It was winter in Scotland and flurries of snow twinkled like falling stars, slow as molasses, but just as powerful in their own way. Two figures sat in comfortable silence; one had a dusting of white powder that stood out against his wild, raven-black hair. The other was no less covered, yet the brilliant snowflakes were insignificant compared to the platinum beauty of her soft tresses.
“Fleur?”
“Yes, ‘Arry?”
“I’m a little cold, do you think you could help out a little?”
Fleur smiled at her partner, happy that the normally stoic man trusted her with his worries, his fears, and even insignificant pains such as this. He had come a long way.
“Of course, mon Cherie.” A snap of her fingers. The ignition of a spark. The increasing warm glow of a private fire. The winter night was not so cold anymore, and the two were content.