"Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth." — Oscar Wilde
Harriet and Fleur remained a moment longer at the manor gates, still caught in the afterglow of Furina's performance. The theater had been more than they had ever hoped for, a spectacle of magic and emotion that lingered in their minds like a sweet echo. After Furina's elegant bow and her sincere thanks to the audience, the two girls decided it was time to return, their fingers intertwined in a gesture both playful and comforting.
To Fleur's surprise, it was Harriet who initiated the teleportation this time. With a confident motion and a flick of her wand, the world around them blurred, and in an instant, they were standing once again in the familiar elegance of the Delacour Manor. Fleur blinked, clearly impressed. "At fifteen? Really?" she asked, half-teasing, half-awed. "I was right… you'll become unstoppable. I can see it already. Magic like yours, combined with that talent… the sky isn't the limit."
Harriet let herself smile, feeling a flush rise to her cheeks, but she kept her composure. "You flatter me," she replied lightly. Her eyes, however, betrayed her amusement and quiet pride.
Before either of them could speak further, Fleur leaned in impulsively and kissed her in the French style. Harriet froze for a heartbeat, confusion flickering across her features before she let herself simply enjoy the warmth and closeness. It was fleeting, tender, and entirely consensual. A moment later, she blinked and gently tilted her head, processing what had just happened with a soft blush.
"It's for giving me such a wonderful day," Fleur murmured, her voice low and teasing. She leaned in for a quick peck on Harriet's cheek before gliding toward her room with a mischievous smile. Harriet stood for a moment, grinning uncontrollably, before making her way to the guest room, still floating a little on the excitement of the evening.
…
The morning sun had already begun its climb when Harriet awoke the next day. The memory of the previous day lingered warmly in her mind. A quick shower helped her fully wake, and she dressed with care—something casual, elegant, French-inspired, and comfortable. Descending the stairs, she spotted Fleur waiting in the dining room, casually flipping through a newspaper but with a glint of mischief in her eyes. Harriet felt herself blush again, remembering the kiss, but she kept her composure, reminding herself that this was playful flirtation, not anything more… at least for now.
Gabrielle, Fleur's younger sister, greeted her with radiant enthusiasm, practically bouncing in place. "Harriet! Good morning!" she exclaimed, practically dragging Harriet into a quick hug. The sheer energy of the little girl made Harriet laugh, any worries dissipate with this little bundle of joy.
The parents then joined them, formally introducing themselves in the composed, precise manner typical of French nobility. Monsieur Delacour, tall and dignified, shook Harriet's hand firmly, his dark eyes assessing her with a quiet seriousness. "I am Antoine Delacour," he said. "And this," gesturing to his wife, "is my wife Angélique Delacour. We are pleased to welcome you to our home."
Madame Delacour's smile was warm, yet she carried the air of a woman who understood every nuance of her household. Fleur's proud, watchful gaze lingered on her parents, while Gabrielle's enthusiasm bubbled over, making the room feel lively despite the formality.
Breakfast was served, with delicate pastries, freshly baked bread, summer fruit, and steaming tea. Conversation flowed lightly, filled with laughter, teasing, and small anecdotes about the town, the family, and the theater performance. Harriet allowed herself to relax, enjoying the rhythm of the house and the subtle warmth of Fleur's occasional glances.
But as the meal drew to a close, Monsieur Delacour's tone shifted, carrying a weight that silenced the room. "Tell me, young lady," he asked, fixing Harriet with a serious gaze, "has… he truly returned?"
Harriet met his eyes evenly, steady and measured. "Yes. I confronted him," she said. "I took a beating, barely escaped… but I got away."
Madame Delacour's expression softened slightly, tinged with maternal concern. Fleur mirrored her father's seriousness, jaw tight, while Gabrielle's wide-eyed admiration betrayed both awe and worry. Harriet understood the gravity. The Delacours were not just any family—they were influential in the French magical government, their decisions echoing far beyond their home. Antoine Delacour holds a high rank in the French Ministry of Magic, and Angélique works for France's Cultural Affairs.
"But," Harriet continued, lowering her voice, "he hasn't returned as a human. If I were to explain… he's come back as a Liche. I don't know if it's the original Voldemort—my encounter was only with that one—but this one could be far more dangerous."
A tense silence followed. Even Gabrielle paused, absorbing the threat, while Fleur's shoulders stiffened slightly. Antoine and Angélique exchanged a look—brief, heavy, as if this only confirmed what they already believed of him. Yet Harriet remained calm. This was just information, not panic. She had faced him, survived, and escaped. That was all that mattered.
After breakfast, Gabrielle insisted on taking Harriet out to enjoy the morning. "Come on!" she said, tugging Harriet along. "The day is too beautiful to stay inside! Let's play!"
Harriet smiled, easily indulging the little girl. They ran through the gardens, chased enchanted birds, and laughed as Gabrielle exaggerated every flutter and hop of the small creatures. It was playful, joyous, and grounding—a moment of pure fun amidst the complexities of magical politics and looming dangers.
Later, Harriet found herself sharing quiet moments with Madame Delacour. Beautiful, poised, and intelligent, she was a stimulating presence for someone like Harriet—someone who appreciated elegance, intellect, and subtle charm. They discussed magical theory, French culture, and stories from their pasts, forming a brief but meaningful connection.
The afternoon passed in laughter, light tea, and conversation. Harriet observed Fleur's protective pride, Gabrielle's uncontainable excitement, and the poised, watchful energy of her parents. By the time the sun began to dip toward the horizon, Harriet felt enriched, having gained not only information but a sense of connection with a family who, though formidable, had a genuine warmth to offer.
As evening approached, Harriet decided that before going back she needed a moment to herself. She would take a walk through Clermont-Ferrand, enjoy the quiet streets in the fading light, and perhaps have a simple dinner before returning home. The city glowed under the soft summer light, and for Harriet, the walk promised both reflection and a sense of freedom.
Harriet popped back into existence at the very same spot where she and Fleur had arrived earlier that day. The air was cooler now, the light softer, tinted with the orange glow of early evening. She quickly scanned her surroundings and, not far from there, noticed a faint trace of a fire-marked path—a clear route that would allow her to return to England without trouble if needed. Good. One less variable to worry about.
With that settled, she relaxed.
She began walking, letting herself drift through the city with no particular destination in mind. It was that pleasant hour when students began to flood the streets—laughing, talking loudly, some already a little tipsy. A few had clearly returned early to Clermont-Ferrand to get a head start on the academic year, enjoying the final stretch of summer freedom.
The city wasn't fully the student hub it would become in a few weeks, but the promise of it was already there, buzzing beneath the surface. Harriet found it… nice. Refreshing, even.
She was approached more than once. Each time, she answered in English, pretending not to understand French at all. Being fifteen and a girl in this life, she found the attention more unsettling than flattering. Some backed off immediately. Others tried anyway—only to realize she wasn't interested.
Once she noticed that most of them spoke at least passable English, she switched tactics.
"Privet," she said flatly to one group.
They blinked.
"Dasvidania."
That did the trick.
At one point, a few girls tried their luck as well. One even bought her a beer, which Harriet accepted with a polite smile and chatted over briefly. All things considered, it was a pleasant evening—strange, lively, human in a way she rarely allowed herself to experience.
Following Miss Marie's advice, Harriet decided to finally try something she had heard far too much about: the first kebab in this life.
The moment she approached the stand, she was greeted with a cheerful, booming:
"So, what'll it be, chef?"
She ordered the most basic option—the classic—with a canned drink. Nothing fancy. Taking her food, she sat down on the steps leading up to the Jaude shopping center and ate slowly.
…It was as good as she remember it.
She could easily see why it was appealing to students, and likely to people of all ages.
Once she finished, she wandered again, letting herself digest both the food and the day. That's when she felt it.
Magic.
Not directed at her—but close. A localized distortion, subtle yet deliberate. The kind that pushed ordinary people away without them ever realizing why. Harriet frowned slightly.
She knew she shouldn't.
But the relaxation of the last two days had dulled her caution just enough.
Curiosity won.
Crossing the boundary felt like stepping into another world. The city noise dulled, the air thickened—and then she saw her.
Furina.
Still dressed in her theatrical costume, adorned as the Fake Hydro Archon, standing confidently before three men clad in what Harriet instantly recognized as exorcist attire.
She was even more beautiful in person, she thought.
"Who's there?!" one of them barked, a long scar cutting across his face as he turned toward Harriet. His eyes narrowed.
"If you managed to enter this area, then you're no ordinary civilian… but I don't have time for you. Leave. Now. That thing in front of us is a devil— a lying creature, banished by our Creator. She's dangerous. You should go, girl!"
His voice rose toward the end, sharp and urgent.
Furina also turned to look at Harriet. Surprise flickered across her face—followed by recognition. Something faint, prophetic. She had felt it before. Yesterday. During the performance.
Ah. So it was her.
A fan? Hmph. I won't lose any admirers today!
"Don't listen to him!" Furina declared dramatically.
"First of all, I'm only half a 'devil,' so he's already wrong! And you're my fan, aren't you? I saw you yesterday—hmm… daring to come here despite the danger, just to ask for my autograph?"
She laughed lightly, lifting her chin.
"Hehe… truly, the charm of Furina knows no bounds!"
She struck a smug, theatrical pose, voice ringing with exaggerated confidence.
Harriet was beginning to piece the situation together, but before she could respond, the other men exchanged glances.
The half-devil doesn't seem very bright, they thought. But the fan might be trouble.
They never got the chance to act.
Three massive hammers made entirely of water materialized mid-air and slammed down, knocking all three exorcists unconscious in an instant. Furina stood tall, unfazed.
Harriet stared for a moment, confused. Her instinct whispered that something wasn't right. With some effort, she felt that each of those exorcists could probably have bested her… and yet, here they were, lying unconscious. She shook her head slightly, deciding to set the thought aside—for now.
Furina waved dismissively.
"They were just actors! Actors, I tell you! Don't listen to them. I, Furina, wouldn't even hurt a cat!"
She said this with maximum expression—standing proudly over three unconscious bodies.
Harriet finally spoke.
"I… I was just passing by. By accident. And I am a witch," she said calmly.
"They confirmed that themselves earlier, so there's no need to lie… putting aside the fact that devils exist at all, Miss Furina."
She met Furina's eyes directly, gratitude shining clearly.
"Your play was magnificent. True art. The best thing I've ever seen in my life. I'll never forget it. Thank you for allowing me to see it in person… and if it's not too much trouble— I'd really like that autograph."
Furina smiled, feeling oddly reassured—though she couldn't quite place why.
"Of course, young lady. Always—for a pretty little fan."
She pulled out an embroidered handkerchief, signed it elegantly, and handed it over. Harriet accepted it with genuine joy.
"I must go now," Furina added lightly.
"Oh, leave them there. They'll find their way eventually."
She paused, then produced a summoning flyer.
"If you ever need anything, call me with this. I'll come."
With a graceful bow, she vanished.
"…See you soon, Miss Furina," Harriet murmured.
As the alley returned to silence, Harriet allowed herself a small smile. Her luck as a Potter hadn't done much lately—but this?
A contact like Furina was worth more than gold.
Information, insight and maybe protection if needed.
More than enough reason to keep in touch.
And perhaps answers about just how dangerous this world truly was.