At least his name isn't Draco

Harry felt every eye on him and Fleur as they glided across the space, yet for a moment, the world felt blissfully distilled to just the two of them.

The soft notes played by the band created a comforting cushion of sound, making each footstep on the smooth stone nearly silent.

Harry had never pictured himself enjoying dancing, let alone performing it so gracefully in front of a crowd.

Yet here he was, once again moving in near-perfect unison with Fleur's fluid steps.

His mind flitted back to the early days of the school year, when he could barely muster the confidence to dance without treading on Fleur's toes.

'I'm quite lucky, aren't I? Merlin knows where she found all that patience that she must have needed to teach me,' he thought, watching her graceful movements and remembering how she'd coaxed him through those first awkward steps with endless encouragement.

Harry caught Fleur's eye and smiled, an unspoken gratitude passing between them.

She offered the faintest nod, as if to say, You're doing fine.

A swirl of colour at the edge of his vision reminded him of the watching audience.

Several pairs slowed their dancing just to watch Harry and Fleur, while others whispered or cast jealous looks.

'Focus on the music,' Harry told himself, resisting the urge to glance around.

'Don't think about the crowd; think about her.'

As if she sensed his shifting thoughts, Fleur gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, drawing him closer in time to the final swell of the melody.

When at last the violins faded on a lingering note, a soft round of applause washed over them, polite yet intrigued.

They lingered briefly in the centre of the floor, taking a breath to steady themselves.

With a subtle gesture, she guided him away from the limelight.

As they stepped off the marble floor, Harry welcomed the relative quiet near the refreshment tables.

Although the hall was still lively—couples launching into another dance, dignitaries chatting under drifting fairy lights—this corner felt a bit more sheltered.

Fleur's arm remained snug against his until they reached a table laden with elegantly arranged sweets and tall flutes of sparkling juice.

He finally allowed himself a tiny sigh of relief. "You make it look easy," he murmured, setting a hand lightly on the small of Fleur's back.

"Years of practice I'm afraid," she replied softly, her accent curling around the words. "And… I've had to learn to hide my nerves, especially around politicians and father's allies." Her eyes flickered with a guarded light at the last few words.

Harry handed her a glass, watching with quiet concern as she took a careful sip.

Guilt tugged at him briefly, knowing she was expected to be perfect—too perfect.

"The only reason I haven't messed up too badly," he said lightly, "is because you're steering me half the time."

Her lips curved into a soft, genuine smile. "You're doing quite well yourself, mon amour. I'm sure I wouldn't have to steer much if we danced again."

He grinned, letting that casual banter fill him. "Maybe after a bit of a break."

They clinked their glasses in a silent toast—to us—then sipped.

Harry felt his muscles uncoil slightly, as though the night's pressure momentarily loosened its grip.

However, the sense of calm didn't last long.

Harry noticed a figure weaving through the crowd with unnerving purpose. Even before the young man reached them, Harry recognised him: tall, sharp-featured, and well-dressed in dark teal robes trimmed with gold. There was an unmistakable haughtiness in his posture, reminding Harry uncomfortably of Draco Malfoy.

'What are the odds that they're actually related?' he mused, jaw setting in mild exasperation.

The newcomer paused, only a polite step away.

His gaze flicked over Harry almost dismissive, before settling on Fleur.

He offered a shallow bow. "Mademoiselle Delacour*,*" he greeted, the pleasantry in his tone stretched thin by condescension.

Fleur acknowledged him with a cool nod. "Good evening," she replied, the words crisp.

Harry noticed a flash of irritation cross the boy's eyes before he responded in clipped English.

"You were enchanting on the dance floor. I trust you'll honour me with a turn as well?"

Harry felt a prickle of annoyance.

The tone of the Malfoy look-alike reeked of entitlement, as though Fleur's acceptance was guaranteed. The sense of expectancy in the boy's stance was almost palpable.

Fleur's polite smile didn't waver. "Thank you for the offer, but I've already danced quite enough for the moment. And I'm here with my partner." She spoke in English, emphasising Harry's presence. The steel in her tone was subtle, but it left no ambiguity.

The young man's eyes flicked to Harry, narrowing briefly. "Certainly," he replied, returning to French with insouciance, "but perhaps your 'partner' would understand if you wished to dance with a more… refined escort. One from your own country, non?"

Harry's fingers tightened around his glass.

'This again,' he thought, knowing enough French to understand exactly what the boy said.

How many times would he have to endure snide comments about being an outsider?

Whether it was his house, his blood status, or now his nationality—the constant stream of prejudice was exhausting, especially from people who didn't even know him.

A spike of anger lanced through him, and for a moment, he recalled Draco's sneers in their earlier years at Hogwarts. 'Same arrogance, different accent.'

He forced himself to stay calm, focusing on the breath he exhaled through his nose.

Fleur, however, showed no sign of flinching. "I'm content with the partner I have, Monsieur," she said. Her calm graciousness didn't mask the warning in her eyes. "If you'll excuse us, we'd like to finish our refreshments in peace."

A faint flush spread across the young man's cheeks—whether from anger or embarrassment, Harry couldn't tell.

He cleared his throat, adjusting his robe cuffs with exaggerated finesse. "I see," he said, voice growing taut. "What a pity, then, that the Beauxbatons champion—my champion—declines to associate with her rightful peers. One might think it reflects poorly on our academy if you prefer strangers' company."

Fleur's jaw set in a rigid line. "Your champion?" she echoed, her carefully modulated accent lending a razor edge to the words. "I'm no one's champion but my own. And if I'm to reflect Beauxbatons, I suggest you consider how your behaviour looks at this moment."

The boy stepped closer, ignoring Harry entirely—a big mistake.

His voice rose slightly, attracting a few curious glances from nearby guests. "I wanted to show courtesy. You respond with insults and cling to your foreign attachments. I'd expect more loyalty from someone representing our school."

Harry's pulse hammered. He couldn't stand by quietly any longer. He set his glass down with deliberate composure and placed himself so that he was a half-step in front of Fleur, no longer content to remain a bystander.

"I think that's enough," he said calmly, thought the tension in his tone made it clear it was anything but a request. "If Fleur says no, it's no. Stop making a fool of yourself and leave."

The French Malfoy's gaze whipped to Harry, eyes glittering with condescension. "Do you know who I am?" he demanded, switching back to English.

"I come from the prominent French line of the Malfoy family—unlike that lesser branch that settled in Britain."

Harry almost burst out laughing at the absurdity.

'Good lord, he's actually a Malfoy. He even acts like one!'

However, his cheeriness quickly evaporated as the boy showed no signs of backing down.

If anything, the Malfoy seemed emboldened by his own proclamation, his chin lifting with an air of superiority.

Harry's lips tightened into a half-smile, devoid of real mirth. "Then maybe you should act like someone who's better than me. Because right now, Malfoy, you're acting like a brat who can't take no for an answer."

The small circle of spectators who had gathered nearby tittered with amusement.

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Chapter 87: Always

Chapter 88: Stalker

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Chapter 95: DADA