The Citroën DS sped along the azure Mediterranean coastline, bringing the chill of the Alps into sun-drenched Marseille.
The air was thick with sea salt, the scent of fish, and the unique aroma of southern spices.
It was Harry’s first time seeing the Mediterranean, and its deep, vibrant blue was a far cry from the permanently grey, dreary seas of Great Britain.
Fleur was clearly in an excellent mood.
She rolled all the windows down, letting the sea breeze ruffle her silvery hair, her fingers tapping against the steering wheel to some spirited rhythm.
“Wait—hold on…” Harry listened closely to the tune Fleur was humming.
The melody was so passionate it made one want to leap out of the car and challenge someone to a duel.
“I think I’ve heard that tune somewhere before?
Was it in some Muggle movie?
It sounds like a call to go decapitate people.” “Decapitate?” Fleur raised an eyebrow, turning to give Harry a look that said *you really are an uncultured Brit*.
“Harry, this is *La Marseillaise*.
It is the national anthem of France.
And a battle song of freedom.” “Oh.” Harry ducked his head.
“I’ve never heard the whole thing.
You know, on Privet Drive, all I ever heard was my uncle roaring.” “Never hearing it is your loss.” Fleur suddenly cleared her throat.
Paying no heed to whether anyone was around (they were in a fast-moving car anyway), she opened her mouth and sang.
“*Allons enfants de la Patrie…*” (Arise, children of the Fatherland…) “*Aux armes, citoyens!*” (To arms, citizens!) Her voice was no longer that soft whisper carrying a Veela’s charm, but had grown high and resonant, almost metallic.
It was pure power, a bloody sort of romance.
Harry couldn’t understand the French lyrics, but he could feel the march of tens of thousands of troops in her song, the burning of banners.
As she finished the verse, Fleur took a deep breath, a distant look in her eyes.
She slowed the car down and pointed toward the ancient fort of Marseille’s harbor in the distance.
“You know, Harry.
This song has another meaning for French wizards.” “What meaning?” “It represents a period of glory and tragedy that was deliberately erased by the Ministry of Magic,” Fleur’s voice dropped.
“Muggle history books tell you that Napoleon Bonaparte was a great military genius, that his armies swept across Europe.
But they don’t tell you why his army was able to achieve those seemingly impossible miracles.” Harry’s eyes widened.
“Are you saying…
Napoleon was a wizard, too?” “No, he was a Muggle.
But he was a Muggle who possessed *that thing*.” Fleur didn’t state it outright, but Harry vaguely guessed she was referring to the symbol associated with Gellert Grindelwald.
“More importantly, he had a special legion under his command.” “The Imperial Guard of Wizards (*La Garde Impériale des Sorciers*).” When Fleur uttered the name, her tone carried a deep, reverent awe.
“That was a legion composed of the very best dueling masters, battle mages, and alchemists in all of France.
They disdained hiding in the shadows of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy.
They wore robes bearing the tricolor crest and stood on the flanks of the Muggle armies.
When Muggle cannons roared, they used large-scale elemental magic to tear through enemy defensive lines.
When the cavalry charged, they used spells in the air to clear a path for the horses.” “They were invincible.
They defeated the dark magic cavalry of Austria and crushed the Prussian transfigurer legions.” Harry listened, absolutely enthralled.
This was history he had never heard in Professor Binns’s class—the true history of wizarding wars.
“And…
what happened then?” Harry asked.
“Since they were so strong, why did Napoleon lose?” Fleur’s eyes dimmed.
She stared out at the shimmering surface of the sea, as if she were looking not at the ocean, but at an endless frozen waste.
“Because of Russia.” “1812,” Fleur said softly.
“That was not only a disaster for the Muggle army, but also the greatest nightmare of the French wizarding world.
Napoleon was too arrogant; he thought his wizarding legion could conquer that frozen tundra.” “But Russian wizards…
they are different.
They are as ruthless as their winter.” “On the retreat from Moscow, upon those white plains of death, the Imperial Guard was ambushed.
It wasn’t just Cossack cavalry, but Russian necromancers, along with ancient magical creatures they woke from their slumber beneath the permafrost.” Fleur’s knuckles turned white on the steering wheel.
“It was a slaughter, Harry.
Wands cracked from the cold, and spells failed in the extreme frost.
Thousands of the most gifted wizards in all of France built a final magical line of defense along the Berezina River to cover the main army’s retreat.” “In the end, they were wiped out.
Not a single wizard made it out of Russia alive.” Silence fell over the car.
Only the lingering notes of *La Marseillaise* seemed to drift in the air, but now it sounded like a tragic, solemn elegy.
“That is why Napoleon never recovered after that,” Fleur sighed.
“Not just because he lost his soldiers, but because he lost the backbone of the French wizarding world.
An entire generation of elites was wiped clean.
It was the heaviest toll in the history of the French wizarding world, even worse than the later fight against Gellert Grindelwald.” “It took us a hundred years to recover from that generational gap.” Fleur turned her head, looking at Harry with a serious expression.
“So, Harry.
When you are learning to wave your wand at Hogwarts, remember: war is no game.
Even the most powerful wizarding legion will melt away like snowflakes in the face of poor decisions and absolute brutality.” “That is why there is always a tenet about ‘prudence’ in the Beauxbatons school motto.” Harry looked out at the Old Port of Marseille.
The ancient stone walls seemed to speak of that long-forgotten past.
“I understand,” Harry murmured.
“No wonder you sounded so…
sad when you sang that song just now.” “Sad, but also proud.” Fleur stepped on the accelerator again, and the Citroën roared as it sped toward the city center.
“Because even though they were completely wiped out, not a single one of them turned their back on the enemy to run.” “Alright, history class over.” Fleur tossed her hair, deliberately shaking off the solemn mood.
“Now, we have arrived in Marseille.
Here they have the best bouillabaisse in all of France.
To honor our ancestors who couldn’t get a hot meal on those frozen plains, we’re going to have the biggest bowl possible.” Harry smiled, though this time his smile held a bit more weight.
“Let’s go,” Harry said.
“To get some bouillabaisse.” The restaurant at the Old Port of Marseille was unassuming, but the rich aroma of saffron and seafood wafting through the air was testament enough to Fleur’s taste.
A massive clay pot was brought out, filled with golden fish soup wherein floated various local fish and shellfish.
Fleur expertly dipped a slice of bread smeared with rouille into the soup—the traditional way to eat bouillabaisse.
Harry took a bite, copying her technique, and savory, oceanic flavors exploded on his tongue.
But his mind was still on what they had discussed in the car.
“Since that legion was completely wiped out in 1812…” Harry swallowed the bread in his mouth and asked cautiously, “what happened after?
Muggle history books say there was a Franco-Prussian War later…
and France lost terribly.” “Terribly?
That was inevitable.” Fleur didn’t get upset at this sensitive topic.
She calmly ladled another spoonful of soup into her bowl, her eyes reflecting a detached coldness that had seen through the ways of the world.
“Harry, the wizarding population recovers very slowly.
Those who died on the Russian plains weren’t just soldiers; they were the best studs of that entire generation…
I mean, the finest bloodlines and genes.” She stirred her soup with her spoon, as if stirring that painful history itself.
“For the next fifty years, which covers the Franco-Prussian War you mentioned, the French wizarding world was like an empty haunted house.
Sitting in our wizarding council were old men who couldn’t even cast a proper Levitation Charm, or toddlers still drinking milk.
When the Prussian dark wizards assisted their army’s advance, we couldn’t even scrape together a decent squad of Aurors to block them.” “We could only watch,” Fleur said flatly.
“Watch them crown their Emperor in the Palace of Versailles, watch them take Alsace and Lorraine.
It wasn’t that we didn’t want to fight; we just had no one left.” Harry fell silent.
A demographic crisis—this was a concept he had never even considered at Hogwarts.
“And…
what about World War I?” Harry asked.
“They should have recovered by then, right?”