Vienna truly lived up to its reputation as a city of art, even in the eyes of wizards.
When the dust-covered Citroën DS—having survived the pursuit of a frost wyvern and the baptism of the Alps—pulled into a hidden alley in the center of Vienna known as “Mozart Alley Zero,” Harry felt as though he had stepped straight from a primitive society into a golden age.
Music notes seemed to float visibly in the air.
The streetlights were no ordinary gas lamps, but tiny, glowing fairies sealed inside crystal spheres, dimming and brightening to the rhythm of a waltz drifting from some unknown source.
The buildings on either side of the street were entirely Baroque, their gilded reliefs gleaming splendidly in the night.
“This is the back of the Golden Hall, and also the reception area for the Austrian Ministry of Magic.” Fleur tossed the car keys to a valet who was a house-elf dressed in a tuxedo, looking like a miniature penguin, and flicked a Gold Galleon his way.
“Give it a wash, and feed the engine some high-purity salamander blood while you’re at it.
It’s exhausted today.” “Right away, noble mistress!” The elf caught the gold coin and bowed deeply to the battered car.
Harry tugged at his sleeve, which had a hole burned in it during the duel earlier, and looked at the wizarding elites surrounding them—dressed in silk robes and holding ivory folding fans.
For the first time, he felt a sense of awkwardness called being “out of place.” “We look like two chimney sweeps who just crawled out of a flue,” Harry whispered.
“Then let’s get a makeover.” Fleur linked her arm through his and marched toward the magnificent building named the “Sacher Magic Hotel.” “Now that we have money, let’s turn it into decency.
This is also part of a gap year—learning to live like a wealthy local.” The next two hours were more magical to Harry than facing Voldemort.
They didn’t go to the dusty robe shops of Diagon Alley.
Fleur took him to a high-end bespoke salon accessible only to gold cardholders.
The tailors there weren’t human; they were a few pairs of golden scissors flying of their own accord and bolts of fabric that flowed like water.
When Harry stood in front of the mirror again, he barely recognized himself.
His messy hair had been smoothed down by some potion, giving it a relaxed yet unfrizzed, stylish look.
His round glasses, once held together by tape, had been replaced with a pair of lightweight, rimless crystal spectacles that not only adjusted their prescription automatically but could also see through low-level invisibility spells.
The oversized T-shirt of Dudley’s—three sizes too big—was gone, replaced by a perfectly tailored deep forest-green wizard’s dress robe with subtle silver patterns embroidered at the collar, both understated and luxurious.
“Not bad.” Fleur stepped out, having changed into a shimmering silver evening gown, looking like a moonlight goddess stepped straight out of myth.
“Though you’re still that scrawny little boy, at least you look presentable now.” “This outfit cost fifty Galleons,” Harry said, rubbing his cuff with an aching heart.
“That’s enough to cover all the pocket money Ron and Ginny would ever get in their lives.” “But it makes you look trustworthy, and no one will suspect you’re a fugitive who just finished an underground duel,” Fleur said, straightening his bow tie.
“Let’s go, Prince Evans.
Tonight, we have not only the best room but also the best show.” They didn’t actually go for a bath just yet (that would come later); Fleur insisted they experience some “art” while they were still wide awake.
The Vienna Magic Opera House.
What was being performed here was not a Muggle opera, but a magical production called *The Banshee’s Requiem*.
The stage was suspended in mid-air, and the backdrop was a realistic sea generated by illusion charms.
When the banshee began to sing, her voice did not travel through the ears, but pierced directly into the soul.
Harry had originally thought he would fall asleep—just as he did in Professor Binns’s History of Magic class.
But he didn’t.
Sitting in a red velvet-lined box, holding a glass of expensive champagne with actual gold leaf floating in it, he watched the brilliant lights and shadows on the stage and listened to the soul-shivering song.
He suddenly understood why Fleur insisted on coming here.
In the underground dueling ring, it was the instinct of survival, the struggle of blood and sweat.
But here, it was the beauty of life, the most splendid, useless, yet enchanting aspect of magic.
This was the duality of the world.
Before, he had only seen the side of magic fought for survival, never the magic that existed purely for “beauty.” After the performance, they sat in the famous Café Sacher (the wizarding seating area) with two slices of the renowned Sachertorte and a large cup of Viennese coffee spiked with rum in front of them.
“How is it?” Fleur scooped up a bite of the rich chocolate cake with a small silver spoon, popping it into her mouth and squinting in satisfaction.
“This is what you call ‘enjoyment,’ Harry.” “A bit…
unreal,” Harry answered honestly, looking out at the bustling magical street.
“A few hours ago, I thought I was going to get my ribs broken by a bald wizard.
Now here I am, sitting in these expensive clothes, eating cake.” “That’s the power of money, and the taste of freedom.” Fleur swirled her glass.
“Harry, your life before was too wound up.
If you’re always thinking ‘I have to save the world’ or ‘I have to defeat the Dark Lord,’ you will drive yourself crazy.
Sometimes, you need to learn to stop, eat a piece of cake, listen to an opera, and tell yourself: this world is worth fighting for, not just because of justice, but because of these beautiful things.” Harry was silent for a moment, then took a large bite of the cake.
Bitter chocolate and sweet apricot jam exploded in his mouth, mingling with the aroma of whipped cream.
It was delicious.
Ten thousand times better than any dessert Aunt Petunia had ever made.
“You’re right.” Harry smiled, a genuine, relaxed, boyish smile this time.
“I think I’m starting to like this ‘decadent’ life a little.” “Don’t get too addicted,” Fleur poured cold water on him, though her eyes were warm.
“That thousand Galleons might seem like a lot, but at our current rate of spending, it’ll probably only last two weeks.
Especially if you still want to upgrade the car.” “And after two weeks?” Harry asked.
“After two weeks, it’ll be time to leave this comfortable place.” Fleur pulled out a new map, this one of Eastern Europe.
“Vienna is wonderful, but it’s too close to the civilized world and too easy to track.
Dumbledore’s reach may not extend to the underground black markets here, but it can reach high-end hotels like this.” Her finger slid eastward across the map, crossing the Austrian border and pointing to a much wilder, more mysterious, and chaotic region.
“Hungary.
And then Romania,” Fleur said.
“There are real dragon sanctuaries there, and even older vampire clans.
The magic there is wilder and doesn’t play by the rules.
It’s a blind spot for the ICW.” “Are we going to look for Charlie Weasley?” Harry asked.
“Not necessarily.
Depends on our mood.” Fleur folded the map.
“Maybe we can see if we can catch a Hungarian Horntail as a pet, or fish for water monsters in the Danube in Budapest.” “Sounds like a plan.” Harry drained his coffee, the warmth spreading all the way down to his stomach.
“Well then, tonight.” Fleur stood up, her queenly aura returning.
“Since we spent the money to book the most expensive suite, it would be an insult to the Gold Galleons not to sleep until we wake up naturally.” “Harry Evans, your task is to forget about that scar, forget about the prophecy, and get a good night’s sleep.
No one is allowed to wake us up before the sun rises tomorrow.” “Yes, sister.” That night, on the softest down pillow in Vienna, the Savior Harry Potter had a dream.
In the dream, there was no green light, no screaming, and no flying Dementors.
There was only a heavy snowfall, a gentle frost wyvern, and a slice of sickeningly sweet Sachertorte.
It was the most peaceful night of sleep he had had in fourteen years.