“If you have money, Austria is heaven.” As the Citroën DS sped down the highway through the night, Fleur drove while pointing out the dark scenery outside the window like an irresponsible tour guide.
“We could go to Salzburg to hear the midnight concert of the ‘Mozart Ghost Orchestra.’ They say the maestro went even madder after he died, and his Requiem can make you see your past life.
Or we could visit the back gardens of Schönbrunn Palace in Vienna, where real champagne and liquid luck flow from the magic fountains.
Then there’s the Crystal Worlds in Innsbruck—the Swarovski family’s real entrance left for wizards, where everything inside is a living gem…” Fleur described it all with rapturous delight, as if those luxurious scenes were right before their eyes.
Then, reality hit them like a brick.
“But,” she glanced at the solitary Gold Galleon on the dashboard, “tickets to those places start at fifty Galleons.
And our current net worth is probably only enough to buy two outdated newspapers on the street.” Harry leaned against the car window, listening to the sound of his stomach digesting the roast beef, feeling that the ups and downs of life were happening far too quickly.
“So, where are we going then?” Harry asked.
“Since we can’t listen to Mozart or drink champagne.” “To Vienna’s ‘Shadow District.'” Fleur yanked the steering wheel, veering the car onto a narrow path that looked like it led to an abandoned factory.
“It’s one of the largest wizarding underground black markets in Europe.
If you have the skill, the streets are paved with gold.” “Do we have skill?” Harry looked at her somewhat skeptically.
“Aside from me talking to dragons and you talking a big game?” “Harry, you underestimate yourself too much.” Fleur turned her head, her deep blue eyes shining with the glint of a gambler.
“You’re a Triwizard Tournament champion, Hogwarts’ youngest Seeker, and you faced Voldemort head-on at just fourteen.
You have more combat experience than even the Head of the Auror Office.” She looked at Harry through the rearview mirror, a dangerous smile playing on the corner of her lips.
“You know how to fight, right?
The kind of fighting where you do whatever it takes to survive.” Harry touched his vine wood wand, remembering that night in the graveyard during his fourth year, and his despair when facing the Dementors in his third year.
“I do,” Harry said quietly, his eyes hardening.
“As long as I don’t have to recite theory, fighting is my specialty.” “That’s all we need.” Fleur stepped on the gas.
“There’s a famous ‘Iron Wand’ Duelling Club in Vienna’s underground.
They don’t ask about your background or your name—only your strength.
Win a round, and the prize is a hundred Galleons.
And if we add side bets…” She grabbed their last remaining Gold Galleon and flipped it with her fingernail.
“This is our starting capital.
I’m going to use this single Galleon to earn our damn ticket money.” Half an hour later.
The Citroën parked at the back door of a building that looked like an abandoned opera house.
The air here was thick with the smell of cigars and the sweet aroma of some magical hallucinogen.
Moving graffiti covered the walls, mostly skulls and broken wands.
“Put on a hood.” Fleur pulled a piece of black cloth from the back seat and threw it to Harry.
She then expertly cast an advanced Confundus Charm on herself, making her features appear blurry and turning her prominent silvery-blonde hair into a dull gray.
“The more mysterious you are here, the better.
Don’t use your real name, not even ‘Evans.'” “Then what do I call myself?” Harry pulled his hood down, covering his lightning-bolt scar.
“That depends on how flashy of a stage name you want to give yourself.” Fleur pushed open the heavy iron door, and the roar of the crowd inside instantly washed over them.
It was a massive circular arena, once the stage of the opera house, now converted into a duelling platform enveloped by a powerful Shield Charm.
The surrounding stands were packed with all sorts of bizarre-looking wizards, goblins, and even a few vampires.
On the stage, two wizards were frantically blasting spells at each other.
Multi-colored beams of light flew everywhere—no bowing, no etiquette, only pure violence.
“This is our cash machine,” Fleur whispered loudly into Harry’s ear.
“I’ll register and place the bets.
Think of a codename.” Harry watched the unlucky fellow on the stage get blasted off his feet, crashing against the shield before sliding down.
The blood inside his body began to simmer.
This wasn’t just about money; it was a release.
After being stifled for so many years at Privet Drive and bound by so many rules at Hogwarts, he needed to let it out.
“Call me ‘Seeker,'” Harry said suddenly.
In Quidditch, it meant Seeker, but it also meant someone searching for something.
“Too artistic, not tough enough,” Fleur frowned.
“But whatever.
Once you start blasting people off the stage, it won’t matter what you’re called.” Holding the Gold Galleon, she slipped into the noisy crowd like a nimble fish, heading straight for the bookmaker.
Harry stood in the shadows, gripping his wand.
Ten minutes later, the announcer’s hoarse and excited voice blared through the speakers: “Ladies and gentlemen!
Next up!
We have a reckless newcomer challenging our ‘Bonebreaker’ Boris!
Let’s welcome—from some unknown corner—the ‘Seeker’!” A scattered chorus of boos and jeers rippled through the arena.
Harry took a deep breath and stepped onto the duelling stage.
Opposite him stood a bald wizard over two meters tall, covered in muscle, holding a wand that looked like a wooden club.
He was sneering at Harry, displaying a mouthful of teeth.
“Is this kid even weaned yet?” the bald man mocked loudly.
“Go home and drink your mummy’s milk!” Harry didn’t say a word.
He just stood there quietly, feeling the world around him grow clear and slow down.
In the shadows below, Fleur clutched the betting slip where she had put everything on the “Seeker” to win at ten-to-one odds.
Holding a martini she had swiped from who-knows-where, she took an elegant sip.
“This is the Savior’s debut, after all,” she murmured to herself, her eyes full of amusement.
“I’ve got high hopes for you, little brother.
Don’t lose our dinner money.” The referee on the stage—a short fellow who looked half-goblin—swung his hand down sharply.
“Begin!” The bald wizard didn’t even have time to finish the first syllable of his curse.
“Stupefy!” A red light flashed like lightning—precise, fierce, without a single wasted movement.
*Boom!* The bald wizard flew backward like a cannonball, crashing straight through two layers of protective charms to dangle from the railing of the spectator stands, completely knocked out.
Absolute silence fell over the arena.
A second later, deafening screams and cheers erupted.
Harry lowered his wand, tugged at his hood, and looked at Fleur below the stage.
Fleur raised her glass, mouthing “well done” to him, before turning toward the bookmaker to harvest their first pot of gold.