Teaser of Harry Potter/Fleur Delacour/Daphne Greengrass - One Shot (Patreon)

The first rays of dawn crept over the Hogwarts grounds. Harry Potter stirred awake in the Gryffindor Boy's rooms, a strange electricity buzzing beneath his skin. It wasn't just the crisp March air filtering through the cracked window—it was something deeper, wilder, like a storm coiled in his chest. Ever since that night with Fleur and Apolline in the Beauxbatons carriage, he'd felt... different.

He slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Ron—whose snores rattled the four-poster like a troll with a head cold—and grabbed his wand from the nightstand. His glasses fogged briefly as he exhaled, a grin tugging at his lips. For once, he didn't feel like the scrawny kid under the stairs, waiting for life to happen. He felt alive.

He left the common room and found himself near the entrance of the Main Hall. There were barely any students there at this hour, but some had started to come. A figure waited by the Main Hall's large door. Fleur Delacour turned as he approached, looking breathtaking in her Beauxbatons uniform. She wore a light blue cloak over her Beauxbatons uniform, her presence as striking as ever, even at this ungodly hour.

"'Arry," she greeted, her voice a soft melody that made his heart skip. "You are up early."

"Couldn't sleep," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Too much... energy, I guess."

She stepped closer, her blue eyes glinting with something tender yet fierce. "Ze bond—it is waking you up, non? I felt it too, last night." Her fingers brushed his, sending a jolt of warmth through him, and she smiled. "You are stronger now. I see it in your eyes."

Harry swallowed, caught off guard by the intensity of her gaze. "I don't know what I'm doing half the time, Fleur. But with you... it feels right."

She leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, her lips lingering just long enough to make his breath hitch. "Trust yourself, mon cœur. You 'ave more power zan you know. Go—practice. I will see you at breakfast."

With a final squeeze of his hand, she walked away with a few other girls from Beauxbatons, leaving Harry with a goofy grin and a chest full of warmth. He shook his head, muttering, "Get a grip, Potter," before heading out into the chilly morning.

The Quidditch Pitch loomed ahead. Harry chose an unused corner near the Gryffindor stands, the grass still damp with dew beneath his trainers. He twirled his wand—holly, eleven inches, phoenix feather core—and took a deep breath. Time to see what this new spark could do.

"Accio rock!" he called, pointing at a fist-sized stone ten yards away. It shot toward him with a whistle, faster than he'd expected, and he caught it mid-air, stumbling back a step. "Blimey," he muttered, tossing it aside. "Alright, let's try something bigger."

"Protego!" A shimmering shield flared to life, its edges crackling with silvery-green light—Fleur's Veela magic woven into his own. He flicked his wand again, testing its strength with a weak Stupefy. The red bolt ricocheted off, sizzling into the grass with a puff of smoke. Harry grinned. "Now we're talking."

He moved to more advanced spells, his voice steady and sure. "Expelliarmus!" A broomstick leaning against the stands flew out of reach, spinning wildly before clattering to the ground. "Stupefy!" The blast hit a wooden post, splintering its edge with a loud crack, sparks dancing like fireflies. Each spell felt sharper, more alive, as if his magic had shed a layer of rust.

A few early risers trickled onto the grounds—mostly Hufflepuffs heading to the greenhouses, their chatter a distant hum. Harry barely noticed, lost in the rhythm of his wandwork, until a soft gasp pulled his attention. Susan Bones stood near the path, her auburn hair glinting in the sun, clutching a Herbology textbook. She stared at him, wide-eyed, then flushed and hurried off, muttering something to a friend who giggled behind her hand.

"Oi, Potter's putting on a show," Lavender Brown's voice drifted over as she and Parvati Patil strolled by, wrapped in Gryffindor scarves. Lavender's gaze lingered a beat too long, her usual flirtatious smirk replaced by a curious tilt of her head. "Didn't know you had that in you," she called, before Parvati tugged her toward the castle, whispering furiously.

Even Professor Sinistra, the Astronomy teacher, paused on her way to the North Tower, her dark eyes narrowing as she watched Harry's latest Stupefy carve a scorch mark into the dirt. She adjusted her star-strewn robes, murmured, "Interesting," and continued on, her heels clicking against the stone path.

Harry shrugged off the attention, wiping sweat from his brow. "Just practicing," he said to no one in particular, though the faint buzz of their stares prickled his skin. He wasn't used to witches noticing him like that—not beyond the Triwizard fame or the scar. Shaking it off, he squared his shoulders. One more spell. Something big.

"Expecto Patronum!" he shouted, pouring everything into it—memories of Fleur's kisses, Apolline's touch, the surge of belonging he'd felt with them. A blinding light erupted from his wand, and his stag burst forth, larger than he'd ever seen it. Its antlers gleamed like polished silver, its hooves thundered against the air, and it galloped across the pitch, leaving a trail of shimmering mist. The sheer power of it stole his breath, and he laughed—a raw, giddy sound—as it circled once before fading into the morning haze.

"Bloody hell," he panted, lowering his wand. "That's new."

Unbeknownst to him, a figure watched from the edge of the pitch, half-hidden by an ancient oak. Daphne Greengrass leaned against the gnarled trunk, arms crossed over her Slytherin robes, her sharp green eyes tracking the stag's arc. She'd heard of Harry Potter, of course—who hadn't?—but the scrawny Gryffindor with a knack for trouble had never piqued her interest. Until now.

She tilted her head, blonde hair spilling over one shoulder, and frowned slightly. The power in that Patronus wasn't luck or some Triwizard fluke—it was raw, untamed, almost... overwhelming. She'd seen him bumble through classes, dodge Malfoy's taunts, but this? This was different. The way his spells crackled, the confidence in his stance—it stirred something in her, a flicker of intrigue she couldn't quite squash.

"Potter," she murmured, her voice low and dry, "what've you been up to?" Most of the castle was still asleep or huddled inside, leaving the grounds quiet save for the rustle of leaves and the distant caw of a crow. The witches who'd noticed him—Bones, Brown, even Sinistra—hadn't lingered, drawn back to their routines, but Daphne stayed. She didn't care for hero worship or Gryffindor bravado, and she'd sooner hex Draco than join his sycophantic posse. But power? Real power? That was worth watching.

Harry, oblivious, tucked his wand into his pocket and stretched, the morning sun warming his face. He felt good—better than good. Whatever the Veela bond had unlocked, it wasn't just magic. It was him. With a final glance at the pitch, he started back toward the castle, whistling a tune he'd picked up from Fleur. Breakfast awaited, and maybe a chance to tell her about that stag.

Daphne pushed off the tree, her expression unreadable. She didn't follow—not yet. But as Harry's figure shrank into the distance, she muttered, "Let's see if you're all flash and no substance, Potter." A faint smirk tugged at her lips, and she turned toward the dungeons, her mind already spinning with questions.

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Harry Potter sat alone at a corner table in Hogwart's Library, surrounded by a fortress of open books—Advanced Spell Theory, Defensive Magic for the Bold, and a dog-eared copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4. His glasses slid down his nose as he squinted at a diagram of a Protego Maxima variant, muttering incantations under his breath. The Third Task loomed like a storm cloud, and after his morning on the Quidditch Pitch, he was determined to be ready.

He didn't hear the footsteps until a shadow fell across his page. A heavy thud jolted him upright as a thick tome—Hexes and Countercurses: A Practical Guide—landed on his table, its leather cover gleaming with a faint sheen of age. Harry blinked up at the figure towering over him: Daphne Greengrass, the so-called "Ice Queen of Slytherin," all sharp cheekbones and sharper green eyes. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and her Slytherin tie hung slightly askew, as if she'd loosened it out of boredom rather than carelessness. She crossed her arms, her presence radiating a quiet command that made Madam Pince's usual shushing seem redundant.

"You're louder than you think, Potter," she said, her voice dry as parchment, each word clipped with precision. "That little show on the pitch this morning? Half the castle's buzzing about it."

Harry's mouth opened, then closed, caught off guard. He'd heard of Daphne—Slytherin's untouchable enigma, powerful enough to make Draco Malfoy squirm and aloof enough to ignore everyone else. She wasn't one for small talk or hero worship, and yet here she was, staring him down like he'd personally offended her. He pushed his glasses up, leaning back in his chair with a confidence he hadn't known he possessed a week ago.

"Didn't know you cared to listen," he shot back, matching her tone with a hint of a smirk. "Thought you'd be too busy hexing Malfoy's ego into next term."

Her lips twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. "Malfoy's a prat who thinks shouting makes him strong. You, though..." She tilted her head, studying him like a potions ingredient she couldn't quite place. "That Patronus wasn't just noise. What's your trick, Potter? Triwizard luck finally kicking in?"

Harry's pulse quickened, but he kept his face steady. The Veela bond flickered in his mind—but he wasn't about to spill that to a near-stranger. "No trick," he said, tapping his wand against the table. "Just hard work. You should try it sometime—might loosen up that icy glare."

Daphne's eyes narrowed, but there was a spark in them, a flicker of amusement or challenge. "Hard work, huh? Funny, I don't remember you blasting stags across the grounds last year. Or cracking posts with a Stupefy like it's nothing." She leaned forward, resting her knuckles on the table, her voice dropping. "You're hiding something, and it's not just Gryffindor grit."

"Maybe I've just stopped holding back," Harry replied, meeting her gaze without flinching. The air between them crackled, not with magic but with something else. "What's it to you, Greengrass? Bored of Slytherin's usual games?"

She straightened, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I don't waste time on games—or weaklings. That's Malfoy's territory. But you..." She paused, her tone shifting from skepticism to a grudging edge. "You might actually be worth a damn. Prove it's not just noise. Room of Requirement, tonight, eight o'clock. Duel me."

Harry blinked, the challenge sinking in. "A duel? What, no 'please'?"

"Don't need one," she said, already turning on her heel. "Show up or don't. I'll know either way." Her robes swished as she strode off, her footsteps echoing in the hushed library, leaving Harry staring at the hex book she'd dropped like a gauntlet.

He exhaled, running a hand through his messy hair. "Bloody hell," he muttered, half-laughing. Daphne Greengrass didn't mess around—she was blunt as a Bludger and twice as dangerous. But something about her dry wit, her refusal to coddle him, lit a fire in his chest. He'd show her noise, alright.

The library door creaked open again, and Hermione bustled in, her arms full of scrolls and her bushy hair even wilder than usual. She plopped down across from him, eyeing the hex book with a frown. "What's that doing here? Don't tell me you're picking up dark magic now, Harry."

"Not mine," he said, jerking his thumb toward the stacks where Daphne had vanished. "Daphne Greengrass just challenged me to a duel. Room of Requirement, tonight."

Hermione's quill froze mid-scratch. "Daphne Greengrass? The Slytherin who turned Draco's hair purple last year when he called her a mudblood-lover?" Her brown eyes widened, then narrowed. "She's powerful, Harry—cunning, too. Top of her class in Charms and Defense. You don't want to underestimate her."

"Wasn't planning to," Harry said, leaning forward with a grin. "She saw me practicing this morning. Thinks I'm all flash and no substance. I'm gonna prove her wrong."

Hermione studied him, her lips pursing as if she were solving a particularly tricky Arithmancy problem. Then, to his surprise, a faint blush crept up her cheeks, staining them pink. "You've been... different lately," she said, her voice softer. "More confident. It's—well, it's good to see. Just... be careful, alright? Daphne's not one to trifle with."

Harry raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the flush on her face. "Hermione, are you blushing?"

"What? No!" she sputtered, burying her nose in a scroll so fast it nearly tore. "I'm just—concerned, that's all! Honestly, Harry, focus on the duel, not me."

He chuckled, the thrill of the challenge bubbling up again. "Don't worry, I've got this. She wants a fight? She'll get one." He flipped open Hexes and Countercurses, scanning the table of contents—Disarming Hex, Blasting Curse, Shield Breakers. His fingers itched to grip his wand, the Veela magic humming faintly in his core.

Hermione peeked over her scroll, still faintly pink. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Maybe a little," he admitted, his grin widening. "She's not like Fleur—sharp as a knife and twice as prickly. But I reckon I can handle her."

"Famous last words," Hermione muttered, though a small smile tugged at her lips. "Just don't get hexed into next week."

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The corridors of Hogwarts were hushed as Harry made his way to the seventh floor, the evening shadows stretching long and thin across the stone walls. His heart thudded with a mix of nerves and excitement, his wand a comforting weight in his pocket. The clock had just struck eight when he reached the blank stretch of wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. He paced three times, muttering under his breath, "I need a place to duel," and a heavy oak door materialized, its edges glowing faintly with golden light.

Pushing it open, Harry stepped into the Room of Requirement, transformed into a dueling arena that could've rivaled any championship stage. The floor was padded with thick, springy mats—black with silver runes pulsing faintly along the edges—absorbing sound and promising a soft landing. Flickering torches lined the walls, their flames casting a warm, restless glow that danced across the high, vaulted ceiling. At the far end, a single figure stood, wand in hand, her silhouette sharp against the torchlight.

Daphne Greengrass turned as he entered, her green eyes glinting like polished emeralds. Gone were her Slytherin robes, replaced by practical dueling gear: a fitted black tunic, trousers that hugged her athletic frame, and dragonhide boots that clicked faintly against the mats. Her blonde hair was tied back in a tight braid, emphasizing the hard line of her jaw. She twirled her wand—ebony, sleek, and wickedly precise—between her fingers, a faint smirk playing on her lips.

"Thought you might chicken out, Potter," she said, her voice carrying that same dry edge from the library. "Glad to see Gryffindor courage isn't just a myth."

Harry grinned, pulling his own wand free. "Wouldn't miss it, Greengrass. Someone's got to show you what noise really sounds like."

Her smirk widened into something almost predatory. "Big words. Let's see if you're as good with a wand as you are with your mouth." Without warning, she flicked her wrist. "Expelliarmus!"

A jet of red light streaked toward him. Harry reacted on instinct, his voice ringing out, "Protego!" A shield flared to life, its surface shimmering with a silvery-green tint—a ripple of Veela magic threading through his own. The disarming spell slammed into it and ricocheted, sizzling into a torch with a shower of sparks. Daphne's eyebrow arched, but she didn't hesitate.

"Stupefy!" she snapped, the red bolt slicing through the air with surgical precision. Harry dodged, rolling to the side as it scorched the mat where he'd stood. He came up swinging. "Incarcerous!" Thick ropes shot from his wand, snapping toward her like striking snakes.

Daphne's eyes narrowed, and she slashed her wand downward. "Diffindo!" The ropes shredded mid-air, falling in tattered coils at her feet. "Nice try, Potter," she called, her breath steady despite the pace. "But you'll have to do better than party tricks."

Harry's grin turned fierce, the rush of his enhanced magic surging through him like wildfire. "Oh, I'm just getting started. Reducto!" A blast of blue light erupted from his wand, roaring toward the floor at Daphne's feet. She leapt aside as it hit, the mat cratering with a thunderous boom, chunks of padding flying like shrapnel. The air vibrated with the spell's force, and Harry felt a thrill—his power wasn't just louder; it was sharper, untamed, alive.

Daphne landed in a crouch, her braid swinging, and shot him a look that was half irritation, half respect. "Bloody hell, Potter, trying to bring the castle down?" Before he could answer, she flicked her wand upward. "Levicorpus!"

Harry's feet left the ground as invisible strings yanked him into the air, dangling him upside-down like a puppet. His glasses slid toward his forehead, but he didn't panic. "Finite Incantatem!" he barked, dropping back to the mat with a thud, rolling to his feet in one fluid motion. "My turn. Levicorpus!"

Daphne yelped as she was hoisted upward, her braid whipping around her face. She twisted mid-air, her wand slashing down. "Finite!" She landed lightly, panting now, her cheeks flushed with exertion. "You're quick, I'll give you that."

"And you're stubborn," Harry shot back, wiping sweat from his brow. "Ready to call it a draw?"

"Not a chance," she snarled, raising her wand again. But before she could cast, a slow, deliberate clap echoed through the room, freezing them both mid-stance.

Fleur Delacour stood in the doorway, her Beauxbatons cloak draped elegantly over one shoulder. She clapped again, her smile warm but edged with something playful. "Impressive, both of you," she said, her accent curling around the words like silk. "I 'ad no idea Slytherin 'ad such fire, and 'Arry—mon Dieu, you are magnificent."

Harry lowered his wand, his chest heaving, a grin breaking through his focus. "Fleur? What're you doing here?"

"Checking on my champion," she said, gliding forward with that effortless grace that made the room feel smaller. She linked her arm through his, her touch sending a familiar jolt of warmth through him. "And I find you dueling like a warrior. I approve."

Daphne straightened, brushing a stray hair from her face, her breathing still ragged. She eyed Harry with new respect, her gaze lingering on the faint shimmer still fading from his shield. "Not bad, Potter," she muttered, then flicked her eyes to Fleur, one eyebrow lifting. "Didn't realize you came with a cheering section."

Fleur laughed and squeezed Harry's arm possessively. "Oh, I am much more zan that, Daphne. But you—such skill! You must join us tomorrow in 'Ogsmeade. A drink, to celebrate 'Arry's progress—and yours, non?"

Daphne blinked, caught off guard by the invitation. She holstered her wand, crossing her arms again, though the gesture seemed less defensive now. "Hogsmeade? What, so you can parade him around like a trophy?"

"Parade?" Fleur tilted her head, her smile turning mischievous. "Non, I share 'im with those who deserve it. And you, I think, just might." She winked at Harry, who felt his face heat up despite himself.

"Oi, I'm right here," he said, half-laughing, half-flustered. "And I'm not a bloody trophy."

"Of course not," Fleur teased, patting his cheek. "You are a lion. A very talented one."

Daphne snorted, but her lips twitched upward. "You two are insufferable. Fine—Hogsmeade, tomorrow. But don't expect me to clap for you, Potter." She turned toward the door, pausing to glance back. "And next time, I'm winning."

"Keep dreaming, Greengrass," Harry called after her, his voice lighter than he felt. She didn't reply, just slipped out, leaving the echo of her boots behind.

Fleur turned to him, her blue eyes sparkling. "She likes you, 'Arry. I can tell."

"She's got a funny way of showing it," he said, holstering his wand. "Nearly took my head off with that Stupefy."

"Passion," Fleur said simply, her fingers brushing his arm. "It is a good sign. She sees your power, just as I do." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And I think she will see much more, soon."

Harry swallowed, the implication sinking in. "You're plotting something, aren't you?"

"Always," she purred, pulling him toward the door. "Come, let me reward you. You 'ave earned it."

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The Three Broomsticks was full of wizards and witches as always. Harry walked inside with Fleur's arm around his, Daphne following closely behind. Their odd trio had gathered some attention from students who saw them. Harry noticed the way many boys and even some girls looked at Fleur, many looking dazzed as if they were drunk. Harry paid them no mind and find a good place to sit with Fleur sitting beside him. Across the table, Daphne Greengrass dropped onto the bench, her dueling gear swapped for a sleek green jumper and black trousers that hugged her frame. She propped an elbow on the table, her sharp green eyes scanning the room like a hawk.

Three frothy mugs of Butterbeer arrived, delivered by a harried Rosmerta who muttered about "Hogsmeade weekends being the death of her." Harry took a sip, the sweet warmth spreading through him. Fleur's knee brushed his under the table, while Daphne's gaze flicked between them, guarded yet curious.

"So, Potter," Daphne began, her voice cutting through the pub's hum like a blade. She leaned forward, cradling her mug. "You're not the scrawny kid from first year anymore. What's changed? Don't tell me it's just 'Triwizard pressure' making you glow like that."

Harry's fingers tightened around his mug, the Veela bond pulsing faintly in his chest. He shot her a crooked grin. "Training," he said simply, taking another sip. "Been at it harder lately. You'd be surprised what a bit of effort can do."

Daphne's eyebrow arched, skepticism etched into her features. "Training, huh? That Reducto yesterday wasn't just effort—it was bloody feral. You're holding out on me."

Fleur laughed, a beautiful sound that turned a few heads nearby. She leaned closer to Daphne, her tone flirtatious. "Oh, 'e is full of surprises, non? But you, Daphne—you 'ave fire. That duel? Arry told me about it. Only a powerful witch can fight like that."

Daphne's lips twitched, caught between a smirk and a scoff. "Flattery's cheap, Delacour. Save it for someone who blushes." But her eyes lingered on Fleur, then slid to Harry, then back to Fleur. 

"So, Delacour," Daphne said, her tone edged like a blade, "what've you done to make Potter stronger? Some Beauxbatons trick? Love potion in his pumpkin juice?"

Fleur leaned back, crossing her legs. "Me? I 'ave done nothing, Daphne. 'Arry was strong long before I came along. First Task—dragons, non? He outflew a Hungarian Horntail. Second Task—ze lake, ze merpeople—he saved his friend and my little sister, first to ze surface. 'E 'ad ze most points before we even—" She paused, her lips curving mischievously. "Before we started messing around, as you say."

Harry grinned. "She's right. I was already winning. Fleur just... makes it more fun."

Fleur turned to him, her blue eyes glinting. "Fun, you say? Oh, 'Arry, you flatter me." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a purr. "Maybe I should take credit for zat Patronus—give you a little inspiration, non?"

"Reckon you already do," he shot back, his grin widening. He nudged her shoulder, their heads nearly touching. "That stag's got your sparkle now."

"Mon Dieu, listen to you," Fleur teased, tapping his nose with a finger. "So charming when you try."

Daphne's mug hit the table harder than necessary, her expression souring. "Merlin's beard, can you two stop pawing each other for five minutes? It's like watching a pair of lovesick pixies."

Fleur's gaze slid to her, playful yet pointed. "Jealous, Daphne? You 'ave fire, but no one to warm it with. Poor thing." She tilted her head, smirking. "Maybe you need a little inspiration too."

Daphne's cheeks flushed, but her retort was swift. "I don't need your pity, Delacour. Or your boyfriend's wand tricks. I'm just trying to figure out why Potter's suddenly a bloody spell-slinging prodigy."

Harry chuckled, leaning forward. "Told you—training. And maybe a bit of luck. You saw it last night. I'm not faking it."

"Training doesn't explain that shield," Daphne pressed, her eyes narrowing. "Silvery-green? That's not standard Gryffindor flash."

Fleur cut in smoothly, her hand resting on Harry's. "It is 'is magic, Daphne. Wild, beautiful—like 'im. I only cheer 'im on." She squeezed his fingers, shooting him a sidelong glance. "And perhaps distract 'im a little."

"Oi, you're more than a distraction," Harry said, turning her hand over to trace her palm. "You're the one who told me to trust myself. That's worth more than a dozen spells."

Fleur's smile softened, genuine warmth breaking through her tease. "You see? My lion listens." She leaned in, brushing her lips against his cheek, her breath warm. "And 'e roars so well."

Daphne groaned, rolling her eyes. "Alright, enough. I didn't sign up for a romance novel. Can we talk about something that doesn't make me want to hex you both?"

Fleur laughed again, undeterred. "Oh, Daphne, you are too easy to rile. But fine—tell us, what do you think of 'Arry's power? You felt it, non? Last night, when you danced with 'is wand."

Daphne hesitated, her annoyance fading into grudging admission. "He's got something, I'll give him that. More than I expected. But I'm still not sold it's all him."

"Then keep watching," Harry said, his voice steady, confidence humming beneath it. "I'll prove it again."

There was a long moment of silence. Harry looked across the pub and noticed that many witches were looking at him strangely. He wondered what was happening. Fleur had told him that half the girls in Hogwarts wanted to sleep with him, but he was sure that was never the case. Now, he noticed so many witches looking at him, even someone like Pansy Parkinson, one of Draco's lapdogs, was looking at him.

"They are jealous, Arry." Fleur whispered into his ear, her right hand settling on his thigh, very close to his half hard cock.

"Jealous?"

"Oui, many girls start paying attention to a male only after that one is in a relationship with another girl, and you are with me, so many of them are thinking how you managed to get with me, and want to know more about you, it also doesn't help that you are very handsome and a Hogwarts Champion."

The silence was finally broken by Daphne. "So, Potter," Daphne said, swirling her Butterbeer with a lazy flick of her wrist, "you're not completely useless. I'll give you that. But you Gryffindors love your tall tales. What's the wildest thing they say about you?"

Harry smirked, resting an elbow on the table. "Depends who's talking. Ron reckons I wrestle trolls in my sleep. Hermione says I've got a death wish. Pick your poison."

Fleur giggled, her head tilting toward him. "Oh, 'Arry, I can see it—ze great troll-slayer, snoring through ze battle." She tapped his chest lightly. "But I think you prefer softer fights, non? Like charming me."

"Charming you's harder than any troll," he shot back, grinning. "Takes more than a club to keep up with you."

"Flatterer," Fleur purred, nudging him with her shoulder. "You are learning, my lion."

Daphne rolled her eyes, though a faint smirk tugged at her lips. "Merlin, you two are relentless. But fine—let's skip the fluff. I've heard something juicier." She leaned forward, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "Is it true you killed Professor Quirrell your first year? Burned him to ash or something?"

Harry froze, his mug halfway to his mouth. Fleur's hand stilled on his arm, her blue eyes widening as she turned to him. "Quoi? 'Arry, you never told me zis!"

He set the mug down, rubbing the back of his neck, his confidence faltering under their stares. "Er—yeah, it's... sort of true. Not exactly how people think, though. Is not really a table conversation, so I never really brought it up."

"Sort of?" Daphne pressed, her smirk sharpening. "You don't 'sort of' kill someone, Potter. Spill it—what happened? Did you hex him into next week, or was it some dramatic Gryffindor showdown?"

Harry sighed, glancing between them. "It wasn't like that. Quirrell—he was possessed. Voldemort was on the back of his head, living off him like a parasite. I didn't mean to kill him. I just... touched him, and he started screaming. His skin burned, turned to dust. Dumbledore said it was my mum's protection—some kind of love magic. Still don't get it, honestly."

Fleur's mouth parted, her expression a mix of shock and fascination. "Mon Dieu, 'Arry! A professor with Voldemort on 'is 'ead? And you—destroyed 'im with a touch?" She squeezed his arm, her voice teasing but warm. "You are full of wonders, non?"

"Wonders or insanity," Daphne muttered, though her eyes gleamed with interest. "That's bloody mental, Potter. No wonder Slytherin whispers about you. Half of them think you're a dark wizard in hiding."

Harry snorted. "Yeah, right. Me, a dark wizard? I can barely keep my potions from exploding."

"True," Fleur chimed in, her grin mischievous. "But you 'ave ze heart of a warrior. And ze hands—" She lifted his hand, kissing his knuckles lightly. "—of a killer, it seems."

"Oi, stop that," Harry said, pulling his hand back with a laugh, his cheeks flushing. "It's not like I go around dusting people for fun."

Daphne chuckled, a rare sound that softened her edges. "Pity. Could've used you to scare Malfoy straight. 'Watch out, Draco, Potter'll touch you and poof—no more ferret.'" She mimed an explosion with her hands, smirking.

Fleur laughed, clapping delightedly. "Oh, I like zis idea! 'Arry, you must try it. Imagine 'is face!"

"Please don't," Harry groaned, though he was grinning. "I've got enough trouble without Malfoy thinking I'm after him with magic death-hands."

"Too late," Daphne said, leaning back with a sly look. "I'm telling Blaise. He'll spread it by Monday."

"Don't you dare," Harry warned, pointing a finger at her. "I'll hex you first."

"Try it," she shot back, her smirk daring him. "I'd win this time."

There was some laughter among them until Harry looked at Daphne as if he had seen her for the first time.

"You're not what I expected, Daphne."

"Oh? What did you expect, then?"

Harry opened his mouth, but before he could muster a reply, Daphne scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Let me guess—you thought all Slytherins are like Malfoy and his two idiots, lumbering around like Crabbe and Goyle, kissing Draco's boots."

His silence was answer enough, and she leaned back with a smirk, crossing her arms. "House Slytherin's got nearly two hundred students, Potter, and yet you've painted us all with the same brush just because Malfoy and his dogs are insufferable. Typical Gryffindor—seeing the world in black and white."

Harry blinked, a flush creeping up his neck. "I didn't—"

"Save it," she cut in, her smirk sharpening. "Everyone acts like they're pals with Draco, sure—patting him on the back, laughing at his stupid jokes. But it's all because of his money. Last year, we convinced him to buy us a crate of Firewhisky from Zonko's—cost him fifty Galleons. Blaise clapped him on the shoulder, said he was 'the king of Slytherin,' and Draco strutted around like a peacock for a week. If Lucius Malfoy lost his vaults tomorrow, they'd ditch him faster than you can say 'Ferret.'"

Fleur's eyes sparkled with amusement, and she nudged Harry. "See, 'Arry? She is clever. I like 'er already."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "Fair point, Greengrass. Didn't peg you for the type to play Malfoy like that, though."

Daphne shrugged, sipping her Butterbeer. "I don't play. I win. There's a difference." Her gaze softened slightly, less icy now, and she studied him over the rim of her mug. "You're still a surprise, though. Thought you'd be some self-righteous Gryffindor preaching about honor. Instead, you're... interesting."

"High praise," Harry quipped, his confidence buoyed by the banter. "Careful, might start thinking you like me."

"Don't push it," she shot back, but her smirk held a flicker of warmth.

The trio finished their drinks, the tension easing into something lighter, flirtatious even, as they stepped out into the crisp Hogsmeade air.

They reached a secluded spot near the Shrieking Shack, its crooked silhouette looming against the darkening sky. The wind whistled through the bare trees. No one else lingered this far out, leaving them alone. Daphne stopped, hands on her hips, and turned to Harry, her expression shifting from playful to serious.

"Alright, Potter," she said, her voice low, steady. "I'll bite. Your power—it intrigues me. I don't waste time on weaklings, and you're... unexpected. That stag, that Reducto—it's not just training, is it?"

Harry met her gaze, his pulse quickening. "Maybe I've got a few tricks up my sleeve," he said, keeping it vague. "Why's it matter to you?"

"Because I don't like being outdone," she replied, stepping closer, her breath visible in the chilly air. "And I don't like not knowing why."

Fleur watched them, her smile widening into something mischievous. She slipped beside Harry, whispering in his ear, her French soft and conspiratorial. "Elle est curieuse, non?" ("She's curious, isn't she?") Before he could respond, she cupped his face and kissed him deeply, her lips warm and insistent, her tongue brushing his with a spark of Veela magic that made his knees weak. It wasn't just a kiss—it was a statement, bold and public, right in front of Daphne.

Daphne froze, her eyes widening, then narrowing as Fleur pulled back, leaving Harry dazed and breathless. "Bloody hell," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

Fleur turned to Daphne, her grin playful yet daring. "You see, Daphne, 'Arry is... special. Perhaps we could explore zis interest of yours, non?"

Daphne's cheeks flushed, a rare crack in her icy facade, but she didn't back down. She stepped closer, her voice husky, bold. "If you're sharing, Delacour, I'm not here to watch." Her eyes flicked to Harry, then back to Fleur, a challenge in her stance.

Fleur laughed, delighted, and reached out, her fingers brushing Daphne's jaw. "Good. I 'oped you'd say zat." She pulled Daphne into a tentative kiss, soft at first, exploratory—lips meeting lips. Daphne stiffened, then melted into it, her hand rising to grip Fleur's arm.

Harry watched, his heart pounding, the sight igniting him like a fire. He stepped forward, drawn in like a moth to flame, and Fleur broke the kiss to pull him close. His lips found Daphne's next, her taste sharper than Fleur's—mint and defiance—and she kissed back hard, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Fleur pressed against his side, her mouth finding his neck, and the three of them tangled together.

Daphne pulled back first, panting, her eyes wild. "This doesn't mean I like you, Potter," she said.

"Could've fooled me," Harry replied, his voice rough with desire, his confidence peaking as Fleur's laughter rang out beside him.

"Zis," Fleur murmured, her arms looping around them both, "is going to be fun."