The Citroën DS roared down the highway outside Vienna, a blue arrow shot from a bow, pointing straight toward the Hungarian border to the east.
Road signs flashed past in a blur.
The sign for “Budapest 240km” zipped by.
Clutching the grab handle, Harry watched the rearview mirror, terrified he might see Fawkes or Moody on a broomstick suddenly plunge from the clouds.
“Can we make it before they seal the border?” Harry shouted over the howling wind.
“The book said there’s an anti-Apparition detection grid at the Hungarian border.
If we try to force our way through—” “Who said we’re going to Hungary?” Fleur suddenly slammed on the brakes and whipped the steering wheel hard to the left.
With the screech of burning rubber and the smell of scorched tires, the Citroën pulled off a heart-stopping drift-turn right on the highway, narrowly missing the guardrail.
The car swayed violently before roaring off in the opposite direction—southwest, back the way they came—accelerating madly.
“What?!” Harry was thrown against the door.
“But you just said—” “That was for any potential eavesdropping charms, and for Dumbledore’s logic.” Fleur calmly shifted gears as the car veered onto a mountain trail, bypassing the main road’s surveillance.
She reached out and pressed a button on the dashboard.
Instantly, the car’s vibrant electric-blue body faded into an unremarkable muddy grey, and even the license plate shifted to a different set of numbers.
“Think, Harry,” Fleur said quickly, her eyes locked on the road.
“If this is indeed a game of cat and mouse, and the opponent is Albus Dumbledore, how do you think he’ll look at it?” Harry paused, trying to put himself in the old wizard’s shoes.
“He’d think…
we’re a pair of rebellious runaways.
Since we’ve already reached Austria, we’d definitely keep heading east to somewhere more chaotic, somewhere beyond the Ministry of Magic’s jurisdiction.
Like Eastern Europe, or the Balkans.” “Bingo.” Fleur snapped her fingers.
“He’ll assume we are ‘fleeing,’ and flight paths usually head outward in a straight line.
He’ll scatter the Order of the Phoenix across the Hungarian border, the Romanian dragon sanctuaries, and even the gates to Russia.” “So?” “So we do the exact opposite.” A sly smile crept onto Fleur’s lips.
“We stop running.
We turn back.
We go right back to the place that old man thinks we’d never dare return to.” She pointed toward the rolling snow-capped mountains in the distance, towering and oppressive in the gathering dusk.
“The Alps.” “We just came from there!” Harry’s eyes widened.
“There are yetis, that damn tower of Grindelwald’s, and—” “And countless labyrinthine valleys, the most complex magical magnetic interference in the world, and mountains sealed by snow for half the year,” Fleur interrupted.
“Most importantly, it’s hiding in plain sight.
Dumbledore will view it as our ‘starting point.’ No one would be stupid enough to flee back to their starting point to hide.” “Except us.” Looking at the familiar snowy peaks, Harry suddenly found a mad logic to the plan.
“How long are we hiding there?” “A month,” Fleur said, holding up a finger.
“An entire month.
We’ll find a mountain ravine so deep not even an owl can fly in, hide the car, and cut off all contact.
For this month, let the Order of the Phoenix run around like headless chickens across the Eastern European plains.” …
Four hours later.
Night fell, and the Citroën glided silently like a ghost next to an abandoned hunter’s cabin nestled deep in the Tyrolean Alps of Austria.
The altitude was extremely high, surrounded by dense black forests and sheer rock faces.
Unless someone did a literal sweep of the mountains, they would never find this place.
The cabin was covered in dust and cobwebs, the fireplace containing nothing but cold ashes.
“The accommodations are a bit subpar; no Vienna down comforters here.” Fleur waved her wand.
“*Scourgify.*” The dust balled up and flew out the window, instantly making the dilapidated wooden cabin barely habitable.
From her Undetectable Extension-charmed bag, she pulled out two folding camp cots and a mountain of supplies bought with those thousand Galleons—canned food, dry rations, and several bottles of fine wine.
Deep in the Alps, the fireplace in the cabin crackled merrily.
Outside, the wind and snow howled, clawing at the window panes, while inside, Harry held a tin can, preparing to heat it with his wand.
It was a classic food that had accompanied his entire childhood and his years at Hogwarts—baked beans in tomato sauce.
“Stop right there.” A slender hand reached over, ruthlessly snatching the can from Harry’s grasp.
“What is this?” Fleur held the tin with two fingers, looking utterly repulsed as if it were a dragon dung patty about to explode.
“Aren’t we supposed to be running?
We are ‘in hiding’ now.
And since we are in hiding, why on earth are we eating something that looks like vomit?” “They’re baked beans, Fleur.” Harry tried to snatch the can back, though his voice lacked conviction.
“It’s very…
very nutritious.
And convenient.
You just heat it up.” “Convenient?” Fleur sneered, tossing the can into the corner bin with a loud *clatter*.
“Harry, put down your books.
Your training is temporarily suspended.
It is now time for ‘the aesthetics of living.'” She walked over to the pile of supplies they had purchased in Vienna and began inspecting the ingredients like a general reviewing troops: fresh veal, red wine, a bouquet garni, and a bag of wild mushrooms that looked incredibly expensive.
“Listen, your big sister is going to teach you your first lesson today: we don’t eat to fill our bellies, we eat to please our palates.” Fleur rolled up her sleeves, exposing her pale wrists, while directing a knife to automatically dice onions.
“If you compromise even on food, what’s the point of living?” “But…” Harry muttered, staring at the exquisite ingredients.
“British food isn’t *that* bad, is it?
Hogwarts’ roast chicken legs and steak and kidney pies are quite good.
And fish and chips…” “Stop.” Fleur raised her wand, pointing it at Harry as if he had just uttered an Unforgivable Curse.
“Putting the words ‘British’ and ‘cuisine’ in the same sentence is a grammatical error in itself.” She turned around, pouring olive oil into a pot as she launched into full mockery mode.
“The way you British treat food is simply atrocious.
You have only two methods of preparation: boil it to mush, or fry it to dust.
You boil vegetables until they look like grey mud and roast meat until it resembles shoe leather.
And what on earth is that ‘Stargazy pie’?
Dead fish heads staring at the sky?
Merlin’s beard, that’s a Dark Arts ritual!” “That’s discrimination!” Harry flushed, trying to defend his homeland’s honor.
“That’s tradition!
And…
and I’ve never found it bad!” “That is because your tastebuds were murdered long ago by those Muggles and the institutional sludge at Hogwarts,” Fleur countered ruthlessly.
As the butter sizzled and melted in the pot, a rich, savory aroma began to fill the cabin.
Fleur expertly dredged the veal in flour, seared it to a golden brown, and poured in the red wine.
“Harry, during the Triwizard Tournament last year, did you really think we Beauxbatons students were eating the food your school provided?” Fleur asked dismissively as she stirred the beef bourguignon.
Harry blinked.
“Weren’t you?
I remember they prepared bouillabaisse for you in the Great Hall.” “That was just for show,” Fleur sneered, tossing a sprig of rosemary into the pot.
“Behind closed doors, every single Beauxbatons student, even if it meant spending all their pocket money, paid premium rates to have owls airmail cheese, baguettes, and foie gras from France.” She looked back at Harry, her eyes brimming with effortless French superiority.
“We would rather write home begging for allowance, or beg Madame Maxime to cook for us on the side, than touch your greasy kidney pies or those rock cakes hard enough to crack a skull.
Those three months were an Azkaban-level sentence for my stomach.” Harry opened his mouth to argue, but the aroma wafting from the pot was simply too heavenly.
It was the richness of red wine mingled with the savory fat of beef, accented by the sweetness of thyme and onions…
He had never smelled anything like this at Privet Drive, nor in the Great Hall of Hogwarts (which smelled mostly of roast meats and pumpkin juice).
*Growl.* Harry’s stomach betrayed his patriotism with brutal honesty.
“Alright, shut up and sit down,” Fleur said, directing the plates to fly over with her wand.
“During this month in the Alps, your Defense Against the Dark Arts study is on you, but your stomach belongs to me.” A plate of rich, deeply colored *Boeuf Bourguignon* with thick gravy was set before Harry, accompanied by a freshly transfigured baguette with a perfectly crispy crust.
“Taste it,” Fleur said, pouring herself a glass of wine and sitting down gracefully.
“Then tell me if this is even the same species as your baked beans.” Harry picked up a spoon, scooped up a piece of beef, and popped it into his mouth.
The savory juices exploded on his tongue.
The tender, flavor-infused beef melted in his mouth with hardly any need to chew, and the slight acidity of the red wine cut through the richness, imparting an incredibly complex depth of flavor.
At that moment, Harry felt that the “stews” he had eaten in the past were nothing but dishwater.
“…” Harry was silent for three seconds before he began ravenously dipping the bread into the gravy and shoving it into his mouth.
“Well, Mr.
Evans?” Fleur rested her chin on her hand, looking at him with amusement.
“Still want to defend your fish and chips?” Harry swallowed the meat, wiped his mouth, and said with absolute, solemn conviction: “Big sister, I have sinned.” “British food is garbage.” “Can I have another bowl?” Fleur burst out laughing, her laughter echoing warmly through the cozy cabin.
“That’s more like it.” She ladled another generous portion onto his plate.
“Eat up.
Now *this* is living.” Outside the window, a blizzard raged—a harsh, cold world of running for their lives.
Inside, the cabin was warm, smelling of wine and beef—a slice of the “good life” belonging only to the two of them, if only for a fleeting moment.