Harry Potter: Backstep Ch. 31

Harry stood on the balcony of his suite at the chateau, watching the sun climb higher. His mind was calm, fully focused on the task ahead. Today wasn’t about proving anything to the crowd or adding another title to his name. Today was about dealing with Dolohov.

“You’re up early,” Narcissa’s voice came as she walked over, joining him at the railing. Her arms wrapped around him from behind, their naked bodies pressing against each other. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Slept fine,” Harry replied, taking her hand resting on his midsection and lacing their fingers together. “Just wanted some time to think before the chaos starts.”

Narcissa hummed, pressing a soft kiss on his back. “You’re very calm.”

“Should I be panicking?” Harry asked with a slight smile.

“Most would be,” Narcissa admitted. “But then, you’ve never been most people.” She paused. “Amelia and I have been discussing what we’ve observed of Dolohov’s fighting style. His pattern of escalation, the way he targets specific areas to maximize pain rather than simply incapacitate...”

“He’s going to try to kill me, Cissa,” Harry finished bluntly. “While making it look like an accident.”

“Yes.”

Harry turned around, pulling her close. “Dolohov thinks he’s the predator here. That I’m just another victim waiting to happen. But he’s wrong. I’m going to give him exactly what he wants—a real fight. And then I’m going to show him why picking that fight was the worst mistake he could’ve made.”

“Harry—“

“I’m not going to kill him, Cissa,” Harry said, understanding her concern. “Much as I’d like to. But by the time I’m done with him, he’s going to wish I had.”

“Make sure not to be too obvious though,” Amelia’s voice came from the bed where she’d finally sat up, the duvet falling to her waist, revealing her bare upper body decorated with a number of bruises and marks, courtesy of both Harry and Narcissa. The pair turned to her and stared, making her smirk. “You two are idiots, you know that?”

“Got no idea what you’re talking about,” Narcissa smirked.

Amelia rolled her eyes. “Heard some tournament officials talking yesterday. They’re expecting the largest crowd yet for the final. There will be many international dignitaries too. Ministers from all participating countries, their champions who’re out, and who knows who else will be there.”

“Wonderful,” Harry muttered. “More witnesses to whatever clusterfuck Dolohov has planned.”

“Actually, that works in your favor,” Amelia pointed out. “The more eyes on the duel, the more pressure on Dolohov to keep his lethal intentions somewhat disguised. He can’t just openly murder you with half of magical Europe watching.”

“He’ll try anyway,” Narcissa said quietly. “Men like that always believe they’re clever enough to get away with it.”

“Then I’ve gotta make sure he fails spectacularly. What time do we need to be at the arena?”

“Ceremony starts at eleven,” Amelia replied. “The actual duel won’t begin until noon, but they’ll want the finalists there early for the formal proceedings. Lots of French pageantry, apparently.”

“Of course there is,” Harry said amusedly as he moved with Narcissa toward the bedroom, eyeing Amelia meaningfully. “Lots of time we’ve got here. Would be a shame to waste it.”

The ladies exchanged an amused glance and smirked.

The arena was once again transformed. The stands were packed to capacity, every seat filled with spectators dressed in their finest robes. A special box had been erected for the various Ministers and dignitaries, elevated above the common seating.

Harry arrived with Narcissa and Amelia flanking him, and the crowd’s reaction was immediate. A wave of applause and cheers followed them as they made their way toward the competitors’ entrance. He acknowledged the crowd with a slight nod but kept his expression neutral.

“Lord Peverell!” A voice called out as they approached the entrance. Harry turned to see Minister Bagnold making her way down from the dignitaries’ box, her crimson robes swishing around her that fit her rather flatteringly. Beside him, Amelia raised an eyebrow as she gazed at the woman but didn’t say anything.

“Minister,” Harry greeted. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Nonsense,” Bagnold replied with a chuckle. “When Britain’s champion makes it to the finals of an international tournament, the Minister of Magic bloody well shows up to support them. Also, I wanted to see you thrash that Bulgarian bastard myself.”

Harry blinked at her bluntness, chuckling. “Well, then I better do my best not to disappoint.”

“Oh, believe me, given what I’ve seen so far, you won’t,” Bagnold replied, her lips curving slightly. “That Dolohov might be brutal, but brutal isn’t the same as skilled.”

She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “Between you and me, there’ve been complaints about his conduct throughout this tournament. Nothing actionable, unfortunately. He’s stayed just within the rules. But everyone knows what he’s doing. You have my full support if you need to respond in kind.”

Well, that awfully sounded like she was asking him to fight dirty. He smirked.

“Noted. Thank you.”

“Good luck, Lord Peverell,” Bagnold said, straightening. “And make Wizarding Britain proud.”

As the woman returned to her box, Narcissa murmured, “Well, that was unexpected.”

“In more ways than one,” Amelia replied, eyeing Narcissa. “Tell me you didn’t miss it.”

“Take me for an idiot?” Narcissa asked with a scoff. “Of course I didn’t.”

“Mind cluing me in?”

Both turned to Harry who was looking at them expectantly, and they exchanged another glance.

“Well, I’m sure you’d find out soon,” Amelia said, smirking. Harry’s brows furrowed as he glanced between them, eventually shrugging.

“Fine. Keep being secretive.”

They continued into the competitors’ area, the section affording them some privacy. Amelia instructed the other two aurors to stand outside, and followed Harry and Narcissa in.

“How are you feeling?” Narcissa asked, sitting on the arm of his chair, her fingers playing with his hair absentmindedly.

“Focused,” Harry replied honestly. “Ready.”

“Good.” Amelia settled on the other arm of his chair, leaning back against him and crossing her arms under her bust. “Dolohov’s opening moves are always aggressive. He tries to establish dominance immediately. Don’t let him. Match his aggression but stay mobile. The moment you’re pinned down, he’ll start working on wearing you down with those nerve-severing hexes of his.”

“His favorite curse, that purple cutting thing, requires a specific wand movement,” Narcissa added. “It’s fast, but there’s a tell. He drops his shoulder slightly before casting. If you see it, don’t try to shield. Dodge.”

“Go on,” Harry told them, curious to know what else they’d observed. “His defense?”

“Layered shields, usually,” Amelia said. “He prefers barrier-type magic over personal shields. Probably because it gives him better protection while still allowing him to cast aggressively. But those barriers have weak points, whatever he isn’t actively reinforcing.”

“And his temper?” Harry asked.

“Well, we’ve never seen him rattled,” Narcissa mused. “Even when Deschanel nearly turned the tide, he didn’t panic.”

“Because he had a backup plan,” Amelia remarked. “He’s the type who always has another trick ready. Which means you need to make him use up those tricks before making your move.”

Harry grinned. “Dolohov won’t enjoy it. Man, it’d be fun to see him rattled. Bastard’s shown any emotion only when he’s targeting me.”

A knock at the door interrupted them. Narcissa and Amelia both stood away as one of the aurors poked his head in. “Lord Peverell? The opening ceremony is about to begin. They need you in the staging area.”

Harry stood, shrugging out of his outer robe and handing it to Narcissa who draped it over the chair.

“How do I look?” he asked with a grin.

“Like someone about to win a tournament,” Narcissa replied, standing to adjust his collar. It was such a wifely gesture that it made Harry smile. “Be careful, Harry. I know you’re confident, and you have every right to be. But please, don’t take unnecessary risks.”

“I won’t,” Harry promised. He looked at both women, seeing genuine concern in their faces. “I’ll be fine. Trust me.”

“We do,” Amelia said firmly. “Now go show that Bulgarian prick what a real champion looks like.”

The staging area was directly beneath the arena floor. Harry could hear the crowd above, and tournament officials bustling about, making last-minute preparations for the ceremony.

And there, in the opposite corner of the staging area, stood Antonin Dolohov.

The Bulgarian duelist was already in his tournament attire—dark grey robes that looked more like combat gear than ceremonial dress. His wand was visible at his side, and his cold eyes were fixed on Harry with the same predatory look in them. Anyone else might have mistook that look for competitive drive, but Harry knew better.

As Harry stared back at him, Dolohov’s lips curved into that familiar cruel smile. He said nothing, but the message was clear.

Harry smiled back, but there was no warmth in it. Only promise. Try it, you dipshit.

The tension was palpable enough that the nearby officials gave both duelists a wide berth.

“Gentlemen!” A French official with an elaborate hat approached nervously. “If you would please take your positions? The ceremony is about to begin.”

They were led to separate platforms that would rise up into the arena. Harry stepped onto his, feeling the platform vibrate beneath his feet. The platform began to ascend smoothly, and light flooded in as he emerged into the arena proper.

The roar of the crowd was deafening.

Harry stepped forward onto the arena floor, his chin raised confidently as he took in the crowd. It looked much larger than the dueling arenas from previous rounds.

Across from him, Dolohov emerged from his own platform, and the crowd’s enthusiasm noticeably dimmed.

The center of the arena had been set up for the ceremony. Harry saw the tournament trophy displayed on a raised dais. The announcer, a beautiful brunette in extravagant purple robes, stood ready with her wand pressed against her throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests, esteemed Ministers!” She called out in French, her melodious voice carrying across the arena. “Welcome to the final match of the European Dueling Tournament! Today, we crown a champion!”

The crowd erupted in applause.

“But before our finalists face each other,” the announcer said excitedly, “we have a special performance to honor the spirit of friendly magical competition!”

From the sides of the arena, witches and wizards in elaborate costumes began to emerge. What followed was fifteen minutes of carefully choreographed magical pageantry that only the French could pull off without it seeming ridiculous. Dancers conjured ribbons of colored light that wove intricate patterns through the air. Illusionists created magnificent creatures like phoenixes, dragons, and hippogriffs made of pure magic that drew gasps and applause from the audience.

Harry watched with mild interest, and his attention kept drifting to Dolohov. The Bulgarian looked bored, staring disdainfully at the ceremonial display.

Finally, the performance concluded with a magnificent burst of fireworks that drew another round of applause.

“And now,” the announcer declared as the smoke cleared, “our finalists!”

Harry and Dolohov were directed to approach the center dais. They walked forward, maintaining distance from each other.

“From Britain, representing the proud magical heritage of his nation—Lord Harry Peverell!”

The crowd’s response was warm and enthusiastic. Harry acknowledged them with a slight bow.

“From Bulgaria, a champion of exceptional power and skill—Antonin Dolohov!”

The response to Dolohov was notably more muted, although the Bulgarian supporters in the crowd made themselves heard.

The referee, a stern-looking wizard with a shock of white hair, stepped forward. He was the same official who had presided over the semifinals, and he looked like he was taking this final very seriously.

“Gentlemen,” he addressed them both in accented English, his voice magically amplified. “You have both fought admirably to reach this final. Before we begin, I must make the rules absolutely clear.”

He gestured with his wand, and words began to appear in glowing letters above them.

“The use of Unforgivable Curses is strictly forbidden and will result in immediate disqualification and arrest. Beyond these restrictions, all magic is permitted within the bounds of tournament dueling.”

Harry saw Dolohov’s lips quirk slightly at that last part. The Bulgarian was practically being given carte blanche to be as brutal as he wanted.

“The duel concludes when one participant yields, is rendered unconscious, or is unable to continue,” the referee continued. “Do you both understand these terms?”

“Yes,” Harry said clearly.

“Da,” Dolohov replied, his accent thick.

“Then take your positions.”

Harry and Dolohov walked to opposite ends, perhaps fifty feet separating them.

Harry could see the dignitaries’ box from his position. Minister Bagnold was leaning forward, and she gave him a supportive smile when their eyes met. The Bulgarian Minister looked rather serious and focused.

However, as his gaze drifted slightly higher up, he caught a glimpse of platinum blonde hair. Apolline was watching, and when their eyes met briefly, he saw her nod firmly.

Harry smirked and turned his attention back to Dolohov. The Bulgarian had drawn his wand, holding it loosely at his side. His stance was deceptively relaxed, but Harry could see the tension in his frame. This was a predator ready to strike.

Harry drew his own wand, even though he didn’t need it. He felt his magic respond immediately. He was eager and ready to go.

The referee raised his wand high. “Combatants ready! Begin!”

Dolohov moved like lightning, his wand slashing through the air in a vicious arc. Three crimson curses erupted from his wand, spread wide to make dodging difficult. They weren’t aimed at Harry’s chest or head—they were aimed low, at his legs. Trying to cripple immediately.

Harry didn’t bother with shields. He moved before Dolohov’s curses fully formed. He dropped and rolled to the side, the curses shrieking past where he’d been standing, gouging deep furrows into the stone floor. Even as he came up from the roll, his wand was moving.

A chain of silver bolts launched from his wand, each one following a slightly different trajectory. Dolohov batted the first two aside with a casual flick, but the third and fourth forced him to actually move, throwing up a shimmering barrier that the hexes slammed into harmlessly.

The crowd roared at the explosive opening, but Harry was already processing what he’d learned. Dolohov’s barrier had appeared almost instantly, with no incantation and barely any wand movement. And the way he’d aimed those cutting curses at Harry’s legs rather than center mass confirmed what Harry had suspected. Dolohov wasn’t trying to beat him. He was trying to destroy him piece by piece.

They began to circle each other, wands at the ready. To the crowd, it might have looked like they were assessing each other. But Harry could see the intent in Dolohov’s eyes. The Bulgarian was looking for an opening, any moment of weakness he could exploit.

Harry gave him one. Deliberately.

He conjured a barrage of fire, bright orange flames that roared toward Dolohov in a wide spread. It was flashy, powerful, and exactly the kind of magic the crowd would expect. It was also a test.

Dolohov’s lip curled in disdain. His wand moved sharply, and the flames split around him, redirected by a wind manipulation charm. It was clever and efficient. He hadn’t wasted energy trying to extinguish or shield against the fire, just moved it out of his way.

But while the flames obscured the audience’s view, Harry was already moving to his next position. He appeared from behind the dissipating fire at a different angle. Another piercing hex, silver and wickedly fast, short forward, aimed not at Dolohov but at the floor between them.

The stone exploded upward in a shower of debris. Dolohov was forced to shield, and in that half-second of distraction, Harry sent a Cutting Curse of his own.

It caught the edge of Dolohov’s barrier, and the Bulgarian’s eyes widened fractionally as he felt the curse trying to slice through his magic. He reinforced the shield, but Harry saw it. Dolohov hadn’t expected that level of power from him.

Good. Let him underestimate.

They separated again, and the duel’s pace picked up. Dolohov sent a flurry of hexes and curses, mixing in bone-breakers and cutting curses with increasingly dark spells.

Harry dodged, shielded, and returned fire. He kept his own curse work just slightly below Dolohov’s level, powerful enough to be threatening, but not so much that it would reveal his full capabilities. He needed Dolohov confident. He needed him to think he could get what he wanted out of this.

Five minutes into the duel, Dolohov tried his favorite technique. His shoulder dropped slightly, exactly as Narcissa had observed, and the purple cutting curse erupted from his wand. But this time he cast three simultaneously, each one targeted where he would probably dodge.

Harry didn’t dodge. He transfigured the stone at his feet into a thick wall of iron that shot upward. The curses slammed into it, shearing through the metal but losing enough power that when they emerged on the other side, Harry batted them away casually.

The wall collapsed back into rubble, and through the dust, Harry sent a bludgeoning hex that forced Dolohov to shield. But the real attack was the jelly-legs jinx he’d hidden beneath it. Completely non-lethal, almost embarrassingly simple, and like all other spells, cast silently.

It caught Dolohov’s left leg, and for a moment, the Bulgarian stumbled. His expression flashed to fury, not at being hit, but at being hit by such a juvenile spell.

Harry smiled. There it was. Pride.

Dolohov recovered quickly, dismissing the jinx with a snarl. His next volley of spells was noticeably more vicious. The crowd probably thought he was just escalating as the duel progressed. But Harry could see the truth. He’d gotten under Dolohov’s skin.

It was time to push his buttons.

“Is that the best you’ve got to offer?” Harry called out mockingly. “I’ve fought amateurs that were better.”

The crowd gasped at the words. Dolohov’s jaw clenched, his wand moving faster. A bone-breaker, a cutting curse, and another purple curse, all aimed directly at his torso.

Harry dodged the first, shielded the second, and cast a simple levitation charm to throw a chunk of debris into the path of the third. The purple spell detonated on impact with the stone.

“Come now,” Harry continued, launching his own assault, simple stunners mixed with tickling hexes and the occasional stinging hex. “You made the lovely Lady Apolline scream. You put Rodriguez in the infirmary. Is this really all you have for me?”

There was a flash of genuine anger in Dolohov’s eyes. The Bulgarian snarled, and a dark grey curse shot toward Harry at a furious pace. It would rupture his organs, and was definitely lethal if left untreated. However, completely legal in a duel of this magnitude.

Harry stood his ground and swatted the curse back at an angle, forcing Dolohov to dodge his own magic. The crowd was going wild at the display, but Harry was watching Dolohov’s reaction carefully.

The Bulgarian was getting frustrated. His spells were becoming more overtly lethal and his tactical patience was starting to fray.

Perfect.

Harry shifted his strategy, becoming more aggressive himself. He sent a continuous stream of spells at Dolohov, forcing the Bulgarian onto the defensive. Nothing too powerful though. He wanted Dolohov to think he was bluffing but was slowly being overwhelmed, barely holding his own.

Dolohov weathered the assault with growing confidence. He probably thought Harry was starting to panic, throwing everything at him in desperation. His smirk returned as he deflected another cutting curse, and then another blasting curse.

Then Harry did something that made the entire arena gasp.

He deliberately missed a dodge. One of Dolohov’s hexes, a nasty yellow bolt, grazed his side. Harry let out a grunt, stumbling slightly as he felt the hex’s effects starting to take hold. It was manageable, he could shake it off in moments, but he exaggerated the impact, letting Dolohov see him grimace.

Dolohov’s eyes lit up. He’d drawn blood, so to speak. His assault intensified, smelling victory.

But Harry had just given himself the justification he needed. He’d been hit by questionable magic. The gloves could come off.

He straightened from his feigned injury, his wand moving in an arc. The hex’s effects vanished as he cast the counter-curse, but his wand didn’t stop moving. The spell he was building was intricate, requiring precision and power in equal measure.

Dolohov, sensing something was wrong, sent another volley of curses at Harry. However, Harry’s shield was up now, not a simple barrier but a rotating helix of magical force that sent the curses spinning away harmlessly.

And then Harry completed his casting.

The spell that erupted from his wand was beautiful in its lethality. It looked like a swarm of silver wasps, each one made of pure magical force. They launched toward Dolohov with blinding speed, and unlike normal spells, they couldn’t be blocked by a simple shield. They were designed to bypass barriers, to find gaps in defenses.

Dolohov’s eyes widened in genuine alarm. He tried his layered shields, but the silver wasps found the weak points exactly as Harry had known they would. They swarmed around the barriers, forcing Dolohov to actually run, to dodge and weave like his victims usually had to do.

The crowd was on its feet, roaring at this reversal of fortune.

Dolohov managed to destroy most of the swarm with a powerful burst of wind magic, but a few got through. They struck him, one on the shoulder, one on his leg, and one on his wand arm. Where they hit, dark bruises immediately appeared, and Harry saw Dolohov’s movements become less fluid. The spell caused deep tissue damage, painful and debilitating but not permanent.

Now they were even. Both injured, both proven capable of hurting the other, but only one was genuine.

The duel intensified.

They traded spells at a pace that had the crowd breathless. Dolohov’s frustration was growing more obvious, his curse work becoming sloppier, more focused on raw power than precision. Harry could see what was happening. The Bulgarian had expected this to be like his other matches. Brutal, efficient domination. But Harry wasn’t breaking. He wasn’t being overwhelmed.

He was barely even looking challenged.

“What’s wrong?” Harry called out as he deflected another curse. “Running out of tricks?”

Dolohov snarled something in Bulgarian that was probably not meant for kids. His next spell looked real nasty, a black curse that Harry knew would cause necrotic damage to tissue. Definitely illegal in most contexts, but technically not an Unforgivable, so the referee didn’t intervene.

Harry didn’t even bother dodging. He conjured a shield that shattered on impact but absorbed the spell completely. The look of shock on Dolohov’s face was almost comical.

“My turn,” Harry said quietly.

His wand moved in a figure-eight pattern, so fast it was almost invisible. The spell he conjured looked like chains made of pure white light. They erupted from his wand and shot toward Dolohov with frightening speed, moving like they had a mind of their own.

Dolohov tried to block them. His barrier sprang up, stronger than before, reinforced with everything he had. The chains hit the barrier and… passed right through it.

They weren’t being blocked because they weren’t targeting the barrier. They were targeting Dolohov’s magic itself, wrapping around his wand arm and spreading up. Where they touched, Dolohov’s magic was suppressed, locked away behind the binding chains.

Dolohov’s face went white as he realized what was happening. He tried to cast, but his wand barely sparked. The chains were restricting his magical output, turning him from a dangerous duelist into barely more than a squib.

Harry didn’t stop. Even as the chains did their work, he was casting again. A simple stunner caught Dolohov center mass. The Bulgarian flew backward, his wand flying from his grip as he hit the ground hard.

The chains vanished. Harry had only needed them to last long enough to land the decisive blow. But it didn’t matter. Dolohov was down, disarmed, and thoroughly beaten.

The referee’s wand moved, checking for consciousness and injury. After a moment, he straightened, his voice booming across the silent arena.

“Winner, Lord Harry Peverell of Wizarding Britain!”

For a moment, there was silence before the arena exploded into thunderous applause.

Harry stood in the center of the arena, his breathing steady and his wand still ready just in case. He watched as Bulgarian healers rushed forward to check on Dolohov, who was already stirring with a groan.

The Bulgarian’s eyes opened, and when they found Harry, the expression in them was pure hatred. Harry could understand the poor sod. He’d been humiliated in front of an international audience. Beaten at his own game by someone he’d considered beneath him.

Harry stared back, his expression bored. He didn’t even deign him with the respect he’d given to his previous competitors, something that the audience didn’t miss either.

Dolohov tried to sit up, but the healers gently restrained him. They were checking him for serious injury, and from what Harry could see, there was none. Oh, his pride was wounded, sure, but physically, he was fine.

The announcer’s voice was nearly drowned out by the crowd’s enthusiasm. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have our champion! Lord Harry Peverell of Britain!”

Harry finally turned away from Dolohov, acknowledging the crowd’s applause with a raised hand. He could see the dignitaries’ box, where Minister Bagnold was on her feet, clapping enthusiastically with a bright grin. The Bulgarian Minister didn’t look too happy but still gave him a respectful nod.

And higher up, in the Deschanel box, Apolline was standing as well. Even from this distance, Harry could see her smile, brilliant and genuinely pleased. She raised her hands in applause, and he knew there was nothing fake about it now. She was genuinely celebrating his victory.

Minister Beaumont descended from his box, carrying the tournament trophy—a magnificent gold cup engraved with runes of skill and valor.

“Lord Peverell,” the French Minister said with a smile, his English heavily accented, “it is my great pleasure to award you this trophy as champion of the European Dueling Tournament. Your skill, courage, and sportsmanship have been exemplary throughout this competition.”

“Thank you, Minister. It’s been an honor to compete.”

Cameras flashed as the press captured the moment. Harry held the trophy aloft, and the crowd’s applause redoubled. From the corner of his eye, he could see Dolohov being helped from the arena by healers, the Bulgarian’s face a mask of barely controlled fury. Their eyes met one last time across the distance, and Harry saw the promise there.

This wasn’t over. Not for Dolohov.

Harry had known that going in. He’d humiliated the Bulgarian, stripped away his aura of invincibility, and done it in front of an international audience. Men like Dolohov didn’t forget that. They sought retribution.

The question was whether he’d try something immediately or wait for a better opportunity. Either way, he would like to see him try.

The award ceremony continued with Minister Bagnold joining them on the platform, clearly pleased to be associated with Britain’s victory. To his surprise, she embraced him warmly, murmuring, “Brilliantly done. Absolutely brilliant.”

Harry glanced at her sideways when she remained pressed against him for longer than public propriety allowed until she finally pulled away with a smile. However, even as she backed away, her eyes remained on him.

Various other officials offered their congratulations. The German champion approached to shake his hand with genuine respect. Even a few of the earlier competitors came forward to acknowledge his victory.

Finally, the official ceremonies concluded. Harry was released from the platform, the trophy still in his hands, and was immediately surrounded by Narcissa and Amelia.

“That was magnificent,” Narcissa said warmly. “But you took a terrible risk with that binding chain at the end. If he’d managed to counter it...”

“He couldn’t,” Harry said confidently. “I made sure of that.”

“Where did you even learn that magic?” Amelia asked curiously. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“Peverell family secret,” Harry replied. “Old magic. Seemed appropriate for today.”

They began making their way out of the arena, surrounded by well-wishers and reporters trying to get comments. Harry deflected most questions politely, citing exhaustion and the need to rest after such an intensive duel.

As they reached the exit that would take them away from the main crowds, a familiar voice called out.

“Lord Peverell! Wait, please!”

Harry turned to see Apolline making her way through the crowd, her parents following at a more sedate pace. She’d changed from whatever she’d been wearing earlier into an elegant dress of silver and blue that complemented her platinum hair beautifully. Her eyes were bright with excitement.

“Mademoiselle Deschanel,” Harry greeted with a smile. “I hope you enjoyed the show.”

“Enjoyed?” Apolline let out a delighted laugh. “That was extraordinary! The way you turned his own brutality against him, the binding spell at the end—it was like watching a master craftsman at work.” She reached out, her hand finding his arm. “I knew you could do it. I knew Dolohov had underestimated you.”

“He did,” Harry agreed, eyeing her hand on his arm with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. She didn’t move it, merely smirking in return.

“He looked quite murderous when they carried him away. You should be careful, Lord Peverell. Men like that don’t accept defeat gracefully.”

“I know. But I’m not concerned. Let him come if he wants another lesson.”

Monsieur and Madame Deschanel had reached them now, and both offered their congratulations. The elder Deschanel’s handshake was firm and approving. “Well fought, Lord Peverell. You’ve done your country proud.”

“Thank you, Monsieur.”

“We would be honored if you would join us for dinner at our chateau tonight,” Madame Deschanel said. “Close friends and family, nothing too elaborate.”

Before Harry could respond, Apolline interjected smoothly, “Actually, Maman, Lord Peverell has already agreed to have dinner with me. A private engagement, remember?”

Madame Deschanel’s eyebrows rose slightly, but she smiled knowingly. “Ah, of course. How could I forget? Well then, Lord Peverell, I hope you enjoy your evening.”

“I’m sure I will,” Harry replied diplomatically.

The Deschanel parents made their polite farewells and drifted away, leaving Apolline standing with Harry’s group.

“A private dinner?” Narcissa asked innocently. “How delightful.”

Apolline eyed Narcissa and Amelia with slight uncertainty, but it vanished in face of their matching smirks. A knowing glint entered her eyes and she turned to Harry once again.

“Oui, very private,” she purred, her fingers still resting on Harry’s arm. Her thumb traced small circles against the fabric of his sleeve. “I believe Lord Peverell owes me, after all. We had an agreement, and now that he has won so spectacularly...” She looked up at him through her lashes. “I intend to collect.”

“I did promise,” Harry agreed, his lips quirking into a smile. “And I think your definition of dinner might be rather… different from a usual one.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Apolline said innocently. “I simply wish to share a meal and perhaps some conversation with the tournament champion. To celebrate his victory properly. What could be inappropriate about that?”

“The way you’re looking at him tells enough,” Amelia muttered in amusement.

Apolline’s smile turned wicked. “I cannot help how I look at… well, it’s not my fault if Lord Peverell inspires certain... thoughts.” Her allure flared slightly, a warm pulse of veela magic that wrapped around Harry like an embrace. “Besides, after such a magnificent display of power and skill, can you blame me for wanting to express my appreciation?”

“I’m sure your appreciation will be very enthusiastic,” Narcissa replied dryly, her eyes dancing with amusement.

“Oh, it will be,” Apolline promised, her voice dropping to a sultry murmur. “I have been thinking about this dinner for days now. Planning exactly how the evening should go. What we might discuss. What activities might follow.” Her fingers tightened on his arm. “I have very detailed plans, Lord Peverell.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Should we be concerned for his safety? You look rather predatory, after all.”

“He thrashed Dolohov,” Apolline replied without taking her eyes off Harry. “He tamed Clarisse. I think he can handle another veela.” She paused, then added with a sultry smile, “I promise our time to be much more enjoyable than yours with that Bulgarian brute.”

“Setting a low bar there,” Harry quipped.

Apolline giggled. “True. Let me rephrase. I promise to make this an evening you will never forget. One that will leave you very satisfied with the outcome.”

“Well then,” Harry said, his smile matching hers, “I suppose I should clean up and make myself presentable for this unforgettable dinner.”

“You do that,” Apolline said, finally releasing his arm. “I will send word to your chateau with the details. Eight o’clock, perhaps? That gives you time to rest and recover from your exertions.”

“Eight o’clock sounds perfect.”

“Excellent.” Apolline stepped closer, rising on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. It was chaste enough for public setting, but her lips lingered just a moment longer than strictly proper, and Harry felt the warmth of her breath against his skin. “I look forward to it, Lord Peverell. To seeing you in a more... relaxed setting.”

She pulled back with a final smile, her allure caressing his senses one more time before she turned and walked away. Her hips swayed provocatively, and she glanced back over her shoulder once to catch Harry watching. Her smile turned absolutely sinful before she disappeared into the crowd.

“Well,” Narcissa said after a moment. “That was subtle.”

“About as subtle as a bludger to the face,” Amelia snorted. “I guess after the tension of the tournament and all her failed planning, she’s done with being indirect.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “She certainly knows what she wants.”

“And what she wants is you,” Narcissa said with a knowing smile. “She’s been planning this since the moment she saw you at the opening ceremony. And now that you’ve won, now that you’ve proven yourself to be who she could’ve never imagined...” She trailed off meaningfully.

“I’m in trouble,” Harry finished.

“Oh yes,” Amelia agreed cheerfully. “The sexy kind.”

They made their way out of the arena complex, the trophy still in Harry’s hands and his mind already moving past the duel to the evening ahead.

Thoughts of Dolohov and his retribution took a backseat. He had a celebration dinner to prepare for. And based on Apolline’s blatant flirtation and the heat in her eyes, it was going to be a very memorable evening indeed.

TBC.