102 Chapter 102: Pitiful Miss Delacour

Looking up at the impressively tall figure of the female headmaster, Harry couldn't help but be taken aback by her sheer physical magnitude. He had the distinct feeling that, if Madame Maxime and Professor Dumbledore were to engage in a physical altercation, with the strict restriction of no magical involvement, Madame Maxime could easily see off even three Dumbledores.

"I appreciate your concern, Madame Maxime," Harry replied to her in his usual polite way. "But I couldn't feel safer than under the watch of Professor Forester."

Taking his words in, Madame Maxime nodded approvingly, her mind seemingly preoccupied with other thoughts, larger problems, perhaps. "You'll find your lunch, Bouillabaisse, waiting in the dining hall. I've always been pleased with our house-elves' culinary efforts. I must excuse myself now, as I have some administrative work that beckons my attention. I hope you enjoy your visit to Beauxbatons."

Once left alone, Harry quickly turned to Sherlock, whispering so only the professor could hear, "I think she might be related Hagrid!" Sherlock responded with an unexpected flick to Harry's forehead, earning a yelp of surprise from the young Gryffindor.

"I've warned you before about the dangers of gossip, Harry. It's impolite to make light of others based on their physical traits. The lesson here is not to judge people on their outward appearances," Sherlock advised him.

Harry, as he always did when Sherlock was ready to impart wisdom, listened respectfully and took the lesson to heart, at least on the surface. They spent the rest of the day leisurely strolling around Beauxbatons Academy, taking in the sights. They also got the opportunity to converse with a Beauxbatons student who shared insights into their daily routines and life within the school.

From the conversations they had, both Harry and Sherlock realized that the academic atmosphere at Beauxbatons was more solemn in comparison to Hogwarts, with numerous extra rules and formalities. It suggested that perhaps Hogwarts had grown more relaxed under the somewhat liberal leadership of Headmaster Dumbledore.

They later tried the house-elf-made Bouillabaisse, recommended by Madame Maxime, in Beauxbatons' dining hall. Neither Harry nor Sherlock enjoyed it tremendously, much preferring the toasted bread that was undoubtedly simple but wonderfully flavorful. The crisp, slightly browned edges had received an enthusiastic thumbs up from the savior of the wizarding world himself, Harry Potter.

Having filled their bellies, they sat down for a bit of leisurely digestion in the garden, the midday sun gently warming their faces before they got up to leave Beauxbatons. Sherlock, in his typical style, planned their itinerary spontaneously. For example, their decision to visit Beauxbatons had been decided only once they reached Caen.

For their next destination, they relied on the suggestions of Beauxbatons' staff. Garriel, a teacher in charge of general affairs at the school, had recommended visiting the small wizarding village of Aspe, situated right beside the Muggle town at the foothills of the Pyrenees, named Saint-Gaudens. He had boasted of its bustling activity, being the meeting point for wizards from not only France but also Spain, Portugal, and certain African nations. He had particularly recommended a visit to the Romance Bar, singing praises of their red wine and steaks.

They chose to journey along the Pyrenees in their flying car, looking forward to the diverse crowd of wizards in Aspe. And it did not disappoint. The village was even more bustling than the popular wizarding town of Hogsmeade. Being conveniently located at the border of Spain and France and being relatively close to Africa, it attracted wizards from across national borders, effectively becoming the most prosperous magical commercial street in southern Europe.

Observing the diversity of the population, Harry couldn't help remarking on the number of African wizards in their midst. With a gentle pat on his shoulder, Sherlock told him to tune into their conversations, making him aware that most of them were predominantly French speakers.

"Every single one of them is French!" Harry exclaimed in awe. Sherlock signaled to him to lower his voice, explaining how France's view of pure-blood lineage wasn't as extreme as that found in the UK. Here, the number of Half-blood and Muggle-born wizards was significantly larger, reflecting the changing demographics of Muggle society in France, which had seen a rise in the black population over the years.

Harry nodded, showing comprehension, and they continued their journey through the vibrant streets, picking up interesting trinkets and souvenirs along the way. Despite being a teacher, Sherlock allowed Harry to pay for his own purchases now that they were in the wizarding world. In terms of wealth, Harry was better off, being the heir to a successful wizarding shampoo company. The duo lingered at a potion shop, where Sherlock was being coaxed by the enthusiastic owner into buying antidotes to love potions.

While this was happening, Harry's attention was caught by something - or rather, someone - else. A young witch with striking silvery-white hair, delicate features, skin as white as snow, and an irresistible allure had made him freeze in place. Sherlock quickly nudged him back to reality.

"Come on, Harry, you're about to drool all over your chin," he chided, making Harry snap out of his mesmerised stupor. Flushing in embarrassment, Harry quickly defended with an accusing finger, "You tricked me, Professor!"

Laughing at his apparent innocence, Sherlock continued banteringly. "If I hadn't pulled you away, you actually would have started drooling." Then he turned serious, briefly scrutinizing the witch before continuing, "That girl, she seems to be part something... a magical creature maybe. No ordinary witch could exude such charm unconsciously. Don't let yourself get too taken in."

As day turned into evening and darkness began to descend, they headed to the much-recommended and creatively named Romance Bar. True to its name, the warm yellow lighting combined with gentle background music lent the bar a sophisticated and enticing ambiance.

Sherlock found a spot by the window, ordering two scrumptious steaks and a bottle of red wine. With a raised eyebrow, he asked Harry, "Would you like to sample some this time?" Harry vehemently declined, shaking his head, and sticking to orange juice after having had a bad experience with wine in Sommières.

True to old Garriel's statement, the steaks were indeed mouth-wateringly good, satisfying both of their appetites. While they were halfway through their meals, Harry nudged Sherlock, pointing him towards the entrance to the bar. The mysterious witch with her silver hair had just walked in, in company of another young wizard, appearing to be of Sherlock's age.

Sherlock briefly glanced at her, then swiftly turned his attention back to Harry and their food. "Forget about her, Harry, focus on your food," he reminded him. But Harry couldn't let go of his curiosity about the mysterious witch. "She must be a Beauxbatons student," he mused.

Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock asked in return, "Oh, really? And just how did you arrive at that conclusion?"

Before Harry could answer, the witch and her companion had entered the bar and taken seats near their table. The Beauxbatons emblem - two crossed golden wands, embroidered on the sleeve of her robe - caught Harry's eye, thereby proving his earlier speculation.

After overindulging on delicious French cuisine recently, both Sherlock and Harry's appetites had grown. A single serving of steak was no longer satisfying enough for them. They ordered an extra serving of Escargots de Bourgogne and two bowls of Onion Soup after their meals.

"Where are we going next, professor?" Harry asked while munching on a snail. Taking advantage of the break, Sherlock produced a map of France that he had been carrying with him, examining their upcoming travel route.

"Ah...we will have to head north, advancing further south would take us to Spain after all. We'll take a circular route from Switzerland, passing through Lyon, Geneva, and pay a visit to a small town called Interlaken, finally reaching Paris."

"Do we have enough time?"

"We certainly have, as long as we reach Nicolas Flamel's residence in Paris before August, we can go anywhere before that."

Just then, Sherlock and Harry were interrupted by the smooth, arrogantly melodious utterance of a heavily French-accented English voice. "You're planning on a visit to Mr. Nicolas Flamel as well?" It came from the silver-haired girl.

With an eager look in his eyes, Harry was about to answer, but Sherlock's gaze kept him at bay. Sherlock met the girl's eyes coldly. "Might I know who you are?" he asked. Arching her neck with a certain arrogance, the girl answered, "I am Fleur Delacour, a sixth-year student at Beauxbatons."

Acknowledging her with a curt nod, Sherlock replied, "We do indeed plan to visit Mr. Flamel, as per the invitation an elders."

"Excuse me! Mister, Miss. Sorry, excuse me!"

Their conversation was interrupted by the sudden bustling of a grey-robed goblin. He hastened past their table, inadvertently rubbing against Fleur's chair, before making a beeline for the fireplace. Sherlock watched the elf pass, his brows furrowed in suspicion, though he chose not to voice his concerns.

Fleur, undeterred by the goblin's antics, kept on engaging Sherlock, saying, "I'm planning to visit Mr. Flamel soon as well. Madame Maxime has mentioned he's got some special artifacts to give away..."

Cutting her off mid-sentence, Sherlock suddenly stood up, pulling up Harry who was pretending to intently sip his soup. "Please excuse us, Miss Delacour, but we need to leave. Before we go, I suggest you check if any of your possessions are missing. Good luck."

As Sherlock dragged the stupefied boy out of the bar, Harry threw a last, pitying glance towards Fleur. Once they were out on the street, he turned to Sherlock and asked, "Professor, were you truly wishing Miss Delacour luck?"

Sherlock simply smiled knowingly. "The poor girl didn't even realize she was being robbed. Of course, I sincerely wish her the best of luck."

Exchanging a sympathetic look with Sherlock, all Harry could do was silently empathize with the unfortunate girl.

Losing something and being cursed, what a pitiful girl.