20: Chapter 18: The Artist vs.
The Beast 20: Chapter 18: The Artist vs.
The Beast Having had their fill of food and drink, the atmosphere in the cabin became exceptionally cozy and lazy.
As Harry helped Fleur clear the plates—though it was mostly a spell making the dishes wash themselves in the sink—he couldn’t help but ask the question that had been weighing on his mind for a while.
“Honestly, Fleur,” Harry said, watching the witch lounging by the fireplace, lazily swirling her glass of red wine.
“Your spellwork is so perfect, and you could even understand that thousand-Galleon Ancient Runes puzzle…
If we actually got into a fight, or ran into Death Eaters, how good are you in a real duel?” Harry instinctively felt that, as a Beauxbatons champion, Fleur had to be a hidden master.
However, hearing this, Fleur chuckled as if she had just heard a joke, then shrugged helplessly.
“Harry, let’s face reality.” She took a sip of her wine, surprisingly candid.
“I am a thoroughbred academic.
Or what you would call a ‘theorist.’ If it came down to a real duel to the death, I couldn’t beat you.” “What?” The rag in Harry’s hand almost slipped into the sink.
He spun around, a look of sheer disbelief on his face.
“How is that possible?
You’re a Triwizard Tournament champion!
You know so much advanced magic, and you even have your Veela allure!” “Knowing magic and knowing how to fight are two entirely different things, dear.” Fleur pointed at the pile of Defense Against the Dark Arts books stacked on the coffee table.
“I can memorize the principles behind every spell in those books, write a twelve-foot essay on counter-curses, and even modify a spell’s structure to make it look more elegant.” She paused, looking into Harry’s eyes, and said seriously, “But I don’t have your beast-like instincts.” “Beast?” Harry’s lip twitched.
“It’s a compliment.” Fleur set down her wine glass and stood up, her rosewood wand sliding into her hand.
“Watch closely.” She flicked her wand with textbook precision—a smooth, beautiful motion, like conducting a symphony.
Two seconds later, a complex silver shield materialized in the air, complete with intricate patterns swirling across its surface.
“See?
That is my style.
Perfect, but tedious.” Fleur vanished the shield.
“If that madman with the dynamite bottles from earlier were standing in front of me, I would have been blown to bits before I could even trace my first rune.” She stepped closer to Harry, gently tapping his messy head with her finger.
“But you, Harry.
You don’t think at all.
Your body moves faster than your brain.
When danger strikes, I’m not sure if I’d survive, but I’m certain your wand would already be pointed right at the enemy’s nose.” “In terms of raw combat reflexes and instincts,” Fleur offered high praise, “your current level is such that if you applied to be a Ministry of Magic Auror, the British Ministry of Magic would hire you on the spot, no written exams required.
You are a natural-born fighter.” Harry scratched his head, a bit embarrassed.
“Am I really that good?
I just…
don’t want to die.” “Precisely because you ‘don’t want to die,’ you’re fast,” Fleur sighed.
“That’s also why I refused to step up in that underground fight club in Vienna and let you go instead.” She recalled that chaotic, violent, lawless iron cage.
A flicker of lingering fear passed through her eyes, followed by self-deprecation.
“Do you think I didn’t want to go up there and show off?
I need money too.
But Harry, if I had gone up against that bald brute, I would have probably tried to knock him out with a beautifully cast Stupefy.
The result?
My casting wind-up would have been too long, and he would have grabbed me by the ankle and slammed me into the ground.
“Places like that don’t need art; they need efficiency.
Even the ugliest Expelliarmus is a god-tier technique as long as it’s 0.1 seconds faster than the opponent.” Fleur sat back down in her chair, gazing out at the howling snowstorm as her eyes turned thoughtful.
“The wizarding world is very unfair.
“So, for the upcoming special training, I won’t teach you how to fight—because you’re already a master at that.
I will teach you ‘how to fight smarter.'” Fleur pointed at Harry, a mischievous smirk playing on her lips.
“Your reflexes are top-tier, but your repertoire is too limited.
Aside from Expelliarmus and Stupefy, you barely ever use a third spell.
It’s like having a Ferrari engine stuffed inside a tractor chassis.” Looking at Fleur, Harry suddenly felt that this far-from-perfect “coach” actually saw things more clearly than anyone else.
“Alright, Master Theorist,” Harry laughed, tightening his grip on his wand.
“Where do we start?” “By turning your silly little Expelliarmus into a non-verbal spell.” Fleur snapped her fingers.
“Since you’re fast, we need to make you so fast that even sound can’t catch up.” *** One day, their special training did not go according to plan.
Or rather, it was abruptly interrupted by a local “resident” less than thirty centimeters tall.
At the time, Harry was standing at the foot of a heavily snow-covered slope, trying to practice the “sensory extension” Fleur had taught him—which involved closing his eyes and feeling the flow of the wind.
“Listen closely, Harry,” Fleur called down from atop a high boulder.
Holding a cup of hot tea, she looked less like a coach and more like a noble lady enjoying a show.
“Don’t just use your ears.
Use your skin, your magical field…” “Shh,” Harry whispered, suddenly opening his eyes and cutting her off.
“Something’s coming.” His so-called “beast instinct” had indeed kicked in.
He sensed a creature approaching from his front-left.
Harry whipped around, his wand sliding into his hand instantly as he aimed the tip in that direction.
“Stupe—” The spell caught in his throat.
Emerging from behind a snowbank was neither a Death Eater nor a dangerous magical beast, but a chubby, round Alpine long-haired marmot that stood upright like a beer bottle.
It was even clutching the root of some plant in its paws, staring up at Harry in confusion with its bead-like black eyes.
“Uh…” Harry slowly lowered his wand, feeling like his sudden burst of killing intent had been a complete waste of energy.
“Fleur, it’s just a marmot.
I think it might be lost.” “Don’t touch it, Harry,” Fleur called down lazily from the boulder.
“That’s a screaming marmot.
They have quite a nasty temper.” “Oh, come on, it looks like a stuffed toy.” Harry lowered his guard, even reaching into his pocket to fish out some cookie crumbs to feed it.
“Hey there, little guy, hungry?” The marmot stared at Harry’s outstretched hand, then suddenly took a deep breath.
Its chest swelled to an impossibly exaggerated degree before it opened its mouth, which was shockingly large for its small body.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHH—!!!” A shrill, high-pitched, piercingly human-like scream shattered the tranquility of the Alps.
The sound was even more grating than a Mandrake, more maddening than a banshee’s wail.
Startled, Harry dropped the cookie crumbs and recoiled.
“Merlin’s pants!
What kind of ungodly shriek is that?!” However, that wasn’t the worst of it.
The worst part was that they were on a steep slope buried under heavy snow.
And sound carries vibrations.
Prompted by the marmot’s earth-shattering screech, the snow directly above Harry’s head let out a heavy, ominous *crack*.
Harry slowly, stiffly looked up.
The tens of tons of white snow that had rested peacefully on the slope now resembled a massive quilt being shaken out.
It surged downward in an unstoppable white wave, roaring as it collapsed.
“Run, Harry!” Fleur screamed from the boulder.
But it was too late.
“No—” Harry only managed to utter that single syllable before the white wall of snow completely swallowed him up.
No fierce magical duel, no life-or-death struggle—just a soft *whoosh*, and it was over.
Silence fell over the world.
The troublemaking marmot had vanished into its burrow the instant the avalanche started, hiding away like an unsung hero.
A minute later.
The site of the mini-avalanche returned to a dead silence.
The smooth blanket of snow bore no trace of a living person ever having stood there.
Fleur, safe on her high boulder, didn’t panic or leap down to rescue him.
Instead, she strolled to the edge, peered down, and even took another leisurely sip of her hot tea.
Then, the snow shifted.
A gloved hand broke through the surface, clawing frantically at the air.
This was followed by a head topped with a messy bird’s nest of hair, glasses askew near his chin, and a face covered in white powder.
“Pfft—bah!
Ptu!” Harry dragged himself out of the snowdrifts like a freshly dug carrot.
He was entirely white from head to toe, frost clinging to his eyelashes, looking utterly miserable.
“I’m alive…” Harry wiped the snow from his face and gasped for air, feeling like his lungs were full of ice shards.
“Bloody hell…
that rodent did that on purpose!
It definitely did!” He looked up angrily at Fleur on the boulder, seeking a bit of comfort or sympathy.
But all he saw was Fleur, doubled over with laughter.
“Hahahahaha!” Fleur had completely abandoned any semblance of Beauxbatons elegance.
With one hand supporting herself on the rock and the other clutching her stomach, she laughed so hard tears streamed down her face.
Her bell-like laughter echoed through the empty valley, ringing out louder than the marmot’s screech.
“You…
hahaha…
your look…
oh, Merlin…” Fleur pointed at Harry, breathless with laughter.
“The Savior Harry Potter!
The champion who fought a dragon!
Buried by a rodent in the end!
Hahaha!” Standing in knee-deep snow and watching Fleur shake with laughter, Harry wanted to be angry.
But looking down at himself, looking exactly like a snowman, he couldn’t help but deflate.
“It’s not funny, Fleur,” Harry mumbled, trying to shake the snow out of his collar.
“This was force majeure.
An act of nature…
an assault.” “It’s hilarious!” Fleur wiped a tear from her eye and sat down on the edge of the boulder, swinging her legs as she looked down at Harry.
“This is better than all three of your underground fights combined.
If a reporter from the *Daily Prophet* were here, tomorrow’s headline would sell like crazy: ‘The Savior’s Waterloo: A Screaming Ambush in the Alps!'” “I’m done practicing,” Harry huffed, plonking himself down in the snow, thoroughly defeated.
“Beast instincts, combat reflexes—it’s all rubbish in front of a marmot.” “That is life, my dear little brother.” Fleur giggled as she hopped down from the boulder.
With a wave of her wand, a warm draft blew over Harry, drying the moisture on his clothes.
She walked over to him, reaching out to straighten his crooked glasses, her eyes still sparkling with mischief.
“You don’t need to be wound up like a soldier all the time.
Look, even though you didn’t use any magic just now, didn’t you still dig yourself out?” Fleur brushed the remaining snow off Harry’s shoulders.
“There’s no combat lesson to summarize today, nor is there any ‘vigilance training.’ “Just one simple truth: in this world, bad luck just happens sometimes.
Even if you’re the greatest wizard alive, you’ll still get fooled by a fat rodent now and then.” Looking at Fleur’s face, which seemed incredibly vibrant after her bout of laughter, Harry let out a helpless sigh and couldn’t help but chuckle as well.
“That marmot…” Harry grinned, gnashing his teeth.
“I’d better not see it again.
Otherwise, I’ll transfigure it into an alarm clock and have it wake Albus Dumbledore up at six every morning.” “Great idea.” Fleur slipped her arm through Harry’s, hauling him up from the snowdrift.
“But before that, we need to go back and change.
If you catch a cold, that’ll be a second victory for the marmot.” Trudging through the deep drifts, the two of them made their way back to the hunter’s cabin.