Dawn in the Alps was as magnificent as it was bone-chilling.
When the first golden rays of sunlight pierced the clouds and illuminated the majestic peak of Mont Blanc, the deep-blue Citroën descended slowly like a tired, giant beetle, coming to rest on a snow-covered ledge halfway up the mountain.
The air here was thin and frigid; every breath turned to frost in one’s lungs.
This was no Muggle ski resort, but a magical waystation nestled on the border between Switzerland and Italy.
To an untrained eye, it looked like little more than an abandoned mountaineer’s refuge—a crooked roof built from rough logs, with a dim, flickering lantern hanging by the door that offered little light in the dawn air.
“We need to pick up a few supplies and let the engine cool down.” Fleur killed the ignition, grabbed a heavy fur cloak from the back seat, and tossed it to Harry.
“Put this on.
The temperature up here isn’t very friendly to a greenhouse-grown little wizard like you.” Harry caught the cloak.
Made from the hide of an unfamiliar animal, it gave off a faint scent of pine resin.
He pushed open the car door, the snow crunching sharply beneath his boots.
A gust of icy wind sliced across his face like a knife, leaving him feeling unexpectedly clear-headed.
They were not the only ones on the platform.
On the far side of the refuge stood several heavily modified broomsticks.
They lacked the sleek, delicate lines of a Nimbus 2000, looking more like the Harley-Davidsons of the broomstick world.
A group of weathered wizards in thick leather jackets sat gathered around a campfire kept alive by magic, cradling steaming tin cups in their hands.
When Harry and Fleur stepped out of the car, the chatter among the group instantly died down.
Several sharp, probing glances swept over them like searchlights.
“Don’t stare at them, but don’t look down either,” Fleur instructed under her breath.
She had tucked her striking silver hair under a thick knit beanie and put on a pair of oversized sunglasses, leaving only her flawless jawline exposed.
“Act natural.
Like we’re just passing through.” They walked toward the rickety wooden door of the refuge.
But as they drew near the campfire, a burly wizard with a full, bushy beard stood up, stepping into their path.
He didn’t draw his wand, but his presence was intimidating all the same.
Sloshing a dark liquid in his large tin cup, he let his gaze linger for a second on Fleur’s face—whose beauty was hard to hide even mostly covered—before turning his eyes to Harry.
“Lost, kid?” the bearded wizard asked in English, thick with a German accent.
“This isn’t a place for a delicate French car like that.
The drafts further up will rip that tin box to pieces.” Harry stopped in his tracks.
Having faced a Basilisk, Dementors, and Voldemort at Hogwarts, a rough-around-the-edges roadblock like this hardly frightened him.
Still, he needed an identity.
An identity completely untethered from that lightning-shaped scar, completely separate from the heavy title of Savior.
His mind flashed back to those lonely nights on Privet Drive, to the face Aunt Petunia had pointed out to him in that old photograph—the woman with dark red hair and bright green eyes, envied and cast out by her own sister simply because she could do magic.
That was the half of his blood that belonged to Muggle-borns, to ordinary life, to love.
“We’re not lost,” Harry said, looking up to meet the bearded wizard’s gaze.
His voice was steady and calm.
“Just heading to Italy for a bit of fun.” “Name?” The bearded wizard narrowed his eyes.
“These mountains have rules for strangers.” Fleur opened her mouth to speak, but Harry cut in first.
“Harry Evans,” he said, using the surname that had been resting on the tip of his tongue.
“And this is my sister, Fleur Evans.” Behind her sunglasses, Fleur’s eyes widened ever so slightly, but she was far too sharp to break character.
Stepping forward seamlessly, the imperious aura of a Veela radiated softly beneath her heavy winter clothes, carrying an unmistakable sense of haughty dignity.
“Are you running a background check?” Fleur said coldly, her English carrying a refined French accent.
“We just want to step inside for a warm drink and be on our way.
Unless you’d like my little brother to demonstrate how he blows a Fire Crab into the sky.” around the group.
“Evans?” The bearded wizard frowned suspiciously, pointing at the silver locks peeking out from Fleur’s beanie, then at Harry’s messy black hair.
“You two don’t look like you came from the same mother.
Hair color’s a bit of a stretch.” Underneath his cloak, Harry’s fingers lightly brushed against his vine wood wand, but his face wore only the helpless, wry smile of a younger brother.
“Obvious, isn’t it?” Harry shrugged, adopting a casual, lighthearted tone.
“She got Mum’s good looks and bad temper, while I got Dad’s black hair and bad eyesight.
Genetics can be unfair like that.” A few low chuckles broke out among the surrounding wizards.
The tension in the bearded wizard’s face melted away.
Grinning to reveal a mouthful of yellowed teeth, he seemed satisfied with the explanation—or perhaps simply amused by the familiar dynamic of a younger brother complaining about his older sister.
“The Evans siblings…
fair enough.” The bearded wizard stepped aside, clearing the path to the wooden door.
“Head on in, if you can stomach the hot spiced wine Old Hans brews.
Tastes like dishwater.” “Thanks,” Harry said with a nod.
Without lingering, he led Fleur past the group and pushed open the shelter door.
The door closed behind them, shutting out the biting wind.
The interior was filled with the scents of tobacco, roasted meat, and the welcoming warmth of burning timber.
The two of them found a quiet table in the corner.
Fleur took off her sunglasses, her deep blue eyes shimmering with a complex light.
Looking at Harry, she lowered her voice, her tone carrying a hint of playful teasing alongside a subtle tenderness.
“‘Evans’?
That was your mother’s maiden name, wasn’t it?” Harry nodded, resting his hands on the rough wooden table.
Here, thousands of miles away from Britain, in a tiny tavern where no one knew who he was, using his mother’s name granted him a strange sense of comfort and safety.
“Potter belongs to the Wizarding World, to Dumbledore, to prophecies,” Harry said quietly, staring out at the rolling snow-capped mountains.
“But Evans…
Evans was just an ordinary person.
I want to be ordinary for a little while.” Fleur reached across the table and gently squeezed the back of Harry’s hand.
Her touch was warm and reassuring.
“Alright then, Harry Evans.” She winked, a mischievous smirk touching the corners of her lips.
“Since I’m the ‘beautiful but bad-tempered’ big sister, shouldn’t you buy me a drink?
Even if it’s dishwater-flavored spiced wine?” “As you command, Sis.” Harry stood up and walked toward the bar, his footsteps light, his back straight.