"The stage is not merely a place, it is a world within a world." — Shakespeare
"Why are you just standing there with your mouth gaping? Ah, you must be stunned and at a loss for words... Understandable, it is I after all... Fontaine's most beloved star, Furina." — Furina
Harriet's bag was not large, nor was it sparse. It was exact. Folded clothes aligned with almost military precision, everything chosen with purpose. Not because she was anxious—but because she disliked improvising when she didn't have to.
She stood in front of the mirror for a moment, adjusting her outfit.
She had gone for something relaxed, but undeniably elegant. A cream-colored blouse with soft fabric and clean lines, tucked into dark high-waisted trousers that allowed freedom of movement without sacrificing style. A navy jacket rested neatly over her shoulders, tailored just enough to hint at refinement without screaming effort. Flat leather shoes, discreet, polished. No jewelry beyond a simple ring.
Casual. Classy. French, in spirit.
For a fifteen-year-old, she looked composed—too composed, some would say. But Harriet had long stopped caring about what people thought was appropriate.
She closed her bag, took one last look around the Potter Manor bedroom, and stepped into the fireplace.
"Delacour Manor."
Green flames swallowed her whole.
A heartbeat later, warmth replaced fire, and laughter filled her ears.
She stepped out to find Fleur Delacour waiting for her—radiant as ever—but she was far from alone.
Madame Delacour stood nearby, elegant and sharp-eyed, her veela heritage softened by age but no less striking. Monsieur Delacour offered a polite nod, calm and observant.
And then something small collided with Harriet's waist at full speed.
"Harriet!
The impact nearly knocked the breath out of her.
She looked down just in time to see Gabrielle Delacour clinging to her like a lifeline, eyes bright with unfiltered joy.
"You're finally here!" Gabrielle exclaimed. "You were gone forever!"
Harriet blinked once and said softly,
"…It's been two months, little princess."
"I missed you too."
"That's forever," Gabrielle replied immediately, with the absolute certainty of someone who would not be convinced otherwise.
Fleur laughed, warm and fond.
"She followed you everywhere last year. You are her hero."
Harriet sighed softly.
"I was haunted," she corrected. "Like a particularly cursed duckling."
Gabrielle grinned.
"You're amazing."
Harriet accepted that statement the way she accepted gravity—without comment.
After polite greetings and brief conversation with Fleur's parents, Fleur smoothly took control.
"The play is tonight," she said, slipping her arm through Harriet's. "So today, she's mine."
Madame Delacour smiled knowingly.
"Tomorrow evening we will have time to talk then."
Harriet nodded.
"That works."
Gabrielle pouted.
"That's too short."
"All good things are," Harriet replied calmly, then grinned. "Aren't you fabulous too?"
"Hey!" Gabrielle exclaimed.
Fleur glanced at her, something warm flickering behind her eyes.
"You look very good," Fleur said, her voice low, smooth, unmistakably sensual.
Heat rose to Harriet's cheeks before she could stop it.
"…Thank you. You too."
Fleur noticed. Of course she did.
Her smile deepened.
Fleur's dress was a soft, silvery-blue silk that caught the light with every movement, the fabric clinging delicately to her slender frame before flowing into a gentle, floor-length skirt. A subtle shimmer ran through the material, hinting at the moonlight without being gaudy.
Her hair, pale blonde and almost white at the tips, was styled loosely, some strands framing her face while the rest cascaded over her shoulders in gentle waves. A pair of delicate silver earrings glinted when she turned her head, matching the thin bracelet on her wrist.
Her shoes were elegant but understated—simple satin pumps that allowed her to move with both poise and ease. Fleur carried herself with the confidence of someone who knew she drew attention without even trying, her posture perfect, her movements fluid and light.
She took Harriet's hand, and the world twisted.
They reappeared just outside Clermont-Ferrand, near the train station. Morning light spilled across stone buildings, the air fresh and alive.
They walked.
Past cafés setting up terraces, past bookshops and quiet streets where old architecture brushed against modern life. Fleur pointed things out casually, telling stories from her childhood.
Harriet listened.
"So," Harriet said dryly, "this is the romantic France everyone talks about."
As if summoned by irony itself, they passed a group of teenagers leaning against a wall, speaking loudly.
"Wesh la gonz, t'as vu comment elle est chargée, t'as capté ou quoi ?"
Harriet slowed half a step.
Fleur lowered her gaze, visibly embarrassed.
Harriet tilted her head thoughtfully.
"…I learned French," she said, "but I've never heard that before. What language is that, Fleur?"
A pause.
Then Fleur straightened, regaining confidence.
"An old language. A very ancient one. A compagnarde tongue."
Harriet nodded solemnly.
"I see."
Fleur added quickly, "Not many people speak it anymore."
"Tragic," Harriet replied sarcastically, and continued walking.
Fleur laughed and linked their arms again.
They wandered deeper into the city—toward Place Delille, then quieter streets filled with sunlight and flowers.
"You look better than last time, more sure of yourself," Fleur noted.
"I've learned a lot about myself recently, and let's just say I have a broader perspective now."
"That's good. You deserve the best, Harriet… like me," Fleur winked, eyes sparkling as she watched her turn her head shyly. "Still not very mature, are you?"
Trying to change the subject, Harriet asked,
"By the way, I didn't feel your aura—and neither did the crowd—how come?"
Fleur smiled lightly.
"I can control it, of course. Last year it was a bit tricky, because when we first gain our Veela aura, there's a short adaptation period. But with all the stress from the tournament, it lasted longer. By December, I could control it completely. Honestly, I'm glad you were there—otherwise I would've felt a bit alone in those conditions," she added with a kind smile. "You didn't notice?"
Harriet shrugged, a hint of confidence in her voice.
"No aura needed to see how charming you are," she said almost assuredly.
Fleur grinned.
"Aren't you a briseuse de cœur, ma jolie?"
At noon, Fleur guided her into Le Puy de la Lune.
They ordered truffade, the most famous regional dish. When it arrived, Harriet stared at it.
"This is aggressive," she observed.
Fleur laughed.
"It's honest food."
Harriet took a bite.
Paused.
"…I understand why wars were fought over land now."
Fleur smiled brightly.
They talked as they ate—about books, travel, magic. Fleur reached across the table, brushing Harriet's fingers lightly.
The afternoon passed at Place de Jaude, wandering boutiques, trying scarves and laughing softly.
Inside the Opéra-Théâtre de Clermont-Ferrand, their VIP seats were plush and intimate.
Fleur leaned in immediately, resting her head on Harriet's shoulder. Her fingers traced slow patterns along Harriet's arm.
"You don't mind," Fleur murmured.
"No."
Fleur's thumb brushed Harriet's wrist.
"Good."
The lights dimmed.
Harriet felt it before she saw it—a tightening, a pull, her mind slipping into perfect focus.
The lights snap on, bathing the stage in a sudden glow. At first, it's just a silhouette—slender and poised, commanding attention without a word. Then, as she steps forward, the crowd can see her clearly: sharp, calculating eyes that seem to appraise everything at once, a mischievous curve to her lips, and a presence that makes the space around her feel smaller, more intense. Every movement is fluid, every gesture deliberate, as if the stage itself bends to her will. There's a confidence there that's almost daring, a magnetic energy that draws all eyes, leaving no doubt—this is someone unforgettable.
"Ah… so you have come to witness a story shaped by waves, wills, and the fragile arrogance of gods."
Harriet froze.
Her breath caught painfully in her chest.
Furina.
Her hands clenched slowly.
Her past life surged forward—not blurred, not distant, but sharp and vivid.
This wasn't nostalgia.
This was collision.
Fleur shifted beside her.
"Harriet?"
Harriet didn't answer.
For the first time since regaining her memories, disbelief cracked her composure.
If this existed…
What else had followed her across worlds?
The play had begun.
And Harriet Potter, for the first time in a long while, felt unprepared.
The lights dimmed, and the theater exhaled as one. Every whisper, shuffle, and cough faded, replaced by a weightless anticipation that clung to the audience like a spell. Harriet felt it settle on her shoulders, a strange mixture of calm and tension. This was not magic, not in the usual sense, but a different kind of power—the sheer presence of those who commanded the stage.
A single spotlight split the darkness.
There she stood.
Furina de Fontaine.
Harriet froze. Not a projection, not an illusion—alive, radiant, unmistakable under the beam. Furina's entrance was declarative, each movement deliberate, a dance that claimed the space around her. Every line of her posture spoke of mastery, confidence, and a quiet challenge: observe, and surrender to the story.
Her voice cut through the theater, not merely heard but felt.
"Ladies and gentlemen, seekers of stories,
welcome to a tale older than the tides,
deeper than the mightiest ocean,
and as fickle as the will of water itself!"
Even the faintest stir of the audience ceased. Every pair of eyes leaned forward, entranced. Harriet's chest tightened. She recognized the spark—the intensity, the control, the effortless allure of someone who could make every gesture, every word, a current that drew others in.
The first act unfolded with the oceanide exploring a quiet cove, shy and hesitant. Furina's voice shifted subtly, her gestures small yet meaningful. The audience might have seen only a water spirit's curiosity.
The oceanide's first encounter with the human world was cautious. Furina moved with grace, alternating between delicate steps across the stage and sudden, expressive motions that conveyed excitement and fear. The humans she observed were gentle, laughing in the sun, yet also careless and noisy. Harriet noticed the way Furina's voice quivered in the oceanide's questioning tones, the way her head tilted slightly as though listening to whispers only she could hear. It was a subtle invitation for the audience to lean in, to share the secret, to feel the story not just with their eyes but with their hearts.
Act two escalated: the oceanide ventured further, encountering laughter, quarrels, joy, and sorrow. Furina's performance was fluid; she became multiple characters at once, shifting tone, posture, and expression seamlessly. Her confidence and presence remained constant, but she allowed delicate moments of vulnerability to shine. Harriet observed, calculating techniques in her mind, yet feeling an undeniable thrill at how completely Furina owned the stage.
A storm scene arrived, and with it, a surge of energy. Lighting, sound, and mechanical waves worked together, but it was Furina's skill that made it convincing. Her voice soared, riding the storm as if it were a living thing. Each note, each gesture, commanded the space and demanded attention. Harriet could not turn away. Every flick of her wrist, every sweep of her gaze seemed intentional, precise, yet effortless. The audience shivered collectively, caught in the spell.
By the third act, the oceanide sat on a solitary rock, watching the distant human village. Furina's movements were smaller, more introspective. Her voice softened to a whisper, drawing attention to the beauty of small details: the moonlit waves, the laughter of unseen children, the hesitant smiles of villagers. Every nuance, every micro-expression, seemed perfectly measured. Harriet's mind cataloged the precision while her chest registered the impact—the artistry, the skill, the sheer presence.
Then came the crescendo—the oceanide confronted a choice. To remain safely within her waters or to engage with the human world fully. Furina's stance shifted; her voice rose and fell like a tide, commanding attention, carrying subtle emotion that hinted at personal stakes beyond the story. Harriet's heart reacted—not in a romantic sense, but with recognition of the genius before her: the ability to make an audience care, to immerse them completely.
Finally, the theater fell into near darkness, save for Furina bathed in a single spotlight. She began to sing.
The piece—"La Vaguelette"—was delicate at first, a ripple of sound spreading across the hall like water touching every corner. Furina's voice was crystalline, pure, carrying both fragility and immense strength. Harriet's chest tightened as the melody brushed against something buried in memory, something ancient, though she couldn't identify it.
"Ah, si je pouvais vivre …"
The song swelled, each note imbued with light and shadow, the innocence of the oceanide intertwined with a hint of hidden strength. Harriet felt a subtle tension in her chest. The performance was perfect, a storm of artistry and presence. For a fleeting moment, it almost felt as if Furina were performing just for her. She knew rationally that every audience member felt the same spell—but still, she couldn't shake the thought.
A fleeting, absurd question crossed her mind: Did Furina somehow… reincarnate into this world from Teyvat? She shook it away. It was impossible, certainly, yet the thought left a trace—a tickle of curiosity and wonder.
The final note quivered and hung in the air. Silence claimed the hall for a heartbeat, then applause erupted. Clapping, whistles, cheers—the hall filled with collective awe. Harriet remained still, caught in the aftermath of brilliance. Furina's bow was graceful, her glance sweeping across the theater before settling briefly on the VIP section, a small, knowing smile on her lips.
Fleur leaned toward her, playful, teasing.
"If you keep staring at her like that, I'm going to get jealous," she whispered.
Harriet smiled, inclining her head to reassure her.
"Don't worry. It's just… I don't have the words for it," she replied smoothly. Internally, the echo of admiration from the performance still lingered—if she had been reincarnated in Fontaine, she would have been a fan of Furina and nothing else.
Fleur smirked, brushing Harriet's arm lightly.
"I told you this show was worth it, didn't I?"
Harriet nodded, letting herself relax. The thrill of the performance remained, but now tempered by the grounding presence of Fleur. The theater continued to buzz as people left, talking and praising. Yet Harriet's thoughts lingered on the stage, on Furina's mastery, her fluidity, and the story of the little oceanide—an allegory from Teyvat, now living in this world through her performance.
She shook her head lightly and followed Fleur. The play was over, but the tide it had left behind in her chest—the awe, the fascination, the subtle pull of artistry—would not quickly fade.
For the first time in both of her lives, Harriet felt truly, utterly impressed—there was no denying it. Furina de Fontaine, Hydro Archon, was the greatest actress of all time.