Author's Note: Hello, thank you for reading my story. Please see my profile for information regarding canon compliance and a general timeline of my interconnected stories. While they are not necessary to read, my short stories add flavour and context.
Sincere gratitude must be given to LTCMDR Michal Drápalík, Luq707, Astro Hawthorne, DavidTheAthenai, WardenInTheNorth and all the other great people who gave up their time to edit my story in the Harry/Fleur discord..
I own none of the rights, nor make money, nor gain fame, or anything else from Harry Potter.
Cheers.
Chapter 4: Life of the Party
"The water is so blue," Fleur gushed, standing amidst old stones and an orange sky. The sun burned across the water, casting a glow against the pale architecture of Odessa. The stones that made up the city were worn but loved. Old buildings caught the embers of the setting sun, turning fiery and alive.
Orange and yellow leaves blew along cobbled streets, drifting aimlessly among the people walking about their lives. A young boy shrieked in delight as he jumped into a pile of fallen foliage that had amassed near a park bench. Harry smiled as he thought of his own child, who would have done the same with similar gusto.
He turned around and looked back at the water, the Black Sea spreading out before them and the centuries-old port city they found themselves in. Harry's hand grasped his wife's, bringing her knuckles to his lips as she gazed towards the sea. Gentle waves lapped against the rocks directly below them. Her nose, slightly red from the wind, crinkled in delight at the beauty on display.
The water was gorgeous, a stunning azure expanse that shimmered golden in the light from the setting sun. He glanced behind them, scanning the passersby who gave little thought to the tourist couple by the water's edge. The hustle and bustle of the crowd during a Friday evening was a pleasant backdrop to the spectacle of Ukraine's sunset.
Fleur was resplendent in her evening dress but Harry's eyes were drawn to her elegant swan-like neck, adorned by a bolt of sunshine. His fingers lightly brushed the yellow silk ribbon about her throat.
"Exquisite," he murmured as his lips brushed three times against her own, unable to stop himself from feeling her against him. Her eyes opened as their lips parted, shining blue eyes all-knowing in their mysticism. The look she gave him made him feel powerful, potent, consumed . She licked her lips, the pink tip of her tongue darting out to moisten the plump flesh. He kissed her again.
"We must go," she breathed against his mouth. Regretful and wistful in equal measure. "Can't be late."
He released her mouth but held her tight to him by the waist. They smiled at each other, secretive and warm. She reached up to straighten his tie and tidy his hair, her eyes narrowed in concentration as she made him look perfect.
Veela are typically vain beings, at least, that is what Apolline had told him their first Christmas together as a family. They appreciated neat, orderly homes and preferred to look their best. He'd learned quickly that everything had a place in the house and putting a hairbrush anywhere but its designated spot held repercussions. Though, if he was completely and utterly honest with himself, he liked the preening Fleur tended to subject him and herself to. She always liked him to look his best when it mattered and he was giddy that she held such regard in him that she'd show him off in such a manner. Even if having her pick out his clothes slightly prickled his pride.
They held one another close as they strolled to the conference hall. It was a grand edifice, huge and stately. The building was pale yellow, trimmed with white in a way that played off the light brown brick beautifully. The Potters stood for a while, simply marvelling at the architecture. The gently arching blue roof with stone statues standing diligent guard about the balustrades drew the eye upwards. A fountain gurgled merrily at the pavilion in front of the conference hall, the spattering of water magically charmed to sound like music. Each of the eighteen spouts of water was either yellow or blue, alternating between the two in seemingly random order. Green shrubbery and trees stood like soldiers about the fountain and pavilion. The whole place had been built by muggles and subsequently enchanted.
As was the case with every ICW conference, the entire building had been placed under the Supreme Mugwump's jurisdiction, who then cast a Fidelus Charm upon the location. The ICW staff would then send each attending Ministry of Magic a letter charmed to immolate if it was opened by anyone other than the Minister, within it resided the name and place of the conference. It was then up to the Ministry to invite each individual attendee from within their border to the conference itself. Afterwhich, the Ministry would send a list of guests back to the ICW staff who would vet and check each selected guest thoroughly.
All this information had been stuffed inside Harry's unwilling head by Hermione, who had been keen to go over all the safety measures taken, but it had done little to sway Harry from his decision to not stay at the conference hall itself.
Hence, the small home the Potters had rented for the week was not in Odessa. Instead, they had opted to stay away from the city and the conference. It wasn't entirely a matter of safety either if Harry cared to admit it to himself, but one of privacy.
It also wasn't often they could indulge themselves in a getaway with just the two of them, considering the demands of parenthood and extended family obligations. The tiny place they were staying at was decidedly muggle and brought up many pleasant memories of a honeymoon indolently spent in a chateau corroding by the sea. They planned to spend much of their time during the week tangled up in sheets and whispered memories.
Fleur nestled her head against his shoulder, a hum vibrating in her throat. "Buildings such as this boggle my mind," she said. "That muggles are able to create such things without magic. Magnificent."
"Hard to believe, isn't it?" He replied in agreement. "The amount of work, time, and devotion it must take them to create such things. It makes what they accomplish have… character, perhaps?"
"Mm, yes. This whole city feels alive." She peered up at him, a frozen sea beneath winged lashes. "Are you ready?"
He shifted slightly upon his back foot, tightening his grip on her waist. His face turned up and towards the hall where he'd make his first step onto the international political scene. His heart beat in his chest and the nape of his neck tingled with a phantom sensation, his nerves danced and stomach clenched.
"Stay with me?" He asked; his voice strong and confident to anyone but her.
"Forever."
He nodded and took a step that felt like a leap.
XXXXXXXX
Hermione met the pair just beyond the entrance to the building, immediately latching on to them and beginning to rattle off every scrap of information she knew about the hall, Odessa, and the ICW. Harry grinned at Fleur who peered at him from the corner of her eye, even as she nodded seriously at what their friend was saying.
They had both become used to Hermione's way of handling nerves.
The interior was decadent; huge original pieces of art dominated the walls in gilded frames, with marble floors, and ornate furniture. Many browns, greens, and pastel blues decorated the hall they walked along.
Aurors and Hitwizards from every Ministry around the world were staked out in positions among the fancily-potted foliage and busts of nude models.
An individual with mousy hair and a harried face stepped forward, a badge on their lapel grabbing their attention via its garishly blinking enchantment, stating they were ICW staff. The woman barely spared them a glance as she asked their names. Upon hearing them, however, she looked up in alarm.
"Oh dear, yes, of course," came her distressed reply. "Right this way, we need you to, oh dear, where did that boy go? One moment please." Her busy tone matched the tremulous energy she exuded as her eyes wheeled about the room looking for someone. Finally, when her patience exceeded her decorum she promptly yelped, "Miguel!"
A hush fell about the bustling hall and she blushed brilliantly before being saved by a man jogging towards their little group. He was stout and portly but had a charming smile decorating his face.
"Ah, the Potters! Glad to see you," he boomed. "If you'll follow me, Mr Akingbade hoped to meet with you before the conference began in earnest."
Hermione let out a tiny yelp, before tugging on Harry's coat sleeve and rising onto her tiptoes. "That's the Supreme Mugwump," she whispered into his ear. He didn't bother with trying to tell her that he already knew who the man was.
Nodding at Miguel, Harry motioned for the man to lead the way. Harry held out his arm for Fleur to take, which she draped herself over in an elegant fashion he had only ever seen her accomplish. It was simultaneously possessive, demure, and regal. Even nearing thirty, he couldn't deny the rush she gave him, nor the childish smugness that came with the reactions of those around him.
They passed small clusters of delegations that had arrived early and were milling about the entryway. The foregin groups sent them guarded stares and their passage resulted in furiously whispered conversation. It was a supremely uncomfortable feeling for Harry, who had been out of the public eye for so long.
Unbidden memories of his second and fourth year at Hogwarts rose, only for him to realize that those were mere schoolchildren. This was a far deadlier stage.
Still, the watchful gazes caused his heart to hammer and stomach to sour but he tried to maintain a semblance of stoicism, the admonishments of Percy, Fleur, and Hermione ringing in his ears regarding his role to play.
The troop silently trudged up staircases and down hallways until they reached a nondescript door with two towering Ugandan Aurors standing guard outside. Miguel flashed his badge and introduced the party to the extremely tall woman on the left who nodded before tapping her wand tip to the door in a pattering sequence.
The old wooden frame shook from the force of the door being swung open to reveal a colourfully-robed man. The crown of his head was trimmed and plaited neatly, giving his scalp a textured appearance. He was some unidentifiable age, assuredly old but not a wrinkle or grey hair dared show it. His jawline was striking, enhanced by a beard artfully decorating it. Without a word to accompany the flat but interested stare affixed to his face, he ushered them inside. Harry fingered his wand, slipping it back into his sleeve while meeting the eyes of the female guard who stared at him knowingly. She nodded to him as he passed.
The office they entered was furnished lavishly and dominated by a truly massive desk made of ivory. Harry stopped in his tracks at the sheer intricacy and embellishments of the piece of art being used as a writing table. The Supreme Mugwump laughed as he noticed Harry's incredulous expression.
"An heirloom," the man stated, his voice a deep, rich timbre. "Passed down in my family from the first to visit the Mountains of the Moon."
Harry started at being addressed and felt some chagrin at being caught. He scratched the back of his head, "I've not seen anything like this before," he admitted. "It's beautiful."
The ICW's head nodded, his blank expression never faltering. "Muggles would be horrified to see it. The ivory-trade is a bloody, terrible affair. But my family always claims that this is the ivory taken from the first elephant. An ancestor of mine, in fact."
Fleur took the obvious bait.
"Oh? That sounds like a fascinating tale."
The man gave a nod in her direction. "It is, indeed. But please, take a seat before I tell it."
As the group settled in plush chairs around the focus of their discussion the man introduced himself formally.
"I am Babajide Akingbade. Some call me the Supreme Mugwump and others call me a fool. I shall allow you to make your own determinations. But it is a pleasure to meet you all."
Harry held out a hand to shake but Mr Akingbade shook his head and held up his hands. "I apologise, Mr Potter, but I allow few to touch me. It is not personal, I assure you."
Immediately, he pulled his hand back. "I'm sorry, force of habit," he replied contritely.
"No apology necessary. It takes time and study to learn all the eccentricities of the myriad of cultures present here today. No one expects you to know all of them." Mr Akingbade paused. "Well, some of them might, but they are either ridiculous or determined to be your critics."
Harry had a feeling there would be quite a few of those sort of people present.
"As I was saying, the desk has been passed down far enough back that even my family has forgotten its exact age. Though the story has lived on as they often do." Mr Akingbade steepled his fingers in a way that was oddly memorable to Harry. "My grandfather told me that my ancestors had been destitute and starving when the second son decided to take a trip to find his fortune. He hoped to find goats or cattle but instead was visited in his dreams by a messenger that bid him to go to the Mountains of the Moon. There he found the Uagadou School in its infancy. He was told of his magic abilities and bid to join them in learning how to control it. My ancestor was conflicted. Compelled to learn but his duties to his family pulled him back. The Uagadou School founders gave him a special ointment with instructions so that he would be able to feed his family and hurry back to be taught."
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Fleur and Hermione who were perched on the edges of their seats. He stifled a chuckle at how drawn in they were by the tale. Even he could admire Mr Akingbade's skill as an orator; pausing with meaning and emphasising certain words through the fluctuation of his tone. So amused was he that he missed part of what was said.
"—And so, he arrived back at his family's village and, following the instructions he was given, coated his sister's two pointed teeth of her upper jaw in the magical concoction. Within a few weeks, her teeth had grown into great tusks, thick and long. He removed the tusks and sold them for many goats. On and on they did this until one day his sister refused to remove her tusks. Time passed and she became large and thick and grey. Eventually, she lumbered into the forest, never to be seen again, but from her pregnant belly came the first elephants."
"This ivory," he said, while rapping his knuckles against the top of the desk. "Was her final shed to her family before leaving. It has been passed down ever since."
Harry was at a loss and judging by Fleur's scrunched eyebrows she was as well. Luckily, Hermione jumped in.
"The elephant, really? How long ago was this? I thought the Uagadou School has been around for around one thousand years, while elephants have been around far longer. Have you done any magical testing? Oh, muggles have this fascinating technology called carbon-dating, perhaps if we used that we could—"
Mr Akingbade raised a hand to forestall the flood of words. "Whether the tale is real or not has no import to me, Mrs Granger. However, what I have to say next is the real reason why I told that story to begin with. Are any of you familiar with the African creature, the Grootslang?"
Seeing the obvious uncertainty of his audience, the man simply nodded before continuing. "I'm not surprised. It is a rare creature only found in certain parts of Africa, places of deep wealth. Caves or seafloors with great glittering gems or ores. They have tusks and glittering scales, an amalgamation of elephant and sea serpent." Harry wondered if Luna had heard of this creature as it sounded remarkably similar to one Hermione had claimed to be imaginary.
Mr Akingbade continued. "African cryptozoologists claim the elephant descended from the Grootslang, as many mundane animals come from magical creatures. Perhaps you understand the connection between my story and the creature?"
Fleur nodded confidently. "You suggest, perhaps, that the Grootslang, hoarder of wealth, is the poor man's sister from your tale."
The man gave a guarded smile, the first he'd let slip since meeting them. "Mrs Potter has made the correct deduction. In fact, it is the same deduction that a certain Mr Kneissley made around three-hundred years ago. He was a cryptozoologist who believed that the vast majority of magical creatures are the product of primal magic being used either intentionally, or unintentionally, by early wizards or natural, magic mutation."
"This is interesting, sir," Harry said tentatively, speaking up for the first time since the story began. "But what exactly does this have to do with the conference?"
"I'm overjoyed that you asked, Mr Potter. Let us agree, momentarily, that Mr Kneissley's theory was correct. All magical creatures were created in some form or another by primitive magicians. What then, are magical beings? You know the difference, surely, that provides the divide within the contemporary classification. I'm uninterested in the textbook recitation of sentience versus instinct." The large man slammed a fist upon the desk, creating a solid thud in the emphatic emphasis of his point. "Let me hear, instead, your philosophical perspective."
Harry peered at Hermione and Fleur who seemed to be deep in thought. Hermione was chewing her lip while Fleur twisted her platinum hair around her finger. She seemed to have come to her own conclusion but looked at him instead, a subtle sign that he should speak. That look, in addition to the way Mr Akingbade's eyes bored into him, made Harry sure that the question was really intended for him alone.
With a small breath after a few more moments of silent contemplation, he spoke. "If creatures were created then beings are the creators." He glanced at Fleur, who smiled encouragingly at him. "I find it unlikely that human magicians did all the creating. Especially because Goblins have such a peculiar and familiar understanding of Kneazles. If magical beasts can use supernatural abilities bestowed upon them but are incapable of using magic itself. Then perhaps Beings are simply those able to channel magic."
Mr Akingbade's face gave nothing away even as he spoke, his tone was wholly neutral. "Then, by such a definition, are wizards, not 'magical beings?'"
Harry felt like this was where the man had been guiding him all along. "That would seem to be the case."
The man gave a sharp nod. "Such an opinion would make you few friends in our world, Mr Potter. Indeed, that same theory is one you share with Mr Kneissley, who was exiled from magical society for his heretical studies."
The man suddenly looked ancient and weary; his eyes turned haggard and withdrawn. "Wizards believe themselves superior and they would recoil at the idea that they are the same as those they classify beneath them. If they were to think wizards are the same as Veela or Goblins it would mean they would either have to lower themselves or elevate those they consider inferior. Neither option is particularly palatable."
"Is that a warning?" Fleur questioned sharply, her eyes taking on a dangerous edge.
"Yes," the Supreme Mugwump replied, unconcerned by her reproachful tone. "You are playing a dangerous game without all the facts. You must understand that it is not only pureblood discrimination you seek to topple. No, it is far more deep-seated than that. What is the true divide between beast and being? My country believes the Grootslang to be a being, as do I — a sort of ancestor even. But the rest of the world views them as violent, territorial creatures. The same can be said of Giants, Werewolves… and even Veela."
At Harry's intake of violent breath, the man's eyes snapped to his, forestalling his tirade. "Do not presume to misunderstand me, Mr Potter." His tone was clipped and urgent. "My husband is an Irish Selkie, I promise that my investment in the passage of this resolution mirrors your own." Harry gaped stupidly as the retort poised on his tongue withered and turned useless.
"But you must remember that in seeking to elevate one," his eyes strayed to Fleur, who met his gaze steadily, "you must seek to raise them all or forever condemn them to 'creature-hood.' But in doing so you exponentially increase your risk. For each creature, beast, and being has their own baggage that you must erase in order to justify their existence to those who have biases against them or their own self-interested position of superiority to maintain."
Harry grit his teeth before biting out as respectfully as he could muster, "if you seek to warn me of the difficulty of the task we've undertaken, don't bother. I've been made painfully aware of just how naive my hope that progress is possible in wizarding society truly is. But doing nothing is abhorrent to me and should be to you as well."
The men glared at one another as silence bubbled about the room.
Finally, Mr Akingbade's expression smoothed out once more into his typical blank mask. "Please just try and remember that not all Beings are as beautiful as your wife, or humanoid like my husband. It will be easier to make the classification of sentient beings simple and easy to understand: those that look and act human. Many are looking to amend your resolution thusly."
"But that is just another form of wizarding ego," Fleur whispered quietly, staring at her folded hands upon her lap.
When she looked up her eyes were steel blue. "I am Veela and should be treated with respect and dignity not because I am human-ish in looks or can behave in a magical society, but because I think and have feelings, aspirations, emotions and sensibilities. However, I have my own culture different from that of human wizards. I have a separate nature and disposition." She narrowed her eyes at the man across from them and the magical hum of her allure strengthened in her agitation. She was glorious. Potent. Terrible.
And then it was gone and she was serene once more. "You are cautioning us of integration. The Grootslang is hardly human in appearance, and few would care to classify it as a Being, but even if it were to be seen as one, it could never integrate into human magical society in a meaningful way. Like myself or your husband."
Hermione's face cleared of troubled clouds and she brightened considerably before speaking. "So a delegation or regional bloc is seeking to establish integration-provisions. You're worried we'd take it because it provides us with what we want personally, namely rights for werewolves and Veela."
"But in requiring that Beings are humanoid and capable of integration, we'd leave out a whole slew of lesser-known Beings like the Grootslang," Harry intoned, catching on.
"The African Regional Bloc is looking to move on the integration provision. They have no trouble with Werewolves or Vampires, but they worry about Beings like the Kishi or Aigamuxa being granted protections. Both are sentient and humanoid but decidedly… let us say, dangerous. So their inability to integrate with human society, their source of food, would leave them in their current and well-regulated status."
"What worked in England won't work for the whole world," Hermione said. "We know that. Many of the Beings other countries deal with that are dangerous are not capable of safely assimilating with human culture."
"But not all of us need to," Fleur interjected irately. "Just because I have does not mean all Veela aspire to do so. Nor all Werewolves. Give them protections and rights but don't force us to change for it."
Hermione looked thunderstruck and a little hurt. "I would never."
Fleur gave her an apologetic look and clasped their hands together. "I know that, Hermione. You have my complete trust. But Mr Akingbade's caution is worthwhile. We have to be wary not to take the easiest deal from an allied delegation without serious forethought. I cannot honestly say that I would have realized the dangers of an integration provision if we had not had this conversation."
The bushy-haired witch nodded resolutely. "You are right, of course. This is a far murkier stage than England. We are so used to bald-faced prejudice there that the more nuanced forms of discrimination and regulation may be harder to notice. Please know that I will be extremely diligent with the negotiations."
Harry snorted, effectively defusing the sombre moment. "Diligence was never even a question when it came to you, Hermione." He gave her a large, fond smile. "We wouldn't trust anyone else with such a massive, important undertaking."
His old friend sniffled once, before giving Harry and Fleur a watery smile in gratitude for their belief.
Mr Akingbade chose that moment to clear his throat and bring the attention of the three friends back to him. Only Hermione looked sufficiently chastised at forgetting his presence.
"I am a neutral party as Supreme Mugwump. I have no political ties to my region of origin. But I've heard things from time to time." His eyes glittered. "I believe that whatever Resolution you form now at this conference will be the most... informed and impactful it could be." He gave them a bright, white smile.
Well, Harry thought, at least the Supreme Mugwump was on their side. Surely, that had to count for something. But he couldn't help but wish that those who held such powerful positions weren't so bloody odd.
XXXXXXXX
Standing in the shadowy side room next to the entrance hall leading to the conference centre, Fleur fussed over Harry's tie.
"I can't believe you still don't know how to properly knot these," she scolded him.
Harry remained quiet as he simply watched her straighten the silk, paisley tie about his neck, fastening it securely and perfectly.
She was so close that he could feel her warm breath pulsing against his throat and even in the dim lighting he could make out the constellation of barely-noticeable freckles that adorned her high cheekbones. Arctic blue eyes glimmered up at him through long lashes.
He made no mention of intentionally botching his knots so she would have the excuse to do it for him.
Fleur made a positively adorable noise of happiness in her throat at her success with his tie before giving his chest a pat. "Good, you look," her eyes held his fetchingly, "delectable."
His eyes followed the trail of the pink tongue that glided between her lips.
With a groan he leaned down to capture those wet lips, sucking the plump flesh between his teeth so he could bite lightly but possessively. Her response was no less passionate, fisting his lapels in her tiny, delicate hands and letting out a truly ardent moan.
"Soon," she sighed breathlessly against his feasting, ravenous mouth.
Not soon enough for his liking. The conference's opening feast would last for hour s and he wanted her now.
With a groan, he wrenched himself away. His eyes locked to his wife's as they stood panting against one another.
She grinned saucily at him before reaching up to wipe the lipstick he'd stolen from her off of his mouth. "Can't have you going out there looking so debauched," she stated amusedly. "What would the genteel lords and ladies think?"
Harry scoffed. "That my wife was having her wicked way with me in what amounts to a politician's broom-closet, I suspect."
"Mmm," she hummed lowly. "If it's wicked you want…" She trailed off with a mischievous and sultry smirk on her face before her hand started to trail downwards.
A puff of white mist shot out of Harry's sleeve where his wand resided. The Potter's stared at the shimmering spellwork in shock for a moment before realization dawned on them.
Harry blushed scarlet as Fleur eyed him. "Did you just… unconsciously cause your wand to shoot out a Patronus Charm?" she asked with a strange tone.
His eyes refused to look anywhere but her as he felt the blood continue to heat his face. Finally, he settled on a particularly ornate lamp in the corner of the room before replying. "I swear, this never happens to me."
A delighted snort came from his wife who could no longer contain her giggles.
"I can't believe that happened," Fleur finally gasped out after they had both dissolved into laughter against one another.
"I didn't even know that could happen," Harry admitted.
His wife's fingers trailed up his chest. "You must love me an awful lot," she teased coyly.
"You must make me impossibly happy," he amended quietly; catching her wandering hand in his and pressing his lips hard against her knuckles.
"Are you ready, my love?" She asked, her eyes tender and fingers intertwined with his.
"As much as I can be, I expect," Harry responded before turning them both so they faced the door out into the hall.
They both took a deep breath in harmony before sharing one last glance. With a nod and a smile, the door was opened.
XXXXXXXX
Mr Akingbade stood at the raised dais in the magically expanded hall. His arms were stretched out to his side so as to garner the attention of the conference-goers. A hush fell upon the hall just as Harry and Fleur slipped into the room. He thanked his luck for such perfect timing as all the attention would be elsewhere. Surreptitiously, he guided Fleur upon his arm over to the English delegation while the Supreme Mugwump gave his opening speech.
Upon reaching the small table with a British Flag waving dutifully above it, the Potters smoothly integrated with Hermione and her team. Harry was glad to see only one young man who seemed utterly starstruck by their presence. The other four looked remarkably professional.
Turning to the podium, Harry caught the rest of Mr Akingbade's words.
"Translation Charms will be used ubiquitously throughout the conference. As you can obviously tell, I am currently demonstrating their use." The tall man looked over the gathering with a calm, authoritative energy. "We ask that you not attempt to cast the charm yourself. Only someone versed in the language can cast it upon another person and give them credible comprehension. Luckily, that is what the Scriba Interpres is for." With a clap and a slight bow, the man gestured to a woman who hobbled up next to him.
She was ancient, more so than anyone Harry had ever seen. Additionally, she was remarkably tiny, with white ear hair neatly plaited, which hung down to her shoulders. The woman wore a lovely Victorian bonnet with a massive feather and a violet hydrangea perched atop it.
With a wave of his wand, Mr Akingbade summoned a table that had stood next to the wall to float and settle before the Scriba Interpres. With no further ceremony, as this was almost certainly a regular occurrence at each conference, people began to file in front of her as she cast the Translation Charm on each in turn.
"She is fluent in more languages than are spoken nowadays!" Hermione exclaimed excitedly, practically vibrating beside him.
Harry idly hoped that the elderly woman didn't have a heart-attack when faced with the sheer exuberance of his friend. Hermione sped off to save them a spot in line.
As the English table got up to follow, a statuesque blonde woman moved to intercept them, her hair the colour of burnished gold imbued with a near metallic sheen. The hair stopped at bare shoulders resplendent with milky white skin. The gown that wrapped around her was a navy so dark it could pass for black. She was a near-perfect beauty except for a long, horrid scar that ran down the side of her jaw and over the side of her neck to her exposed collarbone.
"Mother," exclaimed Fleur delightedly; letting go of Harry's arm briefly to kiss her mother's cheeks in greeting. "You are stunning!"
Apolline Delacour gave a stately smile, the picture of serenity. However, the warm light in her eyes belied her true feelings regarding the reunion with her eldest daughter.
"Magnificent," the Delacour matron exclaimed, twirling her daughter in a pirouette. "You look positively radiant, my dear."
Fleur beamed a smile before returning to Harry's side. He grinned roguishly at his mother-in-law. "You shame all the women here, Mrs Delacour, even those half your age."
"Tsk-tsk, Harry, to flirt with me so openly in front of your wife. What would my husband think?" She teased back familiarly.
"Where is that old coot, anyways?" He asked laughingly.
"Matisse was called on urgent business, unfortunately. He won't be able to attend." Apolline shook her head sadly. "Leaving me to brave the conference without him."
Harry fought a wave of disappointment. "That is unfortunate news. I'd hoped to see him tonight."
"You hoped he'd be around to help keep you safe, you mean," Fleur interjected, arching her brow.
"How you wound me, dearest," he replied with a smile. "That was only part of it. I also wanted someone who could make me laugh. This ceremony, I'm sure, will be dreadfully dull."
Apolline gave a slight smirk as she joined them in their walk to get in line, taking Harry's offered arm. "I'll overlook the implication that my husband is little more than a jester for your amusement. Instead, I'll compliment you for cleaning up so nicely tonight."
Harry sighed exaggeratedly. "Your daughter must take credit for that. She wouldn't allow me to come in jeans."
His mother-in-law laughed just as the group rejoined Hermione.
"Oh, Mrs Delacour, you look lovely!" Hermione gushed. "I love your shoes, are those heels muggle-made?"
"Good eye, they are. Muggles have far more artistic talent than Wizards, I'm afraid. I despise those magically enchanted glass heels that are the trend nowadays."
Hermione nodded seriously. "George got them for Angelina's birthday this year. She shattered them with his beater's bat and asked what sort of floozy he thought she was."
Apolline smothered an unladylike giggle into her hand. "I hope, for his sake, he had another gift on hand."
"Luckily for him, that was a gag-gift. The real gift was a charmed—"
Fleur leaned up to whisper into his ear. "Do you realize everyone is looking at you?"
Harry jolted and peered about him, meeting the eye of everyone in their vicinity. He scowled before smoothing out his face with some difficulty. "I'm sorry to subject you to this."
His wife just smiled beatifically at him, before responding in a sly voice, "I'm not. It's nice, in an odd way, to be shown off like this. You're the envy of every man here, what with two gorgeous women on your arms."
"If fourteen-year-old me could have seen the future…" he mused.
"He was too busy being charmed by Cho Chang."
"I wonder what she's up to nowadays…?" He goaded.
A tweak to the meat of his arm made him wince. "Think you're funny, do you?" His wife peered up at him. "Unfortunately for you, I have it on good authority that you're head over heels for me."
Harry gave her his best impersonation of a suave lothario. "You wouldn't be the first." She gave an annoyed huff. "But you are the last," he amended with a fond smile.
"I better be," she replied with feigned irritation, her lips twitching upwards giving her away.
As the English group moved forward in line, a man came up uninvited to insert himself into the conversation.
"Terrible business with the newspaper; bad sport I say," the officious, portly man intoned.
Harry grimaced and his mood took a nosedive. "Thanks." He turned his head away pointedly but, unfortunately, did not seem enough to deter the unwelcome guest.
The man gave a condescending smile before speaking. "And you must be Mrs Potter. Charmed, I'm sure." The man held out his hand in invitation for hers as he introduced himself. "My name is Kaspar Fischer and I'm with the German delegation. I've heard much about you from a mutual friend, Mr Ernst Weber." He paused, confusion passing over his face when his hand remained empty.
Fleur looked down her nose at him. "Good evening to you, sir," she said frostily. Harry shared her frustration with the man's impertinence. Her mood undoubtably souring doubly so at the name of her horrid co-worker.
The man straightened from his stoop and retracted his hand. Embarrassment and anger marred his features briefly before he schooled himself.
"Yes, well. Hopefully, we shall get to know one another better," he muttered before spinning on his heel and striding off.
Harry looked down at Fleur who fumed at his side. He leaned over and pressed a kiss to her temple, deflating her slightly.
"Arrogant, upsetting men will be the norm here, I'm afraid," Apolline mentioned from beside them. "You must keep yourself in check, sunflower."
"Bringing up the newspaper was an obvious faux pas, and to do it before even introducing himself! The nerve," Hermione interjected, frowning.
Fleur nudged Harry's side, bringing his attention back to her. He could feel the storm clouds on his brow. "Forget him," she urged, standing up on the tips of her toes so she could kiss the side of his mouth.
He gave a noncommittal grunt and Fleur's eyes sharpened. "'Arry," she started to say only to be interrupted as the group reached the Scriba Interpres's table.
The English delegation stood silently as the Translation Charm settled over them. It would automatically force any language they spoke to be changed for the listener's understanding. It made Harry's tongue itch.
As the group stepped to the side, Hermione nodded over their shoulder. "You should go and say hello to the Italian delegation now, before dinner. They'll be a good palate-cleanser after that oaf."
Fleur nodded gratefully.
"What will you do, Hermione?" Harry asked.
"I need to go see the Americans. I heard some unsettling news while I was waiting in line."
"I'd like to accompany you, I know one of the American ambassadors." Apolline interjected.
"Alright, see you both soon though, yeah?" He clarified.
His friend grinned up at him. "Of course, I'm not leaving you to the wolves."
He mimed wiping sweat from his brow. "Thank goodness."
She chuckled and with a final smile at Fleur, bounced away.
His wife turned him around and nodded her chin subtly at what had been identified as the Italian delegation. "Shall we, my love?" She asked.
He groaned under his breath as they made their way over. "If we must."
The tall, dark couple loomed over even Harry and Fleur's substantial height. Their skin had an unusual pallor to it too and their youthful appearance was at odds with the ancient formal attire they wore. The woman held out a ruby-jewelled hand, which Harry barely had to stoop to kiss.
"Beatrisa and Ormanno Abbadelli, a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"Fleur and Harry Potter," Harry began their introductions, only to be tittered at by the handsome woman.
"The Potters, of course, I'd not guessed by the clamour you caused upon arriving."
"Really?" Harry asked, his voice easy, "I'd have guessed the scar gave it away."
Ormanno and Beatrisa stared at him for a beat before both glanced at one another and laughed.
"He has a wit, my dear."
"Quite. I am diverted, Ormanno, let us reintroduce ourselves." Their back and forth was seamless as though practised for many, many years. It became readily apparent that both were good-natured and witty conversationalists that delighted in dialogue of a unique variety.
"We are part of the Italian delegation, though we're also representatives of a... larger coalition than what lies in our country's borders."
"Oh, they'll never guess," the tall woman said fancifully and blasé.
"Eccentrics?" Fleur smoothly cut in, her wide-eyed affection of innocence completing the delivery of her gentle barb.
The two Italians were quick to laugh, doing so often and loudly. Both had a magnetism that drew you in, they were hard to dislike and easy to adore. They guffawed again at Mrs Potter's remark.
"The last name Abbadelli…" Fleur began tentatively, only to be answered immediately.
"Ah, she speaks Italian as well, beauty and brains. Enchanting witch. It is a poor joke on the part of those that named us, I assure you. We had no hand in its formulation." Ormanno replied.
The man's wife nodded eagerly before joining in. "Just like these ghastly outfits." She leaned close as though to impart some terrible secret although her voice did not lower in the slightest. "They actually asked us to appear "vampiric" tonight and gave us what I can only assume are muggle theatre clothes."
Harry barked out a laugh. "You're kidding," he exclaimed.
Ormanno gave a gusty sigh. "Indeed, apparently it would be too hard to tell what we were otherwise."
"Not all of us have a noticeable sign proclaiming what we are, you see. Our fangs apparently don't get the job done quite like a lightning bolt." Beatrisa laid her head on the shoulder of her husband as she spoke, her mouth moving slowly so her elongated teeth were on display.
"The nerve of some people, as though the huddled masses wouldn't notice such prime examples of dental accomplishment," Fleur rejoined the conversation, her eyes alight with good humour.
"Oh, I like her," Beatrisa piped gaily.
Ormanno smiled as he tilted his head. "Did you know we don't even drink blood? Well, unless we're looking for a good time. Vampires typically eat a diet of vegetables, blood just makes us drunk, you see."
"These type of gatherings are astoundingly droll without some B negative, I tell you."
Harry gawked at the two vampires in a rather unbecoming manner before Fleur laughed. "My husband was raised by muggles, he may not understand vampire humour," she explained dutifully.
"A shame," Beatrisa exclaimed, "it really sucks the fun out of the whole joke."
"Indeed, what is the point of having a sharp wit in such a case."
Fleur smothered a laugh with her hand, her face sparkling with joy. "He'll catch on eventually. I promise he won't drain the evening of enjoyment for you."
Harry perked up indignantly, "How rude," he said with mocking solemnity. "I've been known to let loose some bitingly sarcastic quips occasionally."
His wife sighed while shaking her head, a dainty hand reaching up to tousle his hair with fond exasperation. "Oh, dear. Leave the wit to me, our family honour is at stake after all."
Ormanno barked out a laugh. "Bloody good, as you Brits are fond of saying. I simply must have you both for dinner one night."
Beatrisa idly stroked the long, dark hair of her husband, pulling it forward and over his shoulder. "He means have you over for dinner, I'm sure," She said with a twinkling grin. "I'm sure the Potters have a refined taste, we'll be sure to pull out all the stops."
Fleur grinned broadly. "We'd love to, perhaps we could visit in October?"
"That'd be lovely, we will have our thrall contact you with the details," said the Vampiress airily before both ladies laughed.
"A pleasure," Ormanno announced. "To meet you both. But I fear we've taken up too much of your time. The stars of the show must circulate after all."
Looking around, Harry grimaced as he recognized staring faces and speculative eyes upon his huddled group. His wife gripped his arm in support. "Thank you for introducing yourselves. Save us a seat at dinner, we'd be glad to sit with you," Fleur said.
The two Vampires nodded amicably before drifting away with supernatural grace.
"Well, I liked them, at least," Harry stated as he watched the retreating couple.
"The evening isn't an entire loss then," Fleur chuckled.
"Depends on how annoying the vultures surrounding us reveal themselves to be, I suppose," he replied dryly.
He wished he could take the words back as soon as he said them because, as though fate was a fan of irony, a slew of odious individuals descended upon them.
Many proffered handshakes and simpering was done and Harry didn't bother learning any of their names. But he did take the time and effort to identify the men who got too close or acted too slimy with his wife.
For a long time, Harry's mind operated on near-autopilot, making light conversation and actively fighting against his boredom, hoping that his mind wouldn't atrophy from the numbing discussions.
He was jolted out of his stupor when a man gripped his hand with a crushing force. Harry's eyes snapped to the baleful gaze of the man in front of him. He had short-cropped dark hair and brown eyes. He wore an extremely expensive suit and his brown, suede shoes were luxuriously detailed.
"Abbas," the man introduced himself shortly.
"Harry," he replied tersely before extricating his hand.
"Azerbaijan does not support your creature-loving bill, Mr Potter." Spiteful eyes darted over to Fleur at his side before ghosting over her as though she was beneath notice. "You should pull the resolution from the floor and leave. Don't presume that every country wants to join Britain in their bestiality."
Harry's lunge for the man was paralyzed before it began by Fleur's brief spell administered to his side by wand tip. For the first time, he hated the special dispensation the Potters were allowed. Being the only delegation capable of keeping their wands during the ceremony and conference.
"We thank you for your kind words, sir," Fleur said regally, her tone not showing any distress or anger. She was the perfect model of a lady. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind the next time I read a story about Peri brothels."
Abbas straightened as an angry flush coloured his skin. "How dare you speak to me in such a manner, you filthy—"
"I'll ask you and your Armenian friends to leave," a deep voice rumbled to the groups' left. Mr Akingbade and Hermione were standing together, having just walked up. "Let us allow cooler heads to prevail today, yes?"
With a snarl, Abbas stalked away, the hateful men around him turning to follow in his wake.
"I apologize, Mrs Potter. You didn't deserve that," the Supreme Mugwump said, patting her hand. "Perhaps, you can unfreeze your husband now, hm?"
She laughed. "Can't get anything past you, can I?" She replied, even as Hermione gave her a scandalized, but concerned, look.
Mr Akingbade patted Harry's cheek as he glided away.
After the countercharm was invoked Harry rolled his head about his neck, stretching it to a satisfying pop. "I wasn't going to do anything," he lied coolly.
"Mhm," Fleur hummed, unimpressed.
"Harry, quickly, look over there!" Hermione gestured excitedly. His eyes followed her direction and landed upon a woman standing with the Armenian delegation. She had a motley collection of thick, gnarled scars twisting their way all over her face and neck. The woman noticed his stare and smiled softly at him. Her left eye was missing, with a tattered eyelid covering the hole.
"Who is she?" He asked curiously.
"Naba Kurkjian. She is one of the few Sentient Being advocates in Armenia. Lost her whole family to a Werewolf attack."
Harry stared at Hermione dumbly. "And… she is on our side?" He asked, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"Incredibly so. She has even received death threats from her own ministry to cease her actions," his friend replied, admiration evident in her tone.
"Well, damn," he stated, impressed. With a slight swivel, he turned to survey the milling crowd around them.
A small group was an island unto itself, the wide berth of open space around their tightly packed members like a sea separating them from the rest of the conference. Huge, bear-like men stood in a semi-circle around a diminutive woman and a lanky man who couldn't have been more dissimilar to the hulking counterparts surrounding him.
Harry inclined his chin in question at the group and Hermione followed the tilt of his head. Her eyes alighted on the clustered bodies and she gave a grim smile before speaking. "That is the Werewolf representative and her delegation. I've not met her yet, but I've heard stories."
"Good or bad?" Fleur asked from the corner of her mouth, her body tilted away from the group to give the impression they weren't the subject of conversation.
"Strange," Hermione replied. Her voice dropped so the sound wouldn't carry far past them and she discreetly cast a Muffliato spell around them. "Honestly, I wasn't even sure they'd come or be allowed entrance if they did. The woman in the middle is the Pack Leader for all of Russia, Mongolia, Kazakhstan… well really all of Eastern Europe and part of the larger area of Eurasia. She's been uniting packs all over the continent since the Wizarding War ended."
"She's done all that in little over a decade?" Fleur's surprised tone signified the achievement.
"How do you unite a pack?" Harry asked, feeling ignorant based on the slightly awed way Fleur reacted.
"A Pack Leader has to be challenged to single combat. Submission or death…" His wife explained absently from the side of her mouth before resuming her conversation with Hermione. "She would've needed to face over a hundred different pack leaders to control such territory."
Their friend nodded rapidly. "Nearly two-hundred, no losses. Her name is Hirene Volkov; she's the first to unite so many packs into one community since Galarys Thorrfinn from the 1300s. Whether that is good or bad, we don't yet know."
Making his decision, Harry left the women behind and strode purposefully towards the group; he ignored Hermione's scandalized calling of his name. His nearing presence was picked up on immediately, the ranks of the large men on the outer circle neatly sliding into protective positions around their tiny leader. He was just close enough to hear the grumbled snarl that came from her throat that had her guardians returning to their previous positions.
Upon reaching a respectable distance, he stopped, allowing her to see him and gesture him forward. She cocked her head to the side at his obvious display of respect. As she did so, he examined her closely.
She was a hard woman, the planes of her face were weathered and claw marks ran over her left eye. She had white hair starkly different from the Veela silver he was used to, lacking the lustre and inherent glow. She was muscular, even beneath the fur coat she wore over her dark robes he could see the rippling, broad strength of her. Her yellow eyes were unmistakably that of a predator. She couldn't have been more than three years his elder.
A scarred hand slipped out of the long sleeves of her robe to beckon him forward. He took the few remaining steps to completely erase the distance between them. She appraised him before speaking. "Harry Potter," the translation charm making a faint buzzing sound in his ears as the Russian was overlaid with English. "I am Hirene, pack leader and Wolf representative."
He inclined his head respectfully. He spoke only after raising his face and meeting her eyes. "It is a pleasure to meet you." Opening his mouth to speak, he found himself cut off.
"You sought me out, why?"
Although her height caused him to look down, he couldn't help but feel small next to the self-assured power rolling off her in waves. He had met the savagery of Fenrir Greyback before but she was a different animal altogether. He considered his next words carefully. "I wanted to know the person rather than the biography."
She smirked at him and it was all teeth. "Something you appreciate yourself, I am sure. You knew a Werewolf, did you not? One that died in the war."
"Yes, I'm the godfather to his son."
She nodded as though the information was known to her. "Remus Lupin, packless, changed by Greyback at the age of four."
"You apparently know much about him."
"It is my business to know one of the few examples of Werewolves standing against Voldemort, especially considering today's assembly." Her yellowed eyes narrowed. "Let us not stand on pretence. We both know that Werewolves will be the biggest obstacle to the Equalist agenda. You've come to assess whether myself and my people will be a hindrance or a boon."
Harry fought the urge to shuffle his feet or look away but he could feel his pulse quicken at her accusation. "I do not mean to offend you. I didn't look to acquaint myself with you for such reasons. Truthfully I don't have a mind for politics nor the taste for it. Remus was a good man. I never fully knew how badly he suffered because of lycanthropy until he was already gone. The papers speak of camps being made in Azerbaijan and Armenia for Werewolves. I wanted to know if you had plans regarding them. If you needed or were looking for help."
He continued to keep his unblinking focus on Hirene even as her retinue's heads turned to look at him from their routine scanning of the assembly. She had stilled only briefly before a finger began tapping against her cheek.
"The situation is not unknown to me," she began slowly. "However, it is fraught with complications. They are the countries that have the deepest trauma with our kind. Galayrs Thorrfinn razed the wizarding communities to the ground there, and they have borne the brunt of lycanthropy outbreaks many times over."
Her eyes flickered to his and the yellow eyes bored into him. He fought the urge to look away.
Perhaps it was his imagination but she seemed pleased as she continued her deconstruction of the problem.
"The packs there are scattered and feral. Each time a new leader worth anything is appointed they disappear shortly thereafter. Regulations have long since been in place to stop them from attending school or receiving an education. They've grown violent and dumb. Not to mention the strict travel ban on Werewolves entering or exiting the countries. I've considered sending a wizard representative on my behalf but…" she trailed off. "His entry into the country was denied."
"The situation is worse than I thought."
"Yes, worse than many care to think about."
"If we can get the Resolution passed, perhaps we can get an international coalition to inquire into the state of affairs within Armenia and Azerbaijan. It would afford you access, if nothing else."
She shifted slightly. "Your friend, Granger, has taught you well, I see." Her gaze hardened. "But you are both naive to the truth of what will happen here."
"I prefer being hopeful rather than stagnant in apathy."
Yellow eyes widened before a sharp laugh rang out. Both Harry and Hirene looked over at the slim man whose humour had spilled into the air unbidden. It was the strange youth who seemed so at odds with the potent presence of the battle-hardened individuals surrounding him. He was also the nearest in physical proximity to Hirene herself.
The woman sighed before her lips quirked upwards in fond exasperation. The intensity of her demeanour lessened significantly. She raised a hand and gestured to the man. "This is Barry, my husband and mate."
Barry, a bespeckled, slim man adjusted his thick glasses before extending a hand out to shake.
"Hello," he stated jovially, no translation charm buzz accompanying the word. "I'm a muggle from Malta. Well, I was born in the U.K, before my parents moved to Malta. Then I got a job working in IT at a Swedish firm. Actually, that's where I met-"
A throat clearing of Hirene caused the younger man to stumble to a sheepish halt. "Sorry, I ramble when I get nervous." Barry fiddled with his bowtie.
Harry, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the gush of words grinned before responding. "No apologies necessary, I'm glad to meet you. IT, that is computer stuff right? I don't know much about it I'm afraid."
"Oh, no worries at all. Most of the magicals I've met don't have any clue what I'm talking about and explaining it to them makes them more confused."
Harry found the man's rapid-fire speech rather charming, even if it made listening difficult.
"I didn't mean to laugh," he explained, "I just agree that something should be done. I mean, this whole prejudice against Werewolves is ridiculous, right? Surely, something can be done. Why, I was positively flummoxed when a wizarding restaurant refused us service, can you believe the gall?"
"Barry," came a quiet but forceful warning. "I'm sure Mr Potter doesn't want to hear about our business."
The man adjusted his glasses again before shooting both Hirene and Harry an apologetic look.
"Right, nerves. Sorry."
His wife gave him an amused look and reached out her hand to grasp his own long fingers so he'd stop buttoning and unbuttoning his suit jacket. Her expression became steel upon turning back to Harry, hiding behind the mask of leadership once more.
"I too hope that this conference will be more than mere lip service, but I have a duty to my pack and to Werewolves everywhere that I don't solely rely on the benevolence of wizards to create change and opportunities for us. I'm sure you understand my position."
Harry nodded. "I do. My wife shares your view of the situation, I'd like to prove you both wrong, if at all possible."
She nodded before looking around him. "She is a beautiful woman, though I think she'd rather you were by her side."
He turned and sought out Fleur. She was currently being spoken to by a small battalion of men while Hermione was obviously attempting to direct the crowd's attention elsewhere.
He swore under his breath and a humorous chuff sounded behind him. "We will talk later as there is much to discuss." Taking the dismissal for what it was, Harry turned to leave but not before nodding his head one final time at Hirene and Barry.
With long, purposeful strides he made his way over to Fleur, who glanced over her shoulder at his approach. She rolled her eyes playfully and he wrapped an arm around her waist before pecking her temple with his lips. "Sorry, I shouldn't have left you alone," he whispered against her ear.
She pinched his hand that was clasped upon her hip in silent rebuke before nudging him with her shoulder. When she spoke, it was loud and clearly intended for the group still surrounding them. "Miroslav was just telling me about a most amusing anecdote from Serbia, what was it again? Something about the luxurious and discreet hotels there?"
The Serbian Ministry official was easily identified thanks to the men around him shuffling away, as though afraid of being associated with him.
Deciding to move on rather than cause a scene, the choice Hermione was obviously indicating with the bugging of her eyes and extravagant pantomiming, Harry simply spoke around the grinding of his teeth. "Yes, my wife and I have been meaning to visit. My mother-in-law is very fond of the hot springs and hamam in Sokobanja."
The nervously vibrating man gave a jerky nod before scurrying away. The space left by his absence was quickly filled in by the surrounding ministry officials.
One oily-looking man leaned far into Harry's personal space, extending the hand that wasn't smoothing the combover atop his round head. The man introduced himself but the name was lost on Harry, whose attention was taken by the beautifully dressed woman and man approaching them. Expensive red and white headscarfs with pale tassels tastefully adorned both their heads.
The crowd parted around the newcomers and the group directly around the Potters seemed to disappear.
The woman smiled vibrantly but did not reach out a hand in greeting like the man did, who vigorously pumped Harry's in a firm grip before kissing Fleur's knuckles.
"Lovely to meet you," he said in English before switching to his native tongue, the translation charm kicking in. "I am Yosef, from Jordan, and this is the lovely Sharifa, from Egypt."
Sharifa smiled again before speaking, the robe-like abaya swirling loosely around her as she turned to greet Harry and Fleur respectively. "Hello to you both."
Fleur returned the smile as she complimented the woman's garb. The two women began talking in hushed tones as Yosef spoke to Harry. "Just so you know, Jordan and most of the Middle East delegation is with you on the resolution. The only state that has a problem with it didn't bother to send a delegation so you'll hear no fight from us."
Harry smiled. "That is a relief. I've been told all about the countries that do have problems with the proposal. It is a welcome change to hear about the opposite."
The Jordanian official had an easy demeanour and smiled broadly, "I imagine so."
Sharifa turned to the two men, interrupting Yosef with a look. "I read the latest version of the Sentient Beings Resolution and noticed that Sphinxes are still classified as beasts." Her smile continued pleasantly even as her tone turned dangerous. "Any particular reason why?"
Harry rubbed his jaw before speaking. "No offense was meant, I believe England sent a representative to try and locate a Sphinx representative, but he never returned."
The woman scoffed. "No doubt he answered a riddle wrong, is what you imply?"
"No," came Fleur's firm rebuke. "Harry survived a Sphinx's riddle in the Triwizard Tournament. My husband bears them no ill will, but even you must admit that the Sphinx do not have a community or leader. England could not find a representative capable of speaking for their race and the Sphinx they have access to are those who have been in captivity for a long time."
"Egypt has been trying to classify the Sphinx as a being for decades now. But Europe has consistently denied the motion, citing their 'aggressive tendencies.' Would you be willing to amend the resolution to include such a provision?"
Harry gaped slightly before Fleur nudged him. "I, uh, don't really have that authority. Hermione is the one in charge, not me." At the woman's unmollified expression, he amended his statement by tacking on. "But I'll talk to her about it."
He remembered the Grootslang and his resolve straightened his spine. "I'm sure she will be just as agreeable to it as I am."
The woman nodded as though that was a foregone conclusion before smiling again, this time in earnest. "I fully approve of this Resolution. You have Egypt's total support." With that said, she turned and glided away gracefully.
Yosef chuckled good-naturedly. "She is a force of nature, that woman. Been the Egyptian Minister for twenty years now, started when she was just twenty-four. She's done the whole region a lot of good."
The man shook his head before shaking both Harry and Fleur's hands. "Pleasure to meet you both, I hope to get to know you better this week." They each replied affirmatively before watching him lope off after his friend.
"I'm in way over my head," Harry admitted quietly to his wife.
She grinned up at him amusedly. "Did you think the politics of negotiating with Fayette to eat her vegetables would be transferable, mon cœur?"
He grumbled in reply and she laughed brightly. "Everyone has an agenda and they all assume I know what I'm doing. I thought I'd come, pose for pictures and leave."
"I imagine Hermione knew if she told you what to expect you'd suddenly find a pressing matter to attend at home for the week."
"Probably," he admitted ruefully.
"There are a number of interesting people here tonight," Fleur said quietly, mirth still bubbling underneath her tone as she smoothly transitioned to lighter topics.
"You didn't meet the techie married to the Werewolf queen."
A throaty chuckle erupted from Fleur's graceful neck. "I'll need to rectify that before we leave."
He gave a hum of agreement as they lapsed in easy silence and people-watched. They were finally alone and in the corner of the room. Both took the respite gladly.
It did not last long.
A woman of extensive beauty, with a retinue of equally lovely women trailing behind her, arrived shortly.
"My name is Zlata," she announced in lieu of a greeting. The ladies behind her stopping a respectful distance away, forming a sort of barrier between their leader's conversation and the rest of the room.
Fleur curtsied, "Mother," she stated respectfully, the title triggering Harry's understanding that he was now talking to a Veela elder.
He bowed low at the waist and a pale hand was given to him which he took lightly before pressing a kiss to his thumb resting above the woman's knuckles.
The woman sniffed decorously before turning her full attention away from Harry as if he didn't exist. "Сестра, you must visit the Carpathian Mountains while you are here. The старий forest is alive this time of year." The older Veela cocked her head to the side and eyed him. "The Aeire here would welcome you and your husband." She paused, her eyes blinking slowly. "Provided you have already danced for him, yes?"
Fleur blushed prettily, her eyes darting from side to side. Harry smiled as he caught sight of the tips of her ears, tinged red, amidst the sea of her platinum hair. She dipped her head in acknowledgement to the older Veela's obvious pleasure.
"Good, then I shall look forward to having you both call on us before you leave." Nodding imperiously at them, Zlata swept away, her golden hair swishing behind her.
Harry scratched the side of his head, peering over at Fleur who stood stock still beside him. "Uh," he remarked intelligently.
Fleur shook her head violently. "Old crow," she muttered. "Asking about our Dance where any could hear. How rude."
Harry chuckled even as his wedding ring grew warm, the strand of Fleur's hair that formed the platinum band radiating heat in response to the memory Fluer had invoked.
The Veela wedding ritual, done separately from the traditional wizard ceremony they'd thrown a month prior, had occurred in the forest of Chaux in France. The snow had been thick and the ancient oaks bare as Fleur led him deep into the heart of the forest. She had walked reverently, barefoot through the snow and had requested him to do the same.
Warming charms had saved him from frostbite, though the numbness had taken days to dissipate. During the journey, Fleur had spoken of her people and their connection to the forest. He had heard her speak of it before but never in such detail, never while they were surrounded by the very trees she spoke of so fondly.
They had finally stopped beneath a massive, gnarled behemoth of a tree. It was late at night, the moon shining brightly overhead. Not a cloud marred the sky, whose belly of stars merrily twinkled above. Harry didn't know how long they had been walking or how far they had gone. But now he was certain he stood before the eldest tree in the forest. There, Fleur had turned to him and, shrugging off her cloak, began to dance.
The dance was unlike any he had ever seen before, human or Veela. This was for him and him alone. No one else would ever witness Fleur Delacour's courting dance. To the tune of her own voice, sung in a language fluctuating fluidly between French and some primaeval, unrecognizable tongue, she had twirled about the snowy landscape.
Harry stood transfixed, sound dropping away but for her voice. The dull thud of his heart seemed distant and inconsequential. Thoughts had dissipated before they could form, swirled away by the chilled wind carrying flurries of downy powder.
Before his eyes she had changed, her full, luscious form giving way to a beak, talons, feathers, wings... divinity.
Her voice shifted along with her body, the dulcet tones turning raw, heady, and powerful. The soothing melody was sharply sweet as it ensnared him. Wrapping around his body and soul lovingly, but not without warning. This was a Veela at her most base. Nature bared and primal. It was an exultant outpouring of her softly edged but hungry love, akin to the feel of a silk-covered knife.
This was Fleur Delacour.
Only when the sun's first rays blazed the snow orange around them did Fleur stop. Her head bowed as she came to her rest. With a starkly unnatural grace, she stayed poised in some primitive, demure curtsy.
No word was spoken, no instruction given, no meeting of eyes or gestures of hands. But Harry's magic pulled him forward, his heart knowing instinctively what to do, perhaps understanding the words he could not.
A choice was supposed to be made… but not truly. Not today. Not for Harry. His choice had long since been branded upon his soul. Ever since that kiss by the lake.
With a steady hand, Harry reached out and plucked a shining silver hair from Fleur's lowered head. A moment of tension before heart recognized heart. A gust of wind. The rustle of branches. A searing strand of platinum now weaving around his ring finger.
The pain had been intense but quick. Harry hadn't made a single sound of protest or surprise, as though that too, he always knew would happen. He looked up from the woven band upon his finger into Fleur's impossibly blue eyes. Tears fell freely, sliding across the smooth planes of her cheeks to drip into the snow below.
"Forever," he had whispered. His breath a mist upon the air between them.
"Eternally," was her reply before scalding, greedy lips had claimed whatever scrap of him wasn't hers already.
"Harry?"
The memory shattered, the glow of his ring fading to a warm gold as the magically imprinted memory washed away. He looked around as though surprised to find himself not ankle-deep in snow in the last elder forest of France.
A smooth hand cupped his cheek, questioning blue eyes searching his own.
"Remembering," he choked out, still feeling a tad displaced.
A flash of understanding, a brilliant smile, a soft peck to the edge of his mouth. Long, artistic fingers twining with his own. "Nothing has changed, mon cœur, nothing ever will," she cooed, nuzzling the side of his neck.
Harry's heart raced in his chest, his blood singing in his veins, breath catching as he watched velvet-soft silver feathers ruffle up beneath the skin on Fleur's bare shoulder to shine in the light of the ballroom.
Sound slowly returned to the two gently swaying against one another in the corner of the room. The babble of bodies, the laughter, the music, the swirling of cloaks, filtering through the intimate cocoon of fond remembrances Harry and Fleur had created for themselves. He raised his eyes from watching Fleur's entrancing feathers to blink owlishly about the room, remembering where they were.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, bidding her to return to the present as well. Harry sighed as her feathers shrunk, disappearing once more into smooth, pale skin. Fleur's face turned upwards, lips eagerly seeking out his own.
His wife drew back, their hands still twisted together, her lips now the same yellow as the ribbon adorning her throat.
A few people nearest them were casting furtive glances their way. But Harry paid them no mind, simply giving Fleur time to calm and reign in her nature.
The soft squeeze of their linked hands assured him of her tranquillity. As a united front, they dived back into the teeming maelstrom of politicians and prying eyes.
XXXXXXXX
Finally, they were gloriously alone. The opening ceremony had gone on far longer than Harry could stand. His memories of a snowscape union evoking a sharp, possessive desire to whisk his wife away. Unfortunately, he had to wait three more hours until Hermione deigned to let them leave, claiming their duty done for the night.
Now, back in their rented abode, he stalked his prey. She was waiting for him in their bedroom. No words had been spoken since leaving the conference hall, none were necessary between them. Longing glances and furtive touches communicated far more clearly what both needed from the other.
Standing behind her now, he reached up to knead the muscles of her slender shoulders. His fingers burrowed hard enough that he had to steady her by pressing down and back in his administrations.
She swayed and let out gasping coos of pleasure and praise. The ribbon that had tempted him all night became too much and he put his tongue to her throat. Deliberate and slow, he savoured the sensitive skin of her neck where it met the sunshine silk. She tasted of thunderstorms and pomegranates, decadent and untamed.
A shiver passed through her, feathers sprouting beneath his hands as they continued their task, now moving forward and slipping around front to worship the hollow of her collarbones.
Her body was sinful and intoxicating, even though it was as familiar to him now as his own. By night's end he aimed to all but own it.
XXXXXXXX
The edge of need had long since been sated as their sweaty bodies lay cooling under the open air. Debauched, tangled silver hair lay about their bed in long tendrils, as though shooting stars streaking against the dark sky of their blankets.
Blue eyes looked at him and he felt powerful and alive. In love.
She traced his lips with her fingertips, almost tentatively hesitant in their sedate exploration. His own hand wandered along her side, dipping along the curve of her waist to the swell of her hip while the other hand fisted the spun silver of her locks in the gap between their faces.
The night caressed their naked bodies, moonlight the only illumination in the room. It made Fleur's skin glow as though a fire within her was calling out to the moon itself.
"I love you." The declaration was so delicately given that a single breeze could have blown it away. Instead, Harry grasped at it, cradling it to his heart. His fingers untwisted from her hair so that he could reach out and brush an itinerant tear from a lily-white cheek.
There were times when what they shared together as husband and wife squeezed them so tight that it wrung out all that they were. Every emotion, from the love they bottled up around others, all the stress of a difficult day, the worries for the future, or the happiness of friends and family. It all spilled out like paint upon the canvas of their bed as their bodies acted like brushes.
At rare moments that Harry treasured, like tonight, it became too much for Fleur, whose bewitching eyes would spill over as they physically expressed their ardour for one another. Driven speechless with her eyes wide and pink lips open, she would meet his gaze as he bent to kiss the errant tears away.
"Thank you," he spoke, his voice gruff and throat constricted. "For sharing with me, for loving me."
She blinked rapidly, lashes fluttering. Her eyes opened and she swallowed thickly.
"You're so good to me," he breathed, leaning forward to press their bruised lips together. She leaned into the kiss, and a tender noise rumbled in her chest.
"Do you remember our first time?" She asked coyly after parting, a dangerous smile dancing about her lips.
Harry groaned even as he grinned at her. "You'll never let me live that down, will you?" He asked uselessly, already knowing the answer.
"Never," she sang the syllables, drawing them out jubilantly.
"I've obviously gotten better since then," he muttered with false grumpiness. "I even move you to tears."
She flicked his nose. "You promised never to make fun of that," she scolded with puffed up indignation.
She looked so ridiculously adorable he had to kiss her again.
"I adore it and you, I swear," he responded contritely against her mouth. Her tongue traced his lips in reply.
"You're a temptress," he mumbled, pulling away.
"I do more than simply tempt you, 'Arry." The way she pulled his name apart sent trembles prancing along his nerves.
He groaned and she smiled coquettishly at him.
They lay quietly for a time, basking in the presence of the other. The dark grew heavier and the air colder.
"You're so important to me," Harry stated lowly. His eyes sweeping his wife's resting face.
She surprised him by opening an eye, peeking up at him. "You show it well, husband. Especially since you'll let me pick out your outfit for tomorrow… right?" She asked with a mischievous smirk.
His brow furrowed and he grunted. "I feel like a dolly when you play dress-up with me."
She made an amused sound in her throat that turned into a chuckle. "And what a pretty thing you are."
"Just don't make me wear pink again, Ron still takes the piss from the last time."
His wife rolled her eyes. "It was salmon, you dunce."
"Pretty sure that is a pink." He responded resolutely.
"A manly pink," Fleur amended.
Harry snorted.
"Fine," she agreed, "no pink."
He beamed victoriously at her. Perhaps a bit too smugly because her eyes narrowed.
"I recently bought you a shirt in a lovely pastel blue…"
Her words choked off as he attacked her sides in a relentless frenzy of tickling.
She shrieked and swatted him away. "No tickling!" She exclaimed even as she laughed.
The Potters stared at one another in shocked stillness before bursting out into immature giggles.
"You sounded so much like Fayette," Harry said between guffawing as he buried his face into the crook of Fleur's neck.
Her body shook with humour as her hand drifted up his back to stroke the dark hair at the nape of his neck.
"I miss them," she confessed after their mood calmed. "Silly, I know, since it has been only a day."
"No, not silly," Harry replied against her neck. "I miss them too."
They lay in quiet contemplation for a while before he spoke again. "We'll firecall them tomorrow, okay?"
His wife hummed her agreement before beginning to sing a soft lullaby. He listened contentedly to her voice, letting the weariness of the day melt from his body. The dulcet music and feathered touches of her hand through his hair cradled Harry soothingly to sleep.
She lay awake a while longer, watching her husband dream.
Author's Note : All the mythological creatures listed here are 'real' cultural concepts. Though, I've admittedly changed them a bit here. No malicious intent is directed towards any countries or societies referenced above. I have been to most of the countries I include and have enjoyed my stay in all of them, which is why they're used.
A commissioned piece of art depicting Harry and Fleur in Ukraine has been made and is utterly lovely. You can find it on the Harry/Fleur Discord server.