Of the Morn
Fleur shifted, drifting to consciousness slowly. Her movement was impeded by heavy arms draped across her but she only persisted long enough to get the errant hairs away from her eyelashes. Her warm cocoon of blankets and boy stilled and she cuddled in closer, too awake now to drift back off but utterly content nonetheless.
In the early hours of the morning, comfortably cloistered in warm English flats and detached from the real world in deliciously sure ways, she could revel in this simple contact.
Beauxbatons’ cold Triwizard Champion could not be more different from this half melted marshmallow of a witch content to lay awake in her love’s arms. That perhaps could not be wholly attributed to the silly little boy she’d fallen in love with, but he was the largest part of her current state of bliss to be sure.
The first time they embraced he didn’t even return it, shivering and more than a little enthralled as she threw her arms around him on a platform over a cold lake. He mostly just shook in her arms. She didn’t think much of it at the time, she was preoccupied with thanking him for saving her sister then turning to thank the lanky redhead beside him, which in hindsight was unnecessary because said Weasley boy played no part in the rescue but alas… She was hardly in a state of mind to think objectively on the subject.
Had she been she would’ve noted how nice it was to hug him, even then, when he was too scrawny and young to be the subject of any real longing.
Fleur did not hug.
Allure was a fickle tool, incredibly useful and incredibly cumbersome in equal measure, and it’s inherent value was largely up to the Veela in question. Gabby, who preened under attention and delighted in misty eyed boys, wielded hers with rapier finesse and therefore would not hesitate to exalt the empathetic magic’s virtues. Fleur was always more reserved. She cherished the sanctity of her own mind, and actively avoided the wash of foriegn emotions on the shores of it, so she tended more toward harsh control and strict avoidance.
It did not occur to her then, all those years ago, what it meant that she could wrap the knobbly-kneed boy in her arms and kiss his cheeks and feel nothing as she cried thanks at him for his rescue of Gabby. It took many years, to be entirely honest to this very day, almost a decade later in fact.
He pulled in a deep breath, the sound magnified as it passed through his nose, and his chest rose to press into the tip of her nose. She smiled, content in the warm cage of his arms, and as he exhaled she leaned forward to press a small kiss to his chest.
“Good morning my love,” he mumbled, his French truly horrid, and in that moment she had no desire to tease him for it.
“It is,” she agreed, pressing a second kiss next to the first, and he tightened his grip on her. This place, in his arms with the blankets pulled all the way over her head to rest around his shoulders, was her favorite place in the world.
He squeezed her for a few heartbeats and then leaned back, moving to release her, and she snaked her arms around his back to lock him in place. He chuckled softly, and though he began to fight her verbally, he did not make to escape the bed again.
“We have work mon coeur.”
“We can skip.” She mumbled, not opening her eyes and not speaking above a whisper, as if she could deny the starting day through sheer force of will. Most that had met her would not doubt it.
“No,” he laughed, and his own denial was mutinously loud. Full volume, and belying how much further along the process of waking up he was. “I can not.”
She pouted, brow furrowing and lower lip jutting out so far it touched his collarbone. To him it probably felt like a third kiss, but that was hardly a problem.
“Not even once?” She asked, knowing the answer, but unwilling to forego an attempt at convincing him.
“Auror work waits for no one, not even the most beautiful woman in the world.”
He explained, and it was sweet enough that she didn’t even mind the rejection.
Curse-breaking work was far more lenient, not to mention the fact that she had far less attachment to her line of work than he did to his. For these reasons, and these reasons alone she told herself, she loosened her grip on him.
He did not flee immediately, instead the blanket shifted around her, and then he was joining her in her warm muffled world. She whined as his shifting posture loosened the arms around her, but did not complain when the hold was supplanted by the first proper kiss of the day.
Then he was out of the bed, off to begin his morning routines, and she was grumbling at the wash of cold air that rushed in to take his place under the blankets. It faded fast though, and she was once again warm and content as she half drifted off listening to the sound of his shower starting up.
Hugs were not so bad, and she was once again grateful for the skinny little English boy that saved her sister and set her on this path to pure bliss.
Of See you Soon
Fleur swept over, her silvery hair bounced in the early summer breeze. Harry had caught himself staring at that hair all too often, though in the warm sunlight of June it glowed, as if perfecting an already unrivaled work of art.
“’Arry,” Her voice was thick with her accent.
Not that Harry dared to complain, her “’Arry” would be forever in his memory.
“We will see each uzzer again, I 'ope," she said.
He wished the dead weight in his stomach hadn’t reappeared, he thought he was passed that, he had known this day was coming. Fleur grinned at him, perfect teeth glistened.
“I am 'oping to get a job 'ere, to improve my Eenglish."
Secret fantasies flew through his mind, lessons in front of Gryffindor Common Room fireplace, meetings near broom closets. He grinned, wishing his face to not give away his thoughts.
“I can’t wait to see you again.”
Fleur beamed.
"Good-bye, 'Arry," Fleur said, leaning in towards him. "It 'az been a pleasure meeting you!"
Her arms gently wrapped around him, pressing herself against him.
Harry blinked.
Fleur Delacour enveloped his every sense, and he loved it. All too soon thought she pulled away and ran off towards the carriage, Madame Maxime waved her in. Fleur turned and waved one last time.
Harry sighed, the weight in his stomach missing.
He had never before had a hug that was pleasant. Fleur had opened an entire new world to him.
Hugs were fantastic.
With Bennet
Gabby had always felt at home in the spotlight, under the gaze of others, their misty eyes yearning for her attention or, in some cases, the scornful eyes of significant others who’s better halves she had stolen the notice of. It wasn’t her fault that she was beautiful, right? Designer clothes and shoes, the best hairstyles, and the usefulness of an allure were all the weapons she wielded every day, ensuring that she was spotted. Viewed. Desired.
It was difficult to be the younger sister of a war hero, especially one married to Harry Potter.
After graduating from Beauxbatons, against her family's wishes, she left home, deciding that a career in modeling would suit her just fine. Exciting destinations, meeting people, and being the center of attention at every gig. “What do you need, Gabby? How can we help, Gabby?” These were the calls that she heard everywhere, a constant reminder that she wasn’t Gabrielle Delacour, Fleur Delacour’s sister, but Gabrielle Delacour, top fashion model.
Drinking, drugs, sex, so much sex, fed her baser instincts and she reveled in it.
Except hugs. Gabby hated being hugged, the foreign sensation filled her stomach with an eerie feeling. It just felt wrong.
Until she met him.
Going back to France for the first time in almost a year, she was excited to see Fleur and Harry, the latter of whom had taken to being the big brother she never had with all of his heart. Sure, she protested in public, decrying any need for such an idea, but privately, she loved it. Since meeting him on that cold morning in February, the two had formed a kinship that she shared with no one else. An unspoken agreement that he’d always be there for her, like a warm blanket.
It was for that reason alone she didn’t storm out when they said a friend would be joining them.
“I promise, we’re not trying to set you up,” Harry had said, placing a calming hand on her shoulder as she scowled, “We just haven’t seen either of you in quite some time and you’re both leaving town again soon, so we figured we’d combine the dinner.” He gave that cocky smile of his, the one she knew meant he thought he was being funny. He usually was. “He’s some sort of hotshot like you. You’ll get along great.”
It would be years before Gabby admitted that, as usual, Harry had been right. Their friend was charming, funny, and very polite. A world traveler, like her, he had regaled them with tales of his latest exploits, and she had been utterly captivated by him. When she looked back on that night, it wasn’t the stories, his dashing smile, or witty rapport that she remembered, but the fact that he never once looked at her the way most men do.
He didn’t get glassy eyed or that hunger for her in his looks, despite her best efforts. She had earned a bruise trying, her sister kicking her under the table when she attempted to allure the man. Instead, he had just been himself, and that drew her in even more.
As they both said their goodbyes to Fleur and Harry, walking together out of the wards, she briefly wondered if she’d see him again.
“Well, it was nice to meet you, Gabby,” he had said, turning towards her. Gabby swayed slightly, realizing that she had potentially drank a bit more than necessary. “Will I see you again?” She smiled at him and, again, noticed that his gaze remained neutral, that charming smile affixed on his face.
“I’d like that,” she said.
Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps it was the fun they’d had that night, or perhaps it was the company, but she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him. Instinctively, his own arms wrapped around her, a brief, normal hug between two people occurring before they broke apart. With one last smile, he disappeared.
Gabby froze, momentarily unable to comprehend what had washed over her. She hated hugs, they were nasty. Yet, her chest had filled with warmth and comfort in his embrace, as if a piece long missing had been slotted into place.
Perhaps hugging Luc Bennet was the only hugs she needed.