The Marseille coastline shrank rapidly in the rearview mirror, eventually fading into a blurry gray line.
Instead of following the coastal highway, the Citroën DS sped straight toward an unguarded cliff.
“Hold on tight, Harry.” Fleur’s voice had lost its earlier panic, replaced by a desperate, resolute calm.
“If the land isn’t safe, we’ll go where we don’t need roads.” She slammed her finger onto a blue button on the dashboard marked with a wavy line.
“Flying Car Mode Modified: Hydro-Drift.” As the edge of the cliff vanished beneath them, the Citroën soared into the air.
But instead of climbing into the sky as usual, it dove toward the sea under the pull of gravity.
The moment the wheels were about to skim the crest of the waves, a blue-and-white magical air cushion erupted from the car’s undercarriage.
*Boom!* A massive plume of water exploded behind the car.
Like a blue flying fish, the Citroën skimmed the deep blue surface of the Mediterranean, gliding forward at a staggering speed.
Clutching the handrail, Harry watched the waves rush past outside the window, his adrenaline surging once more.
“Where are we going?
This direction isn’t Italy or Spain!” “We’re leaving Europe.” Controlling the steering wheel with one hand, Fleur crumpled the detailed magical map of Europe into a ball with the other and tossed it out the window.
The paper was instantly swept away by the sea wind and swallowed by the waves.
“What Uncle Pierre said reminded me,” Fleur shouted over the roar of the wind and waves.
“The entire European continent—from London to Moscow, from Berlin to Rome—is one giant spiderweb.
It’s a web that Albus Dumbledore, Gellert Grindelwald, and the old-timers of their generation spent a hundred years weaving.” “It doesn’t matter which vineyard or black market we hide in.
As long as we’re still in Europe, we’re bound to step on a spider thread eventually.” She turned her head, her silver hair whipping wildly in the wind, but her gaze was incredibly resolute as she pointed south toward the horizon of the vast, open sea.
“We’re going where the web is torn.
Where those old men can’t reach, or don’t want to reach.” “North Africa.” “Africa?” Harry blinked.
“That’s…
another continent.” “Exactly.
It’s the Wild West, a lawless land, a cradle of ancient magic,” Fleur explained.
“Back then, Free French wizards were able to take root there precisely because their magic system is entirely different from Europe’s.
The International Confederation of Wizards has very little influence there, and Dumbledore doesn’t have nearly as many old comrades owing him favors.” “Once we cross this sea, Harry, we’ll vanish from the radar entirely.” The next five hours were the most surreal journey Harry had ever experienced.
They traveled through an endless expanse of azure.
The sky was blue, the sea was blue, and only their Citroën was a deep royal blue.
No Aurors tracking them, no owl post, and even seagulls were rare.
Midway through, Harry opened the bottle of “1945 Armistice Vintage” that Old Pierre had given them.
This time, Fleur didn’t object.
He poured a glass for her and one for himself.
“To being on the run,” Harry said, raising his glass to the sea.
“To freedom,” Fleur smiled, clinking her glass against his.
As the setting sun began to dye the sea red, a golden line finally appeared on the horizon.
It wasn’t just a beach; it was the prelude of an endless desert stretching down to the shore.
They had reached North Africa.
A dry, scorching wind laden with the scent of dust blew against them, instantly sweeping away Europe’s damp, refined, and stagnant air.
The Citroën roared onto the Maghreb coastline.
There were no neat asphalt roads here—only gravel and yellow sand.
“Welcome to the other side of the world, Harry.” Fleur slowed down.
The car bumped along an exotic, red-clay road.
Occasionally, they spotted local wizards riding flying carpets along the wayside, or nomads herding camels with magic.
Seeing the speeding car, they didn’t show the typical Muggle astonishment; they merely swept indifferent glances over it and went on their way.
Everything here was raw, primitive, yet bursting with life.
“This feels…
completely different.” Harry stared out at the domed buildings made of yellow clay, smelling the faint aroma of spices drifting through the air.
“I don’t feel that suffocating pressure anymore.” “Because the rules are different here.” Fleur took off her sunglasses, her blue eyes reflecting the golden dunes.
“The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy isn’t enforced with neurotic intensity here.
In this place, as long as your fists are hard enough or your purse is fat enough, you’re a Sultan.” “And,” she pointed toward the setting sun in the distance, “this is far enough from Britain.
So far that not even a phoenix could fly here.” “Where are we going first?” Harry asked, already looking forward to the adventure ahead.
“Casablanca, or maybe Tunis.” Fleur pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment—a map of Africa covered in ancient runes and trade routes.
“We need to find a broker.
We have to exchange our Galleons for the local dinar gold coins, and while we’re at it, get a sandstorm-proofing system fitted on this car.” “Also,” Fleur glanced back at Harry, her lips curving upward, “now that we’re in Africa, I should warn you.
Their Defense Against the Dark Arts is nothing like the European curriculum.” “Ready to learn some dirty tricks, Mr.
Evans?” Harry touched his wand, staring at the golden new continent with a wild, unrestrained smile.
“I’d love nothing more.”