Vienna’s “Shadow District” held not only underground bare-knuckle boxing and smugglers, but also the most comprehensive secondhand Dark Arts bookstore in all of Europe.
When Fleur slammed a thick stack of books—each radiating a musty scent of mildew, leather, or some indefinable metallic tang of blood—down onto the expensive coffee table of their Sacher Hotel suite, the carved wooden table groaned under the weight.
*Practical Combat Magic: A Durmstrang Tactical Manual*, *The Deconstruction and Reconstruction of Non-Verbal Spells*, *When You Lack a Wand: An Introduction to Human Magic*, and *Fundamentals of Alchemy: From Blowing Up Eyebrows to Blowing Up Castles*.
Harry swallowed as he stared at the titles.
“How long are we staying in Austria?
It’ll take at least a term to read through all of these.” “A term?” Fleur was in front of the mirror, trying on a newly purchased wide-brimmed hat adorned with blue roses.
At his words, she shot him a look in the mirror as if he were an idiot.
“Harry, we can stay here for three days at most.
In three days, even if Dumbledore doesn’t come knocking himself, the Order of the Phoenix will sniff out the copper-and-gold stench of those thousand Galleons.” “Three days?!” Harry pointed at the stack, which was taller than he was.
“You expect me to learn all this in three days?” “I don’t expect you to learn it; I expect you to *understand* it.” Fleur turned around and adjusted the skirt of her silk dress, newly tailored by a goblin.
“As long as you can learn how not to blow yourself up, or how to run away before someone else blows you up, that will be enough.” She picked up her handbag, walked to the door, and placed her hand on the knob.
“So, Mr.
Evans.
I’ve reinforced the defensive wards on this suite.
For the next three days, this is your Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library.” “Where are you going?” Harry stood up instinctively, still clutching the *Durmstrang Tactical Manual*.
“I’m going to enjoy my holiday,” Fleur replied, utterly unapologetic.
At that moment, her French romanticism and hedonism shone through perfectly.
“Vienna has the best opera houses, the best pastry shops, and the handsomest wizards in Europe—though none are as charming as me, but that’s a different matter.” She opened the door, glanced back at Harry, her eyes turning slightly serious, though her tone remained one of casual teasing.
“Harry, I quit my job at Gringotts to wild out, not to be your private tutor.
If I wanted to teach, I would have gone to Beauxbatons to become an old witch like Professor McGonagall.” “You chose this path, and your life is your own.
I can rescue you from Privet Drive, and I can buy you a wand, but I can’t cast the spells for you.” “Read on your own.
In three days, no matter how much you’ve read, even if it’s just a single page, we have to leave.” Fleur tapped her temple.
“Dumbledore has a very sharp nose.
Once that old man detects the magical fluctuations here…
trust me, you don’t want to see him angry.” *Bang.* The door closed.
Harry was left alone in the room with the pile of dangerous-smelling old books.
Harry stood frozen for a few seconds.
There was no Hermione by his side urging him to take notes, no Ron complaining about having too much homework, and no Snape spitting venom behind his back.
Only himself.
Outside the window, Vienna was bathed in bright sunshine, and cheerful music drifted up from the street below.
Yet here he was, locked in this luxurious cage, facing a pile of dry magical theory.
“Alright,” Harry muttered, taking a deep breath.
He sat back on the sofa and opened *The Deconstruction of Non-Verbal Spells*.
“For Lily Evans,” he whispered to himself.
Over the next three days, Harry fell into a near-frenzied state of study.
He had never craved knowledge like this before.
At school, studying had been about passing exams and avoiding lost points.
But now, he knew with absolute clarity that every word in these books could be his only lifeline when facing Death Eaters in the future.
He stopped trying to memorize the pronunciation of spells by rote and began to try and understand the principles of magical flow.
*”A non-verbal spell is not silence; it is a roar within the soul,”* the book read.
On the first day, Harry locked himself in the bathroom to practice in front of the mirror.
Brandishing his vine-wood wand, he mentally chanted, *Scourgify*.
At first, nothing happened, except his face turning red like a constipated gnome.
But by nightfall, he had successfully made a bar of soap slide silently across the floor.
Though it hadn’t cleaned anything, he felt the subtle sensation of magic flowing smoothly through his body.
On the second day, Fleur returned carrying several shopping bags, smelling of expensive perfume.
She found Harry sitting cross-legged on the carpet, surrounded by a dozen floating water orbs.
Harry didn’t utter a word, merely staring at the water.
One of the orbs suddenly burst, transforming into countless tiny ice needles that embedded themselves into a target on the wall.
“Getting there,” Fleur commented, tossing him a takeout box of pork cutlets.
“But at this level, you’d still be insta-killed if you ran into Bellatrix.” “I know,” Harry said without looking up, gnawing on a cutlet while flipping through *Practical Combat Magic*.
“This book says if your magical reserves are low, you can use Transfiguration to alter the terrain.
This trick is actually quite interesting…” On the evening of the third day, Harry was immersed in a battered book on Ancient Runes amulets when the door was suddenly flung open.
Fleur rushed in, completely stripped of her usual elegance and poise.
Carrying bags in both hands, her face was grim, even slightly pale.
The scent of her perfume was swept away by a sudden gust of cold wind.
“Close the books, Harry.
Now.” “What’s wrong?” Harry leaped off the sofa, his hand instinctively clutching his wand.
“I haven’t finished the chapter on counter-curses yet—” “No time for that.” Fleur swept the pile of books into her Undetectable Extension-charmed handbag with rough, frantic motions, as if they were waste paper.
“While having afternoon tea at the Café Sacher, I saw the ‘Phoenix’.” “A phoenix?” Harry’s heart sank.
“Fawkes?” “Not the real bird.
A Patronus.” Fleur quickly cast spells, vanishing every trace in the room—Harry’s clothes, leftover bones, stray hairs.
“A silvery phoenix Patronus passed right through the wall.
It was a messenger sent by Dumbledore to an old friend of his in the International Confederation of Wizards.” “That old friend was at the very next table.
I overheard: ‘Look for two young wizards with British accents, a male and a female, driving a blue car.'” Fleur grabbed the car keys and seized Harry’s arm.
“He’s pinpointed Vienna.
We have to break out before the Aurors lock down the city.” Harry glanced at the empty coffee table.
Where a wealth of knowledge had once piled high, only a few burn marks from magic remained.
He felt a pang of regret, but he knew Fleur was right.
“Where to?” Harry followed her as she dashed out the door, slipping his wand back into his sleeve as they ran.
“East,” Fleur said, stabbing the elevator button, her eyes sharp.
“The Hungarian border.
There are dragons, swamps, and magical magnetic interference that would give even Dumbledore a headache.” “Once we’re in those woods, not even Fawkes will be able to find us.” The elevator doors opened.
The two bolted out like the wind and jumped into the Citroën parked in the back alley.
The engine roared.
Sitting in the passenger seat, Harry looked back at the golden city of Vienna.
This was his second escape in just a few short days.