Chapter 12
France's Sweetheart
In which surprises simmer and love boils over
Fleur found that she didn't hate it when they got back home and Arianne wanted the play-by-play account of her father's games detailed in the collection of newspapers. Perhaps she really was growing to accept their youngest daughter's impending quidditch-ness. Watching her beautiful little chick chirp away excitedly, demanding retellings and referencing the old weathered papers, she couldn't help a swell of emotions that blocked her throat.
She was still Fleur Delacour, even if she was actually Fleur Potter, so she wouldn't allow herself to cry for such a silly reason. She took their plates from the table, and swatted her husband's hands away when he tried to relieve her of the burden.
"Your daughter wants stories." Arianne was delighted by her mother's backup, and the two of them sat at the kitchen table while she began the cleaning.
"Okay, which one mon petite bout de chou?" Harry spread a selection of papers on the table and their daughter picked the first one. His first victory in the leagues, which made the national papers because the famous Harry Potter, rookie seeker coveted by the whole league, picked the worst team and the nation watched him carry them.
"Ah, your mother's favorite!" He teased and she retrieved the stem of a bell pepper from the cutting board and flicked it at him across the kitchen.
-o-o-o-
Harry spent the night with Fleur before his first game.
It was far more chaste than it sounded, but not chaste enough to regale his young daughter with the tale. After she turned up at his apartment and bullied him out of his pregame nerves she dragged him back home and into her bed and they slept. After an appropriate amount of mind-melting body-numbing kisses under the blankets, of course. During their school days, she'd filled this role, despite her loud and frequent protests to the game itself, in an altogether innocent capacity. It usually consisted of forced studying and making him eat the day before the game. If this was the new meta for dealing with pregame jitters he would not be complaining. He woke before dawn though and cajoled her into waking and apparating him back to Paris with more kisses, and tickling when that failed.
Her effect on him lasted all through his meager breakfast, and it wasn't until he was dressed in the blue and orange Chomelix quidditch leathers and standing in the gym that his nerves returned.
Professional teams had coaches. In school, they just had a captain that took care of most of the strategy crafting. Harry didn't know how to handle the politics of a professional team then, and being sixteen didn't help.
Chomelix was a bottom of the ranks team, they'd never won a national championship, and their ranks were mostly filled with young players just getting their foot in the door. He picked them to make his own victory look all the better, he only had one season of play before the national team would get picked and start the European leagues. His own hesitancy to take charge of the team would die after their first game, it was a near loss.
The Sharks' chasers were not the best, the green flyers were aged in their low twenties. Their keeper was positively ancient for a professional athlete at forty, they struggled to keep up through the first hour of play and ended it with a forty point deficit. The Bludgerbeaters were ironically not the most aggressive of teams, but their offensive line could fly circles around Chomelix. Their seeker was overconfident though, either he hadn't done proper research on Harry, or he had far too high an opinion of himself.
He tried to lead Harry into a Wronski Feint about thirty minutes in. Harry suspected it was a ploy but he could hardly let the other seeker go uncontested just in case. The problem with that particular tactic was you had to be the more confident flyer if you were going to be instigating it. They were neck and neck in the dive and Harry could see clearly there was no snitch but he let himself be led and he kept diving after his opponent pulled up. He leveled off just over the ground and then pulled up to shoot into the path of the other seeker cutting him off and forcing an awkward direction change.
He spent the next ten minutes harassing him. He would cut him off and herd him into difficult rolls and pivots to avoid a collision and it had the effect of sapping the confidence from the opposition. It wasn't until he caught sight of the scoreboard that he let the poor seeker be and returned to really looking for the snitch.
It was an easy enough catch once he caught sight of it. Flitting around one of his teammates' boots. He used his allies' presence to help pin the ball between them and reached back and snatched it as it tried to get clear of his body.
The entire thing took an hour and a half and they ended with a 40 point lead. The opposing team was beside themselves with shock, they didn't realize they'd lost, they were still trying to score after the whistle blew. For what it was worth Chomelix were a little befuddled themselves, they didn't really know what to do with such a decisive victory. Half seemed to want to perform one of the flying group hugs quidditch teams were wont to do but the other half weren't quick enough to catch on. As a result, the two beaters collided with each other but without more joining them it just looked like an embarrassing mistake.
Harry didn't help matters, immediately after snatching the snitch he shot into the stands. He leaped from his broom a few feet up and out from the edge and landed with a heavy thud of boots on planks. The Chomelix side of the stands were not packed. No important officials or rich benefactors really cared about their games.
Fleur beamed at him as he landed and he scooped her into his arms in a hug. It was that embrace that they caught for the papers, and it started a bit of a craze in the media.
-o-o-o-
"The last peaceful months of my life." Fleur lamented wistfully as she finished the last of the cookware and moved on to the plates.
"You loved it." Harry accused, snorting his amusement.
Arianne looked between her parents and if Fleur had been paying attention she could have seen the moment her second daughter began looking at her parents as people with a love story worth appreciating. Of course, it required quidditch as a catalyst for this particular little chick.
"Loved what?" She asked and Fleur tried to head her off with a quick:
"Nothing."
But as was so often true Arianne had eyes only for her father, who said:
"Being famous." He grinned at his daughter in a way that brought out her own smile.
"Oh please," Fleur dismissed, sending a stream of soap suds across the little space to pop harmlessly against Harry's chest. "You would've drowned without me, I was doing you a favor…"
-o-o-o-
"Hiya Harry!"
Bill was the first on him as he released Fleur, and she had the pleasure of watching him go purple. Bill caught his hand and shook vigorously, and then launched into a detailed and loving account of the game, he was so enthused and involved in praising Harry's flying he failed to notice Elise and Gabby glaring at his back as he dominated their seeker's time. Fleur didn't help, because it was sweet sweet vindication to watch Harry struggle to reconcile this Bill with the villain he'd created in his head.
"T-Thanks-'' He stuttered, overwhelmed by his first real fan, not someone he shared classes with, not family, but a complete stranger enamored by his quidditch prowess. "I 'ope I put on a good show."
It was odd to hear him speak English, a funny thought given his heritage, but Fleur had grown used to her own bilingual life in London. Harry on the other hand rarely did. It seemed his accent had grown thicker since the Triwizard Tournament.
"Okay Bill, you must share 'Arry." Fleur said, jerking her head toward the rest of the team. Who'd eventually found their way into the stands with them once they realized where their seeker was. She could not help the look of absolute and unyielding smug victory she gave Harry as he turned away from Bill, he looked equal parts guilty and embarrassed.
They were ushered out of the stands and down into the bowels of the stadium, the players were given only enough time to pull their team jerseys over their leathers and then they were being herded onto a little platform before an assortment of press. It was a small crowd to be completely fair, this team was not expected to win, but news that Harry Potter was on it had drawn perhaps a few extra cameras. His teammates were looking a little nervous at the attention, evidently they were not used to it either, but none looked worse than Harry as he stepped into the light.
Fleur should not be on this stage.
She was supremely aware of that fact, and it made her cheeks go a bit pink, as she stared out at the flashing bulbs of photographers. Harry had just won his first professional quidditch game, and though he was the youngest and newest member of his team, the media had eyes only for him. She had the misfortune of being attached to him at the hand, so they had eyes for her by proxy, and she wasn't quite prepared to be in newspapers.
"Mr. Potter!" A reporter was fighting for dominance, wanting to be heard, and Harry was mortified by all this attention. He looked like he wanted to be sick, facing these people was worse than preparing for a big game if his countenance was anything to go by.
"Yes?" He pointed to the shouting young man, really only a year or two older than Fleur probably. His youth was why he'd been selected.
"What're your plans for the coming season?" He asked. Harry leaned forward slightly to speak too-closely into the magical microphone.
"Er- to win it?" There was a smattering of chuckles at this, the reporter looked a little put out by the unhelpful answer, and Harry blushed slightly at the laughter.
"Who's your girlfriend?!" Another voice shouted and Harry went truly red at this and looked over at her. She turned to meet his look, and a smile split her face because he looked so cute flushing so scarlet, it reminded her of the little English boy she'd met all those years ago before he'd grown cocky and hot.
"F-Fleur, Fleur Delacour." He said, still leaning too close to the mic, more flashbulbs exploded. She supposed that was it then, they'd never really discussed particulars after last night's coupling, but he'd just confirmed it for the nation. Probably the world, given his personal fame. Never mind that she'd been claiming him for years now, to people in England and once to Victor Krum, he didn't need to know that.
There were a few more questions, and because Harry was a team player he fielded them to his teammates to give them their time in the spotlight as well.
Those lucky reporters present printed their stories, but it didn't really matter until a few games into the season, the reprints were the money makers. No one expected Chomelix's rise to power, but they took the French leagues by storm. Emboldened by his success and reassured that his skills weren't limited to being the best on the schoolyard, Harry took charge of the team like he had the Aigels years ago.
Their second game saw an offensive line that was admittedly not even quite up to his old team's standard, but they were at least functional and they used his plays to moderate success. They won their second game by 70 points, and their third by 100. With the magical sports world of France baffled, the masses worked themselves into a lather at the meteoric rise of the underdog. Those first few reporters that were thereafter the first game had the pictures and interviews that were later spread around at large.
It was worse for Harry than it was for Fleur, he was living in Paris, he was accessible 24/7, and the media loved him. Perhaps his shy and obviously uncomfortable demeanor fueled it, or his penchant for short comedic answers that made for good quick quotes. Whatever it was he was making the Oracle on a regular basis, not just after games, and often enough Fleur was right there by his side.
They had his routes and spots down pat. Harry usually jogged the couple miles from his apartment to the gym for training, at least he had until midway through the season when people started speculating that Chomelix might actually win this year, at which point the paparazzi quickly mapped out his life with cold efficiency.
He spent most of his free time in England after that, for that very reason, and while it didn't fully fix the problem it at least helped. They were accosted on dates around Diagon Alley, but one or two photographers and a journalist beat the teams of news people sure to hound them in France. Bill and Ted were big help, they loved to run interference on hopeful reporters, and too many of those early dates amounted to sitting in the dingey corner of the Leaky Cauldron, being shielded from sight by the burly curse breakers.
-o-o-o-
"I planned excellent dates!" Harry protested, Fleur was spooning ice cream into a bowl for their daughter. Neither of them noticed they held Arianne's full attention, normally such deviation from quidditch talk wouldn't be allowed unless Liliane was present to feed it.
"You did," Fleur allowed, setting the dessert down in front of her little chick, who dug in halfheartedly, too preoccupied with following her parent's conversation like a tennis match. "It is not your fault they were so often ruined."
He grinned, indignation forgotten, "We need to have Bill around some time, he's a good bloke."
Fleur sighed in resignation. "I get the impression his wife doesn't allow it, we have sent invitations after all." She turned to look at her daughter, and finally, Fleur realized that Arianne was beaming and eager to hear more.
"Jealous witches forbid friendships," she told her precious little chick, reaching over to stroke her down-soft Veela hair. It was a sort of bleak children's rhyme amongst Veela. One that didn't even rhyme, and was altogether too prophetic to be light-hearted. Arianne rolled her eyes, because she had no interest in being friends with any stupid boys, besides Jean-Luc at least.
"How'd your dates get ruined?" She queried, looking between her parents.
They both laughed as if on cue. "Oh, lots of ways." He said.
"Any way you can think of…"
-o-o-o-
Fleur had never been happier.
Christmas was fast approaching, she'd been 'dating' Harry for almost six months, it was a cold winter Saturday afternoon and she was getting ready for his arrival by portkey. It was odd to think of Harry as her boyfriend, odd to date him, everything between them felt simultaneously exactly the same and wildly different.
He was still her little eagle, begrudging every second he wasn't in the air and dominating the French leagues just as he had Beauxbatons'. He was still equal parts cocky and shy, and so endearing in his obvious discomfort around people that weren't her or her family. It was easy to be around him because he'd been central to her life for years now, and her newfound license to torture him with kisses was only an improvement.
The problem, and it wasn't really a problem, came from his newfound ability to turn that cocky charm on her and melt her into a puddle. It wasn't something he did often, for which she was thankful, but his delight at it had no end when he did indulge.
"Fleur?"
She could hear his muffled call through her door, and she was presentable enough to call out "In here!" in invitation.
She heard her bedroom door open, and then a creak as the cracked bathroom door was pushed open. A little plastic wand was applying mascara to her lashes for her, so she could do little more than move her eyes to meet his in the mirror. A smile tugged at her lips as she saw the dumbfounded look on his face.
She stood, the silken folds of her gown shifting and settling against her, and she reached out with her allure to feel his lust and adoration at the sight of her. She did not feed it, or alter it, she just felt it because it was nice to be appreciated. He was dashing, dressed in a tailored three-piece in slate gray, his pale blue shirt matching her gown. He was starring it her with a dumb look and red face that had nothing to do with her allure, so she crossed the little space to reach up and press a kiss onto him that was designed to feed that fire burning in his eyes.
They had not yet moved past kissing, well, not too far past at least. This was mostly because Harry, suave and devilish as he was, was still rather innocent. She was ready for more, but if she pushed him too far he became a blushing fumbling mess. She would be lying if she said she did not sometimes brush up against that line just to watch him flounder.
This kiss danced near that line, the only reason she didn't push it further was that she'd spent the last hour on this makeup and had no intention of redoing it. He was red and hot under the collar when she peeled herself off him and gave him a cheeky smirk.
Point one to Fleur tonight.
"Come mon coeur, we'll miss Valjean in prison if you dither anymore." It took him a second to regain control of himself, but she just took his arm and tugged him toward the front door, privately delighted in her victory. He helped her into a warm fur-lined cloak at the door, and they set off into the English winter evening.
It was raining.
The one complaint Fleur had with England that not even a year and a half could soften the edges on was how often it rained. It wasn't so bad in Diagon Alley, where their enchanted umbrellas created a sort of gazebo of dry space around them, but they were crossing the Leaky Cauldron into the muggle west end.
Past the pub it was muggle umbrellas and partial coverage at best.
They were too close to the Palace Theatre here to warrant hailing a cab, it was just a few blocks down from Charing Cross. Harry at least did his best to shield her with his umbrella, he got a few drops on his back for his efforts, but she hugged him closer for the sacrifice.
"Again, why are we seeing this?" He asked as they trotted down the street as fast as her heels allowed. They evened the playing field considerably, she was almost eye to eye with him when she stood in them, but he was not done growing quite yet. If the last few months were any indication he would soon be out of the range she could correct for with footwear.
Then all hope would be lost surely.
"Because, it is French." She told him with exaggerated patience, as if he was daft to ask.
"Well, yeah- and we've seen it in France."
"Would you prefer to take in an English play?" She asked haughtily and he chuckled.
"Okay, point Fleur." She gave his waist a squeeze with the arm wrapped around his side and smirked over at him.
It only took one photographer, especially in crowded high end places like the Palace Theatre. Magical paparazzi were not often out in muggle london, not in any force, their enchanted cameras were dated. They could not use digital cameras to create the moving images they used, so they stood out in a mundane crowd.
They still did it, it was usually just isolated. The problem with being surrounded by muggles is they would respond to people having their picture taken. They had their own paparazzi, and tourists walking around with their little wind up disposable cameras. One quick: "Smile for the Prophet!" and a flash and suddenly other people were turning. More flashes going off, they would look back on the photos later and wonder who these random people were, but in the moment they just didn't want to miss the opportunity.
-o-o-o-
"That's not a ruined date." Arianne said exasperatedly, rolling her eyes and turning her focus predominantly to her ice cream. She had the air of someone just realizing the drunk person at the bar was telling nothing but lies.
Arianne had grown up in the public eye, she and Liliane had never walked the streets with their parents without drawing the attention of someone. It was better for her, who had been born two years after her father's retirement, things were calmer for her, usually just fans approaching them in Paris or at dinner. Liliane had been dragged through paparazzi and plastered on front pages. Liliane Potter was once France's sweetheart. It was that notoriety that drove them into isolation once he retired, not wanting to raise their daughter in that environment.
The effect was that the little girl was unimpressed with her parents' complaints about their dating life.
"Well," said Fleur, feathers ruffled. "At the time it felt like it," she defended weakly.
"So, after the miserable-" Harry trailed off, because he had just realized what she'd realized halfway through telling that particular story; that was the night they took their budding relationship to the next level.
He cleared his throat, but their daughter was too attentive to the story.
"The miserable?" She asked her father, who was panicking, Fleur could read it on his face that he didn't know what to say.
"Oui, les misérables." Fleur told her daughter, "A very famous musical."
"What about?"
"The French Revolution," she told her, picking the bit most likely to interest her and carry the conversation on to the play and away from what happened next. It was unnecessary, in the face of being told about a musical she seemed to have exhausted her idle interest, she turned back to her father.
"So you won the tournament and married maman?" She clarified, half remembering a lifetime of quidditch stories.
"Non, little chick…"
-o-o-o-
Harry had never known such nerves.
Nothing in all the years of his school, nor in the year leading up to this moment, could hold a candle to what he felt now. Half a glance around the locker room showed that his teammates weren't fairing any better. It was a warm spring day and they were getting ready to walk out onto the pitch and face the Quafflepunchers in the finals. They all had the same haunted look in their eyes, it signalled a feeling Harry could identify in his own stomach, one of growing horror and imposter syndrome.
Fleur had come into Paris the night before and stayed in his apartment with him, in recent pregame fashion she'd thoroughly exhausted him before bed, and then when he woke she'd pulled him back into bed to steal away some more of his nerves. Usually that much of Fleur's attention could kill whatever feelings she was trying to eradicate but this time the anxiety began to regrow as soon as he was out of the apartment. The jog to the gym was not a tenth as long as he wished it would be.
The door opened and the coach entered, Harry suddenly felt like blessing the man as he moved about, giving stern reassurances and reminders as he flitted between players.
"Alright Harry?" the older man asked when he reached him. Harry couldn't muster a smile, but he at least gave a sort of jerky nod. "Matisse is just as quick as you," he continued, slapping a hand onto Harry's shoulder. "You'll have to rely on snitch work or sheer stupidity to get the snitch out from under her." Harry was proficient at both of those things, he grimaced his best attempt at a smile and nodded again.
They needn't have worried so much. It was a relatively short game, only about three quarters of an hour.
The Quafflepunchers' chasers were extraordinary. Leagues beyond what Moulin, Lavigne, and Blanchet could do. The Sharks' beaters were surprisingly the better though, and they harried the chaser plays with brutal efficiency so that they could not complete a third of their plays. It was 60 to 30 in Quiberon's favor when Harry spotted the snitch. He was rounding the opposition's goal hoops, and dipping down to circle below the game, when the flash of gold caught his eye high above. It was hovering above the game, almost directly above him, a hundred feet up.
He shot up at it, but he had to weave an active and vigorous game of quidditch being played in his path, and Matisse caught on quickly to his climb and she was more on a level with the prize. He set himself on a course to reach the ball around the time she did, her from the side and he from below. She had her hand extended, and he overshot the ball, climbing past it, it darted away from his back as he passed by and sensed her approach. Pinched between the two seekers it shot up, and he was already in a climb, Matisse tried to pull up, but she'd stalled for a second trying to avoid colliding with his mad ascent.
He herded the ball higher with a tight corkscrew climb and put a comforting distance between them and the enemy seeker. With that protective barrier in place he moved from corralling to capturing, the ball put up a good fight but he chased its back tracking arc and dive in a sloth grip and shot down past the enemy beater who was yelling at her teammate to take aim on him.
It was too late.
He dove closer to the ground than Fleur could stomach to watch, she squeezed her eyes closed and grimaced with her whole body as she waited for the crowd's reactions to tell her what happened. They exploded in shouts and cheers and she could let out a shaky breath and return her eyes to the air. He was speeding toward her, fist raised, little golden wings flapping feebly out the sides.
People actually dove away from her as the blue and orange blur's pathing became apparent, but he pulled up near the edge of the booth and braked considerably before leaping out of the air. She caught him as he landed in a run that brought him to her and kissed him soundly, her hand on the back of his neck holding him in place. It was a heady mixture of shaky relief and intense pride in him that strengthened her hold on him.
When he pulled away it was only to crush her in his arms and she couldn't even bother to be uncomfortable against the hard studded leather on an occasion like this. Her little eagle had just pulled the worst team in France's history out of the dirt and to the top of the mountain. He'd beat every seeker they put in front of him, and was sure to be shortlisted for the national team come next autumn.
"Marry me?"
He'd whispered into her ear while he hugged her, and it was probably not that much of a whisper but it sounded like it in the din of the box as the announcer read off post game sponsor messages and the crowd carried on their thunderous cheers and moans.
He pulled back and she just blinked dumbly at him, suddenly completely deaf to the celebrations around her. He was unbuckling the straps around his chest, loosening the leather armor to get into the robes underneath.
"Harry-" She started, but he was dropping down with a little box and then she was staring at the most beautiful sapphire and diamond ring.
-o-o-o-
Arianne looked at the ring on her mom's finger like she was seeing it for the first time and Fleur proffered her hand. The band was platinum, the main stone a large square cut diamond, with small sapphires around its perimeter. Harry sifted through the papers and then he was passing over the one with a picture of just that proposal on its front. Caught and frozen at the moment Fleur's hands had flown up to her mouth.
"The best thing to come out of that rag," Fleur said with joking derision, she was genuinely thankful she had these pictures now.
Harry snorted so violently he almost choked as he flipped open the paper to look at the article.
"What?!" Fleur had jumped at his outburst and now she glared over at her husband.
"This interview-" He devolved into a cackle. She remembered suddenly and just as suddenly she was lost in a fit of giggles herself. That left their daughter to stare at her parents in annoyed confusion.
-o-o-o-
Harry was not fit to be sitting on such an important panel right now.
None of his team really looked comfortable up there, they were collectively the quiet kid that never got invited to the party, and now they were the life of it. As shy and inexperienced as Harry was with the press, he was usually somewhat of a leader of these things, he would field the first few questions, which always seemed to be more about him than the game. Then when they'd had their fix and were ready to talk quidditch he would play dispatcher to his fellows.
He was high on victory and the kiss and the I love you Fleur had burned into his mind upon him sliding the ring onto her finger though.
"What's next for you with this win under your belt?" A reporter asked him, and he almost appeared not to have heard, after slightly too long of a pause he leaned in and said:
"I'm going to win the world cup."
Which got a healthy laugh from the crowd that faltered a little when he leaned back from the mic with a stoic countenance that Fleur recognized as the dazed aftereffects of her allure. Once a Veela relationship became intimate enough it could be hard to turn off the connection, she knew for a fact that her mother kept her father wrapped up 24/7, they were constantly feeling and sharing emotions with one another.
She and Harry were not quite so bonded, not yet at any rate, but she was extended out to him from in the crowd. Like a hand in his, she brushed against his mind, and that little contact was buzzing with her love and excitement which was reverberating through his head and stupefying him. She couldn't bring herself to sever the connection, but she did force down her own feelings to feed him clarity and confidence. He recovered marginally, and his eyes sought her out.
"And getting married." He added rather than picking out another question to answer. That spawned a new wave of questions now he'd opened that door.
A witch that worked for a ratty celebrity tabloid shouted over the rest: "When's the wedding?"
To her horror, Harry chose to answer by asking her into the microphone: "When is the wedding mon amour?" There were chuckles and people in the audience were turning to find her in their number and then pictures were being taken of her. It was the one time she found herself completely impervious to the assault of their gaze, he grinned so earnestly down to her and it burned away the very concept of embarrassment.
"After you win the world cup." She told him with a smile just for him, looking over the heads of reporters at him on the raised stage.
"After I win the world cup," he agreed.
Then he spent the next five minutes trying to sell her on a wedding in Sweden which she vehemently opposed on grounds of weather. She countered with Spain and the whole conversation took place before a bemused audience.
AN Here we go, fair warning now, i mayyyy not be uploading next Friday night, depends on how these last few chapters want to be written, but this one's a touch late so I'm getting it up! Thank you to my people, y'all know who you are!