“Uncle Pierre!” Fleur hopped out of the car like a homing swallow, calling out to the figure pruning vines under a trellis.
“Bring me two cases of that ’92 Pinot Noir you keep hidden in the deepest part of your cellar!
I’ve brought an uncultured little British brother to taste what real liquid art is!” The figure stiffened slightly and slowly turned around.
It was an old wizard who looked to be at least ninety years old, his face crisscrossed with scars like tangled grapevines, his left leg a prosthetic carved from some kind of magical wood.
He held a pair of large silver shears still dripping with purple juice, his eyes cloudy yet piercing.
When he saw Fleur, his face did not soften with the warm smile of an elder greeting a youngster; instead, he looked as if he had seen a ghost, turning pale instantly.
“Elizabeth…
oh, no, Fleur?” Old Pierre’s voice was as raspy as sandpaper.
“What are you doing here?
And who is…” His cloudy eyes locked onto Harry, who had just stepped out of the car and was adjusting his collar.
His gaze lingered on the scar on Harry’s forehead for a second, and the old man’s pupils shrank violently.
“The Potter brat?” “Exactly, it’s him.” Fleur walked over proudly, intending to give the old man a hug.
“Surprise, right?
I took him right from under Dumbledore’s nose—” “Surprise, my foot!” Old Pierre swung the massive shears, and an invisible force pushed Fleur back two steps.
Dropping the shears, he pulled a pocket watch from his coat that was vibrating wildly and flashing with a red light.
After a glance, he roared at them: “Run!
Now!
Get back in the car!” “What?” Fleur was stunned.
It was the first time she had ever seen this usually tipsy, good-natured man fly into such a rage.
“Uncle Pierre, we only came to buy wine, we have money—” “It’s not a matter of money, you foolish girl!” Pierre limped over, shoving Harry roughly and forcing him back into the passenger seat.
“Who do you think I am?
I am the former Quartermaster of Potions for Grindelwald’s Army!
I am a war criminal!
A dangerous element under house arrest by the International Confederation of Wizards!” The old man pointed at the two stone lions near the entrance of the vineyard, which looked like mere ornaments, spitting as he shouted: “Those are monitoring posts personally set up by Albus Dumbledore!
After he defeated the master in 1945, he left them here to prevent me from brewing any more weapons of mass destruction!” “For fifty years, if anyone carrying a high-intensity Dark Magic signature or an extremely unique prophetic attribute steps foot into this estate, that damn silver instrument in Dumbledore’s office screams!” The old man grabbed Harry by the shoulder, pointing at the famous lightning bolt scar.
“This boy is a walking source of Dark Magic signals!
From the second he crossed the gate, Dumbledore received the alarm!” Fleur’s face instantly turned whiter than paper.
“Merde…” she cursed under her breath, cold sweat breaking out on her forehead.
“I was careless…” She had only thought about how good the old man’s wine was, and how he was a legendary recluse of the French wizarding world, but she had completely forgotten that the reason he was “retired” here was because he had been defeated by Dumbledore and confined to this place.
This wasn’t just a vineyard—it was a high-security prison for war criminals!
“But…
but everyone said you and Dumbledore became friends later on…” Fleur tried to explain, her hands scrambling to start the car.
“Friends, my foot!
That was just to make it sound nice!” Old Pierre roared.
“That was to cover up the relationship between guard and prisoner!
He comes to drink with me every year to check if I am brewing poison gas in this vineyard!” The old man looked up at the sky, where a silver phoenix Patronus seemed to be faintly materializing in the clouds.
“He’s coming!
That old bumblebee’s Apparition is fast!
Two minutes at most!” Old Pierre pulled a dirty bottle of wine from his pocket and shoved it directly into Harry’s arms.
“Take it!
Consider it a meeting gift!
Now get out of here!
Head south!
Go to the Marseille port!
Don’t go by land, get into the water!
Dumbledore’s phoenix is afraid of water!” “Thank you, sir!” Harry clutched the bottle as Fleur yanked him hard into the seat.
*Vroom—!* The Citroën’s engine let out a heart-wrenching roar.
Fleur pressed the clutch so hard she nearly broke it.
The car, like a startled bull, smashed straight through the grape trellis, ran over a patch of expensive grapes, and sped wildly out of the estate.
In the rearview mirror, Old Pierre stood amidst the wreckage, holding his giant shears and making an extremely rude gesture toward the sky.
And just as they burst through the gates of the vineyard, Harry clearly saw a brilliant burst of fire erupt in the center of the estate.
A tall, thin figure in purple robes and half-moon spectacles stepped out of the flames.
“Go, go, go!” Harry screamed, feeling his heart leap into his throat.
“That’s Dumbledore!
It really is him!
I saw his beard!” “Shut up!
I’m floor-boarding it!” Fleur’s face was grim as she pointed her wand at the dashboard.
“*Incarcerous!
Volito!*” The Citroën turned into a blur on the country road, practically skimming the ground as it flew.
Only after they had driven a full fifty miles and confirmed there was no sign of Fawkes did Fleur slowly release her grip on the steering wheel, which she had nearly crushed.
She slumped back against her seat, panting heavily, her post-survival terror slowly turning into annoyance at her own stupidity.
“I am such an idiot…” Fleur slammed her fist on the steering wheel.
“How could I forget…
that generation of old-timers, they are all Dumbledore’s acquaintances.
Either his comrades, or his defeated foes.” “In front of him, we are like flies dancing on a spiderweb.” Harry held the precious bottle of red wine that had almost cost them their lives, looking back with lingering fear.
“At least…
we got the wine,” Harry comforted her in a low voice.
“And we outran him.” “We got lucky this time; Uncle Pierre bought us some time.” Fleur bit her lip, her eyes turning sharp again.
“But this is a warning, Harry.” “On the European continent, any legendary location with a name isn’t safe.
Dumbledore’s network of connections is more terrifying than I imagined.” She restarted the car.
This time, the speed was much steadier, but her direction was far more resolute.
“No more historical landmarks, and no more legendary recluses,” Fleur said coldly.
“For the rest of the journey, we must live like real rats.
We will use the sewers, stay in shady motels, and take wild paths that nobody knows.” “We must disappear completely.” Harry looked down at the bottle in his arms.
The label read: *1945, Armistice Brew*.
“Alright.” Harry unscrewed the cap and took a swig, which made him cough and water at the eyes.
“Here’s to bloody Dumbledore.” “You didn’t even let it breathe?” Fleur grabbed the bottle back, completely incredulous.