“Just barely a little,” Fleur sighed, popping a piece of fish into her mouth.
“That was our temporary rally.
After a hundred years of rest and recuperation, we finally had another generation of young people.
And then…
1914 arrived.” “That war wasn’t just a meat grinder for Muggles; it was a meat grinder for wizards, too.
To defend Paris, to prevent our past humiliations from repeating, that freshly grown generation of young wizards threw themselves in.
This time, it wasn’t the frozen plains; it was trench warfare, poison gas, and endless dark magic bombardments.” Fleur set her spoon down, her appetite seemingly waning.
“By the time 1918 drew to a close, we had won.
But we were also hollowed out once more.
The French wizarding world was left with nothing but widows and orphans.” She looked up, her deep blue eyes locking onto Harry’s.
This was the crux of what she wanted to say next.
“So, in 1940, when World War II broke out and Gellert Grindelwald joined forces with that Muggle dictator, Adolf Hitler, to sweep across Europe…” A self-deprecating sneer curled the corner of Fleur’s mouth.
“The entire world mocked the French for surrendering so quickly.
They called us ‘experts at waving the white flag’ and said the Maginot Line was a joke.” “But Harry, it’s a simple math problem.” Fleur extended a finger and drew a horizontal line across the table.
“If we had done what we did before, throwing the last remaining trickles of our wizarding bloodlines into the meat grinder to go head-to-head with Grindelwald’s followers at the height of their power…” She drew a heavy X across the line with her finger.
“We would have gone extinct.” “Literally extinct,” Fleur’s voice was soft, yet heavy.
“There would be no more Beauxbatons, no French Ministry of Magic.
You might have had to visit a museum to find a wizard who spoke French.
We would have been completely wiped off the magical map.” “So we surrendered.” Fleur picked her spoon back up, her tone returning to a matter-of-fact pragmatism.
“We yielded Paris; we bowed our heads.
It wasn’t just the Muggle government—the French Ministry of Magic also reached a sort of ‘understanding’ with Grindelwald right away.
As long as they didn’t slaughter our civilians, we would remain neutral.” “It sounds cowardly, doesn’t it, Harry?” Fleur watched Harry’s slightly stunned expression.
Harry hesitated, recalling Gryffindor’s doctrines of courage, but looking at Fleur’s eyes, which were thick with history, he eventually shook his head.
“No,” Harry murmured.
“It sounds like…
a bid to survive.” “Exactly, to survive,” Fleur nodded with satisfaction.
“Just as I told you in Austria: only the living have the right to speak of the future.
We preserved the embers.
That is why you can still see me drinking fish soup in front of you today, and why Beauxbatons can still train hundreds of outstanding students every year.” “This is French wisdom, ignoble as it may be.” Fleur raised her wine glass to Harry.
“We would rather be mocked as cowards by the entire world than become heroes on tombstones.” “Wait a minute,” Harry suddenly interrupted Fleur’s heavy discourse on the “philosophy of survival.” He racked his brain, searching his meager Muggle primary school history lessons.
“What about General de Gaulle?
We learned in school that he said, ‘France has lost a battle, but France has not lost the war.’ And the Free French movement…
was all of that fake?” Harry looked at Fleur, a trace of expectation in his eyes.
If French wizards had all been “waving white flags” as she claimed, what did those resistance movements in the history books mean?
“Charles de Gaulle.” At the mention of that name, the cynical mockery vanished from Fleur’s face.
She set down her bread, sat up straight, and her eyes filled with a complex mix of emotions—admiration, and an inexplicable, quiet pride.
“He was the greatest ‘Squib’—I mean, Muggle—of our era,” Fleur corrected softly.
“Even though he couldn’t use magic, his sheer willpower was stronger than most wand-bearers.” She looked at Harry, a smile gracing her lips once more, but this time it was warm.
“You are right, Harry.
Not everyone knelt.” “At the time, the French wizarding world indeed split.
It was like a sword shattered in two.” Using her finger, Fleur drew a winding, upward curve next to the horizontal line representing “surrender.” “The decayed Ministry of Magic, concerned only with preserving bloodlines, stayed behind in Paris, bowing its head to the Nazis and Grindelwald alongside the Vichy regime.
But the other half—the young, hot-blooded wizards who couldn’t bear to watch France become a colony—they left.” “They didn’t go to London, because Britain was already fighting for its life.
They headed south, crossed the Mediterranean, and went to Africa.” “Africa?” Harry was somewhat surprised.
“Why there?
That’s thousands of miles away from Berlin.” “Because that was the only place de Gaulle could gain a foothold,” Fleur explained.
“As you know, where did we earn those thousand Galleons?
In the Viennese underground.
And in 1940, the ‘underground’ for Free France was West Africa.” “But, Harry,” Fleur’s tone shifted, “do you think the cream of that other half of the wizarding world followed de Gaulle to Africa to trade fire with Rommel’s tanks on the front lines?
Or to duel dark wizards in the desert?” Harry blinked.
“Was it not?
It was a war, after all.” “No,” Fleur wagged her finger.
“If they had, they would have died out long ago.
The African desert is far more terrifying than the frozen plains of Russia.” “They went there to solve a much more critical problem: logistics.” Fleur sighed, as if recalling the hardships her elders had spoken of.
“Think about it: tens of thousands of troops marching along the edge of the Sahara Desert.
No supplies, not enough trucks, not even a decent map.
In fifty-degree Celsius heat, Muggle tank engines boil over, water evaporates, and food rots within half a day.” “Without wizards, de Gaulle’s ‘Free France’ would have been swallowed by the desert long before they ever laid eyes on a German.” Fleur leaned in closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a state secret.
“Who cast powerful cooling charms on entire armored divisions at night to prevent their ammunition depots from exploding in the heat?
Who used *Aguamenti* to fill those dried-up oases, allowing dying soldiers to have a sip of water?
Who used *Reparo* to piece together battered trucks left over from World War I, time and again, so they could keep running?” “It was us.” Fleur tapped her chest, her tone overflowing with pride.
“That half of France’s wizards turned themselves into the best logisticians, the best technicians, the best guides.
They didn’t use the Killing Curse to fight enemies, because that was too inefficient.
They used Transfiguration to turn sand into bunkers, and Disillusionment Charms to cloak supply lines and evade German air reconnaissance.” “During those years in West Africa, every Free French soldier knew that if your canteen ran dry, you didn’t pray to God—you asked the ‘strange priest’ traveling with the army—which was how they referred to disguised wizards—and he would always manage to conjure water.” Harry sat back, utterly dumbfounded.
He had always believed that wizarding wars were just wand-to-wand exchanges of flashing light.
He had never imagined that magic could be used this way.
“That…
that sounds much harder than actual fighting,” Harry marveled.
“Much harder.
And without glory.” Fleur shrugged.
“In the history books, people only remember de Gaulle’s speeches, or General Leclerc’s tanks rolling into Paris.
No one remembers the wizards coughing blood from exhaustion behind the scenes just to keep those tanks from breaking down.” “But that is the other side of the French, Harry.” Fleur picked up the last of her fish soup and drained it.
“The half that stayed in Paris was to preserve the French ‘roots,’ so we wouldn’t go extinct.
The half that went to Africa was to preserve the French ‘soul,’ so we could still hold our heads high and claim we are free.” “One half dragged out an ignoble existence to survive; the other half bore the heavy burden under the blazing sun.” Fleur stood up, smoothed down her skirt, and looked out at the bustling Port of Marseille.
“So, don’t look down on those who surrendered, and don’t mythologize those who resisted.
Everyone was just doing their best in this damned world to fight for a future for their descendants—which is us.” “Let’s go.” Fleur tossed a few gold coins onto the table.
“This time I want to buy something truly useful—like one of those self-chilling picnic baskets.
I don’t want to drink warm pumpkin juice that tastes like piss on the road ever again.” Harry smiled as he stood up, picking up his luggage.
“Yes, sir.”