"…and not least foul is the idea that an épée must be wielded in such a fashion to resemble true combat. While the martial nature of the weapon is hardly undesirable, it is also unintended. The renaissance artist takes a glance at the sport and complains about how it will not teach the youth to fight off a demon, should they meet one. Hereupon I must laugh and say this: sport fights off enemies that a blade cannot cut. A word of warning here, now! At one of life's crossroads, blood will not lead a trail to your correct path. When your fire runs low, when you must fight that which you cannot hurt…it is then that you will need to call upon your days with it, you will need to understand why you held that grip as tightly as you did, and you will remember all that you learned holding it, the weapon of…"

Harry Potter pretended to ignore the incessant chanting of his name. Inside his tent, head low and cloak over his head like a hood, he hid a smirk.

"If you don't have a plan, Potter, then we're both dead." Snape's voice maintained an impressive level of cool contempt in spite of the subject. Even the most important of concerns wasn't allowed in the man's tone; Harry had never seen Snape speak in anything other than disdainful annoyance. For anyone else, I'd have assumed it to be a bluff…but I know that's just Snape's game face. And it was nearly game time.

"I have a plan, professor." Harry smiled in his best attempt at mimicking his father. From his brief trip to the Pensieve, he had only time to learn two things—his father's smirk, and the fact Snape detested it over everything else. "I'm wearing it around my waist."

"Gryffindor's sword will not cut a dragon, Potter."

Harry let his right hand fall on top of the sword hilt and stood up with an expression of shock that bordered on parody before gasping. Then, replacing it with the smirk from before, he said, "It's not about what a sword can do. It's about what it has taught me, professor…it's a much better teacher than you, actually."

Snape tightened his grip around his own crossed arms. "Riddle me this then, Potter! What has the sword taught you?"

"First, I would like each of you to explain why you're here," said the man in white. "What are you hoping to take from these lessons?"

Harry's reason for being there was unpleasant enough he had hoped to dismiss it as a bad dream, hallucination, or elaborate prank. This was partly because of the insanity of the man in front of him: dressed purely in white, mask half-pulled over his face, and most strikingly of all, sword pointed straight down at the floor. Throughout all this, the man spoke with them in a friendly tone, shooting little glances at each and every kid as though nothing pleased him more than to see them standing in that little gymnasium.

Later, of course, Harry would find that nothing quite made as much sense in the world as standing there, in those weird clothes and wielding that very same weapon. But at the time…

There was a dreamlike quality to the moment; the man in white standing there in those strange clothes in the same small gymnasium they had been to their whole school lives…and the sword. Harry could not stop looking at it. The strange background was a fitting start for it all.

"I'm here because my cousin wanted…company," Harry said quietly. Truthfully, Dudley was looking forward to beating Harry with a sword and being praised for it. His cousin had even gone as far as to push for his parents to pay for lessons for this very reason.

When Dudley's turn to speak came, he declared as much—and in a much less cleverly disguised manner than the boy intended it, because the man in white harrumphed once or twice during faintly disguised declarations of intent to hurt Harry. It was, perhaps, because of this that the man in white seemed very careful with his next explanation.

"Fencing!" The Man in White declared. "The best hobby for a man—or woman—of taste! An art, a sport, call it what you will…it is what you kids will think of as sword fighting." He paused to allow the class to cheer at this. "But not all fencing is the same, mind you. There are three weapons you can fence with…and each of them has its own set of skills and weaknesses. Do you know them, Mr. Potter?"

Thirteen sets of eyes turned to face him then. A single squeak from the ceiling fan was all that could be heard then. The sun hung high outside the window, but it wasn't the reason why Harry felt sweat drip from his forehead.

"I…no, I'm sorry sir."

"Really? My mistake. Agnes? Come over here, show them what we have."

He said no more until three different swords were set on the floor so all students could see them. Dudley and a couple others tried to crowd around the blades, but the man in white gently—or at least with a smile—kept them from doing so. "This one is a foil," he announced, holding the one with a smallest hand guard. "It is normally what everybody begins with…but given we have an abundance of teachers here, I feel like breaking common sense and allowing you to pick your favorite weapon from the start. Do not misjudge the foil for simply a beginner's weapon, though. It is a complicated sword…ah, how do I explain this in simple terms?"

A moment's worth of puzzlement passed, and then the man brightened up, tapping his own chest with the blade. "What you need to know is that you score points in foil by hitting someone's torso. If you hit any other area…well, that doesn't count! Agnes, could you pass the sword around so everybody can hold it? Please?"

The foil had not reached Harry's hands before the man resumed speaking, this time holding a light looking blade with a fancy hand guard that went around his wrist. "This is a sabre. With it, you win by hitting your opponent's head, torso or arms. Ah, Agnes, if you will…? Thank you." Curiously, despite the man's formal tone and open smile, he seemed to speak of the sword with a sort of dismissive disdain. "And finally…we have the épée."

This time the man held the final sword with an almost childlike glee. It seemed similar to a foil, but with a bigger guard that covered nearly the entire hand. He held it as if it were a baby and a trophy at the same time, taking it upon himself to hold it to all students. Harry could not stop himself from trembling with excitement when he got to hold it. This is a real sword.

"Ah, um, mister? Can I ask a question?" said a small girl. "My dad told me those swords work differently if you hit each other at the same time…what happens if you and your opponent both stab each other simultaneously?"

"Oh, that…for foil and sabre…there's this thing called Right of Way—it's…it's annoying, it's what it is." The man in white did not bother to hide his exasperation. "It basically means that whoever initiated the attack in question—and this can change depending on parries and a lot of other factors—will be awarded the point in case of a simultaneous hit. The referee keeps track of who has Right of Way for that point."

"Is it difficult to keep track of who has Right of Way?" asked the same girl.

"Oh, absolutely not!" said the man in white, though he frowned at his own words soon as they left his mouth. With a shrug, he continued encouragingly, "You and your friends will learn it quickly enough, we always have students learn so they can judge bouts between their friends."

Dudley smiled at Harry, who tried avoid meeting his eyes. He knew what the other boy was thinking, and this filled him with a sinking feeling. He had dared to keep the tiniest bit of hope that he could maybe have some fun here. But he was never going to be able to do anything like that if others had anything to say about it. Most of the kids around were from their school, and nobody ever wanted to side with that strange kid dressed in Dudley's old clothes.

"When do we get to hold a sword?" Dudley asked, his voice starting in excitement and ending in impatience. "I want to hit someone with it!"

"Patience!" The man in white declared with a thunder. "Patience, dear Dudley. You want to hit people with swords?" He waited until the boy nodded to continue. "Good, then remember this—if you someone to be hit with a sword, you are either patient or you're the one who's getting hit." The man in white finished off strongly, yet after a moment of enjoying his induced silence he shook his head and shrugged slightly as if arguing with himself. "Well, either you're patient or you do sabre—in which case you're still getting hit, you're just also winning the point, if you have Right of Way."

"Bob," the man in white's assistant said, "you might want to slow down. Please."

Harry found himself surprised, and for years he wouldn't even know why. It is only later, with the benefit of age, that we realize that we look at our first fencing coach with a sort of strange reverence. They are the ones that introduce us to that wondrous world, who dress in strange ways and hold swords as if they belonged to a different century.

Yet they all have disappointingly normal names like Bob.

"How does the last sword work?" Harry surprised even himself by asking, and could not blame everyone for turning to face him. "The…epee?"

Bob had been smiling the entire time, but his expression now made it seem as though he was a grumpy old man before. "Ah, the epee…see, this one is a little different. There is no right of way. If you both get hit at the same time, then you both get a point. It…"

I want to do epee," Harry thought, the rest of the man's words fading out in his head. Dudley and his friends could not stop him from scoring points then, could they? For the first time since he had been told he would be attending a fencing class, Harry found himself looking forward to something.

"HALT! 5-0!" the referee said, gesturing toward the fencer standing across from Harry.

Harry had heard that exact sentence so often these last two months that it was beginning to hunt him in his sleep. He had dared dream, for a single second, that he would have some sort of unmeasurable talent with a sword and that he would defeat Dudley, his friends, and everyone who ever mistreated him. But truthfully, he had barely ever managed to score a single point.

Dudley was fat, but he and the other kids were taller than Harry, and had arms long enough to outreach him any day of the week. Not only that, but Dudley had enough wrist strength to hold a sword for long periods of time, while Harry could barely remain standing after a couple exchanges. Their teacher had tried to help him, but it wasn't enough—Bob was a tall, athletic man who seemed to struggle with the concept of being so small.

"Harry hasn't won a single match yet mom," Dudley said one day over breakfast. "If you ask me, I think it's a waste of money to let him keep coming."

"You might be right," Aunt Petunia responded, giggling.

The worst part about losing was that he couldn't hide his frustration—and, by consequence, how much he enjoyed the sport. Once Dudley took notice of this he took special care to torment him more during matches, and even more at home. The threat of losing fencing shouldn't have bugged Harry as much as it did; nobody needed to be poked with a sword on a nearly daily basis, epees could actually bruise you if they hit hard enough.

Yet he could not let go of the dream of parrying Dudley on the piste, chasing him down and lunging at his shoulder…

"I will start winning soon!" Harry meant it as an exclamation, yet it came off as nearly panicked. "I am getting better!"

"Nonsense," Petunia said, through Dudley's laughter. "You went there because Dudley wanted you to be his practicing partner—oh Dudley, why are you so nice?—but if you can't even manage that, there's no reason to keep you around."

"We should give him a chance mom!" Dudley did not bother to hide his amusement. "If he can beat me next practice, he can stay!"

Harry had never managed more than a single double hit against his cousin and therefore took this for what it was, a taunt. Yet… "Please, Aunt Petunia," he said. "Just one chance...let me show you that I can be good enough to help Dudley practice. Please."

Bob was more than in a hurry, he was nearly in despair. In spite of this, Harry approached his teacher with little regret—chances were, this would be the last time he would ever see him. He stood patiently while Bob talked to a group of students in what surprisingly seemed to be another language, and startled his teacher when he turned around.

"Oh, Harry! Forgive me, I didn't see you there…we have a couple visiting students from France. It's not always that they stop by this club of ours, we don't really give them a lot of reason to, you know…but if they are around anyway…well, I'm more than willing to let them stay around and fence for a bit!" His normal rambling ceased and his smile faded once he noticed Harry's expression. "What is it, kid? Is something the matter?"

"This may be my last time here, Mr. Bob." Harry felt silly calling him that, but it was what the man had asked to be called. "If I don't win today, I can't come here anymore…and I just wanted to thank you for the time I had here. It was really fun."

Sports coaches—bless their hearts—are generally very fond of children and look forward to helping them grow not just as sportsmen, but as people too. Yet, they are no more capable at recognizing underlying parental issues than your average person, and as such are prone to less than sensible responses to certain statements. Harry would one day understand, then, why his teacher responded in the way he did, but at the time it just felt like a strike to his face.

"Nonsense! Just because you lose a couple matches you're going to quit? Harry, listen to me, winning isn't easy. You can't expect things to always go your way, especially not when you're a beginner. I'm sorry that I haven't been able to give you enough advice…tell you what," he said, grinning, "we'll do some drills starting next week, okay? Just you and me."

I won't be here next week, Mr. Bob. My family hates me. It's not about wanting to try. I would give anything for one more chance, I just… He couldn't say any of it. "Thank you, Mr. Bob," he mumbled awkwardly.

"Wonderful! Now go get suited up, you are done with your group drills and warmups right? So you should have a match now."

Harry nodded, and did so without complaint. But he didn't come out of the armory immediately. He was in no hurry to march off to his execution. Instead, he looked at himself, dressed in the same type of white clothes Bob had been wearing that first day that still rang so clearly in his head. Those clothes meant more to him than he cared to admit. Even though he was short and scrawny, Dudley and his friends couldn't just pick him out of a crowd when he wore them. Everywhere else, he was the strange child dressed in Dudley's strange clothes. Yet here, while dressed in white, he was just like everybody else. He was a fencer.

"Harry!" Bob cried out from the piste. "Come out, it's your turn!"

I don't want to go…I. Don't. Want. To. Go! His eyes burned, watered, and he pulled his mask over his face. "Yes, sir," said Harry as he headed out.

It was usually custom to keep your mask off until you and your opponent had a chance to bow to each other, but Bob had long given up enforcing that rule when Dudley was involved in the match. The boy refused to follow formality, and though Harry had overheard the teacher attempt to talk to Petunia about this, he also overheard his aunt respond that refusing to follow rules was perfectly fine for her special Dudley. Thus, Harry felt little guilt over violating this rule himself.

"To five touches," Bob announced happily. Though Dudley already had his mask pulled over his face, Harry could almost feel his cousin's arrogant, taunting smirk.

"En garde!"

I have tried everything…there's nothing I can do, he just has longer arms than me…

"Prêt!"

Harry glanced over and caught his teacher's encouraging smile. Guilt superseded fear then. I'll lunge…if I believe I can do it…if I put everything I have behind the tip of my sword…

"Allez!"

Dudley and Harry advanced toward each other rapidly. Harry had the advantage in speed, but in his mind it wouldn't matter who got to who first. If I want to stay here, I need to go for it! Harry knew Dudley would lunge and responded in kind, dropping to one knee and launching himself forward with his back leg. Thoughts and feelings about the sport carried him forward, and mid-motion, he stuck his arm forward.

"HALT! 1-0!"

Dudley had scored and Harry was on the floor, hand over chest, struggling to breathe. The simultaneous lunges had gone disastrously; both boys had aimed for each other's chest, but Dudley had longer arms and reached first. Harry's speed served only to increase the clash's impact, and his first thought whilst on the floor was that he should slow down next time. No! I have to be even faster, I have to try even harder…

Harry thought back of all movies he had seen, about how the hero always grew stronger with his feelings. He thought about how much he enjoyed fencing, about how amazing it was to feel like he belonged somewhere, about how much he wished to stand up to Dudley for once in his life and to actually beat him…

"En garde! Prêt! Allez!"

Dudley's fat lunge easily penetrated the strongest parry Harry's weak wrists could manage, and knocked him on the floor once more. "HALT! 2-0!"

Feelings aren't enough, Harry thought, in a mixture of calmness and resigned misery. Nobody ever openly laughed during anybody's matches, but Harry knew they were all laughing in silence. I won't get better at a sport just by hoping really hard. Bob and the other older fencers probably worked really hard to get to where they are, didn't they?

"Coward!" said the voice of a girl he did not recognize.

Harry could not disagree with the voice. It was cowardice. Harry felt disgusted with himself, his idea that strong feelings could make up for hard work and skill felt offensive even to himself. He couldn't just dream that mysterious awakened abilities would earn him the life and respect he wanted.

"COWARD!"

This time, the girl's voice was loud enough Harry had to turn to look at her. She looked about three years older than Harry, which would make her thirteen then. In contrast to her words, she had somewhat of a concerned expression on her face. The adult man standing beside her seemed panicked, and spoke with a sharp French accident. "Forgive her, she doesn't speak English very well, ah—she's still learning."

"Be a coward!" The girl screamed, looking straight at Harry.

"You want me to…be a coward?"

"Be a coward!" She said again, nodding. Once she realized his eyes were on her, she thrust her arm forward. "Be a coward and arm forward!"

Bob coughed loudly. "En Garde!" Bob obviously wasn't quite sure what the girl meant to do, as her meaningful words and somewhat aggressive tone contrasted each other, and tried to hurry the match to its conclusion. Harry, meanwhile, was thinking of what she had said. Be a coward…and put my arm forward?

"Prêt! Allez!"

Dudley once more started advancing at a rapid speed. Harry dropped to one knee to ready for a lunge, but did not do so. Instead, he surprised even himself when he stuck his arm forward first, and then retreated backwards. Dudley misjudged their distance and had to stumble forward in an awkward fashion to reach him. At that moment, Harry thought to pull back his sword and regroup. Yet, in his head, only one sentence rang clear. ARM FORWARD!

"HALT! 1-2!"

Harry stared at the green light coming from the tiny black box. He didn't know a single light could look so beautiful, that a single buzzer could be so exhilarating.

"He just got my shoulder!" Dudley shouted. "That's just a lucky shot! He's still terrible!"

But the shoulder was a valid target in Epee, was it not? So there wasn't anything wrong with what he had done. Harry had just stuck his arm forward and Dudley basically pushed his own shoulder into his blade. Hadn't Bob mentioned something about that a couple lessons ago? A stop hit.

It was arrogance to presume that feelings were enough to make up for skill, but was it as presumptuous to assume that planning could perhaps achieve much of the same? Dudley knows as much about fencing as I do. It's not arrogant to think I'm not powerless against him.

Harry took a deep breath. He didn't have as much strength as Dudley, nor did he have his reach. If they both lunged, Dudley would win. If Harry tried to parry, Dudley would win. Those two factors combined had seemed like an absolute loss in his head, yet he had scored a point just now. What had he done differently?

I was a coward, he thought with a grin, looking at the girl from before. I retreated…to lunge, you have to drop to one knee and launch yourself forward. If you don't reach your target after that, you are in a lot of trouble, aren't you? So if I can make Dudley miss…how do I do that?

"En garde! Prêt! Allez!"

Dudley nearly flew at him. No soon as the command had been given, the boy ran faster than he ever had since his mom had brought home his favorite candy. Harry retreated again, but this time Dudley did not stop advancing and, by luck or skill, struck Harry at the same time as he was caught by his blade.

"HALT! DOUBLE, 3-2!"

Distance isn't enough...not like this. He's right, I was lucky before. This time we hit each other at the same time…I can't control where the blade catches him. I'm not good enough for that. It pained him to admit it, but he had to be honest with himself at least. If he lost this match, he would never be allowed to fence again. Could he ever look at himself in the mirror again if he entrusted this match up to fate and just retreated holding his sword forward, waiting for Dudley to walk right into it?

But then, what could he do? Dudley was stronger and had longer reach too! What did he have? Well, he was faster. Not only was Dudley slow, Harry himself was noticeably faster than most boys his age. Sometimes, Dudley and his friends couldn't even catch him when trying to torment him…could it be that he couldn't catch him on the fencing piste either?

"En garde! Prêt! Allez!"

Dudley rushed at him, but this time Harry intended for it to happen. He retreated, and though he was slower backwards than his cousin forwards, he managed to increase the distance between the two. Dudley shortened the distance with furious advances, but then Harry stopped retreating—instead, he changed his tempo into a furious lunge forward. This caught the fat fencer by surprise, and all he could do was awkwardly come to a full halt and try to hit Harry's sword aside.

"HALT! 3-3!"

It was difficult not to catch Bob's smile when he made that call, and even more difficult not to smile back at him. Could he do it? Could he win this? No—thinking about it in those terms was just going to make him lose. He had to focus.

"En garde! Prêt! Allez!"

It wasn't a pretty, calculated strike—Dudley hesitated in a way Harry thought he wouldn't, and when he rushed Harry retreated, put his arm forward and prayed. It was just as much luck as anything else that he managed to catch the side of Dudley's shoulder.

"HALT! DOUBLE, 4-4!"

This is fun. This is so much fun. So please…please…let me see that green light one more time.

"Arm!" the French girl screamed again. The man beside her tried to shush her, but she paid him no mind. "Arm!"

It took a second for Harry's tired ears to decipher her accent, and too long for his brain to do the same to the meaning of her words. My arm? What about my arm? It doesn't matter, I have no time to think!

"En Garde!"

Harry looked at the box as if it were the image of a saint. Please, just one more time…light up. Light up!

"Prêt!"

What was it again? My arm?

"Allez!"

There was no time for a plan. Dudley lunged, and Harry thought he was done, but managed to find the time to awkwardly beat it to the side and retreat. His cousin gave chase, and Harry held his sword forward as he retreated, up until the end of the piste. A moment of hesitation passed, and then Dudley lunged again. HIS ARM!

Bob was, by all accounts, not an excellent teacher. While he was most kind and loved the sport dearly, he suffered from not properly explaining the meaning behind the actions he told his students to repeat. Thus, Harry Potter never quite understood why he was told to slowly move his epee toward his practice partner's wrist. Not until that match, anyhow.

"HALT! 5-4!"

There was a bright green light lit on the box.

"That was a…nice match, earlier today," the French girl said. Her accent was thick, but she managed to speak well, albeit slowly. "I think you would benefit from a curved French grip, however…are you new to fencing?"

"I couldn't have done it without your help," Harry said. "Your advice was very useful…have you been fencing for long?"

"Since I was younger than you."

Harry's eyes widened at that. It all sounded so wonderful to him, to be able to fence for such a long time…to stand there, dressed in white all day…he couldn't believe how jealous he felt. "That's amazing," he said.

She smiled at this, and Harry found himself slightly unnerved, as though something was controlling him. "I apologize for sounding rude, back then—in the heat of the moment, I forgot the words to use in English and…well, I may have insulted you while giving you advice."

"No, far from it," Harry said quickly. "It was very helpful. I couldn't have beaten Dudley without you. And thanks to you, I get to continue coming here!" In spite of his best attempts to seem as mild mannered as possible, Harry found himself smiling like a kid.

"Do you enjoy fencing?"

"I do," Harry said honestly. "More than anything else." Truly, he had nothing else, but there was little purpose to say as much.

"In that case, would you like to exchange letters with me? You could help me with my English, and I can give you advice about your fencing, Harry Potter."

"Are you serious? That would be wonderf—" he stopped. "How do you know my name?"

Surprise colored the girl's face for a moment, but then it was gone, replaced by a warm smile as if it was never there. "Perhaps I will need to teach you more than about fencing, Harry Potter. I will look forward to exchanging letters with you."

Harry watched her leave the nearly empty gymnasium then, and once the doors were shut behind her, he let himself fall onto the floor and looked at all the equipment left around, at the box, remembering how it lit up when he fought Dursley, how the girl had helped him, and how he felt when he heard that wonderful buzzer.

That day, Harry Potter met the love of his life.

He also met Fleur Delacour.