The air inside the refuge was stiflingly hot compared to the icy cold outside, heavy with the scents of burnt pine cones, cheap tobacco, and strong distilled spirits.
Fleur was completely in her element.
The moment she sat down at the bar, the bearded wizard from outside—whose name turned out to be Hans—strolled over.
Fleur pulled off the beanie that had hidden most of her face, letting her long, silver hair fall like a cascade over her leather jacket.
In a room full of rough mountain men, she shone like a beacon, yet she displayed none of her usual Beauxbatons air of detachment.
Instead, she rested one foot casually on the stool rung, swirling half a glass of amber liquid as a torrent of unfamiliar syllables poured effortlessly from her mouth.
It was German, harsh and heavy, sounding as though she were chewing on rocks.
Then, without missing a beat, she drifted smoothly into French, her tone turning as fluid as silk and drawing a round of hearty laughter from the surrounding wizards of various nationalities.
Harry sat beside her, holding his tin cup of mulled wine.
As Hans had warned, it tasted faintly of aged dishwater.
Doing his best to maintain a polite, mysterious smile, Harry gave a slight tug at the corner of his mouth whenever the group laughed, nodding thoughtfully whenever someone glanced his way before taking another small sip of the foul drink.
He felt entirely mute.
“Kid keeps his cool, doesn’t he?” Hans grunted in German, casting a glance at Harry before laughing again at Fleur.
“Nothing like your fiery temper.” Harry naturally didn’t understand a word, but seeing Hans look his way, he instinctively raised his cup in a brief toast.
Fleur turned to look at Harry’s comical attempt at playing along, a glint of amusement in her eyes.
Rather than calling him out, she leaned in close under the guise of an affectionate sister, reaching out to straighten his collar.
“Don’t move,” she whispered, her lips almost brushing against his ear.
“This might tickle a bit.” The tip of her wand slid silently across Harry’s earlobe, accompanied by a faint, barely audible hum.
“*Auris Comprehensio*.” Harry felt a brief, mild sting on his eardrum, as if a tiny bee had brushed against it.
A second later, the noisy, chaotic jabber around him seemed to pass through a filter, instantly turning into clear, intelligible English—albeit with various odd accents.
“…So like I said, that shortcut’s out of the question!” Hans’s voice suddenly became understandable, though it remained as booming as ever.
“Those damned Abominable Snowmen are in their mating season—vicious as hell.
If you try taking that pretty French car up the north slope, they’ll toss that tin box off the cliff like a toy.” “What if we take the old smuggling path to the south?” Fleur’s voice sounded calm and professional.
“I heard the anti-air wards down there lapsed ages ago.” “Well, well, the lady knows her stuff!” A one-eyed wizard nearby whistled.
“It’s unpatrolled, sure, but Frost Wyverns roam those parts.
Unless your car packs heavy firepower or you can cast a top-tier Disillusionment Charm, you’re asking for trouble.” Harry blinked in surprise.
He had assumed they were exchanging idle pleasantries or small talk, but the conversation was astonishingly hardcore—mating seasons for snowmen?
Frost Wyverns?
Smuggling routes?
He glanced at Fleur.
The delicate girl who constantly complained about Hogwarts food and cold Great Halls was currently sitting with a bunch of outlaws, casually discussing how to speed through a monster-infested mountain path.
“Frost Wyverns won’t be a problem,” Fleur said dismissively with a wave of her hand, taking a sip of her drink.
“Unless they happen to enjoy spicy fireworks.
My little brother here is quite a hand with fire magic.” She patted Harry’s shoulder affectionately as she spoke.
Harry paused for a fraction of a second before picking up his cue seamlessly.
Setting his cup down, he let a rebellious, bad-boy grin spread across his face, his fingers tapping lazily against the table as though he were ready to draw his wand at a moment’s notice.
“If they dare show up,” Harry said with a casual shrug, adopting the coolest tone he could muster, “I’ll roast them well done.” The slightly boyish yet confident declaration provoked a burst of boisterous laughter from the crowd.
“I like this kid!” Hans clapped Harry on the back so hard he nearly knocked him into the table.
“Got guts!” For the next half hour, with the help of Fleur’s translation charm, Harry gained his first true glimpse into the world beyond the walls of Hogwarts.
He listened as the group complained about the rigidity of the Swiss Ministry of Magic (“They measure broomstick thickness and weight down to the millimeter!”), discussed rare potion ingredients newly emerging from the Black Forest, and even touched upon the east—a place called Nurmengard.
“Things aren’t quiet over there lately,” a wizened old wizard muttered in a lowered voice, flipping a gold coin between his fingers.
“Heard some of the old followers are stirring again.
Even if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—” he meant Grindelwald “—is still locked up in that tower, some folks think the world’s gotten too chaotic.
They think it needs…
a firm hand to restore order.” Harry’s heart sank slightly.
He subconsciously glanced at Fleur.
Fleur didn’t take the bait.
She skillfully steered the conversation toward Austrian chocolates and black-market exchange rates.
“Alright, gentlemen.” After a while longer, Fleur finished her drink and stood up, her silver hair sweeping back in a graceful arc under the dim lights.
“Thank you for the information and…
the unique wine.
We need to push on if we want to cross the mountain before dark.” Hans looked as though he wanted to chat longer, but he was clearly a man who respected boundaries.
“Safe travels, Miss Evans.
You too, Harry kid.
If you run into any snowmen, aim for the nose—that’s where it hurts most.” “Got it.” Harry smiled, pushing his empty tin cup back.
“Thanks, Hans.” Stepping out of the refuge, they found the wind and snow outside had lessened somewhat.
Harry took a deep breath of the crisp, freezing air, sensing the translation charm in his ears slowly fading as the buzzing melted back into the sound of the wind.
“You were amazing back there,” Harry said sincerely as he followed Fleur back toward the Citroën.
“I had no idea you spoke German, or that you could deal with people like that.” “It’s a survival skill, Harry.” Fleur opened the car door and looked back at him, her sunglasses hiding her eyes but not the smile at the corners of her mouth.
“During my month interning at Gringotts, as boring as it was, I read plenty of files on underground dealings.
Besides…
as someone with Veela blood, if I hadn’t learned how to navigate rough men, I’d have been swallowed whole a long time ago.” She slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
“And Harry,” she added, pointing at his ear.
“That translation charm only lasts an hour.
If you don’t want to travel like a deaf-mute, I suggest you pull out *Introductory Magical Languages* on the road.
I don’t intend to be your personal translator forever.” “As you command, Sister.” Harry grinned as he climbed into the passenger seat.
The car door clicked shut, sealing out the bitter cold.
The Citroën lifted into the air once more, soaring toward the southern smuggling path Hans had described.
As Harry stared out the window at the endless expanse of snow-capped mountains, he felt no fear of the Frost Wyverns—only a thrilling surge of excitement for the unknown.
This was real life.
This was what it meant to be alive.