The roar of the speedboat finally died down to a low hum.
On the distant horizon, the lights of the French coast flickered like scattered diamond dust, leaving behind the suffocating darkness that lay in their wake.
Harry tossed the soaked baguette into the sea, as if discarding a boulder weighing on his heart.
He wiped the seawater from his face and swept his wind-mussed bangs back.
“So, Mr.
Gabriel,” Fleur stretched comfortably, the sea breeze making her silver hair shimmer in the night, “welcome to your new life.
Though I think the name ‘Gabriel’ suits you well—after all, you’re an ‘angel’ fallen from the sky, aren’t you?” “Don’t call me that.” Harry didn’t even look at her, staring only at the approaching port.
“Sounds too much like an idiot who’d sprain his ankle at a ball.” “What do you want to be called then?
We need to get you a fake passport.” Fleur raised an eyebrow.
“‘Viktor’?
‘Cedric’?
Or…” “Harry,” Harry cut her off, his tone as flat as if discussing today’s weather.
Fleur froze, turning her head to look at him with a hint of *did the sea breeze fry your brain?* in her eyes.
“Harry?
Isn’t that your real name?
That’s way too—” “Too ordinary, right?” Harry shrugged, a self-deprecating smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Muggles have an idiom: ‘Tom, Dick, and Harry.’ It means ‘any random guy,’ just a nameless passerby.” He paused, his gaze darkening slightly.
“Besides, since there’s already a famous ‘Tom’—Voldemort—out there killing people, what’s the harm in one more ‘Harry’ running loose?
The name is as common as a pebble by the roadside.
Who’d believe the famous Savior would flee using his real name?” Fleur stared at him for a moment before bursting into laughter.
“‘Tom, Dick, and Harry’…
Fair enough, that actually makes sense.” She pulled a hairband from her pocket and casually tied her long hair back, her movements crisp and sharp like a warrior maiden preparing for battle.
“As long as you don’t mind, I’ll call you Harry.” “Just don’t call me ‘Potter.'” Harry wrinkled his nose in disgust—a reflex built up in the dungeons of Potions class.
“Every time I hear that surname, I feel like Snape is spitting down my neck or Malfoy is about to cast a jinx.” “Deal.
Just Harry.” Fleur snapped her fingers, her expression turning serious.
“However, Harry, while your name can be ordinary, our situation is anything but.” She pointed toward the French port drawing closer in the distance.
“We’re racing against time now.
My father works in the Department of International Magical Cooperation at the French Ministry of Magic.
He has some authority, but he isn’t the Minister.” Fleur’s voice was calm and pragmatic.
“Britain is definitely blowing up by now.
That old fox Dumbledore will leverage all his influence in the International Confederation of Wizards to pressure France for your extradition.” “How long can you buy us?” Harry asked, his hand instinctively reaching for the untraced wand tucked behind his back.
“Two or three days.
Three at most.” Fleur held up three fingers.
“Papa can use ‘incomplete paperwork’ or a ‘lost owl’ as an excuse to hold the British inquiry in the archives for seventy-two hours.
That’s the limit of the favor he can return for me.
After all, if he makes it too obvious, even he’ll end up in the French branch of Azkaban.” Three days.
Harry calculated silently.
Three days was both an eternity and an instant for a getaway.
“And after three days?” “After three days, French Aurors will receive official orders to hunt you down across every inch of this country.” Fleur turned to look straight into Harry’s eyes, the sea breeze rattling her windbreaker.
“So, we can’t stay in Paris, we can’t stay in any big city, and we can’t even stay in France.” “We have to cross the border, head south, or east.” Fleur traced an arc in the air with her finger.
“Go where the ICW can’t easily reach, into those chaotic zones where even Dumbledore’s phoenix wouldn’t dare fly.” The speedboat glided into a concealed private pier.
Parked on the shore was a somewhat aged blue Citroën DS, its paint gleaming faintly under the moonlight.
“That car is our mobile castle.” Fleur gestured with her chin.
“I’ve cast an Undetectable Extension Charm inside, along with a full set of alchemical anti-detection systems.
Aside from the possibility that I might mock your terrible cooking, you’ll be quite comfortable.” The boat bumped gently against the tires lining the dock.
Fleur shut off the engine, turned, and extended a hand to Harry.
The condescending Veela pride was gone from her eyes, replaced by the excitement and quiet understanding of an accomplice.
“So, Harry.
Are you ready to go back and be ‘Mr.
Potter’ trapped in a cage, or are you ready to come with me and turn this world upside down?” Harry looked at her hand.
Without a second of hesitation, he grabbed it and hauled himself onto the pier.
The ground beneath his feet was solid—no longer the rocking boat, nor the suffocating carpets of Privet Drive.
“Drive, Fleur.” Harry pulled open the Citroën’s door, glancing back toward the other side of the Channel, where only endless darkness lay.
“As long as we’re not going back to that island, I’d follow you to hell.” *** The interior of the deep blue Citroën DS was far roomier than it looked from the outside.
As Harry slid into the passenger seat, he felt like he was stepping into a small mobile living room.
The leather seat wrapped softly around him, and the dashboard lacked a tachometer or fuel gauge, replaced instead by ticking brass compasses and a magical map that curled on its own.
Fleur propped her thick-soled leather boots next to the clutch, in no hurry to start the car.
She reached into the glove compartment and pulled out an elegant box of French mints, popping two into her mouth.
It was the first time in hours she had looked relaxed.
“Want one?” She held the box out to Harry.
Harry shook his head.
Leaning sideways in the faint glow of the dashboard, he studied the witch beside him carefully.
“Fleur,” he spoke, his voice sounding a bit muted in the enclosed cabin.
“I don’t get it.” “Don’t get the mechanics of the car’s anti-gravity engine?” Fleur chewed her mint, speaking unclearly.
“It’s actually simple, mostly—” “I don’t get why you’re here.” Harry interrupted, his gaze sharp.
“I mean, I’m running for my life.
I have a reason to act crazy.
But you?
You were a champion in the Triwizard Tournament, a top student at Beauxbatons.
If the Daily Prophet wasn’t printing complete rubbish, shouldn’t you be starting a glamorous internship at Gringotts Bank?
Maybe even working alongside a talented wizard like Bill Weasley.” Harry paused, adding, “Throwing away your future just to save some kid who only pulled your sister halfway out of the water…
no matter how you calculate it, it’s a loss.
That doesn’t sound like something you’d do.” Fleur stopped chewing.
She turned her head, her deep blue eyes staring at Harry for a long moment, before suddenly dropping her forehead onto the steering wheel and letting out a long, ungraceful groan.
“Merlin’s beard…
don’t talk to me about Gringotts.” She lifted her head, her face twisted as though she had swallowed a gulp of Bubotuber pus.
“Do you know what that job was like, Harry?
For a whole month, I sat in a windowless basement, casting *Scourgify* on a pile of moldy goblin coins.
Those goblins looked at me like I was a shiny piece of gold, and while Bill Weasley is a nice guy, he’s far too busy—busy breaking curses, busy acting like a big brother looking after everyone.” Fleur gestured wildly, nearly knocking over the charm hanging from the rearview mirror.
“Everyone told me: ‘Oh, Miss Delacour, you just need to stand there and smile.
You’re the face of the company.’ The face?
I’m a witch!
I can put a Welsh Green dragon to sleep in ten minutes, but my job was serving coffee to nouveau-riche snobs stinking of money!” She took a deep breath, her chest heaving as if venting a month’s worth of suppressed frustration.
“I’ve had enough.
I have Veela blood, but that doesn’t mean I want to be a blinking piece of eye candy.
I want adventure!
I want to go to ancient places, to fight with my wand, not use it to stir a latte!” Harry stared, gobsmacked, as the usually proud, elegant French beauty vented like an overworked teen pushed over the edge.
“So…” Harry asked cautiously, “you quit?” “Actually, not yet,” Fleur winked slyly.
“And then I received your letter.” She fished out the crumpled distress note Harry had written from her jacket pocket and waved it.
“You see, Harry, to me, this letter wasn’t a ‘heavy burden.’ It was a prison break pass.
I was sitting right in the middle of those damned ledgers, wondering if I should cast a Memory Charm on myself just to forget that pathetic existence.
Then your owl arrived, bearing your desperation.” Fleur stuffed the letter back into her pocket and gripped the steering wheel, her eyes shining with unusual brightness.
“In the Muggle world, or among some young wizarding circles, there’s a popular concept called a ‘Gap Year,'” she explained.
“Before entering that suffocating adult world, before scheming over mortgages and positions, you spend a year wandering, squandering, doing something crazy, finding out who you really are.” She turned to look at Harry, a rebellious smile curling her lips.
“I was worrying about how to explain to my parents why I was quitting that ‘perfect’ job.
Then you showed up—the famous Savior, Harry Potter, needing my help.
Suddenly, it transformed from ‘Fleur’s selfish, impulsive run’ into a ‘noble expedition to repay a life debt.'” Harry froze for a few seconds.
Then, a sense of absurd relief washed over him.
So that was it.
No grand sacrifices, no heavy debts.
There were no saviors here, and no saints.
Inside this car sat two deserters driven to leap over the wall by life itself.
“So,” Harry leaned back into the seat, feeling the tension drain from his muscles, “I’m your excuse?” “You’re my travel companion, Harry.
And my human shield,” Fleur corrected him, reaching out to turn the key in the ignition.
The engine let out a low, pleasant roar, and the compasses on the dashboard spun wildly.
“Ready, my Gap Year partner?” Fleur slammed her foot on the accelerator.
“Since it’s a Gap Year, we might as well go big.
To hell with Gringotts, and to hell with You-Know-Who.” The Citroën burst from the pier like an awakened beast.
Instead of driving along the road, the moment it shot forward, its four wheels folded inward, and a gust of air blasted from the undercarriage, sending it gliding low over the grass of the French countryside.
“Where are we going?” Harry yelled over the rush of wind, watching the shadows of trees blur past the window.
“South!” Fleur turned on the car radio, and a blast of energetic French rock music instantly filled the cabin.
“Until I feel like stopping!” Harry burst out laughing amidst the roaring rock music.
He looked out into the pitch-black night, feeling for the very first time that while the future was murky and uncertain, at least the steering wheel was in their own hands.