Flowerpot

"My boy, Harry, sweet kid, loves to use magic for everything." Sirius hefts a sledgehammer onto his shoulders as he looks down at the whimpering form of Dolores Umbridge "but me? I like the old fashioned approach" he then brought the hammer down onto her left knee shattering it. Her screams were muffled by the sock shoved in her mouth as a gag. "You wronged my boy, Dolores, you wronged him and hurt him without so much as even thinking about the consequences...well guess what?" He then brought the hammer down onto her other knee "I am the consequences." Dropping the hammer he took a step back and lit a cigar "alright lads, you can have your fun but remember, I want her alive by the end of this" he then began to walk away, as four werewolves came out of the shadows, they had taken their wolfsbane Potion to retain their sanity but that wouldn't help Dolores here, after all a feral werewolf would just kill her.

"Really? Was this the best you can do Harry?" The way Voldermort, no Riddle, because he was only a man, said his name made Harry's skin crawl with disgust. He thought back about how he got into this mess.

The young man stayed behind while his friends and prisoners of the Death Eaters made their escape from Malfoy Manor. Dobby, his brave friend, took the knife meant for him. After Harry saw the life leave the house elf's eyes, the world became a blur as he dodged, weaved and threw every spell he knew to against anything that moved.

Harry felt like he should be panicking. Spell fire flew all around him, a curse or two already hit him, but he refused to be on his knees for these wretches. A particularly nasty curse barely missed his head, though the blasting hex he sent back was rewarded in a shower of blood and gore.

Eventually, Riddle himself stopped everything with a wave of his wand, erasing all the spells in the area. Exhaustion and pain won out, and Harry collapsed onto one leg, the other laid out behind him torn apart and covered in festering wounds. He could not feel it, but it mattered little in the end. The important thing was his refusal to bow to these lesser ones.

Riddle strode forward, while his sniveling sycophants pulled back to allow their master room. "You certainly did better than I thought." The pale man looked around at the mayhem and brutality. "What would Dumbledore think of such merciless slaughter Harry?"

Even with curses and hexes wreaking havoc on his body, Harry spits out some blood at Riddle's feet while the man snarls at the disrespect. "Screw Dumbledore." Harry struggles to stand, despite the screaming pain in his mangled appendage that used to be a leg.

"I have seen the physical embodiment of destruction and death. Though I might die here, I go into death arms knowing that you will soon join me, for my goddess will not let you live any longer. There is no running," He paused. "So screw you Riddle." He hissed, partly in pain, mostly in hate.

"Oh Harry," Riddle tuts like a disapproving relative, before walking forward. "You sound like the madmen of France. I've looked into it you know." Harry tries to point his wand at the dark lord, only for him to wrench it free of his hand, physically overpowering the younger man with a flick of the wrist. "They all say the same. A creature, resistant, if not immune to magic and physical attacks. Over three stories tall, and weighing several hundred tons." Riddle circled the young man while he continued to speak, "All these stories about a massive monstrosity that hunger is so great that entire towns disappear overnight, with only debris left in its wake."

"There is no such being."

The manor quaked. The Death Eaters pause, along with Riddle. Then the manor shakes again, then again. Across the manor, vases and glasses shatter against the floor as the quakes became stronger, the pause between them becoming shorter.

Harry chuckles, a bit of madness in his eyes as he looks to the Death Eaters in front of him. "Do you feel that in your bones Riddle? For she is here."

The dark lord tried to point his wand at Harry, the tip glowing deathly green. The manor shuddered and the sound of wood and stone breaking outside of the room had the sycophants looking around in fear. With a shout of victory, Riddle casts killing curse at Harry. The distance between them left no way for the man to dodge, if he could. Wood snaps and breaks as the floor is breached by two massive horns goring the second floor. A massive maw stalagtite teeth covered in scales rises between Harry and Riddle, the deathly curse impacts it, only to be bounced back towards the dark lord. Riddle barely managed to dodge it. The manor crumbles around it, any death eaters that did not stand behind Riddle fell with the floor, only for the sounds of their bodies being crushed by debris and unseen feet. The creature finally made its free of the constraints that barely slowed it down.

With the manor crumbling to pieces around him, Riddle pointed his wand at the gargantuan creature in front of him, only to feel fear robbing him of his actions. The creature lunges forward, Riddle apparates away, while the unfortunate death eater behind him was not so lucky. The man disappears in a single bite down the monster's gullet.

The other Death Eaters see the master flee, while others die against the creature in front of them and take flight before the same happens to them.

As Malfoy Manor crumbles, Harry Potter watches from his patch of flooring balanced on the tarrasque's back. When the dust finally settles, Harry is gently lifted from the monster's back and onto the ground in the remains of the Malfoy's courtyard. The massive creature seemed to fight the urge to touch him, as if to check he was okay.

"I've just been cursed a few times mil'lady, I will be fine shortly."

The low rumble of growl came from the Tarrasque's throat, dislodging the human arm from between the creature's teeth as it flew off into the distance. It then shifts and shrinks, until it became human shaped. "Oh mon'cheri, what have they done to you?" Fleur flits about him, her wand flashing through numerous counterspells to stop any permanent damage.

"It matters not," Harry stated stubbornly. "Riddle thought himself better than you, and he needed to pay for it. You are greater than any mortal that walks this earth."

Fleur sighed dreamily. "You must be careful with your words, mi'amore. Those trash may sate my appetite, but I feel a different hunger growing."

"I will always be ready to serve you, my goddess, my monstrosity, my Fleur."

Summer before 7th year, Harry runs away from the Dursleys and is hiding at Grimmauld and venturing into the Muggle world to keep sane since Grimmauld isn't that inviting. Ron and Hermione intend to join him after the wedding.

During one of the trips, he goes to the Natural History Museum, where he walks into a young woman who is doing a summer internship there. It's a slow day, they start chatting about the exhibition and her studies and hours pass. Lara asks Harry out for a coffee after her shift. Sure enough, they go out and have a pleasant evening, Harry forgetting about the looming war and entertaining her with Muggle-friendly versions of his Hogwarts adventures. They agree to meet again the next day ("It's a date"), Harry visits for her lunch break and brings her a rose, which she finds cute. However, a few Death Eaters decide to ruin the mood and attack the pub they were at (random attack, they did not expect Harry). Harry manages to take them by surprise, although one calls for reinforcements via Dark Mark, so Harry decides to retreat, apparating away with Lara side-along. Which leads to an awkward "I guess you have some questions" discussion in which Harry tells her about magic. He also lets some things about the Horcruxes slip, so that it sounds like an exercise in archeology to Lara (he doesn't say much, but tracking down magical items and a bit of imagination should do the trick). Lara then wants in on the hunt.

(Dedicated to @Foreal, Keeper of the Flowerpot and @Proctorb_32 for the opening lines and title)

My wife is a Veela. People have many misconceptions about what that means. They think I walk around in a sex filled haze, allure capturing my every thought with the aim of fulfilling her fantasies. It’s not.

The truth is, my wife has perfect control of her allure, at least now. As a Veela gains more understanding of their magic, deeping their insight into the part of their heritage that eludes many, they find their own techniques for mastering their allure.

For some, like my mother-in-law, it is simply a matter of control. Pure, simple mastery of their magic at a level that not many achieve. An understanding of every unique twist and curve in what makes their magic unique to them. I sit here today and say that Apolline Delacour’s knowledge of magic may very well put her in the realm of Albus Dumbledore when it comes to theoretical understanding.

For others, like my sister-in-law, it is an almost paradoxical mixture of desire and attention that controls her allure. Her outgoing personality and firm belief that she belongs in the spotlight brings her a sort of stillness that, I must confess, confuses me to this day. Yet, it works. This is where the paradoxical nature of her control comes in, however. She desires the spotlight, but not the affection of many. Gabrielle Delacour loves to be the center of attention, but her love for a single individual, one of my best friends, in fact, is what ties it all together.

My wife, however, has neither mastery of her magic or some contrasting mixture of desire and attention to control her allure. No, my wife’s control comes from one singular act.

Driving me absolutely mad.

I was actually the one who discovered this, dear reader, and let me tell you, it was quite the shock.

We had been dating for a while when we first made the discovery. She had been having trouble with her allure, as Veela do during what I have dubbed the “Discovery Phase.” A less formal name for this phase is the “Throw shit at the wall and see what sticks” phase.

Work was stressing her out, which was causing her best efforts at control to slip, meaning her coworkers were distracted. We tried everything to help, but nothing seemed to work. Then it happened.

I was late for a Ministry event, a fact that annoyed her to no end, and as I stepped into the grand ballroom I saw her. The deep blue dress that draped low in the back, it made my heart skip and stomach flutter. She had taken my breath away before, but to do so after we were dating had some new, profound impact. When she saw how flustered I was, like a muggleborn stepping foot into Diagon Alley for the first time, her face twisted into a triumphant grin.

And along with it, her allure evaporated instantly, all traces of it being sucked out of the room.

From then on, she knew what she needed to do to maintain control.

A whisper in my ear.

A softly spoken innuendo in public.

Bending over in a low cut dress to give me a peak.

Each small instance provided weeks of control over her allure.

Each one drove me absolutely mad.

And now you may be thinking, "Well hold on there Professor Potter, that sounds like the sex is amazing and around the clock."

That is a natural assumption, dear reader. Sadly, it is incorrect, as I can attest to as I write this from the comfort of my own couch, having been banished from the bedroom for the night.

Because you see, dear reader, I'm going to let you in on a little secret that hasn't been published in any book or taught in any classroom.

Love with a Veela is the same as love with anyone else. It's special and unique to you and your partner. There's no additional ingredient that a Veela brings, because at the end of the day, love is love.

That means being there when things are good and when they're tough. It means forgiving the person when they piss you off and letting the worst arguments fall away when necessary.

It also means sleeping on the couch when you promise, multiple times, not to miss dinner with her parents because you've cleared it with your boss but then you lose track of time so you show up incredibly late, smelling like a full day of work.

You know, normal things.

My wife is a Veela. People have many misconceptions about what that means. They think I walk around in a sex filled haze, allure capturing my every thought with the aim of fulfilling her fantasies. It’s not.

It's normal, everyday love, that burns like a fire in your chest, pure and simple.

With just a bit more actual fire.

Goodbye my tears, and farewell my fears, for tomorrow now I must hold dear;

And as with you you, so now today, and from the past I must away.

I tarry not, and carry ought, for not in things is life begot;

But see in me, through stormy seas, I carry on our memories.

A loud crash woke Fleur with a start, her mind instantly alert, wand in her hand, just as Harry had instructed. He'd been insistent, really, that she knew how to be alert and ready if she were ever startled. A second crash came from downstairs, accompanied by a familiar voice. She smiled, relaxing as recognition sunk in.

Slipping her silk robe on she made her way down the stairs into the living room, where she found the source of the noise. Both end tables near the love seat by the fire were turned over, their lamps in pieces on the floor. The fire cracked as Harry steadied himself, just having gotten off the floor.

"What are you doing?" she asked, causing him to jump in fright, whirling around, though there was a noticeable wobble in his movements. He'd said he'd be out late with his co-workers, she hadn't realized that meant they'd drink this much. His eyes went wide.

"Oh shit, where’d you come from?" he asked worriedly, looking around confused. Fleur rolled her eyes.

"I live here, Harry." He slapped his forehead in disbelief.

"Crap, did I floo to the wrong house? Damn, my wife is going to be pissed."

"Harry," Fleur started, amusement in her tone, "I am your wife." He shook his head.

"You're much prettier than her." His words were slurred slightly, but she resisted the urge to hex him. She sighed.

"I guess I should be flattered," she offered. Again, he shook his head.

"Nah, you're not flat," he said, leaning slightly to look at her hips and bottom.

"Harry!" Fleur exclaimed, her hands going to the hips he had just ogled. He stumbled forward a few paces before shrugging.

"What? With hips like that? Your husband must be very lucky." Looking up at the ceiling, she counted to five, taking a deep breath before looking at him again.

"Okay mister, let's get you to bed," she said. Holding up his hands, he tried to take a step back, but ended up stumbling forward again.

"I'm sorry miss, but I'm a married man. Thank you for the offer though."

"Uh huh," Fleur hummed absentmindedly, going to his side and grabbing his arm, leading him towards the stairs. He offered no resistance, despite his protest, which she was grateful for. He tripped several times going up, but as they finally made it to the top, she sighed with relief.

"You've got a nice house," he said as she led him into the bedroom, pulling back the covers on his side of the bed as she helped him lay down. She was thankful he had arrived in a simple pair of jeans and t-shirt, as he could sleep relatively comfortably in them. Robes would have been a challenge to remove.

"Yeah, I know, you helped design it," she said as she pulled off his shoes, setting them at the foot of the bed. With her task complete, she grabbed his wand from his pocket and placed both it and his glasses on the end table.

"You know," he said, pressing his head into the pillow, "You remind me of my wife. She’s the best." Fleur raised an eyebrow, a humorous smirk on her face as she brushed a stray lock of his messy black hair from in front his eyes.

"Is she now?" Harry nodded.

"Yea. She's always taking care of me, even when I try to keep her away. She's strong, stronger than me. You remind me of her," he said, his eyes getting heavy as he struggled to remain awake, though he seemed more lucid the closer he got to sleep. "I don't tell her enough how much I need her. I should tell her I love her more. Don't want her to forget…" Finally, his head dropped fully, a low snore filling the room.

Leaning down, she kissed his forehead, before pulling the covers up fully.

"She knows Harry, and she loves you just as much," Fleur whispered, climbing into bed and settling next to him. Reaching for his hand under the covers she intertwined their fingers, his own instinctively curling around hers. “And she’ll never forget,” she whispered as she curled up against his arm. With a contented sigh, she closed her eyes, drifting off to sleep herself.

The winds roared their displeasure as it stirred the seas below into a fury. The waves battered the galleon and tossed her around like a toddler did during a temper tantrum. Gabriel glanced at her sister as she ordered the crew in order to just survive to port. It started out so well too with the plunder of a port town near the heart of Hogwarts. The truce was in place and it was still technically illegal but flying the red flag of Durmstrang they took the medium town with the speed and ferociousness of possessed starved animal seeing a feast. The town was rumored to have a treasure beyond measure that gave some sort of power to the owner. Gabriel was with her sister as they took the town and brandishing falchions along with the men and women that followed her sisters crew they reveled in the chaos. Fleur was the beautiful Oleander from Beaubaxton. She was as beautiful as she was deadly and was as sharp as the sword she wielded, the black rose, made of damascus steel. She wasn’t the first pirate queen in their line but Apolline was not her grandmere. Their father took the wheel when the original pirate queens only daughter had shown herself to be attached to the land. They ransacked the town but all there was in the crude looking but solid buildings were the usual ‘treasure’ until they came upon a locked door that wouldn’t open. It took all the fury of Gabriel and Fleur to break through the defenses as they hit it was a burning inferno and all there was in the room was a single necklace, simple in design, that bore a crest pendant with mysterious squiggles that was in the old language.

They took it and after splitting the booty between the crew they set sail towards their home base. Fleur had picked only the necklace and gazing at it in wonder almost put it into the pile of plundered treasure. “It’s cursed! Ye shouldn’t have taken it, cap’n,” the seer said as she stood as far away from it as the room would allow. “It’s powerful. Surely even you can feel that?” Fleur asked as she gripped the chain tight in her her. “Aye, that’s the problem. It must have been made by the hands of one of the fallen gods in their prime to still be this powerful,” the seer said with her voice and hands trembling. “Shut up, ye yellow-bellied coward. If the captain wants it then she can have it. It’s her right. It’s probably just some trinket that they put in as a decoy,” the first mate barked at the seer. He was the least sensitive to magic of all their crew and only able to use some magic. Both the seer and Fleur went quiet for a moment. Deep in their heart they knew that whatever was in her hand wasn’t just a shiny trinket. Yet as the others pitched in saying that the seer was usually wrong and that the first mate was right neither felt strongly enough to protest. Gabrielle saw the seer and Fleur nod and dread settled in her stomach. Whatever happened next, this wasn’t going to end well.

Immediately after Fleur put it on at the crews insistence things rapidly descended into uncontrolled chaos. First the food was discovered to taste like ash no matter how it was cooked, the rat population on the ship rapidly swelled, and then they lost a sail in the course of a few days. Then the winds that were quiet and calm suddenly swelled to a furious pace only three leagues away from when the border between hogwarts and beaubaxton was. It wasn’t long before most of their crew drowned as they were flung off the boat and sank into the tumultuous and treacherous waters below. It only calmed once Fleur and Gabrielle were left alone in the suddenly quiet sea, far from shore, and only a piece of driftwood keeping them both afloat. They held on as the waves suddenly gentle pushed them to shore and both fell unconscious once they crawled onto the beach and collapsed. Gabrielle woke first but could only blink rapidly. She tried to move her hands, feet, and then just one finger or toe but her body couldn’t or wouldn’t obey. The ceiling was thatched and she tried to summon up any bit of power to break the spell before a sharp aged female voice barked out from somewhere she couldn’t see as a shadow grew larger with the sound of leather on wood coming closer.

“I don’t know what you think you are doing, young lady, but there’s a reason why I paralyzed you. You and I assume your sibling were found on the beach among the flotsam of a ship. You and your sister nearly died several times under my care and so help me god if you agitate your injuries then I won’t heal you, understand?” the woman said as she felt someone check her temperature. An aged face of a healer appeared and less irate and in a softer tone the woman spoke again, “Blink once if you want to say yes and twice for no.” Gabrielle blinked once and nodding the healer took off the paralysis on her head and neck. She turned to see her sister in the other bed, still asleep, but pale and clearly recovering from grievous injuries. “Now you understand, lass? You are in a bit better shape but rest now. I’ll wake you when it’s time to eat and let you know if your sister wakes up.” The healer said. Gabrielle nodded too fast and her world spun a little as the matronly woman sighed, “Careful now. Here, drink this- it will give you dreamless sleep…”

Gabrielle swallowed it compliant and her head felt too heavy with her eyelids suddenly unable to stay open. She blinked slowly, trying to keep them open a little longer, but in moments her world was black and her head hit the pillow. She faded into and out of consciousness several times after. Each time the food or drink was spiked with something and she fell unconscious almost immediately after. Finally, what must have been several days later, she sat up and turned to where her sister lay. The wounds hadn’t healed but she was still breathing as she watched the blanket rise and fall with each breath. “Slow down, lass. I don’t want you to get hurt after I barely healed you,” the healer said, “but now that you’re conscious- I have a few questions. Who are you?” “I’m Gabrielle. My sister is Fleur. Thank you for helping us,” Gabrielle said. “It’s my job to heal people. Thanks are welcome but ultimately unnecessary. What were you doing before you washed up on the beach?” the healer asked.

Gabrielle tried to remember but clutched her head in as a sudden burst of pain flashed. She whimpered and watched the healer sigh and nod. The look on her face was resigned and almost expectant of the outcome. She stared at the simple necklace on Fleurs’ chest. Grimacing the healer stroked the hair of Fleur gently. “Well, that’s to be expected considering, lass. I suspect I know whom you are- and who your sister is but you probably don’t. I suppose we’ll have to wait until your memory comes back or…” the healer glanced at Fleur. “Is she awake yet?” a male entered the room and Gabriellele stared. His eyes were the first thing she gaped it openly. They were green but almost glowed with repressed power, and his presence was as strong as her grandmere. He had a square jaw, larger than average ears, and moved more like a predator towards her sister. Physically he was built solidly like a tree, arms wide and thick with muscles, his legs were equally robust and sturdy. “No, but her sister is,” the healer looked at Gabriellele. “Gabriellele,” the man said her name with such venom that she flinched at the glare he gave her. “Harry- she doesn’t remember. Gabriellele, this is master- I mean Lord Harry Potter, admiral of the Hogwarts fleet.”

“Hello,” he says to you, his face darkened by the glare of the sun behind him. Your eyes flit towards the scraggy curls atop his head, swaying gently alongside the summer breeze, and you notice his calm demeanor. “Mind if I take a seat?”

You nod and scoot over. He scrutinizes the blanket-covered ground for but a moment before crouching down, seemingly content with his fleeting examination.

And then there’s silence.

Obviously, you still hear the sounds of the nature that surrounds you: leaves rustling, birds chirping, and the sound of his breath.

It’s a few minutes before he speaks up again.

“My grandma used to come here every other evening,” he says softly, “or that’s what they tell me, at least.”

“And where is she now?” you wince as the words leave your mouth, realising the lack of tact midway. He doesn’t seem to mind, or doesn’t show it if he does.

“Another life, hopefully? I dunno, never knew her.”

“I’m sorry,” you bow your head forward in respect, earning a slight quizzical smile from him.

“For what?” he asks.

You sigh.

“The thought of never having the opportunity to meet a family member is a sad one-”

“-And the fact that they loved you regardless takes the edge off the blade.”

With a pause and a hum, you let the conversation taper off once more. It is through a few idle topics that you test the waters--try and gauge what kind of a man he is.

He’s rather soft-spoken, you realise, and oh so very unique. And when you strain your ears and listen, really listen, you hear the flickering remnants of a dying sun. You hear the all-encompassing warmth juxtaposed with the pain of a million men at war.

Maybe you like his unorthodox approach to life, or maybe you’re just intrigued, but you end up asking him when he’s planning to come here next.

And as the sun sets in front of them, you hear the tangibility of his smile in his response.

Sweet, life giving air rushed back into her lungs without warning as she collapsed to the cold, stone floor. Distantly, she recognized that the man who had cast both curses on her must be dead. Oh, Harry, she thought morosely as a wave of anguish that had nothing to do with her soon-to-be-dead captors passed through her. It hadn’t been long ago that he had been all too unwilling to slay Voldemort’s followers, much like Dumbledore before him.

“There’s a line in a war like this,” he had told her. “It’s a line between what’s right, and what’s easy. If we lose that, what do we have left?”

She wondered if it had truly been her fault that he crossed that imaginary line in the sand; if it had been solely her influence, her lies, and her betrayal that had made him so unflinchingly ruthless in his pursuit of Voldemort and his followers. Had it been her? Or had the war and the weight of all the expectations piled on his young shoulders finally proved too much of a burden for him to shoulder?

The vocal, passionate, convincing piece of her that always moved to absolve her of guilt – the part that turned the other way when Order members began to go missing – said it was the second one. That the pressures of war had, in the end, forced Harry to give up the moral high ground that he had clung to so desperately after his mentor’s death.

The quiet part of her that ached to have some, any, small influence over Harry, regardless of how she had betrayed him, claimed that it was her fault. Her mission had been simple: get close to Harry Potter and report on his doings to her contact. Nothing more, nothing less. Falling in love with him hadn’t been a part of the plan.

Silent tears began to leak from her eyes at the thought, beginning their trek down her face as she raised it to the sounds of battle.

Spellfire had reduced much of the once resplendent hall to rubble, and a kaleidoscope of color greeted Fleur’s eyes as she watched the five men still standing duel for their lives. Four wore the mask and robes of Voldemort’s Death Eaters. One wore jeans and a black jumper.

It wasn’t a fair fight.

One of the masked men twirled his wand, causing a piece of rubble to morph into a vicious looking grim that leapt for the man in jeans almost before it was fully formed. Harry’s blasting curse obliterated it before it made it five feet before his wand transitioned into a flawless parry that sent a lethal looking spell through a window. A horizontal sweep of his wand sent forth a wave of power that knocked two of his foes off their feet and sent them careering away.

Ducking out of the way of a red spell that had been aimed at his chest, Harry conjured a slab of stone to block the sickly green light of a killing curse. His wand moving faster than Fleur’s eyes could track in their watery state, he banished the resulting shrapnel back at the Death Eater. The stone fragments caught the unsuspecting man in the chest and neck, and he dropped limply to the floor.

His feet moving so that he would face the two Death Eaters he had banished when they rejoined the fray, Harry swished his wand upward, a golden shield springing to life to absorb a barrage of curses his fourth opponent sent his way. Wordlessly, Harry twirled his wand in a complex pattern, and a torrent of twisting, golden flame erupted. The flames covered the distance between him and the Death Eater in the blink of an eye, and the masked man could only scream as his body was consumed.

To Fleur’s eyes, in the middle of a warzone, surrounded by strife, and his golden flames banishing the darkness of night with the strength of the sun, Harry Potter had never looked so magnificent.

That same illumination disappeared a moment later, and the hall seemed to be in total darkness in its absence for a moment.

It passed as the green light of twin killing curses lit the room, the telltale rush of death only ending when they met two thick, stone tiles Harry had raised from the floor. The shrapnel turned into a flock of butterflies before it could touch him, and Harry parried a red spell with the tip of his wand before a corkscrew motion turned the floor beneath the feet of a Death Eater into quicksand. The man was powerless to stop himself from being dragged down, and his struggles were halted when he took a white spell that had leapt from Harry’s wand with a bang like a gunshot to the face.

All but stupefied at the deaths of all his allies, the final Death Eater stood trembling. Suddenly, he turned to Fleur and raised his wand, a curse on his lips. The French witch felt a singular spike of fear that lasted only an instant, until the pale blue light of a lancing curse tore through the final man’s skull.

Her blue eyes shifted to Harry, who stood with his wand still outstretched from delivering the killing blow. Slowly, he lowered it, his eyes moving to survey the now ruined hall before finally settling on her.

To her astonishment, Fleur felt no fear as she met Harry’s green irises. She felt only that same anguish from earlier at the thought of having betrayed this man so completely; anguish at her own foolishness, for falling prey to Voldemort’s machinations, at being responsible for the deaths of five members of the Order of the Phoenix by passing information to her contact, and for believing for a second that there was any hope that Bill would be returned to her after being disappearing.

From her prone position on the floor, Fleur managed to push herself into a sitting position by bracing herself up against a chair, one of the few untouched parts of the hall. Blue eyes met green once more as her head came to rest upon the armrest, tears now freely cascading down her pale cheeks.

“Are you going to kill me, ‘Arry?”

"Yes! Score, need to write this down." "Matt?" "Yup?" "What are you doing?" "Keeping score." "We're in a restaurant, darling." "Yes! Another score." "Matt!" "Yes, yes, I'm listening. I'm here." "What are you keeping score for?" "Uh, this. Our date." "Our date? I'm sorry, I don't follow." "No!" "What?" "You said sorry." "So?" "You're not supposed to." "Says who?" "The guide." "What are you talking about? What guide? What score? Matt, are you having an episode?" "No...maybe...no." "Then what's going on?" "I'm following the steps in this guide." "A guide for...?" "Love?" "Love?" "Love. "Ok? And what does this 'Guide to Love' me--" "..." "Matt." "Yeah...?" "Are you out on a date with me because you follow the instruction from a book on dating?" "Nyes?" "...wow" "I'm sorry." "No, no, I'm...it worked?" "We're here, aren't we?" "Yeah...how-- how much of all this is the book...and how much is you? "..." "Tell me." "It's all me...sans the awkwardness." "I see." "I'm sorry." "No, don't be." "...eh?" "You can throw the book away." "What? What do you mean?" "It's not working." "But we're here. I'm here with you. It worked." "It didn't." "I think I'm utterly confused." "And that's fine." "Eh?" "I didn't mention it before, because I like you and didn't want to make you feel uneasy. But you've been a bit clumsy and awkward from the start." "No, what? I followed the steps in the book. They're supposed to make me cool and charismatic and manly and--" "You're all of these things and much more." "..." "It's true." "So...now what?" "Now, you order the lobster with fries and dip, and I'll order the salad." "But you hate salad." "I'm not the one eating it." "You're gonna take my lobster, aren't you?" "No worries, you'll get used it." "Am I, now?" "Yup. Not going anywhere, darling." "Fine. I guess I can eat the salad."

Part 1: First come First Serve

“Fleur? What do you think of me as a person?”

Harry’s voice pulled Fleur from her book. She glanced up, her eyes narrowing as she took in her friend, reclining as much as he could on the chair, his book laying open on the table, forgotten.

His hands were buried in his messy raven locks, those breathtaking green eyes of his seeming to bore into her.

“That…. Is a weird question,” She replied, putting her book down, “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “I… don't know. I just wanted to ask, I guess? Humour me, please?”

She smiled, shaking her head. It was so like him to be uncertain, even for an everyday question.

“Well… I think you’re an amazing human being,” Fleur replied resolutely.

And he was, to her. Before they’d become friends, she had always heard of him as The Boy Who Lived. She’d had an idea of what he would be like, an image, probably an unfair one, of how he’d be.

Harry Potter was nothing like she thought he’d be.

Their friendship had begun in an unconventional manner, with The Incident, something they;d both sworn to never speak of, ever.

She still shuddered at the thought of it.

But it was something she treasured now, just as she treasured Harry Potter, with his quiet strength and steadfast loyalty.

He snorted at her words, chuckling. “I’m not that good, Fleur.”

She frowned, leaning forward to grasp his hands, meeting his eyes, “Harry James Potter. You are a wonderful individual. You are a person who treasures every bond he makes. You are a person who is passionate, and loyal, and caring, and compassionate, and warm, and so many other amazing things, and I am thanking my lucky stars that I can call you a friend.”

He smiled, that lovable, warm smile that did things to her, that made her heart flutter a bit as he spoke softly. “Thank you Fleur. I… thank you.”

A comfortable silence stretched over them, as she released his hands, reluctantly, leaning back in her chair as they sat, the cold of scottish winter outside kept at bay by the warmth of the room.

“Hey Fleur,” Harry spoke up suddenly, “Do you know the Yule Ball is in only two weeks?”

She did know, in fact. She’d been turning down offers left and right, trying to build up the courage to ask one person, the only person she could consider ever taking as a date, the person sitting across from her, in fact, ever aware of the impending deadline.

“Yes?”

“Guess what?” He said, straightening up in his seat, “I… got a date.”

And with those words, her heart crumbled.

“W.. what?” She choked out, disbelieving. She didn't understand it. He’d been turning down offers as well, and she… she’d hoped…

“Yep,” He continued, “Daphne… Daphne Greengrass asked me to the ball, and I saw no reason to say no.”

Her heart clenched at his words, as she forced a smile onto her face, trying to appear happy for him, “T.. That's wonderful, Harry.”

“Isn't it?” he said, smiling dreamily, seemingly unaware of her plight, “We’re going to be practicing together as well. I do need help with my dancing, you know.”

Fleur wanted to scream, she wanted to tell him that she could have helped, that she could have gone with him, but instead she kept smiling, as she cried inside for the chance she had missed.

Fleur tried her best to hide her disgust at her partner, one Roger Davis, who leered at her body as they swept across the dance floor with the other champions and their partners.

Hermione looked resplendent, slowly maneuvering the floor with Viktor, both novices in the art of dance.

Cedric Diggory danced with Cho Chang, the pair managing to keep well in sync, moving easily in concert.

Her heart clenched as her eyes fell on the final champion and his date. Harry Potter and Daphne Greengrass were dressed in matching greens and golds, the pair owning the ballroom floor as they gracefully moved with the music.

Harry was smiling broadly, his green eyes locked on his partner, looking positively ravishing, cleaned up in those robes, as he held his partner.

A partner that should have been her.

Daphne Greengrass smiled primly as the pair moved, yet she could see the genuine happiness in the girl’s expression whenever she gazed at Harry.

Yet, when their eyes met, Greengrass’s eyes turned hard, a wicked smile appearing on her face as she locked eyes with Fleur.

As the dance wound to a close, and the champions bowed as one, Fleur heard Greengrass speak, as they stood near each other, her voice soft, yet bearing an undertone of malice.

“First come, first serve, Slag.”

Roger Davis’ eyes widened in pain as her grip tightened, her palm beginning to smoke as she seethed internally.

‘GREENGRASS!’

Part 2: Finders Keepers

“Welcome back Daphne!” Astoria’s voice was peppy and light, her smile brightening up the room as Daphne stepped out of the fireplace, the roaring green flames receding to their normal warm orange.

“Glad to be home, Astoria,” Daphne smiled, as she stepped forward, her arms open, staggering back slightly as her younger sister rocketed into the embrace.

She nodded in greeting at the young man in the room, Draco Malfoy returning the nod as he watched his fiance attempt to hug her older sister to death.

“It's been so long! I missed you so much!” Astoria said as they separated, “So many things have happened in four months! I have so much to tell you!”

Daphne smiled indulgently at her excitable sister, “Of course Tori, but…. Later, maybe? I’m a bit tired from the journey. It's not like I crossed the Atlantic by Floo, you know.”

“Of course. My bad. You must tell me more about New York though. It sounds wonderful,” Astoria said, calming slightly.

“Mipsy!”

A loup pop sounded to Daphne’s right, as a female house elf, dressed in a clean pillow cover, appeared. The elf gasped as she noticed Daphne, her large eyes brimming with tears, “Oh it's Mistress Daphy! Mistress Daphy is homes! Mipsy is missing you lots when you was gone Mistress!”

Daphne smiled genially at the excitable elf, “I missed you too Mipsy. Could you prepare some tea and put it in my study? Bring any correspondence that hadn't been forwarded to me yet there as well.”

The little elf nodded enthusiastically, squeaking, “Of course Mistress! Mipsy will get on it right away mistress!”

Daphne sighed as the elf popped away, turning back to her sister and her fiance, “I’ll be heading to my study then Astoria. I’ll join you for dinner in a bit.”

The younger girl nodded, “Of course. We do need to go shopping soon, Daphne. We’ll need new dresses, and Draco needs to pick up his suit.”

Blinking in confusion, Daphne nodded hesitantly, unsure, “Of… of course.”

As she made her way down the ornate hallway, lined with portraits of her ancestors and masterworks by decorated artists, she ran a hand through her blond locks, teasing her hair free of its braid.

Stepping into the familiar, cozy atmosphere of her study, she sighed in comfort, spotting a pot of tea and a steaming cup, beside which were stacked a smile pile of letters arrayed on a small table near the fireplace, in which a flame already crackled.

She smiled at the sight, silently thanking Mipsy as she settled into the nearby couch, snuggling into its softness. She sipped at her tea as she flipped through the letters.

Magazine, Letter from Pansy, Brochure, Letter from Harry, another magazine…

Wait.

Eyes widening, she pulled out the letter from Harry, a soft smile adorning her face at the thought of her once boyfriend.

She recalled the Yule Ball, where she’d asked him out just to spite the French Champion he always hung around with, the saddened expression on the floozy’s face still fresh in her mind till this day. She remembered how dapper he’d looked in those black robes that they’d chosen together, how he;d grown on her as they’d danced and talked.

She remembered the relationship they’d pursued long after the French contingent had left, the longing looks that Delacour had sent her Harry as she stood beside him, supporting him after his terrible ordeal at the end of the third task.

The dates, the smiles, the laughs that they’d had until their sixth year, until he’d had to run, along with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, two people she’d gotten to know more than she ever would have guessed.

She hadn't seen him much since then, having been absent from the Battle of Hogwarts, and being unable to find time to meet him before she’d left for New York.

Daphne Greengrass.

His writing had improved, a far cry from the chicken scratching she remembered as she opened the envelope, pulling out a letter, her eyes flickering over the first line.

You are cordially invited to the Wedding of Harry Potter and Fleur Delacour….

What.

Pffffff

She spit out the tea, wiping her mouth distractedly, as she read the rest of the invitation, eyes wide and frantic.

Her hands trembled as she fell back in her seat, the invitation slipping from her grasp. So that's what Astoria meant by needing new dresses.

She couldn't… she just couldn't understand it! When had this happened? How had this happened?

Unnoticed by her, the objects in the room began to tremble as well, her magic simmering and bubbling with emotion.

She noticed a glimmer inside the envelope, discarded by her forgotten cup of tea. Hesitantly, she lifted it, shaking it slightly, as a piece of paper fluttered out onto her lap.

Slowly, she picked up the paper.

It was a photograph, depicting a naked Harry Potter (oh god, he looked so yummy), laying on a bed, cuddled up to the equally naked form of Fleur Delacour, covers drawn to their waist, as he slumbered. Fleur was holding up the camera, a wicked, knowing smile on her face as she stared at it.

On the picture were words, written in bright blue ink.

Finders keepers, bitch.

Daphne’s scream rang through the estate, the objects in the study rattling and flying as her magic lashed out. “DELACOUR!”

“Do you want to dance?”

The abruptness of the statement caught Harry off-guard, it wasn’t a very well kept secret that he’d been blest with two left feet. Asking him to dance was akin to asking the Whomping Willow to hug you: synonymous with unbridled pain.

“Huh?” he said, putting his knack for verbosity on display for the world to see. Harry was obviously the live-in genius of Hogwarts.

Fleur didn’t seem to be all that annoyed, but one could never be sure. By one, he meant himself. Obviously. Fuck, he was scared.

“I asked whether you wanted to dance…?” She’d enunciated every word of the sentence, seemingly realising that the bloke in front of her was a little slow on the uptake.

“Dance?” Right, was it too late for him to stroll on over and usurp the Headmaster’s office? “With you?” No, genius. She had obviously been asking in lieu of Hagrid. “Me and you?”

“Yes,” she said slowly, “that is what the phrase ‘do you want to dance?’ means.”

“Right, yes. No.”

“No? You don’t want to dance with me?”

“More like I don’t want to break your toenails… and your toes. Reckon I could mess up your ankle too. I’m a walking health hazard when it comes to dancing.” And a walking example of putting one’s foot in their mouth, but he was pretty sure she had deduced that already.

“I’m sure it won’t be that bad?” Ah, optimism. Just as Harry was about to open his mouth again, she interjected. “I’ll teach you, it’ll be fun.”

Harry, who had just about reached his limit of saying no to literal goddesses, gave a resigned nod and moved to get up. She offered out a hand to him, and walked him out of the Great Hall. Fleur led him through the castle, keeping a brisk walking pace until they both made it to the courtyard. In front of a few dozen prying eyes. Yipee.

“Are you sure you want to do this here?” he asked, completely tranquil and totally not nervous. “Doesn’t seem like an appropriate setting, wouldn’t recommend it to a friend.”

Seeing that he wouldn’t get a response, he continued. “There’s no music. How do we dance without music? I condemn indulging in blasphemy!” Fleur rolled her eyes, and he let the matter go.

They were still standing together, their hands clasped, when she started to sway gently from side to side. No beat, no rhythm, just a gentle sway drawing inspiration from the wind. He joined her and tried to match his movements with hers. Suddenly,

“I see the crystals raindrops fall, and the beauty of it all is when the sun comes shining through.” Man started singing. “To make those rainbows in my mind, when I think of you some time. I wanna spend some time with you.”

Fleur obviously got his cue, as she continued. “Just the two of us, we can make it if we tried.”

He smiled, maybe the clusterfuck leading up to that moment had been worth it.

So, in a bright scorching Sunday where the light was blinding and the temperature were reminding her of the wrath of apollo himself Fleur walked into the McDonald's restaurant, she was confident this time, nothing could go wrong this time, her breathing became lighter as she stared towards the Metallic lustrous, it was mesmerizing, so much so that she wanted to drop everything and run, she had been running as a matter of fact, her blonde platinum hair matted in sweat, she took careful steps towards the counter, she was so confident this time nothing could go wrong now, yes, she had forgotten some pennies the last time but now she was prepared, she saw him, Harry Potter, the guy-who-served, people said he was the best server in town, she never doubted them but he wasn't the reason she came today, she neared harry and gave him a meaningful smile, he frowned in return,

"sorry Fleur, it's not you, it's me, ice cream machine broke down this time."

The unholy scream that left her on the betrayal were hounding.

Summer

“What do you think, not so bad?”

Gabby wiped sweat from her brow before casting a dubious look at her sister.

“The sun is an inch from the Earth, I just saw a literal tumbleweed blow by, and you’ve got dust all over your jeans Fleur, how could it be any worse?” Even in the shade of the long porch, wrapping the house, with lazy ceiling fans spins overhead she felt like she was melting.

“It’s summer,” Fleur dismissed, she was trying her hardest to be positive, so Gabby couldn’t help but sprinkle a bit of pessimism on the whole ordeal. They were sisters after all.

“It's May.” Fleur let that observation roll off her like the sweat beading up on her neck. Gabby loved her sister, but if this first impression of her new hobby was anything to go by she would not be visiting often.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to the ‘corns.” Gabby cocked an unamused eyebrow at Fleur’s self satisfied look.

“You sound like a hick.” She told her. Little clouds of dust puffed up around her boots, and the blistering Texas sun lit her silver hair like a beacon. “I think I’m good!” Gabby called, having no intention of stepping into the oven that was apparently a late spring norm in this hellscape. Her heels were not made for this terrain, and the reddish dust coating her sister’s simple clothes would not do for her far more fashionable and expensive attire.

“Come on~” Fleur cajoled, turning to face her, “you can’t just sit around the house all day!” She could, and had every intention of doing so. She did not know what came over her when she decided to head across the Atlantic to see this place, she knew about Texas, well enough to know it wasn’t for her at least.

She wondered if she could get her father to change her portkey to tomorrow.

“Really, I think I’m good.” Gabby told her, not moving from the wicker rocking chair.

In the distance a trail of dust was rising, she squinted in that direction and made out a lone figure on unicorn back. She looked over at her sister and saw Fleur’s brow furrowed in annoyance.

“Who’s this then?” She asked, and watched Fleur’s mood sour a little more.

“Luc, he’s the main ranch hand.”

“And we don’t like Luc?” She surmised.

“Luc’s fine…”

“But?”

“The unicorns like him more than me.” She admitted and Gabby snorted.

Said rancher approached, and Gabby squeaked and moved chairs as an errant breeze carried the dust from his arrival her way.

“Luc, this is my sister, Gabrielle.” Fleur said in English, and Gabby put on a smile as she held in a sigh. The figure had dismounted it’s steed, a giant horned horse that had the oddest patterning, like a calico cat, she’d never seen it’s like on a beast this size. She moved to the edge of the porch, unwilling to step out of it’s shade but figuring at least a modicum of politeness was warranted. This was her sister’s employee now, and if they were all being honest with themselves, probably the person actually responsible for getting work done around here.

“Howdy ma’am.” The country bumkin said in a rich baritone, tipping his white hat to her, then he looked up and pulled down his bandana and Gabby could only gape at the man she saw.

Maybe Texas wasn’t so bad afterall.

Cinder

“Storm’s rollin’ in,” Luc’s low voice called from the porch, disturbing Fleur and Gabby’s afternoon break. Fleur was on her feet, muttering a string of expletives in French, and was a few steps away before she seemingly remembered her sister.

“We have to round up the free-rangers,” she offered in explanation before moving toward the door. Gabby looked at her cold coffee, mostly just a pile of half-dissolved sugar at this point, and followed on a whim.

“I’ll get the stables ready,” Fleur was saying when Gabby caught up to them near the barn. Luc was leading his dappled mare Calli out of a stall. She cocked an eyebrow at the general urgency of the two, particularly the usually easy going Luc.

Calli came over and bumped her shoulder with her head, earning narrowed eyes for the two of them from Fleur.

“Come on girl,” Luc urged, giving the reins a light tug, and Gabby walked with him back out into the rapidly cooling afternoon to encourage the unicorn to follow.

“What are free-rangers?” she asked as he checked buckles on the saddle.

“Couple of the ‘corns don’t take much to people,” he said, using that awful abbreviation that made the pair of them sound twice as country to Gabby’s ear. “We let ‘em roam the ranch, but if the weather gets too bad it’d be best to have ‘em stabled.”

She looked off to the east, where towering thunderheads had sprung up seemingly from nowhere. The cloud cover that morning had been patchy and fluffy white, lazily strolling through the sky. These were anything but lazy, tall and billowing and deep gray bordering purple in their hearts. A fitful wind gusted into her, making her sway back, and it was cold, at least fifteen degrees down from an hour ago.

Luc hauled himself up into the saddle, eyes already searching the treeline on the horizon, he turned back to say something to Gabby but stalled when he found her hand extended up toward him.

“We ain’t liable to beat the rain,” he warned and she shrugged.

“I want to help.” Luc smiled at that, a little furtive thing that set off the butterflies in her stomach in an annoying way.

“What do you say girl?” Calli turned to inspect Gabby with a solitary black eye and then sidestepped closer. Luc took it for the acquiescence it was and hauled Gabby up onto the saddle behind him. “Hold on tight!” he said and then coaxed his calico steed into a gallop, much faster than the few rides she’d been taken on before.

They did not beat the rain.

Across the fields, just past half-way to the copse of trees that concealed the watering hole, the drops began. There were two skittish unicorns huddled under the protection of the canopy near the edge of the clearing. Gabby jumped down first, to make it easier for Luc to dismount, and not for the first time she was grateful for her sister talking her into practical boots. Even if the embroidered heeled ones had been somewhat cute for a cowboy boot.

Luc approached the two animals quickly, confident but careful not to spook them, he had a way with the beasts that neither Fleur nor Gabby could match so she stayed back with the one that had decided to like her. These two were more scarred than the average unicorn they showed on the tours, and they tossed their manes in agitation as Luc sidled up to them, but he went carefully and calmed them to the point that he could pat their heads and send them off to the barn with a gentle word.

Back in the saddle, and out into the pastures, the rain began in full. Gabby had spent long enough on the ranch to know how these storms went, intense but usually short lived, or at the very least sporadic. They were in the height of the downpour at the moment, and even pressed into Luc’s back she was soaked to the bone in a matter of seconds. The unicorn and rider were unperturbed though, trotting along at a reduced rate for fear of muddy potholes in the terrain, but pressing forward nonetheless.

“How many more?” Gabby called. They had been out for fifteen minutes now and sent another three Fleur’s way since the initial two.

“Just one!” Luc answered, having to yell because the gusts at their back wanted to carry his words away from her.

“There!” Gabby called, catching sight of an ashen pelt to the right in the trees. Luc pulled up on the reins and directed Calli over, but he stopped her a good ways out from the trembling animal and hopped down.

“Cinder’s skittish,” he explained, “don’t much want for company, had a brush with poachers when she was a youngin’. I’m fixin’ to approach, best you wait here.” Gabby nodded and he set off slowest of all, maintaining eye contact but doing his best to diminish himself in demeanor.

The rain let up a bit, the stinging sideways torrent petered off to a steady drum, but lightning still split the sky regularly, sending great loud peels of thunder across the land. She had never seen Luc struggle so much with a unicorn, she’d allowed the approach, and he’d managed to get a hand on her neck to pat reassuringly but the gray mare was obstinate in her refusal to move.

She almost fell when Calli bumped her in the back with the side of her head, she did stumble a step forward before looking back. The animal tossed her head, horn arcing in Luc’s direction, and Gabby cocked an eyebrow at the intelligent beast.

“What am I supposed to do?” she asked and the unicorn turned her head to nudge Gabby with her neck again. “He said to wait here.” She only got an unamused deadpan look from one black eye and as odd as it was she found herself pacing nervously toward the trees, unwilling to push the issue and truly lose an argument with a glorified horse.

The last free range unicorn eyed her approach, and Gabby’s limited knowledge of unicorn temperament told her that she wasn’t in immediate danger. Luc’s ministrations had calmed the beast greatly by this point, though her hooves were still dug in resolutely. On closer inspection, the uniform gray of her coat was revealed to be spotted with whites and blacks, but the most prominent feature of the unicorn was the sawed off stump of a horn on her head. It choked up Gabby in a surprising way, as she generally looked at her sister and boyfriend's animal charges as mildly endearing pets at best.

Cinder spotted her approach before Luc, but didn’t bolt or take an aggressive stance. Luc cast her a worried look when he noticed, but was busy muttering low platitudes to the animal so she wouldn’t spook. Gabby approached in the same way she’d seen Fleur and Luc do, from the side slightly to stay in the animal’s line of sight, but hands up and open, holding their gaze.

The weary unicorn allowed her to approach and Luc blinked dumbly at her when she managed to get a hand on the trembling neck of the scared animal.

“I’ll be damned,” Luc whispered, watching Cinder eye her hesitantly before bumping her shoulder with its cheek. “You ready to come in, girl?” He asked next and she gave a snort and toss of the head but then took one step forward.

Gabby had never ridden a unicorn without Luc, definitely never bareback, but when they reached the treeline and Cinder caught sight of Calli backlit by a peel of lighting she stalled again and something compelled her to act.

“Come on Cinder, it’s okay,” she told the unicorn, and then, with an absolutely dumbfounded Luc watching, she took a quick step and a skip and threw her leg over Cinder’s back. Using her arms across shoulders to get herself into something like a riding position. “What?” she asked Luc self consciously, because he was gaping at her with a literal open mouth.

“I- Nothing, come on,”

he said, as the rain picked back up again and Calli pawed at the mud in irritation.

They had to move slowly, because Gabby lacked a saddle and didn't feel too comfortable grabbing fistfuls of mane, but they plodded back to the barn amid the storm. Cinder looked less than pleased with her little stall next to Calli, but she didn’t fight them when they herded her in. She leveled a steady gaze at Gabby once situated, and again acting on instinct she reached out to pat her brow before turning to leave.

Luc was staring at her back when she turned, but he quickly averted his gaze, cheeks reddening. She frowned at him, taking in his awkwardly shifting and blushing form.

“What’s your problem?” She asked “don’t tell me you’re going to start acting all jealous like my sister.”

“N-no,” he stammered, inspecting the surrounding stalls. “We should probably get changed.” She looked down and saw her soaked clothes plastered to her body, white shirt revealing the black of her bra beneath, she smirked.

“You’re my boyfriend doofus,” she teased, using her favorite Americanism picked up from Harry. “You’ve seen it already.” She didn’t give him a chance to respond, just pulled him down for a kiss as thunder rumbled outside.

Brisket

Gabby lingered by the barn entrance, holding her hands behind her back and doing her best to look cute in the oven of a noonday sun. She'd raided her sister's closet for a pair of jeans, and artfully remodeled them with a pair of scissors. Shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and buttoned low, furthered the look and it all came together with boots and hat and two days tan.

She was adorable.

She knew it, the fashion world knew it, and by the gods this oblivious ranch hand would too. Today, her third day in Texas, would be the one.

Luc Bennet was in trouble.

Since her first introduction to the illusive man, riding up to the house and into her dreams atop unicorn-back on her first afternoon in Texas, he'd proven maddeningly absent. She asked after him, casually, as she and Fleur went into town for dinner that night. Fleur was distracted and didn't seem to notice Gabby's subtle but keen interest in her answer as she told of his afternoon of work and usual dinner haunts from something called a "food truck".

The next day Gabby woke to an empty house.

Fleur was already out in the barn, her note said, but she'd be back in around ten. Gabby checked the grandfather clock by leaning back in her kitchen chair to peer into the living room. The screen door banged closed out of sight, punctual as ever, as the clock began to toll ten chimes.

From afar Fleur actually looked kind of cute, her jeans very maman-ish, but hugging good curves nonetheless. She had red clay dust on the tip of her nose and a smudge of it along her jaw on the right side of her face.

She was Veela, and sister to Gabby, so she was stunning; just in a more FarmersOnly calendar model way.

The effect was somewhat spoiled by her approach, bringing with her the strong scent of manure. Gabby wrinkled her nose as Fleur swept into the room asking:

"Have you eaten?"

Gabby looked to the table, an array of crepes and toppings on display and magically preserved.

"Not yet," she said, mouth beginning to water, "and I can't with you stinking up the place."

She waved her hand in front of her nose exaggeratedly to soften the words, and gave Fleur a playful smile when she narrowed her eyes.

"Okay, okay," Fleur shook her head a bit, moving toward the fridge now that Gabby was edging toward the table. "I can tell where I'm not wanted."

She pulled a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and poured two glasses, "I think i will be done by lunch today, we can go into town and do some shopping if you like?"

Gabby pursed her lips, eyeing the second glass in Fleur’s hand.

"Yeah, maybe," she said, and Fleur departed, leaving her to her breakfast creations.

Gabby joined Fleur in the barn an hour or so later, eager to look helpful and doing the best she could with overalls and a sports bra. The selection was slim.

Luc was not there, and Fleur was delighted by the prospect of help. She didn't seem to take Gabby's clear displeasure as a hint, and set her about brushing Unicorns. Something Gabby did only because it looked as if Fleur was shoveling straw covered shit out of stables and Gabby would sooner die.

After a few hours of work they were, in fact, done but lunch, but Gabby smelled of unicorn hair and poop. She stalked off when Fleur declared them done, and she didn't venture out from her triple bath until well after sundown.

Today was the day though.

She had the outfit, she had the tan, she smelled of lilac and gooseberries, and Luc Bennet had walked into that barn not ten minutes ago. So she stood outside, looking quite cute, ready to make her move.

“Luc! There you are,” she said, all grins and a bouncing skip up to his side as he slipped out of the large building. He came up short at the sight of her, between his pale hat and red bandana crossing his face, she could only see his eyes.

They were wide at the sight of her.

“Ms. Delacour-” he said, and she smiled at the hesitancy in that smooth low baritone. He was so cute.

“Gabby, please,” she purred, and she noted with glee that his cheeks were mirroring the bandana as he pulled it down to rest around his neck.

“G-Gabby,” he repeated, tipping his hat to her even as his eyes dutifully avoided her. She’d seen them sweep her full attire in their widened shock in that first moment, and it had put him on the back foot, so cute. “What can I do for ya, Ms. Gabby?”

She reached over and put a hand on his arm, giving him a little shove but keeping her grip firmly on his rock hard bicep. He looked down at the point of contact, and then up toward her, finally meeting her eye again.

Boys she thought, so cute, so easy.

“I’m hungry,” she informed him, “what's a girl gotta do to get some lunch around here?”

He took in her big innocent eyes, and probably was not consciously aware of the gentle squeeze she gave his arm, but it disarmed him nonetheless and he smiled at her.

“That can be arranged ma’am.” She was barely aware of his exaggerated drawl, his lazy half smile had brought out a dimple in the smile line of his left cheek and it did funny things to her pulse.

-o-o-o-

"There's no way I'm eating that," Gabby told him flat out.

He’d suggested a ride down the lane to this food truck she’d heard Fleur mention. Gabby was not quite up to riding a unicorn, even if the cowboy’s calico stead was mild mannered as far as she’d seen it, so he'd gone alone.

She sat on a picnic table in the shadow of a towering oak tree, boots up on the bench. He hadn't taken more than ten minutes to get back to her, bounty in lap.p

"C’mon Ms. Gabby, give it a try." He was standing at her side, just far enough away to be casual, just close enough she could reach out and brush her leg against him if she tried.

"I can see the fat from here," she deadpanned, looking at the afternoon sun glint off fat marbled into the beef cuts he had on little paper trays.

"That's what makes it so good!" he insisted, and he laughed for the first time that she’d heard. It was worse than the dimple for her train of thought, and she just listened for its duration, a little dazed.

He was holding a small cut of the stringy meat in his fingers, liquid fat running down into his palm sickeningly. She reached out and took the morsel, reluctantly, because that damnable dimple made her heart skip a beat in the wake of his laugh.

She got the bite from her hand to her mouth as fast as possible, and without thinking, she reached out and wiped her greasy palm on his knee with a shudder. She chewed and the brisket exploded in her mouth, washing the smoky taste of char across her tongue, the meat melted, cutting the strong smoke flavor with the gentle flood of the fatty juices.

Her eyes went wide, and she only contained a moan of delight through sheer will.

It was damn good. That was going to be a problem.

His cheeks went a little pink, and she realized she was still gripping his knee from her emergency degreasing move. She grinned at him, and left her hand there.

“Okay, that was pretty good,” she told him, tone playful and clearly only half-impressed.

“Okay,” he said, catching on, and his easy return banter was a pleasant surprise after so many shy blushes. “I suppose I’ll have to just finish both of these.”

“Well-” she was quick to contradict, “I’ll have mine, just to save you a trip back up there for a replacement lunch.”

His eyebrow quirked, dimple reappearing, and he passed her the already grease stained white and red checkered paper tray.

“Though we could’ve done with some cutlery,” she observed dryly.

"Nah, use your hands!” he said, and she recognized the challenge in his eyes. “That's what makes it finger lickin’ good!"

Oh she thought, bless his heart.

"Are you offering?" she asked with a salacious smile, and it was her turn to flash dimples as his face reddened. Confident that her flirting had been received and, given time, returned- she reached over to capture his wrist and raise his brisket-y fingers to her lips.

With a challenge in her eyes, she held him in a stare, and Luc knew he had likely met his match and more. She took his seasoned digits into her mouth and cleaned them herself, never breaking that look they shared, and she smiled as his whole body shook.

He was in serious trouble.

The soldiers stood in awe at the figure seemingly cloaked in nothing. The only reason they could currently see them was because of the blood that stained the cloak showing their outline. But even that was slowing disappearing as the rain washed it away.

The figure had saved their lives. They came in a flash of lightning seemingly bringing the storm with them. They appeared and changed the tide of battle, hacking and slashing their way through it clad in a cloak of invisibility, an eerie green glow coming from under the hood. In their right hand a silver sword encrusted with rubies the color of blood.

It, not he nor she, it. It was a monster, an angel of death.

When there were no longer enemies within reach, it would seemingly disappear in a gust of wind as it reappeared by another enemy cutting it down. Spells and swords flew at the figure but nothing hit its mark besides the lightning striking at its enemies and of course its sword.

Once all of the enemies were slain, the lightning stopped as did the green glow. It just stood there in the downpour letting the blood wash off to the red mud below, the sword retreating back into the confines of the cloak.

The soldiers hardly dared to breath let alone move until what little was left of the figure disappeared in a gust of wind to another part of the battlefield as lightning streaked the sky and thunder was heard once again.

Harry was trapped on the far edge of the Black Lake. On what should have been a bright night due to the full moon, the sky was instead as dark as the lake that reflected it, due to the sheer amount of dementors.

Harry stood over his godfather, protecting both of them from said horde of dementors. While Harry was protecting them, that was all he was doing. He could push them back as they only came down a few at a time, but they simply flew back to the horde as new ones took their place. His stag patronus was simply not enough.

Harry was tiring, his stag’s light visibly decreasing. He needed a new plan, the dementors wouldn’t give up before he ran out of power, however; he couldn’t think of anything that could harm a dementor let alone a horde except . . . that could work. Surprisingly, Harry had been in a similar situation before. Last year, none of the spells he knew could damage a 1,000 year old basilisk. After the incident, Harry found a spell that could help in this kind of situation.

[7:07 PM] Harry prepared himself, he knew he would need to be quick. Right after his patronus drove the last pair of dementors off, he let it dissipate into the air as he cut his hand with a quick charm. He squeezed his hand increasing the flow of blood as he threw it in a haphazard circle around himself and his grandfather. As soon as he was done he started chanting.

“OMNES IGNIS DEVORANTIS!”

He finished the start of the chant in the nick of time as a wave of fire burst from the blood on the ground driving back and singing the incoming dementors. The fire started to spread uncontrolled in its pursuit of fuel. “All consuming fire, take this blood as an offering, take this magic as an offering. Burn my enemies. Let their bodies satiate your hunger. Burn these monstrosities. Let your flames bring light to this night!”

After he finished the final part of the chant, the fire surged forward towards the horde. The fire almost seemed to leap from one dementor to the next leaving nothing but ash. Harry kept pouring as much magic into the fire as possible as it pushed against the cold exuded by the soul-sucking demons. The fire gradually took on a green hue as Harry pushed more magic into it.

[7:07 PM] Finally, the last dementor was consumed and Harry was barely managing to stand. The fire changed directions headed his way before slowing and forming a solid mass. First hair appeared from the flames floating in the heat, a startling shade of white as it reflected the rays of the newly uncovered moon. Then hands and feet formed, touching the ground softly. And… Harry knew he was tired because she wasn’t wearing any clothes, and it was very much a she. Exhaustion finally caught up with Harry and he passed out, falling forward, and right into the arms of the mysterious woman.

“My, my, that is rather forward of you.” She joked as she gently lowered him to the ground. She slowly stroked his hair, he unconsciously leaned into her warmth. “It seems you will be seeing more of me as our contract is not yet complete.” she whispered, tracing his scar. “Besides, it has been almost 500 years since someone has properly tried to summon me. I believe I will stick around for a while.”

I had no clue how I wanted to end this one for a long time, but I eventually settled on this, leaving it open ended.

Rain falls on the burning town. There are only two beings still alive within. The moon is covered by clouds as dark as the smoke from the destroyed buildings. In a pile of rubble one figure stands over another. Both figures are breathing heavily, trying to catch their breath.

It should have been a fairytale ending, the Hero had triumphed over the Monster, but the Hero did not feel triumphant. The Monster hadn’t fought with malicious intent. It was scared, lashing out in fear of dying, like a wounded animal. The Hero was surprised at how young the Monster’s face looked. It could not have been but a few years younger than she was.

“Any last words Monster?” The Hero asked after reclaiming her breath.

“My only regret is that I did not attempt to escape from my cage sooner.” He was still trying to regain his breath. “Maybe then I would have been able to see more of this world.” As she raised her sword once more he asked, “I would like to know your name?”

She knew she shouldn’t tell him, but she also knew what it felt like to be in a cage. “I am a hero known as the Fiery Flower of France, Fleur Delacour.”

A small smile spread across his face as he heard her name and title. “I do not wish to die, but I am glad that if I must, a hero will do it. I’ve always wanted to meet one.”

Fleur could not bring herself to return the smile or ask the name of the Monster, it would only make killing him…it harder. As the Hero prepared to lower her sword she whispered, “My condolences Monster.”

Weary from a long day of work, the crack of apparition was a welcome moment of exhalation. Appearing in the entrance way of his apartment, tension shot like a bullet pulling his shoulders tightly. Eyes alert, coughing from the smoke Harry pulled his wand, casting a Bubblehead charm and cautiously traversed to the center of the smoke. Arm taught, lethal spells at the ready, he was not prepared for Fleur to be coughing pulling out a tray of burnt something from the oven.

Tension releasing, he waved his wand like a conductor, dispelling the smoke as if it never existed.

"Evening love."

Fleur flinched hard. Turning to look over at him, belly only recently rounding with the child on the way.

"'Arry! You're home" Flustered, embarrassment radiated from Fleur.

"What's going on?"

"Zis petit cochon wanted your macarons. And you were not 'ere."

Harry didn't say anything. He just strode forwards pulling her into his arms and kissed her, passionately.

"I love you so much."

With his chin tucking her into his arms, the embarrassment fled, replaced with the safety and love he radiated.

"She still wants your macarons, mon amie."

The rumble of his laugh was delicious. She never got tired of how warm it made her feel.

"Ok. If he is going to be craving lots of macarons, I'm just going to have to show you how to make them."

Harry vanished the burnt macarons, reset the oven, cleared the counter top and summoned the necessary utensils and ingredients.

Gently, Harry turned her around to face the counter. He came in close, groin directly against her arse, breath heavy against her ear, and hands gliding from behind across their child to hover above her hands. Her breath hitched.

"First, we'll beat the egg whites in a bowl until they are white and foamy."

Following his directions was difficult. Having him whisper things into her ear whilst tilting to grab things made her painfully aware of just how close they were standing. It wasn't a position she usually had to think in.

When the egg whites were foamy, Harry leaned forwards capturing Fleur's earlobe in his mouth, scraping his teeth across them. Fleur moaned.

"'Arry."

Voice, deeper, and thick with arousal, Harry continued.

"Now you've got to mix in the confectioner's sugar until the mixture is at soft peaks."

Barely, able to focus, Harry's right hand took hold of her's from above, guiding the mixer.

She could feel it growing behind her in excitement too.

Without intending, her hips began to gyrate against him.

Growling, Harry continued.

"Gently, fold in the almond flour."

And then he was gone.

Fleur nearly cried, not sure whether she wanted him throw the bowl away and take her against the table or relieved that she could breath now.

"I'll pipe them into their shapes and then we'll have an hour to wait."

It took more than an hour for them to remember they had macarons to put in the oven.

Somewhere in the near distance, artillery pounded a second sunset into the night sky.

Even if he couldn’t hear the cracks, he could see them from all these miles away. Dark silhouettes and blackened plumes of smoke rose in long fingers, choking the world and all that lived beneath them. The sky lit up in motley hues of explosive colours, flares of terror that echoed his aching heartbeat.

For every moment he thought the barrage might abate, the resistance in the towns around them breathing a last, gasping breath, it renewed again. It was cruel like that, waiting until sleep might lull him into its grasp, finally freeing him from this day of days before he was shaken awake with booming guns and the tremors they carried, tolling like funeral bells.

It was almost enough to drive a man insane.

Soon, he decided it’d be a futile effort and left the thoughts of sleep and chased, as he had for some nights now, comfort in the bottom of wine bottles.

“If you’re going to drink my wine, the least you could do is offer me some,” a voice called across the room, forcing him to squint to make it out. “It’s common courtesy, you know.”

“You seem to have more than enough lying around here,” he said, letting red run past his lips. “By all means, find yourself a bottle.”

“And they say chivalry is dead.”

“No,” he disagreed. “But just about everything else out there is.”

When the next flash came and lit up the room, he caught sight of her sullen features. Light cast long shadows down her face and, for the moment he found her eyes, hers darted away just as quickly. She wrapped herself in her torn shawl like a beggar would the robes of a King and turned away from him, leaving him to his drink.

Looking to the window, “they’re getting closer,” she said. “It won’t be long now.”

“I bet they are,” he whispered, not wanting to entertain the thought.

There hadn’t been a chance to get a good look at her—he was sheltering in a stranger’s home and nothing felt so unkind as to repay her hospitality by passing judgement on how she held her hair or dusted her cheeks. But, with wine and the ever-present possibility that morning might not come, he allowed himself to indulge in the occasional rudeness.

He did not see her for what she had, bright eyes that sat like stars in the sockets of twilights or the remnants of makeup that might’ve wooed guests in another life. No, he didn’t see her for what she had but rather, what she didn’t. In her cheeks and the muscles of her jaw she carried atrophy—the remnants of the war clung to her like a second skin.

The pang of guilt that found him was strong enough that he stumbled to his feet, much to her quiet surprise, and passed her what was left of the bottle. Without a second’s hesitation, it found her lips and emptied itself into her mouth.

With the fondest smile he could muster, he imagined a time his mother might have told him off for daring to associate with women that would drink straight from a bottle.

Then, when she had finished the bottle, in a final, liberating act, she tossed it hard against the wall, shattering it and tearing up the wallpaper. She laughed, perhaps at the wine or perhaps at the absurdity of it all. He sat down beside her and laughed too, even if it didn’t feel like he should.

“Another bottle?” He suggested once her laughter had calmed down and gravity returned them to earth.

“Please,” she said and returned to wrapping her thin shawl around her arms. “I… uh, I didn’t catch your name earlier.”

Cringing slightly as he took to his feet, “James,” he said. “I apologise for not being the most hospitable guest, you’ve been kind.”

“The world is on fire, you’ve got the right to feel mad about it,” she said as he began to search shelves for a second bottle. “Somewhere to your left,” she directed him.

James offered her a slight smile, not that she’d make it out in the darkness, “and you?”

“Pardon?”

“I didn’t catch your name either,” James said. “I suppose fearing for your life does that to you.”

“I suppose it does. It’s Aimee.”

Clicking his tongue as he tested the word, “Aimee,” he said, “it’s a pretty name.”

He could hear the frown in her voice, “I’m spoken for.”

“Luckily, I wasn’t proposing.”

Searching for another bottle, his eyes crossed the parts of the room still visible. There was a charm to the destruction, torn wallpaper and scattered furniture fighting a war all their own.

Once upon a time, he imagined it might’ve once smelt of saffron and been filled with silks.

Now it smelt of sulfur and smoke and was filled with sorrows.

Trying to busy the conversation while he busied his hands, “it’s a nice house,” he said.

“My husband’s mother owns—owned it,” she said.

Biting his top lip, “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s fine,” she brushed off quickly. “No harm done, we’ve all lost someone these days.”

A war raged and she was alone, amidst the ruins of her house, with the thoughts of her husband. It took no genius to place the pieces together.

Thankfully, his fingers brushed against cold glass and he seized the bottle, turning around with it held high he brandished it like a trophy. The only victory either of them were going to see for some time.

Fiddling with the cork, James could hear her rise from behind him, shifting along the carpet until crackling static and half-legible words filled his ears.

“What are you doing?” He asked before raising the bottle to his lips, the cork finally freed.

“You’ll see,” was her vague reply.

Squinting in the darkness, “No, somehow I don’t think I will,” he said, stepping closer before making a guess. “A… radio?”

“Mhm,” she mumbled. “My husband was always a fan.”

Biting his lip, he didn’t think it wise to push the conversation any further.

As she played with the dial, it slowly shifted between the casualty reports and announcements of the war, calls to arms, and other such things he was better off not hearing.

Stepping around the pieces of furniture he’d mapped out in the dark, he offered her the bottle of wine to which she took a long, gulping mouthful and handed it back, returning to the dials.

Within a few seconds, her ministrations had produced music blaring in patches, momentary symphonies filling the room. A reaching hand found his own in the darkness and squeezed tightly.

Taken aback by the sudden gesture, “what are you doing?” He asked.

“We’re going to dance,” she said as if her words explained it all.

“Excuse me?”

She had the good nature to look abashed at the odd request, “It’s the little things that’ll make you feel better,” she explained. “When I was a girl, it was dancing, I might as well try it again to see if it’ll work again. Because I really wouldn’t mind feeling better.”

“I—I’ve never really danced before,” he stammered, looking for an excuse, “and I don’t think it’d do much good anyway.”

Especially not with strangers, in the dark, in a war, he thought.

But if any day was a day for firsts, it was today.

“You won’t know if it’ll work if you don’t try, will you?”

Seizing the lull in the conversation, she practically leapt forward and forced his other hand into hers before adjusting the first to his shoulder. Tentatively, he allowed his own to find the small of her back.

“Really, I’ve never done—” he tried.

Breathing a soft, gusty sigh, “it’s easy, even if you don’t know how to, trust me. You just… move.”

Then, she began swaying and carried him along with her, unwilling as he was.

He tried desperately to avoid her toes as they rocked back and forward like a listing ship on unsteady seas.

“It’s alright,” she soothed his wounded pride before absentmindedly adding, “You’re not from here, are you?”

“You’ve just noticed?” He asked, “It wasn’t the butchered accent?”

“It was,” she said. “I’m just polite.”

“No,” he said. “I’m not. England, Birmingham.”

“You’re far from home, why is that?”

Swallowing the emotions that rose in his throat, “Personal reasons, I suppose,” he said. “My dad, he, well, didn’t make it out of the last war. I never got the chance to know him so I thought I’d, you know, try and find some… reason for it—anything.”

“And did you?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry,” her lips quirked slightly upwards.

He shrugged, “nothing to be sorry about, you didn’t do it.”

“So, instead, you’ve found a war of your own?”

“Instead, I found my own,” he confirmed. “And if I was smart, I would’ve left it all behind when I saw trouble but I didn’t. Pride, maybe. Wanted to tell my mum I finally found something over here.”

She shrugged, “Maybe, but don’t blame yourself. If the world had more smart people, we probably wouldn’t be here to begin with.”

That got a small smile from him, “Maybe,” he agreed, “I’d agree if I had gotten something out of it, just more questions on why it went the way it did—the way it’s going again.”

“It’ll keep happening too,” she whispered. “It’s simple like that.”

“Oh?”

“I… I’m not so sure how to put it,” she admitted and was silent for a few moments as they moved to the soft beat of the music. “They’re scared, I think, and no one has shown them any different.”

“Scared of what?” James urged her on.

“Of what the world might be like if men can no longer find reasons to hate.”

His brow furrowed, “I’m not sure I follow.”

“That’s all some people can do, they hate and they hate and they hate because they’re built that way and if they don’t have that, what do they have?”

“Nothing, I suppose.”

“Exactly,” she said. “I think they’re scared of life without purpose—hating is the easiest thing there is, most of them have done it all their life, one thing after another. Loving something is harder, you might have to admit the flaws and still care for it anyway. That’s strength they don’t have and I think they’re too scared to find it.”

His breath hitched, “Do you truly believe that?”

“I do,” she said and a particularly large blast from beyond the room allowed him to spy her face and find that she did, instead of atrophy in her eyes and jaw, he found her truth. “But the people who love, in spite of it all, are worth living for—worth fighting for.”

“I don’t think we can put up much of a fight,” he frowned. “What without rifles and tanks, I’d say we’ve lost already.”

“Then I guess we’ll just dance, do the little things. That’s how we’ll show the world we’re still free, that they can’t beat us. That’ll scare them just as much.”

He swallowed, “I think I’m twice as scared as them.”

“Me too,” she whispered, hiding her face. “Just keep dancing.”

And so, they danced till morning.

They danced because even if the world crumbled and told them it might be time to die, that was what free people did first, they lived.

They danced because it was little acts like this, these acts of defiance that kept the hope of humanity alive.

They danced to keep hope burning, embers nestled in wet moss and tinder that kept the world’s spark alive. A flame they could use to reignite the passion in others and show them all a kinder way to live.

They danced because one day, the world would need to remember how to dance again.

And when it did, they’d set it alight.

I looked in the mirror and the face of a stranger looked back. Green eyes greeted me, greener than any I had ever seen; A soft, oval face that was near unrecognizable despite the lingering sense of familiarity, the small change of being unladen from my glasses enough for it to feel like I was looking at someone else. My hair was now, if not tamed, then at least looking far more decent after copious amounts of hair spray. I would say it was wavier now, as opposed to the usual windblown bird nest for it had. The colour of it, however, was not black, but a deep ruby colour that even if it would be hard to pass as natural, looked almost perfectly equal to the woman that was ruffling her own red tinted curls playfully from the picture resting against the looking glass.

Lily Evans.

My father hugged her waist and smiled, full of pride, and then laughed heartily as I did the same and stained my hands. I grimaced with the next blink. Contact lenses would take some getting used to though.

The whole thing was quite a spur of the moment kind of thing, and I was surprised at how well it had turned out, specially as I had only used whatever things Aunt Petunia had laying around. I had no idea why shed keep red hair dye, but I really could not complain, as it had been what had given me the idea in the first place.

The bell rang, making me jump; my aunt and uncle must have gotten back from the store, they always rang to make me go help with the bags. I looked at the mirror once more and breathed in, son of Lily Potter indeed. I guess it was time to see the results.

I jumped the steps in pairs, landing in front of the door without answering to my aunt’s calls, and opened the door. Petunia stood there, her head turned to the street and a paper bag filled with groceries on her chest. She looked towards me and I could tell it took her a moment to register. I saw confusion first, then fear, her eyes widening and her face paling.

The bag fell to the floor, spilling vegetables all over the foyer. She stepped back, mouth opening and closing in an unsuccessful attempt at wording... Something.

“You- your- Lily- What- Vernon! VEEEEEEERNON!”

It would be hard to tell what was faster, uncle Vernon reaching the door or the nosy neighbour across the street peeking out. Vernon’s reaction was similar, if more muted. Now I had two people gawking at me, one looking dangerously pale while the other went dangerously puce.

The neighbour chose that very inopportune moment to crack a laugh, and Vernon started wheezing like a deflating ball. I felt my heart start thumping faster, and my legs primed to run; It still took me a conscious effort to make myself stand straight and glare back at him, even after five years.

“Get inside!” he whistled, his moustache quivering under the pressure of his exertion.

I stood still, back straight and looked at him for a couple seconds, until I saw the twitch on the corner of his eye that I knew would come, and just as he was about to speak again, I got inside. Petunia crouched and pawed at the floor hurriedly, picking up what she could while Vernon stomped behind me. I knew I was in trouble now, but whatever punishment it would be absolutely worth it.

I only hoped that the people of my world, of my mother’s world would be as moved about my changed looks, and that maybe, just maybe, I could then hear more about that shadowy figure that lurked in my past. That woman that had given me everything she had, everything she was.

That woman I could barely remember.