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All Is Dust That Is Not His Heart	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 2037 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am making no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-All Is Dust That Is Not His Heart
- 2-Beau of the Ball
- 1
- 2
Title: All Is Dust That Is Not His Heart
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Warnings: Angst, AU
Rating: PG
Pairing: Harry/Draco (mostly pre-slash)
Wordcount: 3500
Summary: Draco is a Beauxbatons student. Fleur is therefore the rightful Champion of the Triwizard Tournament. Who is this upstart Harry Potter, who insists on intruding where he doesn’t belong?
Author’s Notes: This is another July Celebration fic that started as an Advent fic, for the anonymous prompt Harry/Draco AU fic where Draco went to Beauxbatons, please! And he's one of the students picked by Madame Maxine to go to Hogwarts for the Triwizard Torunament! I'd like there to be a lot of focus on differences between British and French magical culture, please, with culture clashes when Harry and Draco interact and Harry and Draco teaching each other about customs and so on from their respective countries. I'd also like there to be a lot more of Fleur Delacour, maybe as a mentor of some sort to Draco? I’m afraid I didn’t get to the culture clashes, but I hope the other parts satisfy.

All Is Dust That Is Not His Heart

            Draco straightened his spine as he stood beside the Ravenclaw table. The Goblet of Fire blazed away in the front of the room, and Draco knew who it would select.

            Viktor Krum, the obvious Champion from Durmstrang. And someone from Hogwarts, probably the tall seventh-year student with brown hair and eyes. That wasn’t as important.

            And Fleur.

            Draco leaned towards Fleur, who turned her head to show she was listening without taking her eyes off the Goblet. “You’re the best,” Draco murmured in French. “And I’ll help you whatever way I can.”

            “You’re only a fourth-year. I will not have you risking yourself.”

            Draco scowled. He knew Madame Maxime had brought him along because his parents had made generous donations to her school, and they wanted the prospect of him being in Britain for a whole year and able to Floo them all the time and even visit. He knew Mother also hoped that he would compare the schools and decide Hogwarts was better.

            But Fleur didn’t have to remind him. He started to tell her that, and then the Goblet flared. Draco held his breath.

            “The Champion for Durmstrang is Viktor Krum!”

            Everyone else clapped and cheered as Krum stood up and marched through a little door into a side room. Draco sneered. Krum might be a famous Quidditch player, but all that meant was that he would be good at flying and dodging and not much else. Fleur, on the other hand, was a brilliant witch, and she had taught Draco to be as much like a Veela as he could when he didn’t share any of the blood. She would win because no other outcome was logically possible.

            And sure enough, the Goblet chose her. Fleur stood up with a small smile and a swirl of her silver hair. Draco clapped until he thought his hands would bleed. Fleur offered him a small chiding smile as she disappeared into the side room.

            The Hogwarts Champion was indeed the tall brown-haired boy, whose name turned out to be Cedric Diggory. Draco hoped he could remember it. It was such an ordinary, boring name.

            And then the Goblet spat out the name of a fourth person, a person Draco had heard of even in his dim, unenlightened years before he went to Beauxbatons: Harry Potter.

            He was apparently a second Champion for Hogwarts, which made some of the other Beauxbatons students start talking about how they should be allowed a second one as well. Draco didn’t pay attention to any of that. He only stood there, coldly rigid and furious, and stared at the tiny back disappearing into the room that should be reserved for the people who had been chosen honestly.

            Potter had cheated, somehow. Draco considered it only practical to help Fleur cheat back.

*

            “You do not need to be so upset, Draco. He is only a little boy.”

            Draco leaned on the door of Fleur’s room and watched her combing out her hair. She brushed it in the same way all the time, for a required one hundred strokes, morning and evening. Draco would never have hair like hers, or as long, or with the same necessity for taking care of it, but she had taught him how to apply that order and precision to other aspects of his life.

            “You’d say I was, too.”

            Fleur smiled at him in the mirror, which had tiny diamonds around the frame. “Ah, but you had the benefit of my teaching. He didn’t. So you are much more clever and capable of action than he is.”

            “So I can help you?”

            Fleur sighed and turned around, shaking her head. “I knew you would ask that, Draco. I do not want you to. I would prefer to succeed on my own, yes? It is clear that Harry Potter cannot, or he would not have had to cheat.” She stood up and came over to Draco, smoothing his hair down once before she leaned over to kiss his forehead. “Let me prove how much better I am than he is.”

            Draco only nodded without speaking. It was the same speech Fleur had given when Draco had offered to use his father’s influence on Madame Maxime to make sure Fleur was selected as one of the seventh-year candidates. And that time, she had been right. She had been chosen on her own.

            Here, though, there wasn’t only Madame Maxime. There were dozens of biased professors at Hogwarts that Father complained about all the time. Fleur wouldn’t be judged fairly on her talents as she would be if they were on home ground.

            Draco would help. He would just make sure that Fleur—who had taught him to be discreet as well as clever—wouldn’t find out about it.

*

            “What do you want?”

            Draco blinked, and took a step backwards before he thought about it. It wasn’t that Harry Potter was intimidating, especially glaring at Draco in the middle of the Charms corridor. It was that he was direct. Draco didn’t know anyone at Beauxbatons who would have stalked up and stared at him like that just because Draco was following them. They would have found more indirect ways to eye Draco from a distance and figure out his purpose without asking.

            Asking was almost cheating.

            Then again, Potter should be used to that, Draco thought, and leaned forwards until his nose hovered a bit away from Potter’s. “I want you to admit that you don’t belong in this competition.”

            Potter threw up his hands. “You think it was my idea to enter?”

            “Of course,” Draco said. He’d heard the rumor that it wasn’t, but not even Potter’s Weasley best friend believed that. “You want the glory. Who wouldn’t?”

            “Someone who already has a bunch of glory that he doesn’t want!”

            Draco paused. He had to admit Potter was famous, and he’d also heard the rumor that he disliked his fame.

            But that couldn’t be right, because no one was that stupid, unless they were feigning modesty. So Draco sneered and said, “I want you to back out of the competition if you really don’t want to be here, and leave it to Fleur to win. She deserves to, unlike you.”

            “Once your name comes out of the Goblet of Fire, you’re bound to compete—”

            “But you haven’t even bothered to try and find a way out of it, have you? Only hunched your shoulders and gone around acting like it’s the end of the world because a Weasley turned his back on you.”

            “Oh, now I know where I’ve heard of you. That brute of a man who got into a fight with Mr. Weasley the summer before my second year. The one who tried to murder Ron’s little sister. You’re a Malfoy, aren’t you?”

            “My father is not a brute!”

            Potter bared his teeth. “Of course not. Just a murderer. Excuse me, attempted murderer. He’s not actually better at it than you are at stalking someone.”

            Draco glared at him. “You took away one of my family’s house-elves.”

            “Your father was treating him like a slave.”

            “That’s what they are!”

            He didn’t understand the sharp grin that widened across Potter’s face at that, or the way he turned and called to the Mudblood who always followed him around. “Hermione! Here’s someone who wants to talk to you about house-elves. He thinks they like being slaves, naturally.”

            Only when Granger marched over to him and subjected him to a scathing hour-long lecture did Draco understand. And when he broke away and managed to return to the Beauxbatons carriage, a new kind of determination was burning in him.

            He was going to take down Harry Potter for his own sake and his family’s as well as Fleur’s. He hated Harry Potter.

*

            Draco smiled and stepped back as he watched yet another crowd of Hufflepuffs leave the Great Hall with his POTTER STINKS badges on their chests. They could have managed the enchantments on their own, Draco thought, but they would have been far too honorable to try, even though all of them supported Diggory. Now that Draco had created the badges and handed them out, though, they could wear them with a clear conscience.

            “Watch out, Draco. It’s that boy,” whispered one of Fleur’s cousins, Marie Delacour, leaning over. “That boy you watch all the time is coming over.”

            Draco turned his head in time to see Potter approaching the Ravenclaw table. Talk about stalking, Draco thought scornfully. Potter moved in a stalk, his feet hitting the floor with resounding thuds. No student of Beauxbatons would move so ungracefully, even the ones who didn’t have Veela blood. Draco ought to know. Fleur had taught him.

            “I just wanted you to know, Malfoy,” said Potter, halting in front of him, “that you’re a good enchanter.”

            There was a confused murmur among the Ravenclaws, some of whom had Draco’s badges attached to their robes, too. Draco’s fellow graceful companions remained silent, but Draco could feel their eyes narrowing in contemplation.

            Draco had to respond, of course. He couldn’t afford to leave words like that uncountered. He sneered a little and shrugged. “If you know that, Potter,” he said, shifting so that the lace around his wrists would show, “then you should know how foolish it is for you to be in the Tournament. I’m only a fourth-year. Fleur can do things that make my little efforts seem like nothing.”

            The lace was worth more than all the robes Draco had seen Potter wear before now, combined. The French accent to his English words made them lilt deliciously, Draco thought. If Potter could see his mistake and withdraw at any point, it would be now.

            “You could be great in the future,” Potter continued, without glancing at the lace, much to Draco’s disappointment. “You could make a career as an enchanter in England, or France, I suppose.” His face was dismissive, and Draco frowned without meaning to. “But you won’t amount to anything, because you would rather waste your time pestering me.”

            “What?” Those badges were worse than mere pestering, of course they were! Draco started to stand, but he caught Fleur’s eye and sat back down, frowning.

            “You used powerful enchantments to create a childish insult.” Potter gave him another sharp smile. “Yes, extremely clever. Your skills and your wits don’t match.” He shook his head. “I know you wanted to set yourself up as some sort of menace or rival to me. You didn’t succeed. And from now on, I know I don’t even have to consider you, because you’re magically powerful but you don’t know shit.”

            One of the Hogwarts professors came by to scold Potter for language. Draco didn’t care, because he could see Potter didn’t care. His entire House was already ignoring him, so he no longer went out of his way not to lose them points or avoid detention.

            Instead, he stared after Potter as he walked away.

            He had wanted to be the one to cause pain to Potter, to defend Fleur’s honor, and instead Potter had just ignored him like he was nothing!

            It made Draco wonder—

            It made him wonder if Potter could do that because he’d seen far worse than Draco’s badges.

*

            “The First Task is—”

            “Dragons. I know, Draco.”

            Draco jerked to a halt, disappointed. He’d crept around and sneaked about and spied, all to find out what the mysterious creatures Fleur was facing for the First Task would be, and now she sat there and smiled at him and told him she hadn’t needed him?

            Draco resisted the urge to stomp off somewhere. He did fold his arms and scowl at the floor, though.

            “You know something, Draco?”

            Draco started. Even after all these years, he couldn’t hear a Veela approaching him, Fleur moved so silently. He tilted his head back until he was looking into her eyes and shook his head.

            “I feel sorrier for the other Champions.” Fleur reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “Diggory is relentlessly honorable and he will not cheat. Krum will have all of Durmstrang supporting him, but he will not be able to trust them, as suspicious as that school is.

            “And little Harry Potter…” Fleur crouched down in front of Draco and smiled kindly at him, her eyes so bright that Draco’s mood recovered a little, even though he knew he wouldn’t like the words she said next. “I feel sorriest of all for him. I no longer think he put his name in the Goblet.”

            “But he had to.”

            “If someone else entered it for him?” Fleur shrugged, and made starlight seem to run shimmering around the ceiling as reflections bounced off her hair. “Someone else could have done that. An older person could get past the Age Line, and he has this Voldemort hunting him.” Fleur made a contemptuous noise, which no one did better than a Veela.

            Draco had to smile. He never said the name when he was at home, out of respect for his parents’ wariness, but he knew now how absolutely ridiculous it sounded in French.

            “So I will not worry about him. I do not think he can win, and I pity him.” Fleur leaned even nearer, and Draco had to look into her eyes and nearly cross his own so he could keep seeing her clearly. “And I will continue to want to teach you even if you don’t help me, Draco.”

            Draco could feel his face burning. Father had once told him he was far too obvious about what he liked and he didn’t like, and as a Malfoy, he needed to learn some self-control. But maybe it was okay that his face was flushed at the moment, because Fleur wasn’t teasing him about it. He cleared his throat. “You don’t need me to watch what Potter is doing?”

            “No. I need you to come to the Tasks and cheer for me.”

            Draco felt a swift relaxation creep down his spine. Sneaking around to find out about the dragons had been risky, and he’d actually had to get close enough to smell the smoke for himself before he was sure. He knew Mother and Father would both be happier that he wasn’t taking the risks, and as long as Fleur didn’t mind…

            “I can do that.”

            “Good.” Fleur smiled at him again and stood up. “And continue not to drool after me. These Hogwarts boys, they are disgusting.” She rolled her eyes and went back to brushing her hair.

            Draco watched her do it, treasuring that. Fleur didn’t trust other people as much as she trusted Draco. He could do things for her, help her with them, that no one else would.

            And that was enough to make him wonder again what it was like to have no friends and be distrusted by everyone, the way it seemed Potter was.

*

            Actually watching the Champions go up against the dragons was much worse than Draco had thought it would be. Watching Fleur on the grass, so small against the bulk of her dragon, made him shudder, and he had to fling his hands over his eyes when it breathed flame near her.

            She lived. She got the egg. But she didn’t get the most points, and the look in her eyes when she finally left the field made Draco think that entering the Triwizard Tournament wasn’t such a great thing after all.

            What if she’s right and Potter didn’t even enter of his own free will?

            That would make it worse. And Potter couldn’t get most people to believe that, either.

            Draco found himself unable to turn away, even though he had meant to go and comfort Fleur, when Potter stepped out against the dragon. He looked even smaller, of course, because he was. Draco shook his head. He had always heard that Hogwarts meals were filling and nutritious, but it didn’t seem like it.

            Potter raised his wand and called out, “Accio Firebolt!”

            The broom that sped towards him probably made some noise, but Draco couldn’t hear it over the cheers, shouts, and screams. He felt his mouth fall open, and knew what Mother and Father would say, but for once, he couldn’t care. He leaned forwards, his eyes locked on Potter, and watched as he slung a leg over the broom and swept into the sky.

            How he darted around the dragon, how he avoided her claws and fire, how he swirled to the side and then came up with the golden egg in his arms, Draco watched without quite feeling that it was real. He shook his head several times and found himself having to breathe fast because he’d stopped breathing.

            Potter finally landed with the egg in his arms, and dropped the broom beside him. Immediately people turned around to see the scores that the judges were projecting into the air.

            Draco didn’t feel the urge to look, even though it might have been amusing to watch Madame Maxime struggle between being fair and wanting to support her own Champion. He just stared as Potter tipped his head and closed his eyes, sweat pouring down his face, then finally turned and walked away as people started to cluster around him.

            One of them was the Weasley, from his hair.

            Draco sat where he was long after the other Beauxbatons students had gone to congratulate Fleur or back to their carriages. He had things to think about, and no matter how much he blinked, what he saw wasn’t Fleur nearly getting burned, but Potter taking stupid risks to survive a challenge he had never wanted to be in in the first place.

            It was…sobering.

*

            “What do you want, Malfoy?”

            This time, Draco couldn’t help but admire the direct way Potter approached him. It kept him from having to make up an excuse to go talk to Potter.

            And they were alone in the corridor near Ravenclaw Tower for the moment, which meant no Weasley or other Gryffindors to interfere with what they were going to say.

            Draco took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for making those badges.” Potter gave him a wondering glance, and Draco only realized a second later that he had spoken in French, not English. He flushed and repeated himself. He hoped it didn’t sound as stupid as it had in his head.

            “Fleur said you didn’t want to be in the Tournament, and I think she was right.”

            Potter stared at him, then nodded shortly. “You’re right. I’ve faced enough danger from Voldemort and the rest of my bloody life. I don’t need to volunteer for it.”

            Draco hesitated. Now that he’d given his apology and said what Fleur thought, he was at a loss. But when Potter started to turn away, he knew he couldn’t let him go like that.

            He seized Potter’s arm. Potter wheeled around with his wand in his hand, but then paused, probably because he’d seen that Draco didn’t have his own out.

            “I’m sorry for what I said and did,” Draco gabbled as fast as he could, making sure it was in English this time. “I just—I don’t know. What I saw yesterday was…” He shook his head. Most of the time, he didn’t admire bravery, because that was what Father had taught him, but on the other hand, he had to admire the way both Fleur and Potter—and even Krum and Diggory—had gone up against the dragons yesterday.

            “I’m sorry you had to face that,” he finally ended.

            Potter looked at him with open curiosity for a while, then nodded and said, “You’re all right, Malfoy.”

            At that point, a voice that sounded distinctly Weasley-like shouted from down the nearest staircase, “Hey, Harry!”

            “Got to go.” Potter gave him an apologetic smile and pulled gently free. “But yeah, you’re all right. If you want to hear what it’s really like to be me, then you can come talk to me again.”

            Draco felt his belly fluttering as he watched Potter jog around the corner. He’d never felt like that with Fleur, at least not after the first week, when he got over his awe of her beauty and went to ask her if there was anything he could do to appear that poised and confident.

            But with Potter, it was something else, since poise didn’t appear to be in Potter’s vocabulary.

            Draco looked forwards to finding out what the “something else” was.

            The End.
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All Is Dust That Is Not His Heart