Harry Potter: Dragon Eyes

Fleur, as it turned out, had missed the first duelling practice because of her father…

She explained that her father had made an unexpected visit to Beauxbatons to discuss the Prophet's article, which had also appeared in the French daily newspaper, La Gazette du Sorcier.

The French article had portrayed her father in a rather unfavourable light, more so than the British one.

Sebastian had been particularly concerned about how the articles might affect his position at the French Ministry. Needless to say, Fleur couldn't care less.

His actions only diminished their opinions of him further.

Fleur folded her arms, rolling her eyes in irritation. "Of course, 'e cares more about his reputation than anything else. It is exhausting, Harry."

Harry nodded, understanding all too well the frustration of dealing with self-serving adults. "Doesn't surprise me. If anything, I'm glad he's angry about it. He deserves it."

She let out a soft sigh and shook her head. "Enough about him. How was the practice?"

Harry scoffed. "Honestly? A waste of time."

Fleur arched an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Oh? You are too good for their lessons?"

"I wouldn't say too good," Harry said with a smirk, "but silent casting and all that choreography rubbish? I've been doing silent casting for months, and the spell choreography was just... theatrical nonsense. No offence, but aside from looking pretty, it was useless."

Fleur let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "I know, I know."

Harry's expression turned a bit more interested. "Though, they did announce something interesting—a Tri-School Duelling Tournament."

Fleur's eyes gleamed at that. "Ah, that does sound interesting. And I assume you are going to enter?"

Harry gave her a look. "Obviously. Not like I'd pass up a chance to humiliate a few arrogant sods who think they're better than me," he said and smirked. "And I can't miss the chance to show everyone who's on top in this relationship, can I? That is unless you opt to stay out of the tournament."

Fleur scoffed, tilting her head with a smirk. "Oh, mon cher, if you think I'd back down from a challenge, you don't know me at all."

He grinned at her competitive spirit, but his expression shifted when he noticed Fleur hesitating, shifting her weight slightly as though debating how to phrase what she wanted to say next.

"Actually, 'Arry… There is something I wanted to ask you."

Harry tilted his head slightly. "Go on."

She took a small breath before continuing, her voice softer than before. "Next week, there is a banquet in honour of the tournament's progress at my school. Visiting dignitaries, French Ministry officials, and, of course, the champion is required to attend."

Harry's nose wrinkled in mild distaste. "That sounds absolutely miserable."

Fleur let out a small, knowing laugh before meeting his gaze with something close to anticipation. "Yes, but… I am allowed to bring a guest. I want you to accompany me, Harry. As my plus-one."

For a moment, Harry was caught off guard.

He hadn't expected Fleur to invite him to something so formal, so public. As he looked at her, standing there with a slightly hopeful expression, he found himself nodding.

"Yeah, sure. I'll be there with you."

Fleur's lips curved into a satisfied smile. "Good. I will make sure you 'ave something appropriate to wear."

Harry gave her a look. "I can dress myself, you know."

She smirked, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Sure you do, mon cher."

Harry had a sinking feeling that he wasn't going to win that particular argument…

The next few days passed in a blur of classes and training.

Harry found himself actually looking forward to the banquet, though he'd never admit it out loud.

At least it would give him and Fleur another evening to dress up.

Not even the fact that they had to endure the company of stuffy politicians, managed to dampen his excitement.

During this time, Harry also found time for his long-awaited reunion with Sirius who was still residing at one of the Blachousesouse in Skye.

"Kreacher," Harry called out from inside his room in the Chamber of Secrets.

The old house-elf appeared with a soft crack, his large eyes immediately fixing on Harry with that mix of reverence and mild disapproval that had become oddly familiar.

"Dirty scary master called Kreacher," stated the elf with obvious confusion.

"Yes. I want you to bring me to Sirius."

Kreacher bowed low, his long nose nearly touching the floor. "As master wishes. Kreacher will take scary master to blood traitor."

Harry took a bracing breath, then clasped Kreacher's offered arm.

There was the familiar, unpleasant lurching sensation as they Apparated away from Hogwarts, his stomach flipping before his feet landed on solid ground once again.

He opened his eyes to find himself standing on a windswept cliffside overlooking the grey waters surrounding the Isle of Skye.

A fine mist hung in the air, veiling the rugged coastline.

The house before him was a tall, narrow structure of dark stone, its gothic silhouette accented by jagged spires and wrought-iron balconies.

'Damn, does the Black family have a penchant for the dramatic…'

The front door—a heavy, carved slab of dark wood decorated with silver inlay—creaked open as they approached. Kreacher shuffled forward, his bat-like ears trembling.

"This way, scary master," Kreacher muttered, glancing about as though expecting Harry to transform into a dragon at any moment and eat him.

An amused Harry found himself following the elf across the threshold, stepping into a surprisingly well-lit foyer.

'Damn are there a lot of dark objects in here,' he thought and dulled his magical senses.

Sirius's influence was immediately visible. He had half-expected the interior to be as gloomy as Grimmauld Place, but instead, the walls were painted a warm cream.

There was a battered leather jacket slung over a chair, a set of Muggle rock band posters half-tucked behind antique tapestries, and a black motorbike helmet perched on a marble bust near the stairs.

'… Is it shining?' Harry wondered, noticing how the helmet seemed to gleam with an unnatural lustre.

It was hard to tell if it was just well-polished or if Sirius had enchanted it somehow.

The floors were polished wood, broken up by thick rugs that looked newly purchased.

On the far side of the foyer, a large window allowed in a generous amount of the grey Scottish daylight, illuminating a broad corridor leading deeper into the house.

Kreacher let out a soft sniff of disapproval. "Nasty master has ruined the house with his dreadful taste," he said under his breath.

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, yes. Now, where is he?"

The elf sniffed again. "With the vases, no doubt."

"The vases?" Harry repeated, brow furrowing.

What could his godfather be doing with vases of all things?

But Kreacher didn't elaborate. Instead, he led Harry through a hallway punctuated by arched doorways and portraits—most of which had been draped with cloth.

Finally, Kreacher paused before a pair of wide double doors, gave one last withering sigh, and pushed them open.

Inside was a sunlit drawing room featuring tall windows overlooking the cliff and sea beyond.

Soft, mismatched sofas surrounded a low table cluttered with old newspapers, half-empty teacups, and at least one bottle of Firewhisky.

By the far wall stood Sirius Black himself, apparently reorganising an elegant display of porcelain vases on a mahogany shelf—a curious sight, given Sirius's usual disdain for anything posh.

He turned at the sound of the doors opening, grey eyes lighting up at the sight of Harry. "Pup!" he called, grinning broadly. "Just the person I've been waiting for—assuming you're not here to tell me off for my questionable decorating choices."

Harry let out a short laugh. "Well, I was going to comment on the vases, but if you're proud of them…"

Sirius snorted. "Hardly proud. They're family heirlooms, apparently worth more than a decent broomstick, so I figured I'd not smash them just yet. Could come in handy if I ever need to pay for a new bike."

Kreacher muttered something inaudible, presumably along the lines of filthy blood traitor desecrating the house.

Sirius set down the vase he'd been holding, his face settling into a more serious expression. "It's good to see you, Harry. Been wanting to catch up—especially since the Prophet's been stirring up trouble again." Harry shrugged, sliding his hands into his pockets. "You're telling me. Did you see the French paper as well?"

Sirius grimaced and shook his head.

"No, I never really read foreign papers and my French is rusty anyway," Sirius replied, moving to settle into one of the mismatched sofas. "But I heard Remus mentioning it, something about…"

Sirius continued speaking animatedly, but Harry's attention drifted elsewhere.

When he entered the house, he had toned down his senses because of the overwhelming inputs of malevolent magic present throughout the house.

Even with his dulled senses though, he could still feel one particular magical signature.

It was familiar and it almost felt like… a human presence.

"Sirius. Why do you have a horcrux in your house?"

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I'm so sorry for not keeping up to schedule... I just feel so lost these past few days, and I can't muster up the energy to sit down and write anything.

I'm honestly surprised that I wrote a chapter today.

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Chapter 83: Horcrux Abomination

Chapter 84: Changed magic

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Chapter 91: Champion Showdown