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The South of France was as beautiful as Bertha had said in her letters, but it wasn't like home. In fairness, Johann didn't expect in a whole world tour, he would find anywhere more perfect than the lush forests of Bavaria. By this time next year, he supposed, he'd be able to say that with more confidence. He slumped his head into one hand on the breakfast table and limply held up a croissant with the other, gazing listlessly past it and out of the kitchen window while Bertha and her English husband, predictably called John, chatted idly in English. He was vaguely aware of John leaving the room to do something.

Suddenly, Bertha slammed her hand on the table in front of him. He clenched his fists in surprise, utterly crushing the croissant between his fingers with a small explosion of buttery pastry.
“What is with you?”
“Du sprichst doch Deutsch,” said Johann, standing up.
“And you speak English!” Bertha was distracted by the kettle whistling. There was no elf at her cottage, so she poured the coffee herself. Steam from the coffee cups shimmered in the air, as the tension lessened slightly.
“Schwarz,” Johann held his hand up to stop Bertha from adding milk. She glared at him. He was sure she practised her glare and a chill went up his spine to imagine he was one of her students. There was a pause, in which she mimed spoiling his coffee, and he relented with a reluctant grin, “Doch, [i]black[/i].”
“You need to practice your English anyway,” Bertha said, primly, though the delicacy was undermined slightly by her bellowing the word 'coffee' so John, doing whatever it was he was doing, could hear, “They won't speak German to you.”
“And why is that,” said Johann, sitting back down with a thump. It wasn't a question, “He doesn't either.”
“Ah, but Bertha is teaching me,” said John from behind, startling them both, “Anyway, Johann, drink up or leave it here. I have something to show you.”
Johann and Bertha exchanged a glance; she shrugged.

John led Johann outside. Even though Johann had spent most of the week at the little cottage his sister and brother-in-law owned just outside Toulouse, they had spent very little time alone together.
“I don't know if Bertha told you or not,” said John, heading straight into a nearby, slightly overgrown field, “But I was a decent duellist once,” following closely, Johann could see, both literally and figuratively, where this was going; a great duelling strip lay out before them in a clearing, a royal blue platform with symbols of the lunar cycle.
He couldn't help but grin as he pulled out his wand, a collossal unit that John had scarcely believed was real when he first saw it, “No, she didn't tell me,” Johann allowed himself to be invited to one end of the strip by his brother-in-law's arm gesture, and bowed, “Just remember I play German rules.”
“What are German rules?” asked John, before returning the bow.
“Win.”

Johann shot the first spell, a crackle of energy blistered through the air, ably deflected by John, who countered with a volley of weak but numerous hexes. Without batting an eyelid, Johann blocked each and every one. John's wandwork was as good as could be expected from a teacher, he supposed, but his footwork was sloppy and that was half the battle. They exchanged hexes for a few minutes until Johann was warmed up, and then he began the onslaught. Firing powerful curses in quick succession, he steadily forced his way up the duelling strip; with every step, John had less and less reaction time and each subsequent curse threw him off a little more and by the time Johann was half the way down the thirty-metre strip, he was barely managing to defend – all hope of countering was lost. Eventually, John simply wasn't quick enough, and was blasted off the strip. Victory to Johann. Maybe John wasn't so bad after all.