AN Today's chapter is sponsored by the flowerpot discord server. Special thanks to Black Pheonix in sprintgang who's written thousands of words alongside me as I wrote chapters 12 and 13 this week. And to Foreal the Flowerpot Evangelist, Ghost, and Ericc for being so enthusiastic. Last but most certainly not least thank you to our Lord and Master x102reddragon who maintains the garden for us. There are so many more that have helped me along the way, these are just the tip of the iceberg.
Chapter 9
With Friends Like These...
In which Harry makes a mistake, and Fleur's pride gets in the way.
Wonder and mischief, almost in equal measure, sparkled in leaf-green eyes as they peered out the car's window. Ariane crouched low to get a good angle up to the famous third-floor balcony that was so pivotal to her parents' time at school. She could only see the underside of it, parked as they were so close to the building, but that was fine. She looked to the far corner and imagined she could picture the little table just fine.
They lurched forward and she turned, bouncing in her seat excitedly. Just a few more minutes to make it down the valley and she would get a second glimpse of the large monolithic Gate. She took it in, awe-inspired and itching to be up there, and completely unaware of the exasperated look her mother was sending her father. He had slowed them down to a crawl to let her peer up at it.
Fleur was definitely handling her daughter's second school departure better than the first. With Liliane off to her next year, Fleur sat in their car with only tears in her eyes. They did not fall, and there were no sobs, but Harry held her anyway. A little while after they exited the valley, when Arianne's daydreaming of when she could finally jump the Gate faded, she caught her father's eye over her mother's head. He looked pointedly from her, down to Fleur, and back up. She knew she was being called to action.
She got up unsteadily in the moving vehicle and crossed the little cabin to her parents' side. She wormed her way, with difficulty, into her mother's lap. Mother sent daughter a watery smile before Arianne nestled in to get comfortable. When she felt her mom began sorting strands of hair she knew it was working.
"Maman, what's alternate enchanting?"
Fleur and Harry both laughed at that, whatever Harry had expected when he sent his daughter on cheer up duty, it hadn't been that. Arianne, who was still Fleur's daughter despite how much she took after her father, scowled evilly at them for laughing at her.
"What do you mean little chick?"
"Lili showed me your book at the store, about alternate enchanting."
"Ah, I see."
She went back to preening her daughter's feathers and Arianne's foul look slowly melted away under the soothing attention. Fleur cast around for what to tell her almost-eight-year-old daughter about the topic of her advanced enchanting textbook that she would understand.
"Well, normally you make enchantments with runes and shapes," She said, Arianne nodded only half listening, the point wasn't to learn enchanting. The point was to get maman talking so she would stop being sad. "But there are other ways, bigger runes that require no shapes and stuff like that."
"Did you learn about it from the Goblins?"
"Non little chick," Fleur laughed, "those awful little monsters wish they knew half as much as maman." Harry rolled his eyes, but the enmity between Goblin and Veela was deep and time honored. The Goblins would treat his daughter no better than they did his wife, so she would prepare her daughter for that treatment. It was one of the things he, as a human wizard, had to allow his wife to teach their Veela children.
"I did learn it while working at Gringotts though…"
-o-o-o-
London was slightly warmer than Scotland, if not still too rainy. Fleur settled there fitfully at the end of summer following her victory at Hogwarts. She had a flat just off Diagon Alley, she could see Gringotts from her windows, and best of all she was within five minutes walk of the most delightful ice cream shop. There was the biggest bookstore in the British Isles and a pub at the mouth of the alley that was said to have good food,
In short, she had everything she should need to be happy here. She was not. The weather was awful, the food subpar, and being so far from home sapped the joy out of everything she did. The ice cream didn't taste as sweet, the books didn't hold her interest, even the wine was bad.
A month into her new life her favorite owl woke her one Sunday morning. Hedwig tapped her beak sharply against Fleur's bedroom window, pulling her from her mound of blankets groggily. She brightened immediately and hurried over to open the window.
Hedwig pranced in, stopped on her desk to spread her wings, and pivoted with her feathers on display. She kept her head facing Fleur as she twisted, giving Fleur a satisfied look as she spun. Fleur gasped and wowed appropriately, and complimented her summer molting and new flight feathers until the owl was rightly satisfied. She flew up to perch on Fleur's shoulder and preen her tangled bed head with efficient combs of the beak while Fleur detached the letter she bore around her leg.
Harry had written at length. He seemed to have included a second by second account of his first two weeks of term, including far too much discussion of his plans as quidditch captain. She cherished every line, and reread the letter twice as the morning well and truly began. She had her own massive letter to him, mostly fully written. She had less to say, working and staying in a small flat alone as she was, but like Harry she filled her letter with her work. When he got it he would be perhaps the second-most leading expert on the Native American arrowheads she was currently disarming of some most nasty flesh-eating curses. Now that Hedwig was here she'd have to finish it to send back.
The owl had straightened the patch of hair in beaking range of her perch on Fleur's shoulder and then settled in to relax with big orange eyes closed. Fleur resolved to pick up some mice from the Magical Menagerie for her before she left then set to finishing that letter. She wrote him till hunger drove her out of the apartment for lunch. She cut off the letter somewhat abruptly, but the scroll was at least as long as his, nearing a meter in length.
"Get comfy," She told the owl when she hoo'd lowly in irritation at being disturbed. She hopped down onto the table and settled there. "I will bring us a treat, yeah?" Another hoot and Fleur set off.
She took her lunch in the Leaky Cauldron, an odd name that was at least inaccurate on the leaky front. The food there was tolerable. Fleur found she rather liked the English take on Indian cuisine, and the Cauldron's tikka masala was a staple of her diet these days. Not to mention the ancient and stooped barman Tom was always delighted to have her, she perused an abandoned copy of the Prophet while she ate.
After lunch, she made true on her personal promise and picked out a couple of nice fat mice for Hedwig before she got herself some of Florian's finest. The ice cream tasted as sweet as any she'd had in France that day and she savored it. Rereading Harry's letter and presenting the wriggling delicacies to her favorite bird.
-o-o-o-
"I don't know why you went to England maman." Her daughter told her, "It sounds awful."
Arianne, who was not allowed to fly in storms, would've hated the rain even if the Veela fire under her skin didn't detest it. She had also spent her entire life in the south of France, the Potters had taken her skiing when she was a baby, but she'd spent the entire time bundled up in the resort. She did not know true cold or wet and couldn't imagine someone willingly living in it.
Harry, who even in his forties harbored a touch of that arrogant pro-France fervor of his youth, snorted. He was also inclined to look down upon his wife's brief foray into English banking.
"It is." He confided in her, and he reached over and ruffled his daughter's hair. Fleur had just put the finishing touches on it, leaving it pristine and straight, and she gloured at him as she set to redoing it. She did it happily though, glad of the task to busy her idle hands.
"It wasn't all bad," She told her daughter, "I would wait till the streets were empty at night and I would sneak down to the alley and practice flying around on my broom."
"You what?!" Her husband exclaimed, blinking at her in stunned disbelief. She smiled demurely at him.
"You don't know all my secrets Potter."
-o-o-o-
Fleur bought her first and only broom from the shop in the alley after a couple of weeks living in the city.
She was feeling homesick, one Friday afternoon, and some of the other curse breakers guilted her into accompanying them to the Cauldron for an end-of-week drink. She had rebuffed most attempts thus far because alcohol made it difficult to keep a tight leash on her allure. If she got tipsy and forgot to hold it in, it would spill out into the room, and feed her all her companions' emotions. Modesty aside, in all honesty, Fleur was a powerful Veela. It was not something she was ashamed of, but she couldn't quite be proud of it either. She may not have the kind of rapier finesse her sister would one day develop with the magic, but she made up for fine-tuned skill with blunt force.
If unchecked her allure extended meters around her, capable of ensnaring and enthralling dozens at once if she was foolish enough to allow that many so close. Even if she didn't want to capture others in it, having their emotions crash against the beaches of her mind was deeply uncomfortable. This is why she kept such a tight grasp on it, clawing it in so that someone had to be right up against her to invade her senses. Even so, it happened regularly enough, as she moved through crowds or sat in restaurants. Passersby would assault her with their frustration at their girlfriend, or their joy at the sale in Madam Malkins, or their lust for her.
All of this she cited as reasons to avoid going out for drinks, but she rarely told others that, because most didn't know much about Veela apart from their ability to bewitch men. This day, though, she was sad. She'd mailed off a letter to Harry a week ago and was awaiting a response. Her apartment felt empty and cold without Hedwig around, she'd stayed for a couple of days after delivering her master's letter, to socialize and catch up with Fleur whom she was always partial to. Her absence now made the place all the worse.
So as they all slipped out the side entrance of Gringotts around the corner from the grand marble stairs she didn't split off toward her flat, she followed them quietly down the street to the pub.
The curse breaker department was not large, just five people including her. There was the couple, Marlene and Collin, who were a little younger than Fleur's parents and had children of their own. They stayed at the bank full time with Fleur and the three of them were the real curse breakers. They slaved over recovered artifacts, breaking down and peeling away the dangerous remnants of magic laid into the finds.
The other two, Bill and Ted, were the showy reclaimers. She privately thought they were every bit as cocky and arrogant as Harry and Luc. They spent about half their time abroad finding and extracting artifacts to be cleansed at the bank and the other half prowling around Gringotts looking for a good time. She loved them for their attitudes though, because watching them strut about and try to charm witches visiting the bank- or working the human staffed positions- reminded her of her little eagle and his flock strutting around school.
They opened the night with a round of fire whiskey, which Fleur tolerated to be a good sport, before switching to her much-preferred wine. She found going out with the group to be enjoyable, mainly because the conversation was dominated by retellings of Bill and Ted's excellent adventures. She could settle in and enjoy a thrilling tale, with funny asides made at the expense of whichever of the two was currently narrating. She was so caught up in the good mood of the night, she forgot to be unimpressed by the pub food they ordered and shared.
Marlene and Collin begged off not much more than an hour in, grudgingly accepting another round of fire whiskeys which Fleur declined this time. On her third glass of wine, she didn't need the added liquor, she was actually getting ready to call it a night herself, despite the afternoon sun hanging over the street outside.
The two roguish curse breakers fought her own departure, trying for another round, and shouting down her attempts to pay for her drinks. They ensured her that this time was on them, and the next was on Collin and Marlene, and if she ever actually came round a third time she could pay then. Fleur let them be chivalrous, and she let Bill walk her out of the bar because for the first time since she was twelve she realized she had friends here.
They were not envious of her looks and skills, they were not lusting after a status symbol the school would praise them for. They weren't Harry's teammates, bemused by the frigid ice queen of Beauxbatons latched to their little seeker, willing to hang around for the novelty of spending an afternoon with Fleur Delacour. These people were her coworkers, they were all accomplished in runic study and applied charms, and they were some of the world's leading experts on embedded magic. Her peers. Realizing this as she ambled down the street next to Bill, a little buzzed, she felt suddenly choked up. She wanted to cry, as much as that annoyed her, because these people were her friends. She hadn't needed friends in years, but it felt nice to suddenly have them.
An arm fell across her shoulders, she froze midstep, and Bill stumbled. He had a dazed look about him, and she wasn't even sure honestly what emotion had just been blasted into him from the physical contact. He looked equally confused by it. Some mixture of fondness for her new friends, sadness at the lonely little girl she'd been, and longing for home and the one friend that mattered most would be her best guess.
"That's- interesting," He said hesitantly, physically shaking himself of the foreign feelings. Fleur fought to keep an embarrassed flush off her face as she subtly stepped to the side; out of arm-around-shoulders range. She cast around wildly for anything to say, her eyes landed on something in a shop window that was equally hated and beloved at that moment.
"I think I need to do some broom shopping!" She said, forcing a light and casual tone to wash away the awkwardness of what had just happened. Both his advance and her allure. "My boyfriend 'as one of those," She informed him cheerily, nodding to the firebolt in the window as she moved to the shop.
He followed her, and she could have hugged him for how easily he let that rejection roll off him. He just whistled and raised his eyebrows at her statement.
"A firebolt? Brave man." He observed, she furrowed her brow slightly at that, not seeing the connection.
"What do you mean?" They were in the shop now, and she didn't really have any interest in buying a broom, but she was also determined not to get caught in that particular lie. It also smelled amazing in the shop, like fresh-cut wood, with the hint of turpentine polish. It smelled like Harry.
"One of my mates has a firebolt," he confided in her conspiratorially, "I take it you've never ridden it with him?" She shook her head in denial, he nodded knowingly. "Bloody terrifying they are, like- I don't know, like swimming off a waterfall or something. You come to see real quick we're not made to be moving that fast with such a little stick keeping us in the air." She was nodding, because this sentiment she could understand completely.
"He a quidditch player then?" She nodded, running her fingers along a dark cherry-stained wooden handle, this one embossed with gold reading 'Nimbus'.
"Unfortunately." She told him, trying to express in the word exactly how she felt about his quidditchness, he laughed again.
He seemed to be thinking about it for a second, not immediately responding, then he was asking: "You just graduated Beauxbatons right?"
She nodded, a middle-aged witch was making her way toward them, seeming a bit put out. The shop was due to close any minute now, but customers browsing the broom selection couldn't be ignored. Not with the price tag on them, maybe someone in to buy polish or twig clippers would get the cold shoulder, but Fleur and Bill it seemed were honored guests.
"Your boyfriend know Harry Potter? He's pretty big in the quidditch scene." She tried to contain her smile, but he caught it regardless, she said:
"Everyone at Beauxbatons knows 'Arry Potter, he's quite the celebrity." Bill chuckled.
"I guess that's a good point, I'd love a chance to see a game, might even put up with a trip to France for it." He teased. The two reclaimers had a long-running joke of complaining about French snobbery, which she returned with snobbish complaints on English custom.
"Well, when 'e gets drafted I'll be sure to send you tickets to the 'ome games." She shot back.
"I'll be holding you to that," He told her seriously, "I saw his catch in ThreeOneTwo a few months back. Amazing-" She scowled at that which brought another laugh from him. That catch. She remembered then that he was in the doghouse for it still, she forgot to abuse him in her last letter, she would have to remember for the next.
Honestly, throwing himself off the broom to get the stupid little ball, and hanging off the goal hoops with it until his teammates could snatch him out of the air for a group hug. It gave her heartburn just thinking about it.
"So, you're dating Harry Potter then?" He clarified a few seconds later, pulling her out of her angry reminiscing.
There was a quality to his tone that actually made her want to extend her allure and taste his emotions, just to try and figure out what that mysterious note was. She didn't of course, even two shots and three glasses of wine in she had more sense than that, but she was curious. He didn't sound too put out by it, there was a little wistfulness there, but she wouldn't begrudge him that.
She stuck her chin up defiantly and said "Yes, I am." He was nodding.
"That's a power couple if ever I've heard of one." He complimented her. "Honestly, word on the street is he's France's answer to Krum." She had heard this sentiment before, and she was privately proud of it because it was so obvious how viciously proud Harry was of it.
"'e is 'ellbent on beating 'im." She confided "Convinced 'e'll be graduating this year to a spot on the French National team, and then facing off with Bulgaria in a few years."
"Well, Bulgaria's almost certain to make it again I know that much."
It was so odd to sit and talk quidditch with this wizard, she had never really done so with anyone, not more so than peppering a few derisive comments over the conversation Harry was having with someone else. She found to her own shock that she was actually relatively knowledgeable on the subject now, having osmosed enough over the years to actually have an opinion on the issues.
"I don't think it's Bulgaria making it that will get in the way of 'is chances for that particular face off." She countered, "The French National team 'asn't been in the cup in decades." He cackled at that.
"You said it, not me." He said, agreeing without drawing her ire.
The witch was a little impatient now that she could hear their conversation, and knew them to be filling their time in her shop with idle chatter. She was suddenly seized by a whim, a thought, that it would be nice to be able to sit on a broom without freezing up in panic. It would be nice to fly around with Harry, at a markedly reduced pace to his norm, but still, apart from that first fateful flight up to the Gate she had deftly rebuffed any attempts of his to get her in the air. So without pausing to think on it at length she asked the witch for a recommendation on a starter broom and purchased the first one she was pointed to.
Bill looked bemused as they ventured back onto the street with her purchase, it was not too expensive, nothing compared to the outrageous sum Harry paid for his.
"Is there any particular reason you bought a child's broom?" He asked her as they carried off down the alley, he did not try to put his arm around her again, but he stuck by her in companionable proximity.
"It is not a child's broom!" She defended hotly, cheeks going pink "It is a learners broom. Look at the size of it, don't be ridiculous."
"Harry Potter-'' He held up his hands spread apart like he was beholding a billboard "Young quidditch genius, seeker extraordinaire, whose girlfriend can't fly." He laughed and easily dodge out of the way of the swat she sent toward his shoulder.
"Opposites attract," She told him primly, "And men want to be challenged. I am not one of those air 'eaded little ducklings trailing after him all the time." She wrangled all her haughty grace and arrogance to dump into the sentence. He just laughed.
"No, I don't suppose you are," He agreed, "Still though, international quidditch star isn't a bad catch for a husband, eh?" Fleur blushed, because he had taken her half-thought-through offhanded lie the logical step further, and somehow she had never put too much thought into the matter of marriage.
"Not a bad catch, no." She said pensively.
She had really only just fully accepted the attraction there, she had spent the last few years vaguely aware that Harry Potter would be a fixture in her life, but only recently began to think about what that would look like. The last year had been an agony of lust and self-hatred resulting from said lust, and then the summer had been the final nail in the coffin of little Harry Potter, her shy baby brother. If he'd ever really been that.
"Well this is me," She said, stopping outside the door to the stairwell of her building. He extended an arm in invitation of a hug goodbye and she allowed it, fitting under his armpit and he gave her shoulders a quick squeeze. Prepared for it and in better control they came away from the contact without sharing emotions.
"Ted and I'll be round the pub later than we probably should be if you get bored and want to come back by." He told her and she laughed, assuring him that she wouldn't, but promising to look them up if she did.
The broom was, to be completely honest, a drunk purchase. She didn't have anywhere to fly it really, she was not confident enough to take it skyward and fly around high above the city, and she was too proud to make a fool of herself in the streets of magical London in front of witnesses. It sat in her flat for two weeks untouched, until Harry's next letter arrived.
Now that it was well and truly October he'd already played his first game of the season, she was regaled with a written account of it in loving detail, a section of his letter that could rival most history of magic essays in length. She didn't mind, because reading about it after the fact drastically dulled the panic and anxiety being present for the matches provided. So she could enjoy his enjoyment of it, it brought a smile to her face as she read it, the letters grew cramped and smaller as he tried to force more words on the page. He filled her in on the new Valkyrie offensive line, now that all her classmates had graduated out with her. He was unconcerned by their level of play, and was coolly confident in the coming season, but he still told her of all his plans to combat the opposition's strength.
The letter arrived too late in the day for her to swing by the pet shop for Hedwig, so she had to content herself with fresh water and owl pellets until the following day. But it was Saturday, and Fleur felt like doing something fun. She didn't have any way of contacting her coworkers and didn't think Hedwig would take too kindly to being sent after Bill, she was too smart a bird by half for that. She treated herself to a bottle of wine while she began writing a response to Harry and the sun had long since set when she put down her quill for the day. She would hold on to Hedwig for a few days, for the company, and so that she had time to make sure she got everything she wanted to say into the letter.
Now though, more than a little tipsy and stroking the owl's feathers, her eyes fell on the broom that had been discarded in a chair and left there since its purchase.
"What do you think Hedwig, should I try it?"
The owl hooted softly and gave a head bob that Fleur took for a resounding yes.
-o-o-o-
"Why didn't you ever tell me?" Harry queried, only half feigning his hurt, Arianne looked equally affronted.
"Tell you what?" She demanded hotly, embarrassed more than anything. "Tell you I bought a broom and practiced all year and still couldn't fly a lap to save my life?" She rolled her eyes as he tried valiantly not to smile at that. The effort was appreciated, if unsuccessful.
"Bill's a good bloke," Harry admitted with a wry grin and she glared daggers at him.
"Don't you dare try to brush over Bill like that, after the hell you put me through-" She cut herself off, stomping down her frustration at her stupid teenaged husband and his angst.
Arianne was shocked by her mother's tone and mild swearing, but even in her shock, she could not hide the furtive curiosity she felt looking at her bashful grimacing dad. Fleur laughed as she watched her daughter send a :smug: gloating look up at her dad as she hugged her mother.
As if to say haha you're in trouble.
"Your papa was not a smart boy," Fleur told her daughter, swiping a finger down her nose to draw a giggle. "You must pick better…"
-o-o-o-
Coming home was an odd feeling. Having spent seven years in boarding school, coming home for the holidays was old hat, but it was different now. She had a week off, centered around Christmas, so when she port keyed into her parents' house they were already in full holiday swing. That was kind of the issue, it was her parents' house now. Harry was out in the yard of course, and Gabby was sprawled out in the sitting room with magazines bearing everything from quidditch stars to muggle fashion.
Her mother squawked upon seeing her and was crying before she'd even managed to pull her into her arms, as if she hadn't been home for a weekend in November. Fleur hugged her mom back and then stood in her arms when the hug became clinging until she was released into the arms of another. The door to the kitchen banged open and Fleur was lifted off her feet and spun about. She laughed, shocked by the motion, and then she was set down and in horror, she stared at the nose of Harry Potter, who must've grown three inches since she'd last seen him.
"Welcome home, little chick." He teased her and she glared up at him, very unhappy with this latest development. How had he gotten so tall? She realized that she'd been away most of her last year at school, and had only just noticed his increased height over the summer, it seemed that had just been the beginning.
His voice was deeper too, and he seemed to be supremely aware of how much her brain was struggling to take in this new bigger Harry. He grinned at her in a way that was a touch past playful and strolled away, claiming he needed a shower after flying all day, and she knew it was a jab at their run-in before she'd left for England. Knowing didn't stop her face from heating. She turned to her mother, who was looking at her too neutrally, and she scowled at her.
"Don't you start," She commanded and her mother just chuckled and turned back to spelling dinner together.
Dinner was a heartwarmingly familiar affair, reminiscent of so many summer nights at home between school years.
Right up until it wasn't.
Her dad spent most of the meal grilling her on work, she'd written them a few times though not with the frequency or nearly as thoroughly as Harry. Perhaps this was the reason she didn't notice his foul mood. At first, she took it for boredom, as she repeated back assignments and stories she'd already told him in their letters. He stopped eating, and then stopped looking up, just toyed with his food. Fleur and her mother seemed to be the only ones to notice, but she was mid-story and her father was nodding eagerly as she talked about her friends almost getting in a bar fight with some German wizards in the Leaky Cauldron.
Harry pushed back from the table, dropping his silverware onto his plate, and stormed off without a word. Elise sighed, and Richard looked around the room in confusion, Fleur turned to her mother with the question in her eyes.
Fleur had always been infinitely grateful to her parents for what they did for Harry. Bringing him into the family when he had none of his own, none worth mentioning at least, and loving him like one of their own. She did not feel that love for her mother at this moment, as Elise gave her an exasperated look like she was being intentionally dumb, and then turned to her confused husband and asked how his day had been.
Richard launched into an account of his day, well aware that whatever had just happened his role in it was to sit here and fill the silence for his wife. Fleur left the table too, pushing Gabby down into her seat as the young girl tried to follow, and went upstairs. She could hear shuffling and bangs from his room, it sounded like he was slamming around in his closet.
She knocked and everything went quiet on the other side.
"Harry?" More silence. She tried to open the door but it was locked. She was about to knock again when it opened.
"What?"
She scowled at him, at his tone, and his impatiently blank face. She schooled her features into neutrality as well, stamping down her frustration. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." He turned back into the dark room, but he did not try to close the door behind him, perhaps knowing that she would not allow it to close.
"That is so obviously a lie," She snapped, following him in, and it came out angrier than she'd intended. "Tell me." She managed to end on an earnest note, soft and pleading.
He was moving to his bed, he retrieved his broom from it, not answering. She caught his arm as he turned to leave the room. "Harry-"
He ripped his arm out of her hand with a glare.
"Just go back to England." He spat at her. She gasped at the venom in the words, brought to a standstill. He gloured at her like he hoped it would wither her, and her shock was enough to get him out of the room. She hurried after him, catching up on the stairs.
"Stop." She commanded, trying for his arm again, and sounding far less authoritative than she'd been aiming for. He jumped from the fourth step up to avoid her attempt, "Harry Potter do not get on that broom." That had all the strength and ice Fleur Delacour was known for.
He didn't even turn to look at her, with his infernal broom over his right shoulder he just raised his left hand and gave her the finger before he opened the front door. She growled and lunged for him but he just cleared the doorway as he stepped onto his broom held almost vertical and was twenty feet above her before she could close a fist around his collar.
"Fuck you, Potter!" She yelled up in helpless rage, stuck on the ground. He might have laughed bitingly but she couldn't be sure, then he shot off in a blur. She stomped her foot and let loose a wordless scream of pure anger. She whirled on the spot, looking for something to hit. There was a small potted fern by the door, either her mother's or Gabby's pet plant. She seized it and hurled it at the wall. Dirt splashed like blood across the porch tiles, the poor limp corpse of the leafy thing flopped to the ground. But the flowerpot was unharmed. It bounced first off the wall, then the ground, and the flowerpot remained whole and strong and perfect.
This made her even angrier and she allowed herself a second wordless screech before she stomped back inside and slammed the front door hard enough to shake the windows on either side of it.
-o-o-o-
"Papa!"
Arianne gasped, affronted and looking up at her father in accusation. Fleur could only kiss the top of her precious head as her daughter set off on the warpath, intent on getting to the bottom of her young father's crimes against maman.
"I know little chick, I know." He placated, he had the good graces to look ashamed. "That is why, when you are in love, you must always talk to your partner." He told her and reached up to tap her nose thrice.
Arianne turned her beautiful eyes on her mother, they were as big and expressive as Fleur's but as vibrantly green and deep as her father's. She was looking for confirmation, wanting to make sure it was okay to forgive papa for his bad attitude in the story. She smiled down at her youngest.
"Your papa is not so stupid as he was when he was young," She confided in her. "He has learned much from me, and he is right little chick, talking is important."
-o-o-o-
Bill Weasley.
Bill Weasley.
Bill Weasley.
He chewed on the name morosely. Every time she said it was like a bludger to the stomach. The delicious veal cuts in red wine sauce went mealy and ashen to his palate and he gave up trying to eat. She talked on, oblivious to his inner turmoil. Richard nodded approvingly, laughing at the right bits, keeping the story alive with his appreciation and interest. He caught Elise's eye, she was giving him a knowing look, he turned his gaze back down to the table.
Bill Weasley
She said it again. Telling a story that by all accounts should've been funny, but he couldn't find the humor with this proverbial knife in his heart. Why had she never mentioned him? They'd written back and forth for months, novels exchanged as fast as could be written. He'd been so happy to receive her first letter, because she'd poured every detail of her days into it, telling him about work and her apartment and the city.
He felt, through the term, that things would be okay. He felt close to her still, even across the channel. His dream, of her and their children and their happy life together was re-solidified firmly in his mind's eye. He had feared the distance and time his schooling necessitated but he was being stupid. She was Fleur, and he was Harry, they had no reason to worry.
She told him everything, he thought. Everything except Bill Weasley. His face twitched into a scowl as she said it again. Lovingly. He wanted to flip the table. Wanted to rage and smash things and scream at her. His gaudy manor house, his Italian sports cars, his beautiful daughters. All shattered and fell away like so many broken bits of mirror. In their place was Fleur clinging to a big faceless wizard with long dark hair and tanned skin who sat around the pub with a bunch of other faceless attractive wizards while they laughed at him in his overlarge ratty clothes, clutching a broom, being denied service at the bar because he was too young.
Bill.
He pushed away from the table with a loud scrape of chair legs. He threw his fork down, relishing the clatter it made, the way it cut off her story mid-sentence. If it chipped the plate he would be sorry, for Elise's sake, but in the morning. Now, he just clung to the vitriol, the anger and bitterness consuming him because it felt better than being sad and inadequate.
He stormed up to his room, slammed his door, and locked it. It was dark, he was glad of that fact, he felt dark. He stomped over to his closet, ripping off his tie as he crossed the room. He changed into loose robes, determined to set off for a fly, this at least would not betray him.
Knock knock knock
He froze as her muffled voice called his name through the door. It broke his heart to hear it, she sounded so concerned, confused. His panicked agonizing mind struggled to match that to the girl from minutes ago who filled the dinner conversations with loving excited chatter about her new friend.
She tried to open the door, the doorknob jiggled, but it was locked. She was a witch of course, that couldn't stop her if she wanted in, but propriety held just as much weight as the little lock and combined they at least stalled her. He schooled his face, adopting the cool methodical countenance he wore when inspecting the rival teams' quidditch match. He crossed to the door and wrenched it open.
"What?"
She scowled, he could see the rage bubbling in her eyes, see her smothering it and trying to remain calm. He knew her face better than his own, could read emotions in it as plainly as words on parchment. It gave him a little thrill of nervous excitement to be so bold with her. To intentionally incite her ire in ways he'd never dared.
"What's wrong?"
What do you care? He wanted to snap at her. Wanted to level the accusation at her and watch her flounder for an answer. None of your fucking business. The thought of saying it was intoxicating, he couldn't even imagine the explosion that would follow. He didn't quite have the nerve though. Even with his newfound appreciation for jabs, the new ache in his chest that made him want to give her one to match, he couldn't.
"Nothing." He said blackly and turned back into his room. He considered slamming the door in her face, but he suspected at that moment she would've likely blasted it off its hinges, and he respected the Delacour's house too much for that. She followed of course.
"That is so obviously a lie." She bit out, it sounded like she was struggling valiantly not to yell. He fetched his broom from his bed, he brushed past her, careful to avoid bumping her. She reached out and took his arm, "tell me." She sounded so sad and he felt, as much as heard, how much she wanted him to.
He could feel all her confusion and hurt, knew his efforts to be mean to her were working, and in his perceived self-righteous rage he relished it. He ripped his arm out of her hand and gathered up all his own hurt and betrayal to spit the words at her:
"Just go back to Bill." He might've said England, he couldn't be sure, the two concepts were one and equally hated in this moment. She was shocked, his angry facade almost deflated at the hurt in her big blue eyes as his words crashed against her. Almost.
He fled the room, using the time it took her to adjust to this new reality where he spoke to her like that. She didn't give up, of course, because Fleur Delacour was as stubborn as he could be. They were forces to be reckoned with, when they wanted to be, the only reason this house still stood was they'd never clashed against each other. Never had a reason to, before Bill.
"Stop!" She had evidently regained her composure because it was more steadfastly an order than he'd ever heard her give. They were on the stairs, and she grabbed for his arm again, he skipped the last few steps, jumped down to the foyer to get out of her reach, because he did not think his anger could survive her touch a second time.
He did not want to calm down. He did not want to listen to her talk of Bill and all his greatness. He could not stomach hearing the reasons she liked him so much, why she'd abandoned him for the English wizard. He could not hate her, could not be mad at her forever. One day, sooner than he would admit then, he would hear it all. He would accept her reasons for choosing the man, and he would put on a happy face for her while his insides collapsed and swallowed him into black misery. He would do all of that because he loved her, and he could not hate her for finding someone that wasn't him. For tonight though, for tonight he would be angry.
"Harry Potter do not get on that broom!" He smirked evilly, wrenching open the front door, and giving her a rude gesture as his only response. He could hear her hurried steps behind him, for half a wild second he thought she was running to tackle him and he got into the air quickly.
She yelled expletives up at him and he forced out mirthless laughter in response, he could hear her frustrated scream chase him away as he shot off over the fields.
He flew for hours, likely past midnight and into a new morning. It was cold, as cold as France got at least, it held nothing to the memory of the second task but it was enough to numb his fingers on his broom and elicit shivers. He returned to a quiet house, dark and asleep, he was careful not to disturb it as he slipped inside.
There was a light in his room, he mentally prepared for the worst as he opened the door. He was windswept and felt hollow, he had flown his feelings out as best he could, and if now had to be the moment she delivered the killing blow he supposed it was as good as any. Fleur was not there to yell at him, to punish him for his hurtful words, to hold him down in her magic and force him to accept that she was his sister and Bill would be his brother. No, much worse, Elise sat at the desk in his room reading a book by candlelight. He stalled at the door, deflating because he was half prepared to rebuff Fleur's attempts to talk. Half ready to face them head-on and shout down whatever platitudes she gave him, to present his defense and shoot his shot with her. To make a case for them. Elise though, he didn't know what to expect from her, and panic and fear blossomed in that dark space where his hopes for Fleur once lived.
She stood when she noticed him, and when he didn't move from the doorway she went and sat on the edge of the bed, patting the spot beside her. He trudged over unwillingly and sat next to the beautiful woman that he loved like the mother he'd never known. Afraid that was about to go away too.
"She doesn't love that English man." Harry blinked over at her, and he realized then that he was taller than her now, it was a weird time to notice but she and Richard had that parent role in his mind, it was odd to look down on them. He didn't know what to say, because that was not what he had expected her to say.
"It-" He cleared his throat because his voice had been hoarse and broken from hours of flying around not speaking and being heartbroken. "It doesn't matter," he dismissed. He did not want to talk about it, did not want to think about it.
She appraised him, not responding for a long moment as she took in his face. He could only meet her eyes for a second, they were too similar to Fleur's, so he dropped his to her lips and chin, they were equally similar to her daughter's but hurt less to look at.
"That is fine," She told him finally, "I did not come here to talk about Fleur." He did not realize it at the time, or at least was not aware consciously, that she did not call Fleur her daughter in that moment. She did not make the distinction between them, did not draw the line between the two fighting parties, and claim one as hers.
"Why then?" He asked petulantly, looking away toward the candles on the desk. It still hurt to hear her name, and he was half afraid he was about to be kicked out now that he'd bitten the hand that fed him.
"To make sure you're okay, silly chick." His head snapped toward her and his next breath was difficult to pull in around the lump in his throat. The softness with which she'd said it, like it was obvious, and she was reminding him that she was not here to fight. She was looking at him with sadness in her eyes like she cared about the riotous whirlpool of despair and defeat doing its best to swallow him from within. Like she loved him. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes and fell before he could do anything about them. Elise pulled him down into her arms, and it didn't matter that she was shorter than him and he had to bend awkwardly.
Because she was his mother.
He'd been so afraid, distantly, that he had just ruined everything. As he raged and pitied himself in the air for losing Fleur and his future children, he flew late into the night to avoid coming home. His home- that was Fleur's first, and would still be Fleur's after he was gone. He flew late into the night to try and avoid seeing anyone on his return so that he could have at least one last night. A few more hours before the other shoe dropped and he had to pay for declaring war on Richard and Elise's daughter.
He cried, about Fleur of course, but about Lily and James Potter too. The ghostly parental figures he'd never met, or seen, and had no memories of. He cried in the arms of the woman who he loved as fiercely as Gabby and Richard, his family that had chosen him and saved him from hell. Given him everything, and would not abandon him now that he was being petty and vindictive towards their daughter.
That was the first night he called her maman, as he sobbed in her embrace, and he would never call her Elise again.
-o-o-o-
"Stupid boy."
Fleur admonished, but it was weakened by misty eyes as she leaned in to kiss him, briefly trapping their daughter's head between them. She protested shrilly and scrambled out of her mother's lap to reclaim her seat across the car's cabin. Her parents shared a few more kisses and gross dumb whispers, she retrieved her dad's quidditch book, which her aunt had magicked to look like a storybook, and returned to reading it secretively.
Her parents were mushy for the rest of the short car ride. Fleur moved over to sit on her husband's lap and coo reassurances at the sad little orphan boy that lived inside him somewhere and he held her in turn and promised his love and devotion to her. The whole thing made their daughter gag, but they were unconcerned, and Arianne was glad to bail out of the car when it arrived at their little cottage by the mountains.
Their big house had a real quidditch pitch, which Arianne liked, but this place was her home. She'd never known a time when the manor house was their full-time house, Liliane did, vaguely, but not Arianne. She exploded into the little space excitedly, because Liliane was gone. Last year she'd been sad and scared of the new unknown of her sister being in school. Now though, she had nothing to be sad about, and only the knowledge that for the rest of the year she could fly unimpeded. With no sister to distract her parents, and no witnesses to rat her out to maman, she could spend all day flying. Papa was supposed to limit their time, make sure she read and studied her maths while maman was at work, but he wanted to be flying too and Arianne knew how to work her father over from a young age.
Harry and Fleur made dinner together, she was unwilling to let him out of arm's reach after his retelling of that awful first fight. So they bumped shoulders and hips as they prepared something simple for their daughter to eat before bed. He pulled laughs out of her to soothe her sorrow at his upbringing and she smothered him with affectionate touches for the same reason.
They were getting ready for bed, and she was thinking back on her mother's conversation with him when she remembered her own encounter that night. It brought a laugh forth as she connected it to a long-forgotten and unconnected dot.
"Papa talked to me that night- after our fight," She clarified at his confused look. "I completely forgot until now." She laughed.
"He came into my room all uncomfortable and asked if I was alright, seemed to want nothing more than to run away when he found me throttling my pillows instead of a teary mess. But he said it was this or have the parent-talk, I didn't know what he meant then."
Harry laughed in response to that. "Poor Richard." He lamented, regretting the hell he'd put the Delacours through in his teens.
"Oui, and poor you." She pulled him close and held him.
AN There's some art of the Fleur and Hedwig scene from earlier in this chapter, it's in #server-art-gallery on the flowerpot discord server, I'm not saying you have to go check it out, I'm just saying if you wanted to its there: discord . gg / uqEeHRhTk7
It's by the brilliantly talented DaveAthenai over there, go check it out!