“Papa, papa! Storytime, papa! You promised!”
Chuckling, Harry Potter wrestled his daughter from her perch on his head and began the valiant fight to tuck his offspring into bed. The battle was long and fierce, with both sides taking casualties, until a valiant tickle attack managed to sweep away the last of the young girl’s defenses and he covered her in her blankets as she giggled.
“I suppose I did, didn’t I?” Sitting down on the edge of her bed, he couldn’t help but be swept away by the little girl in front of him. His heart almost stuttered in his chest - he simply could not understand how he played a role in making something so perfect. At five years old, Mirielle was a whirlwind of enchanting green eyes and Veela beauty. She was a force to be reckoned with - a spitting image of her mother with a temper to match and all of his curiosity and drive.. Smiling, he leaned down to place a kiss on her forehead and tapped her nose. “So which story would you like to hear tonight?”
“Tell me the story about how the red man beat up the dark man and saved maman!”
Harry froze, one hand reaching unconsciously for his neck before he caught himself. Realizing that Mirelle had caught his sudden stiffness, he forced another smile and ran the pad of his thumb down her cheek. “That’s a long story, ma petit poule. Who told you about it?”
“Uncle George! He said there were dragons and werewolves and that the red man beat them all up!”
“Did he now,” Harry muttered dryly, resolving to have a word with the man about appropriate stories for children. “What else did Uncle George say?”
His daughter’s eyes went wide and she began an excited recounting of her weekend spent with the Weasley clan, telling him about how she and her best friend Rose had an adventure in the garden and surprised a particularly ugly gnome, and how George had found them as they fled and told them all about the adventures of the “red man.”
He ‘hmm’d’ and gasped at the appropriate times during her tale, stifling a mischievous grin as he considered mentioning George’s storytelling prowess to his wife. Fleur had maintained a reputation with the Weasleys ever since Bill had made a joking pass at her one year at Christmas. He wasn’t sure how the man managed to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, or how he managed to escape the animated Christmas ornaments for that matter, but the lesson had been received despite uproarious laughter at Bill’s expense. Angry Veela were scary.
“I think I’ll have to ask your maman before I can tell that story, little hen. It’s pretty scary, and I’m not sure it’s suited for a little chicken’s bedtime.”
His daughter glowered at him in a way so reminiscent of her mother that he could not help the smile that spread across his face, which of course only served to incense the little Veela further.
“You promised, papa! You said any story I want after dinner, and I even ate my vegetables.” Her face twisted, and she spat the last word out like a curse. He laughed and ran a hand across her wild and untamed silver hair, brushing a particularly stubborn lock behind her ear. “So you did. But it is a scary story, and you know how maman is with those.” He leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “I think she’s a little shy about being a rescued princess,” and was rewarded with a tinkling giggle in exchange.
“Oh, is that so?” The deadpan voice from behind him made him freeze, and he slowly turned to face his wife, a shaky smile spreading and a nervous chuckle escaping him. “Fleur! I, er, didn’t realize you would be home just yet.” Her already arched eyebrow raised a little higher, and she leaned against the door frame with a decidedly unimpressed look on her face.
“I thought it would be a nice surprise, yet here I find my husband spinning tall tales to my only child.” She crossed her arms and looked at him expectantly. “So? Do go on, whatever story this is must be worth the suspense.” [11:21 PM] Mirielle took advantage of his distraction to escape from her fluffy prison and beam at her mother as she happily chirped, “Papa was going to tell me about the red man and the dark man, maman!”
Fleur’s other eyebrow rose to join its twin before furrowing into a glare leveled at her husband. “Is that right,” she said levelly, in a tone that somehow managed to convey the treacherous ground he stood on. Harry’s hand rose to rub the back of his neck and he made his last attempt at salvation.
“Would you believe me if I said that George is the one who brought it up?”
“Non.”
Desperately, he looked to his offspring, the light of his life, and muttered, “Could really use some help here, little hen.” Lighting up at the chance to tell her mother about the weekend’s escapades, she began chattering away, completely oblivious to her mother’s darkening countenance.
“Il semble qu'une autre leçon s'impose,” she muttered darkly in French. Sighing, she crossed the room and took a seat on the bed next to her husband and coaxed Mirielle back underneath her blankets. “Your papa is right, little chick. Uncle George should not have brought it up, it is a very scary story.”
Mirielle looked crestfallen, and her features morphed into a pout with such force that Harry was convinced it would create world peace if weaponized. “But papa promised, maman! He made a pinky swear!” Harry just sighed, preparing himself for the outcome of delivering the bad news. Fleur stared at her daughter for a long moment, searching her features for something, before softly responding, “Well, it wouldn’t be right to break a pinky swear.”
Harry gaped at his wife for a moment before quickly sobering up. “Fleur, are you sure? She’s…”
The woman nodded, “Young, I know. But she will hear the truth one day, Harry. I would rather it be from us.” She smiled, but it had an edge of deep sadness. She cupped her daughter’s face and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, relishing the warmth and life of the girl as she inhaled the fresh scent of lavender shampoo. “I knew you would grow up someday, little chick. I wish it was not so fast.” The girl preened with the attention before turning the full intensity of her pout on her father.
“Story time, papa!”
And with those words, Harry Potter, savior of Wizarding Britain, the Red Mage of Gryffindor, folded like a wet napkin to the will of a little girl.
“Then… Well, I suppose we should start from the beginning.”
Mirielle cheered and settled on to her pillow as Fleur leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder.
“After my first year at Hogwarts, I was in the Hospital Wing when Professor Dumbledore came to visit…”