Chapter 13
The Perfect Ring
In which Harry helps a friend and Fleur entertains her daughters
"Are you sure?"
"Harry, go!" Fleur mustered up a little venom, trying to play mad and force him out the door. He looked unsure. "Maman and Papa are here, this is my third child. I. Will. Be. Fine." She unfolded and redid his collar because the crease was a little rounded, and he brushed a lock of her hair back in return.
"Come ooooon." Luc groaned, and he looked a little green at their task for the day. Being delayed by a friend unwilling to leave his pregnant wife's side was not helping.
"Okay, okay, I'm coming." Harry placated and he sent a grimace at Fleur as he was jerked out of the house by his friend. He mouthed I love you and she blew him a kiss and contained her eye roll until the door was closed. His concern was sweet, if overbearing, but she was still two months out from her due date. He couldn't start smothering her this soon or they wouldn't make it to childbirth before she blew up on him. The house felt suddenly massive and empty now that he was gone though.
Her parents were in the parlor, or sitting room, or something. She couldn't be bothered memorizing the pretentious names they had for the living room. It was a Tuesday afternoon, she had already begun her work leave, so she had nothing to do but sit around and wait for her son to be born. It was excruciating.
That was why they'd moved to the manor house, her mother wanted to be around to help and they didn't have space in the cottage. She was worried, and not for the first time she cursed her husband for getting her with child when he did, because the chances of her being able to take Liliane back to school for her third year at the end of the summer were slim to none. She waddled into the room and eased herself into an armchair, choosing one that allowed her to look out the windows and see her two little chicks flying over the lawn.
"How's the cottage coming along?" Her mother asked, without looking up from her magazine.
"The new room should be done in time." She said tersely, she didn't have the wherewithal in that moment to feel bad for being short with her mother. Her daughters were racing each other across the yard, and she was not feeling particularly kind at that moment, she should burn those brooms. Since when was Liliane a flyer? She felt betrayed.
Elise hmm'd a response because she knew how to navigate her eldest daughter's moods better than anyone save Harry. Even then it was a toss-up between the two. The deft response did not help Fleur's sudden temper and she scowled at her mother, who had the audacity to say without looking up:
"Do not give me that look little chick, it is not my fault your husband had to go ring shopping."
Richard looked up from his book, her parents were so boring in their retirement, and fought valiantly to keep a grin off his face. He took in the black look she was shooting her mother, got up without a word, and strolled out of the room.
"No, it is Gabrielle's." She said hotly, and never mind the fact that she'd all but pushed him out of the house.
"And Luc Bennet's," Elise cut in, finally looking up to give her daughter an impatient look, "as well as the convention of ring giving, no? Shall we rally the banners and wage war on the notion of love?"
"How many fighting men can the Delacours pledge?" She asked dubiously, but she was fighting a grin now and Elise pursed her lips in faux contemplation.
"Not enough for that fight," she confessed and Fleur returned her eyes to the window, feeling less hateful at the world now. Her daughters were no longer flying around in the air and she was seized by a sudden and irrational panic until the door to the sitting room burst open and Arianne exploded in leading her sister and grandfather.
"Maman what is wrong?!" She flitted over inspecting her reclining pregnant mother in concern.
"Nothing little chick," Fleur said with a laugh, her little baby was not so little anymore, she was nine, soon she would be leaving the nest for school and the world beyond.
"Pépé said you needed help," she said, throwing an accusatory look at her grandfather.
"I said she needed you." Fleur's father corrected, and Fleur was grateful if exasperated at the man's solution to a testy daughter.
"Come and sit." Fleur said, and she made room in the large armchair for Arianne to squeeze in beside her. Arianne did, and she was only somewhat put out about the seating arrangements. Her littlest chick had not taken well to her spot in her mother's lap being stolen by her soon-to-be baby brother, but she was adjusting.
Fleur pulled her daughter in close and set about fiddling with her hair, mother and daughter completely content with the activity.
"You fly very well dear," Elise was saying to Liliane, and her eldest daughter threw a furtive look at her and blushed slightly.
"Yes, you do," Fleur added thoughtfully, "Where did that come from?" Liliane looked conflicted, but her sister took away her chance to demure by loudly and very crossly stating:
"Jean-Luc's been teaching her." Liliane shot her sister a glare worthy of Fleur Delacour's daughter. Arianne was supremely unconcerned, Fleur could feel the resentment and twinge of jealousy coming off her youngest. She suspected the little girl was ignorant to those feelings, but Fleur had long since had her suspicions. Arianne was too young to know why she felt so possessive of Luc's youngest son, but Fleur privately suspected the little boy's days of freedom were numbered. "She's going to be on the racing teams next year."
"Ari!" Liliane shouted in indignation, coloring furiously, and Arianne snickered. Fleur swatted the top of her head gently because she was supposed to have her sister's back, not be snitching on her out of jealousy. She sent a pouty look up at her mother which Fleur ignored.
"That's great!" Richard was saying to his granddaughter, and Fleur could only agree that if it had to be a broom, racing was better than quidditch at least.
"Why would you not ask your father for help?" Elise asked her, and Fleur knew the answer to that so she deflected to spare her daughter the need to answer.
"We will have to get you a proper racing broom," She said and she smiled at the tentative little look of relief her daughter sent her. She was worried her mother would not approve. "These horrid quidditch brooms will not do for you." Arianne scowled up at her mother and Fleur ignored that too.
"Quidditch brooms are fine." Arianne defended. "Much better than those boats the racers use."
"I would like to see you outpace one of those boats on your ridiculous death traps." Fleur countered without any of the venom she'd have launched into the statement if the conversation was with Harry or Luc. "Even your father admits it." She told her youngest who looked surly at that.
"So," Elise said, and Fleur recognized that tone, because it was leveled so often at her and Gabby when Elise felt like being cruel. "This tutelage, is it happening on one broom, or two."
Elise had no way of knowing how her words would affect Arianne, who herself was unaware of why she was scowling so vehemently at her grandmother. Fleur took pity on her children and decided to take charge of the conversation to spare any of them the need to speak.
"If a boy offers to teach you how to fly on his broom, that is not a lesson, it's a date." She told her daughters sagely, Elise's delighted eyes found hers because she was just as content to pick on Fleur as she was her grandkids.
"Your mother is particularly qualified to tell between the two…"
-o-o-o-
Fleur came home one Thursday afternoon in June to the sound of the wireless blaring.
Her front door opened onto the big space that was her living and dining areas in one, to the right was a half wall bar that sectioned off the small kitchen and to the left was the door to her bedroom. The only bathroom was accessed through her room, which wasn't ideal for guests, but she never had guests over anyway.
Presently her little eagle was in the kitchen making something, and not for the first time she had to count herself lucky she'd picked one that cooked. Some obnoxious English punk song was wailing into the room, it was truly horrid, but he was nodding his head along to the beat as he fed Hedwig a little cube of raw beef. The owl was on the counter, tolerating the blaring noise in favor of treats, and happy as can be. It was she who noticed Fleur first and took flight to greet her as she kicked off her heels just inside the door. She told herself every night that she would take them to her closet when she went to bed, and every weekend she finally did it when she cleaned on Sundays, so there were currently four pairs of her work shoes by the door with Harry's single pair of trainers.
She cooed at the owl that perched on her shoulder, careful not to snag her cloak in her talons, and Hedwig hooted happily back at her. Harry turned to see where his owl got to and finally realized she was home.
"Welcome home mon amour," he was not wearing his usual workout clothes, and he looked like he'd showered already. His gray shirt was buttoned lazily, skipping the first two and last three so it was really just held together sparsely.
He was smiling disarmingly but her brow furrowed as she crossed to him to kiss him, confused by his presence so early. He flinched as she leaned into him, or more accurately as her arms came around his back, and she jerked out of his hug with a glare.
"What happened?" She bit out.
"It's nothing mon a-" he fell off at the evil look she sent him as she moved to undo the buttons of his shirt. Do not 'my love' me her glare said.
He moved to seize her hands and still them and she tugged on his shirt in a way that told him she would rip it open if he made her. He sighed as she got it open and pushed it off his shoulders.
"Merde!" She swore after she'd turned him to get a look at his back. The top half around his shoulders was a mottled mess of purples and reds. "What the fuck have you been doing in that gym?!" She growled, fire burned under her skin and made her vision go fuzzy.
Harry watched her pupils go wide, and then to his horror they didn't stop growing and black was bleeding into the whites of her eyes.
"Fleur I'm okay-" He insisted, and he pulled her into his arms against her will. She struggled to wiggle out of his embrace as he held her against him. Feathers poked through her silver sheets of hair to brush his fingers.
"Do not tell me you are okay Potter." She warned dangerously but she wrapped her arms back around him. She could feel the damage in the warmth of the abused flesh over his shoulder blade. "How did this happen?"
"I fell off my broom," he said dejectedly, like a kid caught red-handed and finally fessing up.
"You fell huh?" She did not buy it for a second, "why didn't they heal these?"
"I told them I was fine." She pursed her lips.
"Why are you home so early?" Her ire was waning now, the uncomfortable burn and prickle of transformation dying under her skin, but she knew he was lying to her. His hesitation gave him away, he paused for a split second, before letting her go to smile down at her.
"We have a couple of days of light practice."
"You filthy liar!" She hissed, glaring at him and he cringed as she went back on the offensive. "You've been jumping off your broom again, haven't you? Haven't you?" She repeated it fiercely when he opened his mouth to spew more untruths. He deflated.
"Look, it's not a big deal." He tried to placate her but it was the wrong thing to say. Little bouts of fire danced between her fingertips and she cocked a sparking hand back threateningly and he changed tact quickly. "Coach sent me home without healing, to try and drive the lesson home." He offered. That mollified her because at least the coach was on her side, and she failed to notice his sly diversion. She'd intended to try and bully more promises from him that he would not do any of his idiotic snitch manipulation as he called it. A fancy label for suicidal single-mindedness is what it was.
"Then I will not heal you either," she told him viciously, but she was off the topic and he struck while she was still hot and malleable.
"So I had maman send some of your family's dessert wine-" he said with an easy grin that made her stomach flop around inside her and cooled her temper with annoying efficiency. "And I'm making tournedos a la bordelaise~"
He was pulling her into the kitchen, and plying her with a glass of the cheaper dry red wine he would be making the sauce with, and it was all so expertly done that she was somehow no longer upset about his stupid back injury.
-o-o-o-
"What does this have to do with flying on boy's brooms?" Arianne asked her mother with a dubious look. Fleur scowled down at her youngest who rolled her eyes every bit her mother's daughter.
"I'm getting there." She said indignantly, smoothing her daughter's already perfectly straight hair with more aggression than was necessary. Arianne just smirked in smug victory. She was a terrible mix of her parents, she would be a dangerous teenager.
-o-o-o-
Harry got the rest of the week off, and the weekend- four days of sitting around the house, two of which Fleur was also off work. It was the most time they would spend together all summer.
Fleur had disposed of her starter broom in shame when he moved in, secretly stashing it away to be forever forgotten in that little English flat. They didn't have a lot of time really to do much together, but it was fine because their relationship was new, and after two years apart just being in the same room was enough. With his little medical leave, they finally had time together that wasn't in between work or after a long day.
He was all about some muggle sport these days, one that didn't seem much like a sport at all, he just strung up a length of rope between the walls of the living room and tried to walk it. She supposed it must be good for balance, but she didn't really see how it was supposed to translate to sitting on a broom. She was sitting on the couch next to the rope scratching out notes for the essay she was writing, hopefully to be submitted to the journal Enchant(e).
"Let's go for a fly."
She looked up from her book. He was sitting on the slackline like it was as sturdy as a stool.
"Okay."
He almost fell in his shock, it was clear he had suggested it as a throwaway comment. The kind of thing he'd said for years and gotten nothing but vague dismissal in response. She had unearned confidence with her newfound ability to sit on a broom without trembling, confidence she hadn't told him about, and his back was healed enough that she could properly cling to it when he did the terrifying stuff.
A wild smile split his face and he somehow dismounted the rope by bouncing up onto his feet and then hopping down, and she was so bemused by the motion she didn't even remember to have the line taken down before they left.
She had never gotten the confidence to climb over the streets of London like he did that night, her riding was usually limited to puttering close enough to the ground that a fall would result in a bruised elbow at worst. For all her practice, and their fateful flight around Paris that cemented their new relationship, she still clung pathetically to him once they were clear of the buildings and over the streets below.
He only put her through a few minutes of that, she was honestly starting to adjust, when he touched down on a high roof. Being stationary and high up was no better than flying, somewhat worse even, because at least on the broom a professional was in control of her fate. She wobbled slightly, swaying as she took in the edge of this massive building's roof.
"Here-" he said, and he was sliding back on his broom, back further than he would normally sit. She just swallowed and stared at him, trying to focus only on his eyes and let the rest of reality become a blur.
He patted the little stick of wood in front of him. Perhaps it was because she had spent so much time attempting to learn, but she felt a little more confident seated on the broom in front of him. Gripping with her knees and her hands. His arms came around her sides and formed a comforting cage just under her ribs, his hands held the broom just behind hers, and in all honesty, it was his weight pressed up against her back and holding her down that really reassured her.
"You can steer-" He was starting to say as they kicked off, and that was terrifying.
"No!" She cut him off. "No, you steer." She would've taken her hands off the broom completely if she wasn't so intent on holding on.
He chuckled and she could feel the vibrations across her whole back. It had a supremely calming effect, she'd never been so relaxed on a broom as she was in that moment. It showed in the kind of stunts he was able to pull off in this position without her screaming expletives. He went up and down in gentle waves, banked around skyscrapers in sideways leans and performed a single large looping flip that made her stomach climb into her throat
Trapped in the cage of his arms, between the broom and the wall of his chest, she could exalt in the thrill of the flight in a way she'd never quite managed before.
-o-o-o-
Liliane had a hungry look in her eyes, Arianne looked half bored.
"Flights like that are how babies get born." She warned ominously, because she wanted to add impact to her story.
Her parents snorted, Liliane blushed furious red, Arianne rolled her eyes.
"Why don't you fly more maman?" Her youngest asked, and the rest of the room fell silent.
"I fly plenty," She defended, no amount of flying was enough for Arianne.
"No you don't" She countered with a laugh as if her mother had just told a funny joke.
"Well, I did more so back then." She conceded, "before I had little chicks and work to worry about." Her daughter accepted this excuse, it seemed, as flimsy as it was.
"Can I go now?" Maman appeased, Arianne wanted to go back into the skys, it was still early in the day after all and she knew what would happen when her father returned and they started getting ready for dinner. There would be no flying for the rest of the day, such was the daily tragedy of her young existence.
Liliane did not follow her sister, for which Arianne sent her an exasperated look, but she fled the room alone nonetheless.
"When did you move back to Paris maman?" She asked, trying to prod the discussion back toward her parents' early romance.
"Hmm," She feigned thinking about it, she knew as well as Lilane when she'd moved back, Liliane had read all the old letters now. "In the autumn, when papa was preparing for his first world cup, the Paris branch finally had a vacancy."
-o-o-o-
Harry didn't think of himself as someone with a flair for dramatics.
Sometimes he just got caught up in the moment, like that fateful hug after his first professional win that made it into the papers, for instance. He wasn't trying to drag Fleur into the public eye, he didn't mean for it to mean anything, but they did not do themselves any favors with how they acted during interviews either. The problem with those was he was usually too addled by adrenaline and victory to really remember them very well, he would read about them with a sick stomach the following morning while Fleur rolled around in fits of hysteria at his mortification.
Whatever public life, or lack thereof, he wanted didn't matter though. All that mattered was the one crafted for him, the narrative the media devised around the little moments they captured of his day-to-day life.
Fleur and Harry were France's sweethearts.
It was not quite decided the first year with Chomelix, he was not quite the star he would become, and she was still hidden away in England. After the Sharks' shocking sweep of the national league though, and his proposal in the stands, they were on the public's radar. Then the national team was announced, and suddenly there were people whose sole job was to find and document the goings-on of Harry Potter.
"Are they there?" Harry was in full mundane garb, and not his suits, closer to his workout attire though distinctly non-quidditch in appearance. He had on a ball cap, no large sunglasses like Fleur because they would look out of place. One advantage, however small, of being a woman.
"No," Luc said wearily, he was jealous of the attention they got. Fleur knew it because even though he was on the national team too, as a complete nonentity in the French leagues, reporters could not yet pick him out of a lineup.
"Quickly then," Fleur ushered her fiance out of the stairwell and into the alley.
They made the few steps onto the cobblestones needed for Fleur to grab the two boys and disapparate. They did not go far, only a few streets over, into muggle London.
Harry was itching to spend some money, after a full year of quidditch and a summer of intensive training, it was ironically much laxer now that the World Cup season had begun. It was early autumn, and the skies were remarkably clear for once, it was bright and crisp and just chilly enough to warrant a coat but not yet cold.
Fleur was less opposed to being bought things these days. Since he had moved back to Paris she had begun to see the value of clothes and accessories as gifts. She could wear a piece of him around work and town in between their visits and keep him close. He had too much money anyway, more than he knew how to spend, and if she was being honest with herself she'd rather see it spent on her than her sister. So today they were going shopping.
They perused the first few shops, and Fleur picked up a couple of dresses that had been specially ordered and would go nicely for one of his events. Fleur was careful to frame her attendance at various sponsor obligations as such, events, that required suffering through.
It would not do to have Harry aware how much she enjoyed getting dressed up in all the couture trappings of a glamourous quidditch wife.
"Why do they always look at us like that?" Luc muttered under his breath as Harry paid for his new ties.
"I choose to believe it's because they're unaccustomed to seeing such class and good taste." Fleur responded under her breath, Harry finished his transaction and she called out: "Bye, have a wonderful day!" In English with fake cheer to the woman working the counter as they left.
"What about class and good taste?" Harry asked them as they made it out into the street.
"Luc wanted to know why the shopkeepers give us such strange looks." Fleur gave an explanation.
"It's because of all the muggle cash." He explained and both the french purebred magical folk blinked dumbly at him. He patted the front pocket of his athletic track jacket where the large fold of bills was tucked away in the magically enlarged space. "Muggles keep their money in the bank, and pay with plastic cards."
"They- what?" Luc said disbelievingly, half sure he was being led on. Fleur found it a little hard to believe, she'd never heard about this around Gringotts, but she also had little to do with actual banking in her field.
"Yeah, the bank handles all the transactions and sends the money to the appropriate accounts." His elaboration didn't help convince them.
"Without magic? How?" Harry shrugged, it had been years since he'd lived with muggles, as a child he was vaguely aware of Petunia buying groceries with a credit card but he didn't know the first thing about banks.
"Computers, I guess." They gave him blank looks. "Muggle bookkeeping machines." Luc seemed about ready to start in on more questions about muggles.
"Come," Fleur tugged Harry into the street toward a shop primarily dominated by shoes with ungodly price tags and it ended the conversation.
When they got back to Fleur's little flat there was an owl perched on her window sill. She did not notice it at first, she had more bags than the other two and was preoccupied with getting the dresses hung in the closet. When she came back out Harry had let the tawny bird in, and she was sipping Hedwig's water who seemed to be allowing it on the condition that Harry stay by her and stroke her feathers while the interloper was present.
"What's this?" She asked and Harry handed over a little scroll sealed with the wax seal of Gringotts. "I'm getting transferred to Paris!" She exclaimed after reading the note.
She would miss England, she realized, as she packed over the next few days. She would miss her friends, with who she made sure to get one last drunken night at the Cauldron. She would miss the anonymity of being in a foreign country. She'd already gotten a taste of life in Paris engaged to Harry Potter. Privately it was a bit fun to be so coveted by photographers and reporters, but the novelty wore fast.
Ultimately though, she had picked that apartment for him with the intention of moving in, and it was long overdue.
-o-o-o-
Harry returned around dinner time, mission accomplished, with Luc a couple thousand galleons poorer. It had taken a few hours for the two men to pick out the perfect ring for the youngest Delacour girl, but the perfect one had nevertheless been found.
The Delacours and Potters would of course not let slip that Luc was preparing to propose. Just as they had not let slip that Harry had been thoroughly coached on which ring should be selected. Luc got his perfect proposal and Gabby got her perfect ring, and everyone was all the happier for it.
"You need to talk to your daughter," Fleur told her husband as he changed for bed, she was already lying down, prepared for another night of discomfort and half-naps.
"Oh?" He asked in trepidation, and Fleur knew her family well, so she could watch as he mentally went over the varied and many dangerous and forbidden tricks he'd been teaching Arianne, trying to figure out which she'd seen.
"Not that one." She elaborated, and he blinked at her as he laboriously switched tracks.
"Oh-" This 'oh' was much more significant, it was rare that Harry was sent after Liliane. She was not perfect, but her sister was so often at odds with Fleur that it made the oldest Potter girl's mild-manner seem positively saint-like. "Please don't tell me it's about a boy…"
"Non," Fleur told him with a smile. "She is going to be on a racing team."
She watched the joyful excitement blossom, stall, and wilt in his eyes. Watched the hurt furrow his brow, and the smile freeze half-formed.
"You must talk to her." She said again, softly.
He sighed as he slid into bed next to her and this night she felt like being held, it was hit or miss at this stage in her pregnancy. Some nights she tossed and turned and woke in the night annoyed with him for taking up his sliver of the bed, other nights she clung to him for warmth and could not sleep unless he held her. She sidled up to him as best she could and he did the rest.
It took a few days, but with Fleur's impatient insistence he couldn't avoid it for long. So on the third day past his trip into Paris with Luc he was sent out to fly with express instructions to talk to his daughter.
"Your mother told me you were going to be racing this year." He said idly, innocently, seated on his broom beside her as they watched Arianne zip through a floating obstacle course designed to emulate a busy game of quidditch.
Liliane, his cool, calm, and collected daughter, who reminded him so much of her mother, blushed faintly. "Is she mad?"
He laughed. "Well, it's not quidditch, and your sister is capitalizing her anger when it comes to brooms, so I think you're safe." He gave her a wink, and she smiled a little furtive smile, and he could see her unwind a little ball of stress she'd been carrying around for who knew how long.
"Do you want to pick out a broom this weekend?"
"Can we?" She lit up.
He realized at that moment that he hadn't seen his firstborn so excited about something in a long time.
"Already got maman's permission," he confided in her conspiratorially. Silence fell for a few seconds, he was watching Arianne perform a dizzying series of rolls as she cut through rings in stunning time.
"I'm sorry," Liliane surprised him by breaking the silence, and when he looked over she looked like the little kid she was. Sometimes it was easy to forget her youth, she carried herself in the way her mother had at her age and sometimes she seemed like an adult rendered in miniature. She was looking up at him with big green eyes, his eyes, both of his daughters shared his mother's eyes.
"What for, little chick?" He asked, trying to convey in his tone that no explanation was needed. She evidently felt the need to give one.
"Keeping it a secret-" she said guiltily, "I didn't want maman to get mad, and you…" he bobbed over to sling an arm around his daughter's shoulders, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her silver head.
"I'm sorry," he told her, "you shouldn't feel you have to hide things from us, especially something like this…" He hesitated, and then he dove in headfirst as he'd long since learned to do. "How much do you remember?" He'd never talked about this with his daughters, rarely discussed it in general, it was the darkest part of his relationship with his wife.
"I remember maman crying at home-" she said quietly, "and seeing you in the hospital." He sighed heavily.
"Just stay away from the quidditch pitch, and I think maman will still love you." He said with a grin, and it did successfully inject a little cheer back into her. "It's too late to warm her up to both of you playing, I started with Arianne when she was still in diapers." He whispered the last part and Liliane rolled her eyes.
"You'll have to relive your glory days through her papa, the quidditch boys are far too full of themselves for my taste." He laughed outright at that and released her from his one-armed hug.
"You are your mother's daughter, to the bone." He told her and she swelled at the complement. "Just hold on to that contempt, I don't want to be scaring off my fans anytime soon, I got my fill of that with your aunt." Liliane blushed and Harry smirked over at his eldest as Arianne made a beeline for them with frightening speed.
"Shut up," she grumbled half-heartedly and Harry laughed.
AN So yeah, I think we'll be going weekly until I've written the rest of this story which should be soon! I had a (very) minor medical issue that stopped me from writting this past week hence the late update, but hopefully just a few more weeks and we'll be all done here bbs!