"I've brought the intruder, madame," the young soldier announced to his superior. Harry, whose hands were clapped in irons, groaned silently at being dragged so forcefully. Still trying to adjust to the sudden dimness of the dark tent, his eyes gradually let the spots in his vision disappear and finally draw the picture of a well decorated officer's living quarters.
Before he could fully absorb the number of objects tastefully placed in the living space, he was addressed by a delicate, well articulate silky voice, albeit burdened by a francophone twang.
"I see you have finally awoken from your stupor," the voice to his left began. "I was afraid I'd beaten you too harshly and perhaps left you permanently disabled."
Finally turning his head to gaze at the individual speaking to him, he almost choked on his tongue. Fleur?!
She looked entirely different than he'd last seen her during the Triwizard Tournament. She didn't look much older than he remembered, but her eyes studied him with mature consternation. A look she had never pasted on her face before
Fleur was many things; arrogant, haughty and sometimes cold but now, now she looked at him with clear calculation. Sharp and yet, unconcerned.
"I know I strike many a man with my beauty but please do try to keep your decorum. Any droll on the floor will be for you to lick up again," she warned evenly. Clearly a well rehearsed short-hand developed from years of uncomfortable staring. Not everything has changed.
"My apologies for my staring. It is not everyday I come across a Veela," he tried carefully.
Her eyes widened suddenly. Her calm demeanour from before now unsettled by his admission. "How!?-"
"I have had to privilege of getting to know some of your kind," he explained slowly. "You carry some of the tell-tale signs of being one."
It was actually untrue. He didn't know of any telltale signs that would expose a Veela. If the allure was well-hidden, they'd appear as any other normal women - normal blindingly beautiful women, that is. Fleur hid hers perfectly.
"I see," she replied. Her face slacking again back to its original even demeanour but her eyes held on to their temperament. "Let me tell you, however, that I'm not like some of my kind."
"I would never presume, Miss-"
"Captain," she corrected. "Captain Delacour."
"Captain Delacour," he repeated. "I would never presume anything of somebody I hardly know."
"Bonne," she nodded appreciatively. "Yes, I'm Veela but nobody except my aide and some of my trusted NCOs know of this." The words came out sounding normal but her eyes told a different story. He felt as if invisible claws traced his throat, playing at his jugular.
"I understand. I won't say a word."
"That's reassuring, Mr.?"
"Pot-," he started but immediately reconsidered and went to the first thing he thought would salvage his first mistake. "Pottingham. Harrold Pottingham. Please, do call me Harry, though."
"Very well, Mr Harry Potting-h-ham," she repeated, the name's pronunciation giving her trouble. "Except for your distasteful display upon your arrival in my bathroom, you have shown nothing short of exemplary behaviour for a prisoner of war."
Reminded by his sudden appearance, he tried to remain calm. He'd been in this camp for a week now since his sudden appearance in this familiar, yet strange land. Before he'd appeared in mid air above this military encampment, he'd fought Voldemort in the Atrium. The last thing he remembered was a green light and then nothing before falling through Fleur's bathroom ceiling and landing in her tub. His cheek still felt tender.
Not noticing his distracted gaze, Fleur continued with her instructions. "I will allow you to walk the space of this camp, and should you wish to venture beyond the walls, an armed guard will accompany you. However," she suddenly warned. "Should you try to flee or do anything to harm the men and women under my command, rest assured. You will be dealt with."
Nodding quickly, he agreed to her offer of limited freedom. "Thank you, I will keep your words in mind."
"Good. Take off his restraints," she ordered the young soldier still holding on to Harry's arm.
Once the chains were off, Harry sighed in relief and massaged the aching wrists. "Thank you, Captain."
She nodded at him and eyed the soldier meaningfully, who gave her a nod of acknowledgement before pulling Harry by the arm toward the exit of the tent.
Encouraged by the sense of freedom, Harry couldn't stop himself from uttering the words that suddenly emerged.
"You may not be like some of your kind, Captain," he repeated, "but you do have soft hands."
Before he could even consider what he'd said to the woman, who held his life in her soft hands, he was pushed through the gap in the tent forcefully cutting his next faux-pas short.
In the tent, her hands in her lap, Fleur shook her head in mild-amusement. The English, always so sure of themselves. Looking at her hands, she traced her palm with the thumb. A smile crept up on her face, before her cheeks reddened. Noticing her reflection in her small mirror on her desk, she suddenly flattened her lips and shook her head again in embarrassment. Calling her aide loudly, she focused her mind on her tasks, trying to forget the boy's underhanded compliment.