“There are seventeen reasons why Harry loves Fleur,” said Fleur, slowly, in French. The two were sitting together on their bed.
“There are seventeen reasons why Harry loves Fleur,” repeated Harry.
She nodded, but noticed his eyes occasionally fall to the cleavage peaking through her top.
“None of them have to do with her boobs,” she added.
“Only one of them has to do with her boobs,” he responded.
Her eyes narrowed into a glare, but she couldn’t stop the small smile from escaping her lips. She leaned towards him a little further.
“Your French is improving,” she said in accented English, her voice laced with bemused sarcasm. “You have achieved the conversational aptitude of a hormonal teenager.”
“I consider that a significant improvement over last time, where my aptitude was that of a soggy sea sponge,” he said, his playful green eyes meeting hers.
She adjusted her hair, letting it fall over the front of her shoulders. “You must have a very good and exceptionally beautiful teacher.”
“She is both of those things,” he said, eyes darkening slightly. “So, what is my grade Professor Delacour?”
Fleur tapped her finger against her lips, shifting her body in such a way as to further enhance his view. “Acceptable. You have a good command of the vocabulary, but your accent still tramples over my language like a drunken Quidditch fan.”
“So what you’re saying,” he said, crawling towards her with a smile that melted her core, “is that I need to practice my…lingual dexterity.”
Her breath hitched as she allowed herself to fall back on the bed. Her skin tingled as his fingers ran along the smooth skin of her stomach before pulling her skirt down over the curves of her hips. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back on the pillow as he left a trail of kisses down below her waist.
Harry was already quite proficient in this area, but a little revision never hurt.