Fleur preferred to think he was simply maturing and growing early, but if he continued to be so much more prodigious than his peers he would be truly frightening when he came of age. It was hard to estimate just how powerful a wizard would be. The ancient bloodlines were capable of producing exceptionally gifted wizards when the right characteristics combined, but for every one of those that was born there were a dozen others that that were no better than any other. France was perfect proof that the bloodlines were not completely responsible for magical puissance. The revolution had ended almost all of the oldest, purest families and Grindelwald's war had extinguished the rest, but despite that the country was still a pre-eminent magical power. It had no Albus Dumbledore, no Grindelwald and no Voldemort, but frankly that seemed to be for the best. There were few other countries that retained as many bloodlines as Britain. The magical communities of most of the former magical powers had been devastated by war or revolution since the Stature of Secrecy had ended all but a handful of international, magical wars. France, America, China and India were among the new generation of countries who had a higher number of above average wizards and witches, but no exceptional ones. Britain remained the country with the most powerful wizards, and the mightiest of all the magical communities, but it hardly mattered. The magical world was united and Great Britain's dominance over the magical world had faded to the influence of a few individuals like Albus Dumbledore.
Perhaps Harry is the next such wizard.
He was already famous enough and potentially powerful enough to if you listened to the rumours. The smart and sensible members of the magical world had feared what Voldemort's leadership of Britain would bring. The strongest nation led by a muggle-hating, power-craving dark wizard. It had been enough to make its nearest neighbours tremble, France included. Provided there was no interference from the non-magical world, where her father told her the balance of power was different, there wasn't much that could stand in the way of a united magical community of Britain. It was why Voldemort's death had been celebrated across the world and should Harry ever leave Britain he would find himself just as unable to escape his fame.
Fleur hoped that he wasn't. Mainly because she knew that Harry would loathe the attention that came with his power. He would enjoy being strong, for a while, but then he would find himself tied to and involved in almost every dispute. Albus Dumbledore had buried his head in Hogwarts to escape, resigning from almost all of his positions, Harry was too noble for that. Any wizard that would sacrifice the chance to rebuild a relationship for keeping someone that he hardly knew company would not be able to walk away. He would be worn away to nothing.
Of course, if he was that powerful, then Fleur's chances of winning the Triwizard Tournament significantly decreased, and there was no way she was going to accept that.
Fleur returned her attention to the gauzy strip of material that lay across her lap. Her solution to the imminent second task of the tournament. Truthfully she could have attempted to finish it some time ago, but something had kept drawing her back to the library to re-read books, or look further at the issue.
It seemed a bit silly now that she considered it. The last few times she'd spent the day there all she'd done was listen to Hermione ramble and agonise over whether she should speak to Harry.
She spun the slim piece of rosewood around her ring finger until it struck her thumb.
There really was no reason for her not to finish it now.
Enchanting was not like casting a spell, not when you advanced beyond the most basic elements to contemplate the intricacies of the matter. Goblins made the best enchanted items, their magic lent itself well to creating things that lasted, it was possessive and stubborn. Fleur's magic was neither, but she was still considered one of the bet enchantresses to come through Beauxbatons in the last few decades. It had led to more than one article entitled with some variation of enchanteresse enchanteur. The only work of journalism that Fleur hated more was the article that Rita Skeeter had concocted about her and Harry.
She still had a copy of that particular paper, several, in fact. The other girls had been kind enough to keep providing her with them, or to leave them lying around the communal area.
Fleur's hope that Harry had not seen the article was short-lived. Possibly the oldest, most tattered, grey owl she had ever seen had collapsed in front of him midway through breakfast only a few days ago. It had been clutching a copy of the article and a letter that Harry had clearly not been expecting.
Fleur hadn't been able to decide if he found what he read humorous or infuriating, his expression had seemed to convey both, but he'd deposited the unconscious bird in front of the idiot red -head who had tried to ask her to be his date to the Yule Ball. She supposed she owed the moron a thank you, if anything, had he not attempted to goad Harry into asking her she would never have had such an enjoyable night. He would not, of course, be getting any such sign of gratitude from her.
She ran the tip of her wand along the length of the veil, murmuring the incantations to the spells she wanted to enchant the veil with. The trick to enchanting was not to push magic into the item to force the spell to adhere to it, but to weave the enchantment within the object. Her magic, affected as it was by her veela nature, was slightly more fluid and subtle than most, and so manipulating it to do so came more easily to her.
There were a total of eleven spells that she had to cast on the piece of gauze. None of them were overly complex, but several of them had principles that conflicted and required some clever exploitations, such as casting them on either side of the veil where they could not interfere with one another, to work. The strip of gauze had adopted a sort of shimmer to it when she finished. A glimmer of ethereal light along one edge and a haze along the other. Which, as Fleur was quite happy to note, was exactly how it was supposed to look. She loved it when she got things right first time.
It still needs testing, she reminded herself. It wouldn't do to get too carried away now only to drown during the second task.
Filling the sink in her bath room she waited for the water to still, tapping her wand idly against the side of the basin, then gently placed the veil in.
It took a few moments, but soon a long, thin bubble formed along the upturned side of the gauze. It was about the length of her little finger and, when she poked it with her wand, displacing the original bubble, it reformed in moments. Fleur left it in the sink just to make sure. If there was still a bubble when she came back from meeting her mother sister later than it would definitely not fail her in the lake.
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