hermione said flatly. "The tournament was stopped because the death toll became unacceptable. Students were being killed or permanently maimed in the tasks. It's not some fun competition, it's genuinely dangerous."
But the twins were already leaning together, whispering excitedly about possibilities. Ron looked torn between excitement and worry, his eyes darting to the door as if calculating how angry his mother would be if he tried to enter.
Harry sat quietly, processing what he'd heard. Part of him felt a thrill at the idea—a tournament, a chance to compete, to prove himself against other students. The competitive part of him that loved Quidditch responded to the concept immediately.
"What are you lot whispering about over there?" Mrs. Weasley's voice cut through the quiet conversation like a knife.
Everyone straightened, trying to look innocent.
"Nothing, Mum," Ron said, his voice slightly too high.
Mrs. Weasley's eyes narrowed suspiciously, moving from face to face. "Didn't sound like nothing."
"Just talking about Quidditch," Fred said smoothly. "You know how Ron gets about the Cannons."
"Hey!" Ron protested.
Mrs. Weasley looked unconvinced, but before she could press further, Mr. Weasley folded his newspaper and stood.
"Well, I'd best be getting to work," he said. "Long day ahead, I'm afraid."
"Me too," Percy said, standing so quickly he nearly knocked over his chair. "The Department waits for no one."
As the adults began to disperse, the younger Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione remained at the open door. The moment Mrs. Weasley left the room, the whispering started again in earnest.
"A tournament," George said, his eyes distant with planning. "A real tournament."
"With students from other schools," Fred added. "Foreign students. This is going to be brilliant."
"You're not seriously thinking of entering," Hermione said, though her tone suggested she knew they absolutely were.
"Why not?" Fred asked. "We're turning seventeen in April. Perfect timing."
"The tournament could be incredibly dangerous," Hermione insisted. "People died, Fred. Actually died."
"That was almost two hundred years ago," George said dismissively. "They've probably made it safer since then."
"Or they wouldn't be holding it at all," Fred finished.
Harry wondered if he should enter this Tournament. He knew it was dangerous, but he wasn't hopeless anymore; he had his new abilities with him. Harry shook his head, he didn't even know what challenges the Tournament would have, and he wasn't sure if he could even enter it.
And if he could enter the Tournament, why should he? All that would achieve is becoming the center of attention once again, and with his new abilities, he would risk himself and people finding out about it. Harry didn't know what would happen, but based on what Professor Lupin told him, there was a high chance people would see him as no different from any other werewolf.
Harry could not risk it, no matter the reward. Even if the thought of entering was tempting, people would finally see him as more than just The Boy Who Lived.
Fleur Delacour
The forest was endless.
Fleur ran, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her feet pounding against the earth. Branches tore at her hair and robes as she fled through the darkness, but she didn't slow down. She couldn't. Behind her, the sound of something massive crashing through the trees grew louder with each passing second.
She could hear its breathing. Could hear the trees splintering under its weight. Could feel the ground shake with each thunderous step.
Run. Just run.
Her lungs burned. Her legs felt like two branches about to break in two. But terror drove her forward, deeper into the forest, away from that thing.
A roar split the air behind her, that same horrible sound of a thousand voices screaming in agony all at once. The sound rattled her bones and made her teeth ache. Fleur stumbled, nearly falling, but caught herself against a tree trunk.
She had to keep moving. Had to—
The creature appeared directly in front of her.
Fleur skidded to a halt, her heart nearly stopping. One moment, the path ahead had been clear. The next thirty feet of nightmare stood blocking her escape.
It was exactly as she remembered: the grotesque fusion of fur and exposed muscle, ash-gray hair hanging in matted clumps. The ribs jutting through split skin, flexing like they were trying to break free. The twisted, blackened antlers sprouting from its skull with strips of flesh dangling from the tines like obscene decorations.
The creature's jaw unhinged with that wet crack she remembered from her nightmares, opening impossibly wide to reveal far too many teeth. Its black void eyes fixed on her, and Fleur saw herself reflected in that emptiness, small, terrified, prey.
The roar that erupted from its throat was deafening. The force of it nearly knocked Fleur off her feet. Trees behind her groaned and swayed. Leaves exploded into the air like startled birds.
Fleur's Veela blood rose in response to the threat. Fire erupted from her hands, brilliant crimson flames that should have reduced anything to ash. She thrust her palms forward, sending a torrent of Veela fire directly at the creature's massive chest.
The flames washed over it like water over stone.
The creature didn't even flinch. The fire that could melt steel, simply flickered and died against that gray, matted fur. The creature took a step forward, its mismatched arms reaching for her—one skeletal and thin, the other grotesquely overdeveloped with claws that left furrows in the earth.
Fleur stumbled backward, her fire guttering out. This was it. This was how she died. Alone in a dark forest, crushed or torn apart by something that magic couldn't touch.
The creature's claw descended toward her.
"Stop."
The creature froze mid-motion, its massive claw hovering inches from Fleur's face. She could see her reflection in those gleaming black talons, see the terror written clearly across her own features.
Then the creature began to roar.
But this wasn't the aggressive, hunting roar from before. This was pain. Agony. The creature's enormous body convulsed, its head thrashing from side to side. The roar became a shriek, became a wail, became something that sounded almost like pleading.
Fleur turned, searching for the source of that voice.
A figure stood at the edge of the clearing. A boy, she thought, from the height and build. But she couldn't see his face. Couldn't see any details at all. His entire form was wrapped in shadows. Where he stood, even the moonlight couldn't penetrate. His face was a void. His clothes were obscured. He was a living silhouette.
The boy stepped forward, and the creature's screaming intensified. With each step he took toward Fleur, the massive thing seemed to grow smaller somehow, hunching in on itself like it was trying to disappear.
"Back," the boy said. "Now."
The creature fled.
Something that massive shouldn't have been able to move so quickly, but it turned and crashed back into the forest with the desperate speed of prey escaping a predator. Within seconds, the sound of its retreat had faded entirely, leaving only silence and the settling dust.
Fleur stood frozen, her heart hammering so hard she thought her ribs might crack. The boy continued walking toward her, and Fleur felt sweetness in the air.
When he was perhaps ten feet away, he stopped.
"Don't be afraid," he said, and his voice was different now. Gentler. Almost familiar, though Fleur couldn't place it. "I will never harm you."
The shadows around his face shifted, almost like they were pulling back to reveal his features, and Fleur leaned forward desperately trying to see—
She woke with a gasp.
Fleur sat bolt upright in her bed, her heart racing, her nightgown soaked with sweat. For a moment, she didn't know where she was. The familiar elegance of her bedchamber at the Delacour estate slowly came into focus: the silk canopy above her bed, the moonlight streaming through tall windows, the familiar scent of her room.
A dream. It had been a dream.
"Merde," she breathed in French, pressing a hand to her chest where her heart still thundered. "Qui était ce garçon?" Who was that boy?
She'd had nightmares about the creature before, many times since the World Cup. But this was the first time someone had intervened. The first time that shadowed figure had appeared, commanding the monster with nothing but his voice.
Who was he? Why couldn't she see his face? And why did his voice seem to promise safety when everything else about the dream had been terror?
Fleur threw back her covers and swung her legs out of bed. Her hands were trembling slightly. The dream had felt so real, she could still feel the heat of her Veela fire, still taste the copper tang of fear on her tongue.
"Peut-être il vaut mieux ne plus dormir," she murmured. Perhaps it's better not to sleep anymore.
She was considering going downstairs to the library, maybe finding something to occupy her mind until exhaustion claimed her again, when a soft knock sounded at her bedchamber door.
Fleur's head snapped toward the sound. It was well past midnight. Who would—
"Fleur?" The voice was small and scared. Gabrielle.
Fleur crossed the room quickly and opened the door. Her nine-year-old sister stood in the hallway, clutching a stuffed unicorn and looking small in her white nightgown. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wide.
"Gabrielle," Fleur said softly, crouching down to her sister's level. "What's wrong, ma petite?"
"I had the dream again." She muttered in a fragile voice.
"The Creature?"
Gabrielle nodded, hugging her unicorn tighter. A tear slid down her cheek. "Every night since the World Cup. It chases me through the camp, and I run and run, but I can never get away. And Maman and Papa aren't there, and you're not there, and I'm all alone and it's going to catch me and—" Her voice broke.
"Oh, ma chérie," Fleur breathed, pulling her sister into a tight embrace. Gabrielle buried her face in Fleur's shoulder, her small body shaking with suppressed sobs.
Gabrielle pulled back slightly, looking up at Fleur with those wide, scared eyes. "Can I sleep with you?" she asked. "Please? I don't want to be alone."
Fleur felt her heart break a little. Gabrielle was usually so brave, so cheerful. To see her like this, reduced to a frightened child by the memory of that terrible night...
"Of course," Fleur said immediately, standing and taking Gabrielle's hand. "Bien sûr. Come on."
She led her sister into the bedchamber and helped her climb into the large four-poster bed. Gabrielle immediately burrowed under the covers, still clutching her stuffed unicorn. Fleur slid in beside her, and Gabrielle immediately pressed close, seeking comfort in her older sister's presence.
"Tell me about your dream," Gabrielle said quietly after a moment. "Was it different than mine?"
Fleur hesitated. Should she tell her sister about the shadowed boy? About the voice that had made the creature flee in terror?
"It was similar," she said carefully. "The creature chased me. I tried to fight it with my fire, but it didn't work."
"Nothing works against it," Gabrielle whispered. "That's the worst part. In my dreams, I try everything, but nothing stops it."
"In my dream," Fleur said slowly, "someone made it stop."
Gabrielle's head lifted from the pillow. "Someone? Who?"
"I don't know. A boy, I think. But I couldn't see his face. He was covered in shadows." Fleur paused, remembering that quiet, authoritative voice. "He told the creature to stop, and it did. It ran away."
"A boy made the monster run away?" Gabrielle's eyes were wide. "How?"
"I don't know that either," Fleur admitted. "I woke up before I could see who he was."
Gabrielle was quiet for a moment, processing this. Then: "Do you think he's real? The boy in the shadows?"
"It was just a dream, ma petite," Fleur said gently, stroking Gabrielle's hair. "Just our minds trying to make sense of what happened."
But even as she said it, Fleur wasn't entirely sure she believed it. The dream had felt too real, too vivid. And that voice...
I will never harm you.
Why would her subconscious create a stranger to save her? Why not her father, or her mother, or one of the French Ministry officials who had actually been there that night? Why a faceless boy wrapped in shadows?
"I hope he's real," Gabrielle murmured, already starting to drift off. The exhaustion of nightmares was pulling her back toward sleep, made safer now by her sister's presence. "I hope he finds the monster and makes it go away forever."
Fleur held her sister closer, listening as Gabrielle's breathing gradually evened out into the rhythm of sleep. But Fleur herself remained awake, staring at the canopy above the bed, her mind unable to stop circling back to the dream.
Who was the boy in the shadows? And why did some part of her—some instinct she couldn't explain—believe that he was more than just a figment of her frightened imagination?
Outside, the moon continued its slow arc across the sky.
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