Chapter 103: The Arrogant Girl

Fleur quickly realized what she had lost. Her wand, which she usually kept in the pocket of her robe, had vanished! Fear swept over her, turning her face a ghostly white. This wand was not a mere tool for casting spells, it was vastly important to her, being custom-made with her veela grandmother's hair at its core – it was a cherished keepsake.

Fleur returned to the caution that Sherlock had given her before his departure. She remembered the goblin who had rushed past her and cast floo powder into the fireplace, disappearing amidst a blaze of emerald flames. The fellow wizard at her table offered her a clue:

"I happened to overhear him. He named Carter Street as his destination."

Without wasting a second, Fleur hastily tossed in floo powder into the fireplace uttering "Carter Street", and plunged into the surging force of the flames. She was whisked away and unceremoniously dumped onto the sooty floor of an old, decrepit fireplace.

"Cough, cough, cough!"

Emerging from the cloud of dust, Fleur sprinted from the fireplace and found herself within the dilapidated confines of a presumably magical residence. But the goblin was nowhere to be found. Footsteps echoed from the floor above and an old witch stomped down the stairs, her face twisted into an expression of fury.

"Who in Merlin's name are you! How dare you apparate into my fireplace!"

"A goblin has stolen my wand. He supposedly used floo powder to teleport here." Facing the old witch, Fleur remained unflinching. "Did you happen to see him?" She spoke without a hint of remorse, completely disregarding the fact that she had intruded into someone's home.

The witch's patience wore thin. "Get out at once! I haven't seen neither hide nor hair of any goblin or house-elf around here!"

By the look in the witch's eyes, Fleur knew she was telling the truth and it became clear that she had been misled.

Turning markedly pale, Fleur bit her lower lip and crossed her arms over her chest. From her pocket, she drew out a few bezants. "Let me use some of your floo powder to go home. This is for your trouble."

The old witch sneered at her. "Think you're all high and mighty, huh? You could heap up mountains of gold here, but there's no floo powder to spare! The Ministry will shut off my fireplace's Floo Network in one month, I have no need to keep floo powder anymore."

"If that's the case, you could use Apparition and send me on my way. Once I reach Paris..."

Before she could complete her request, the old witch swung her wand violently with a stern "Get out!" and Fleur found herself landing harshly on the cobbled pathway outside.

Shadows clung to her surroundings. She stood shivering in the silent street devoid of lamps or people, the only light visible in the distance came from dimly lit cottages.

Fleur gingerly got up with tears welling up in her eyes, brushing off dust from the shoulder she had landed on. All traces of her once regal and elegant demeanor vanished, and dust clung to her silver hair. Her once sparkling and fresh robe was now marred with dirt. She looked around aimlessly; without her wand or any Muggle money, she was completely lost.

She glanced back at the barricaded wooden house, her lips went white from the pressure of the bite. However, her pride wouldn't allow her to swallow it and return to plead with the rude old witch for assistance. She blinked back the tears poised on her lash line and straightened her posture. She resolved to find her way and began to walk in the direction where the homes seemed the brightest.

...

Sherlock elected not to spend the night in Aspe's humble wizarding town with Harry. Instead, he drove them back to the city of Toulouse, which they had previously visited, and checked into a posh hotel. It wasn't up for debate. The facilities and services offered at inns in wizard towns couldn't hold a candle to those provided by Muggle establishments, hence they steered clear of spending the night in any wizarding town.

After a cozy night's sleep, the next day, Harry and Sherlock fueled up the car and resumed their journey. Sherlock had a tentative plan mapped out; they were to visit Switzerland before setting a course for Paris.

Leaving Toulouse in their rearview mirror, Sherlock steered the vehicle towards the French Riviera, intending to hit the next coastal city, Montpellier. Contrary to what one might expect, days of delectable meals hadn't dampened Harry's appetite. They stopped for lunch at a roadside eatery and Harry devoured his plate of stewed potatoes—skilfully wiping off any remnant of sauce from the corners of his mouth with a hunk of fresh bread.

"Miss Delacour, the Beauxbatons student who mentioned she also intended to seek out Mr. Flamel, has been on my mind," Harry said, reminiscing about the enchanting girl they had met the previous night.

Sherlock gave Harry a sidelong glance and replied, "After all, Nicolas and her studied at the same school, Beauxbatons. Isn't it normal for him to give magical stone fragments to people from his own school instead of us Hogwarts folks?"

Harry went quiet upon hearing Sherlock's casual observation; he wasn't too concerned with the fragments of the Philosopher's Stone, but he couldn't shake the worry about Fleur being able to find Mr. Flamel in one piece at all, after Professor Forester had wished her good luck the day prior.

The journey to Montpellier didn't take long, merely three and a half hours by car. The French city, nestled along the azure Mediterranean coastline, did not boast of many well-known tourist attractions. They made a quick detour to snap some pictures at the city's iconic locations, the Place de la Comédie, Peyrou Promenade and Jardin des Plantes before resuming their north-bound journey.

A rock song played from the car radio, its unfamiliar chords filling the vehicle as Sherlock hummed along off-key. Meanwhile, Harry played around with his camera, clicking away at the fleeting roadside views. "Take it easy with the film, we still don't know when we'll have a chance to get more," Sherlock cautioned.

Harry gave a nod of agreement. He hadn't really taken many photos but preferred to use the camera lens as a makeshift telescope to observe the picturesque countryside they sped past. They were currently whizzing past sprawling fields when a disheveled figure, white as a ghost, darted across in Harry's field of vision.

Harry gasped in surprise. After craning his neck to confirm, he whipped his head back inside, turning towards Sherlock with eyes wide in astonishment.

"Professor! Look who's behind us! Quickly, stop the car!"

In response, Sherlock hit the brake, furrowing his brows as he regarded the unkempt figure who was drawing closer in the rear-view mirror.

He switched gears and steered the car backwards, cruising up to the bedraggled girl. Fleur, who had been trekking through the night, chilled to her bone and stomach rumbling from hunger, noticed the car halt near her. Having previously been offered a lift by a Muggle with unsavory intentions, she had no interest in seeking aid from passing vehicles.

Neglecting to even sneak a glance towards it, she kept trudging along, carrying herself with an aura of dignity regardless of her dire circumstances.

"Miss Delacour."

It wasn't until a familiar voice reached her ears from the interior of the car, calling out her surname, that she came to an abrupt halt, dumbfounded as she peeked inside the vehicle.

Both Sherlock and Harry wore puzzled expressions, clueless of how they had chanced upon her on a highway near Montpellier, considering they had just seen her the previous evening at Aspe. Not to mention her current state of dishevelment.

Fleur turned to Sherlock, the professor who had cautioned her yesterday about imminent losses. Desperation palpable in her voice, her words still bore the tinge of haughtiness.

"Could you please give me a ride home?"

Sherlock motioned for her to settle in the back seat, which she promptly complied with. As she stepped into the car, Harry blurted out with barely concealed curiosity:

"How on earth did you end up here?"

"My wand was stolen in the Romance bar. The goblin culprit fled through the fireplace using floo powder, and I trailed after him, only to end up stranded here."

As she explained her predicament, Harry awkwardly exchanged a glance with Sherlock who met his gaze with a quizzical look, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"No reason, professor. Just realizing the lengths to which you go to warn us— your students— about potential dangers. You're truly admirable, professor."

"Your flattery won't get you any exemptions from your Defense Against the Dark Arts assignments when term commences," Sherlock quipped back, rolling his eyes.

Meanwhile, Fleur was quietly seated in the back, her fingers tugging anxiously at the corner of her robe which was crumpled in her fist.

"If it's not too much of a bother, could you maybe Apparate me to Paris? I promise my father will reward you handsomely for your assistance."

Through the rear-view mirror, Sherlock could make out the desperation lurking deep within Fleur's eyes. With a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, he said:

"I'm afraid I can't help you with that, I've never been to Paris before. One can only Apparate to known locations, worldliness is paramount when it comes to Apparition."

Fleur's countenance fell in disappointment. She had merely finished her fifth year at Beauxbatons and was due to begin her sixth year soon. As per Ministry regulations, Apparition lessons were offered during a student's sixth year, and only to those of seventeen years or older. Given that Fleur had yet to learn Apparition, even if Sherlock lent her his wand, it would be of no assistance.

Upon seeing Fleur's downcast expression, Harry glanced over at Sherlock, who caught the unspoken plea in his student's eyes and heaved a sigh, autumn in his voice.

"If you really have no other way, then you might as well tag along with us. After all, our final destination is Paris too. We can drop you home en route."

Upon hearing Sherlock's assurance, there was a noticeable uplift in Fleur's spirits and a feeble "Thank you" slipped out from between her lips.

"Don't mention it!" Harry spread his arm in a magnanimous gesture, as though he had just performed an enormous service.

Sherlock busied himself with the map again, planning their route. The scheduled trip to Switzerland had to be abandoned for now. From Montpellier, Paris was about 800 kilometers towards the north, demanding a non-stop drive of nearly eight to nine hours.

Nevertheless, he was in no rush, assisting Fleur was something they were doing out of convenience rather than obligation. Once their route was firmed up, they hit the road again. As they cruised along, Sherlock inquired about Fleur's companion from the bar.

"The wizard who entered the bar with you, where is he now? Why didn't he help you pursue the thief?"

Fleur shook her head. "Jonathan and I met in Aspe. He mentioned he was also heading to Paris to seek out Mr. Flamel, so we decided to travel together temporarily."

From her response, Sherlock discerned a pattern. "It appears there's been quite a surge in the number of wizards visiting Mr. Flamel lately?"

"Yes, Mr. Flamel is quite ancient and has numerous old friends in the wizarding world. I've heard rumours he's dispatched a multitude of invitation letters, inviting his friends to bring determined and eager young wizards to receive peculiar gifts from him."

This revelation made Harry whine, "So we're not the only lucky ones, eh? Here I thought it was just the two of us, professor."

Harry's repeated address of 'professor' to Sherlock had piqued Fleur's curiosity; she couldn't resist asking, "Why does this young boy keep referring to you as 'professor'?"

This time around, Harry refrained from responding. He took offense to Fleur referring to him as a young boy. He was coming upon thirteen years of age already, so how could he still be considered a 'young boy'?

On observing Harry's affronted expression, Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle.

"Because that's what I am. Allow me to introduce myself properly – I am Professor Sherlock Forester. I teach Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and this is my student, Harry Potter, who will be a third-year student when term resumes."

Hearing their introductions, Fleur was taken aback. Not only was she startled to discover that such a young man like Sherlock was presently serving as a professor at Hogwarts, but also, the mention of Harry Potter stoked embers of recognition.

The Delacour family, although they did not insist on pureblood superiority, were an esteemed wizarding lineage in France. During his terrible reign, the ripple effect of Voldemort's tyranny hadn't been confined just to Britain, he had merely given precedence to the larger island of Britain. Hence, Fleur was quite familiar with the name of Harry Potter.

"So, you're the Harry Potter who defeated You-Know-Who?"

Harry found himself appeased by her acknowledgement, as it somewhat compensated for the previous slight of being called a young boy.

"I was way too young to even remember what happened that day, so I can't really take credit for his downfall."

Despite relishing the recognition, Harry never gloated about defeating Voldemort. He was well aware that his survival was not due to his own doing.

Sherlock, who was keeping his eyes on the road, couldn't help but smile on hearing Harry's response. Even though Harry had received countless compliments and respect from legions of wizards and witches for his 'noble deeds', he never let it get to his head.

Among all of Harry's attributes, the one Sherlock admired most was his innate humility. However, this wasn't to say that he turned a blind eye towards Harry's occasional bouts of rash action.

"What about you?" Fleur's skeptical gaze lingered on Sherlock. "You don't look much older than me, how come you're a professor at Hogwarts?"

This time around, Sherlock chose not to respond; instead he just waited for Harry to start singing his praises again.

"Professor Forrest is a very talented wizard. After graduating from Hogwarts, he was immediately recruited by the Auror Command of the Ministry of Magic."

"Later, he resigned and spent a year at home researching defensive magic, and even wrote two books. Last year, Professor Dumbledore hired him as the Dark Arts Defense professor, becoming the students' favorite in the castle. He then defeated the Basilisk within the Chamber of Secrets and averted the crisis that almost led to the closure of Hogwarts!"