Chapter 10: A Valentine's Day Sojourn

Hi everyone!

So, this is an idea I've had for a while now; ever since I finished the last chapter of this story, in truth.

Thank you to my beta readers: Raph, Red, Michal and Lib. Both for keeping this secret and for being just the best support I could ever ask for. The best people you could ever hope to know. Big thanks to Pander and Seawolf and the others who, albeit unknowingly, pushed me to get this thing written. You'll find all of these fine people on the Flowerpot discord, and you'll find me there too.

And, without further adieu. Here it is!

(IFYKYK)

---

Such was the beauty of love, that days that ordinarily passed without notice nor notoriety, then, under newfound eyes, rose in stature until their presence became overwhelming and undeniable. Weekends became sacred, for the hours free to spend with Fleur. The days where the kitchens served éclairs became special because they were Fleur's favourite.

Yet, beyond all that, there was Valentine's Day.

In the wizarding world, St Valentine was elevated even further than the mundane world. The day of his commemoration was an international holiday, meaning every student of each of the three schools had the day off to do as they wished. It was said that, on his holy day, that love of all kinds was at its strongest. That the bones of the earth breathed deeper and poured deepest life and love into all things; that the air felt lighter and the sky brighter.

Despite the very real fact that Harry was to face the second task of the Triwizard Tournament in less than two weeks' time, the air of love and wonder in the world galvanised his spirit against any such worries. It was not that such time together was scarce in any way either, as really they seemed to spend a great deal of every one of their days together, but rather for the fact that Harry truly doubted he could ever spend enough time with her.

His Charms notes soon became the day's itinerary, his Herbology homework forming into lovesick doodles that he probably ought to have thrown away immediately, yet they managed to find themselves piled upon his bedside table. They accompanied the lists of songs that Fleur had mentioned liking, and lines from books she'd quoted at him offhandedly, at one time or another.

Yet, his affectionate heart rankled one person in particular.

"You are going into the Black Lake and fighting grindylows this month ," Hermione whispered at him, as they sat in their spot in the library. To no-one's surprise, Ron was absent, he having decided, and with good reason too, that an afternoon of flying with Viktor Krum was much more fun than studying for their mock exams, as Hermione and he were doing then. "Do you really think you have time for…cavorting?"

"Pardon?" Harry asked. "Cavorting?"

"Dalliances."

"Hermione, I know your name is from Shakespeare, but have you literally been replaced by a character from The Winter's Tale?"

For a moment, Hermione gazed at him with an odd sort of respect in her eyes, though she soon remembered herself. "The second task is this month ," she said. "I'm just saying that if I were in your shoes I wouldn't be doodling 'Mr and Mrs Fleur Delacour' in my finest calligraphy instead of, I don't know, possibly preventing myself from being killed."

"I haven't written our names in calligraphy quite yet," Harry defended. "And again, 'this month' isn't as stringent as you might wish it to be."

Such discussions had begun to take the form of a broken record in recent times. In Hermione's eyes, there did not exist a single free moment that should remain to be so.

"What more is there to know?" Harry asked her. He dropped his quill onto their table; one of Hermione's Christmas gifts, so told as it bore his initial, or rather their shared initial. "I know what I'm going to face, and I know how to survive there for as long as I need to."

Such information came with thanks to Cedric and Neville, both offering it as direct thanks for his, most probably unnecessary, help in their love lives.

"And, thanks to Professor Lupin, I know I can actually handle what's in there," Harry said, his mind fondly cast back to the year prior. The joy of being the best in their year at Defence after their practical exam.

Hermione frowned, however. Even after months, her grades in their finals still rankled.

"You know you could handle the smaller grindylows," she muttered.

Harry sighed.

"Look, Hermione, I really doubt there's much more that we can do at this point," Harry said. He met her eyes. "Do you not think it might be a good idea to relax for a little while, just so I'm not a nervous wreck when the time comes?"

Hermione closed the book in her hands. "I can't believe Fleur is agreeing to spend the time with you, anyway," she said. "I would've thought she would have wanted to prepare properly."

Fleur had been 'properly' prepared since New Year's, according to the woman herself. On the rare occasions that the tournament came up in the time they spent together, she took great delight in describing just how easily she was going to beat Harry.

"So," Harry said. "What's really the matter?"

Hermione shook her head derisively at the notion. "Is it so ridiculous to believe that I'm simply communicating my worry for a dear friend?"

Harry was silent for a moment, more so out of amusement than confusion. "At this stage, it might well be," he said. "So, what's the matter?"

"Nothing," Hermione told him, before adding in a voice decidedly frayed. "Nothing." She sighed heavily. "I just don't understand why you feel compelled to participate in such a hollow, vacuous festival of commercialised romance."

"You really hate joy, don't you?"

"I don't hate joy! " Hermione whispered, though her voice carried far enough to greet the ears of Madam Pince. As it was Hermione, the offence garnered a frown of displeasure, rather than immediate dismissal. "I just think that if you only feel compelled to demonstrate romantic affection on the same day of the year as everyone else, then there is something distressingly wrong with your relationship."

"Is that how Fleur and I are?" Harry asked. It wasn't of course. The week before he'd serenaded Fleur in the Great Hall just to try to make her blush. He'd failed, though her ensuing smile proved to be a far nicer sight. "Or how Ron and Viktor are?"

"I wouldn't know," Hermione said. "Seeing as how we never see them."

"But with how happy Ron constantly seems to be, you'd assume not?" Harry asked.

"Well, I suppose but-"

" -but nothing," Harry interrupted. "So, what's the real issue?"

"I disagree with the notion that I can't hold sensible beliefs because of anecdotal evidence," Hermione said, all in one breath seemingly. Harry gave her a look. "However, in this particular instance, there might be cause to believe that there could possibly be something that might be construed as being, in the region of, a superseding issue. Potentially."

"Right," Harry agreed, his voice blank and airy. "Right." He ran a hand through his hair. "So, what is it?"

"There isn't definitely an 'it'," Hermione said. Her eyes studied the contents page of an Encyclopaedia Magicka with an intensity odd for even her. "Only possibly."

"Or potentially or there might well be," Harry added. "I get that. But what is it?" He reached over to shut her book with his own hands. "Could you please let me try and help you for a change, rather than the other way around?"

Hermione struggled with him to hold the book, before relinquishing it fully.

"It's…," she started, before stopping. She drew breath to speak for several times, only to stop short until at last saying. "It's Andrea."

She wrung her hands together, hiding her face in her jumper. Harry grinned brightly. He'd begun to suspect something like this for a while.

"Andrea?" he asked, his voice warm and fond.

"Yeah," Hermione said, shyly. "I think I like her."

Harry reached out to hold her hand. Hermione squeezed it. "Yeah?" Hermione nodded. The beginnings of a grin started to bloom on her lips, an easy joy growing that Harry found himself taken by as well. "I don't understand though. Where's the problem?"

Hermione sobered in no time at all. "The problem is that I don't want to ruin our friendship," she said. "She means the world to me." She looked to the ceiling. "Outside of you and Ron, she's the best friend I have, and I don't want to do anything that would spoil that. And, even if I do like her, there's no guarantee that she would like me back, and so I'd be potentially jeopardising our friendship for nothing."

Harry gave her a soft smile. He remembered then exactly who he was talking to.

"What we need is a plan," he said, immediately upon that dawning realisation.

" We ?" Hermione asked, her eyebrows raised.

"Yes, we," Harry said. "Well mostly you, but we're not leaving here until we devise a plan to resolve this situation."

"There isn't anything to solve," Hermione said, blankly. "I like her, but my feelings are irrelevant and them being made known to Andrea wouldn't do anyone any good. The opposite, in fact."

"I disagree," Harry asserted. "I think they would do you a great deal of good." Harry reached down into his bag and retrieved a clean roll of parchment. "And, ignoring the fact that she might not share how you feel, do you really think that Andrea is going to treat you any differently after finding out?"

"She can't help but do so!" Hermione quietly shouted. "The moment she finds out, she'll second guess every nice thing I do or compliment I give her."

"Would you do that?" Harry asked. "Say if I were single, and I told you I had a crush on you, would you second guess everything I did?"

Hermione struggled with her tongue, the words not quite forming. "But, well, you're Harry ," she did say. "Of course I wouldn't. I'd know that you cared about me and that all you would want was for me to be happy."

"Okay, if I'm Harry ," he said, mimicking her tone. "Then you're Hermione . I just know that Andrea will think that way too. And, maybe I'm wrong, but I think she probably likes you like that too."

"No, you're definitely wrong," Hermione said. She looked at herself. "What on Earth would someone that lovely see in me?"

"They'd see the smartest person I know," Harry said, his voice earnest. "They'd see the kindest, warmest person I've ever met. They'd see the person I'm proud to call my best friend, my little sister."

Hermione closed her eyes, her nose scrunching as she did. "Big sister," she still muttered.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Just to look at the evidence anyway," he said. "Whenever me and Fleur, and Ron and Viktor and you two sit together in the common room, she always insists that you share the same chair."

A smile came to her before she realised it. "That's because it's our place," she said. "And it sits two people."

"Barely," Harry returned. "And, you spend all of your free time reading those Sci-fi books together."

"Only because you're always off with Fleur on your frolics."

"Yes, you're exactly like us!" Harry agreed. "Really, the universe is drawing the parallels for me."

Harry placed the parchment in the centre of the table.

"So, given that we know that Andrea would never think of you differently," Harry said. "The only thing stopping you is that you are, to borrow an awful phrase, a 'romance coward'."

Under the dim light of the library, Hermione's eyes seemed to shift at his accusation.

"I'm not a coward," Hermione said. "I just think that, if I'm given the choice between withholding my feelings or revealing them with the possibility of them being ill-received, I shouldn't."

"Sounds like cowardice to me."

"Fine!" Hermione called out, much too loudly. Loud enough that even she could not escape Madam Pince's rebuke. "I'll do it."

It really was too easy to get Gryffindors to do things, Harry thought. Himself included.

The two of them stood, already packing away their work and books as they knew that the only outcome of the librarian's arrival would be their dismissal. They left the library the moment that Madam Pince pointed to the door.

With Valentine's Day approaching, a number of woodland spirits from the Forbidden Forest had made their way to the corridors of the castle, dancing in the air as though they were fuelled by the school's collective warmth at the upcoming event. Some even tried to make nests and homes in the wilderness of Hermione and Harry's hair, though most settled for sitting on their shoulders as they walked.

"So," Harry said. "How are you going to do it?"

"I think you might care about this too much."

Harry just smiled. After years of the roles being reversed, of his life being the centre of her attention, to be in her place was more fun than he would've ever imagined.

"Well?" he asked eventually.

Hermione sighed. "I'm not sure," she said. "I definitely don't want to tell her on Valentine's Day, though. That'll just make her think I'm only saying it for that reason."

"You really think so?"

"Well, maybe not," Hermione allowed. "But if we're just one of the other hundred people, then it's not going to be as special as she deserves it to be."

Harry nodded. "But you need to do it soon. You can't keep how you feel inside you for too long. It can't be good for you."

Hermione stopped walking at once, the suddenness of the change sending several spirits that laid upon her flying.

"Really?" was all she asked. " You of all people are getting on your high horse about this ?"

Harry nodded. "Okay, that's fair," he said. "But take it from me. The moment I actually told someone how I felt, the best thing that's ever happened to me, happened."

"Fine," Hermione said. "Fine."

Harry smiled brightly. "So, this weekend?" he offered, as they set about walking once more. Because of the festivities, both Saturday and Sunday were to be Hogsmeade days, rather than just the Sunday. "You don't have to go into the village, and if you do choose to stay in the castle you'll have the place to yourself."

"I don't like things being this way around," Hermione complained. "You should never be the one telling me things."

Harry laughed. "But…"

"Okay," Hermione agreed. "I'll do it this weekend, but I've still no idea how to actually ask her. I struggle to even talk to her sometimes."

Harry smiled in recollection at such a sight, his usually verbose best friend rendered speechless in the wake of the quiet Andrea. It was endlessly endearing.

"You only have to be brave for a moment," Harry said. "Just one moment, that's all it is."

The pair stopped, having reached their destination of the Gryffindor Tower. They shared a look, and mutually decided that neither wished to enter the common room quite yet. So, they sat upon the stairs instead, side-by-side.

"I know it's only one moment," Hermione agreed. "But it's a really big moment. A huge moment." She dropped her bag onto the floor, her elbows resting upon her knees and her head in her hands. "I've never done anything like this before, and I know everyone has to do it for the first time at some time, or they'll never do it, but still." She drew a much-needed breath. "It's a lot to handle."

Harry gave her a moment to simply breathe, allowing the worry to escape her.

"It's definitely a big thing," he said. "It's the first person you've had a crush on, right?" Hermione nodded. "And, she's great, Andrea is, but you're amazing. If this doesn't work, there's going to be so many people that will care about you in that way, because you're the best."

"But this is Andrea ," Hermione said, as though her name held all the magic in the world.

"But, you're Hermione ," he said. He bumped into her gently, rocking her in place. Harry gave her a smile. "It's never a question of if you're good enough for her. It's if she's good enough for you. Always."

Hermione said nothing at first, and then, in a tiny voice, asked. "Promise?"

Harry smiled, his green eyes gentle. He extended his pinkie finger toward Hermione, which she wrapped her own around.

"Promise."

He stood then, extending a hand to Hermione to help her up. She rolled her eyes, but took it anyway.

"Don't tell anyone about this," Hermione said, as they climbed the steps to the door. "Well, you can tell Fleur obviously, but nobody else. And she can't either."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

---

It was, predictably, the first thing that he told Fleur the next time he saw her, on the Friday before the weekend of Valentine's Day.

"Well, of course," was Fleur's immediate response. "She looks at her as though she is composing sonnets in her head every time they speak."

Thanks to some studious application of the Marauder's Map, they had managed to get the kitchens to themselves once more, though as they entered hand-in-hand, Harry didn't know why they were there in the first place.

"Do I get to know why we're here now?" he asked.

"Where is your sense of adventure, mon doux?" Fleur asked, her voice mocking. "But, if you insist on being boring, then I suppose you can know now. We're making crème brûlée."

"Isn't that really hard?" Harry asked.

Fleur shook her head. "I don't think so," she said. "I have never tried, but Gabi could make it before she could walk, so it cannot be that hard."

"Your sister is like the Beethoven of baking," Harry said. "I really don't think we should be basing our expectations on her."

"That's hardly true," Fleur said. "She's more the Mozart of baking."

"I don't know if that's better or worse."

"That is because you're uncultured," Fleur said, rather fondly. "But no matter, in both aspects you have me."

Harry smiled at her words, wrapping his arm around her waist. He kissed her, wonderfully enough for the pair of them to fully forget what they were even doing for a while.

"Hi," he said, softly, after they came apart, their noses brushing against each other.

"Hi," she said back, smiling and showing her dimples. "Happy?"

He kissed her dimple. "Very," he said. "You?"

"Very too," she said.

Through a feat of willpower Harry initially doubted himself capable of, eventually they did decide to cease losing themselves in each other's eyes and set about actually baking. Or at least trying to, anyway.

Things were just much more difficult when Gabi wasn't there to tell them where they were going wrong.

"Why is it that we're doing this, anyway?" Harry asked, his eyes staring blankly at the recipe she'd brought with them. For the first time in several years, French script appeared a truly foreign language.

"Well, it is Maman's favourite," Fleur said. Her focus shifted between the parchment holding the recipe and the eggs she held in her hands rapidly, though comprehension never did follow. "And, when it is made properly, it's delightful."

"Let's hope it's at least palatable when done poorly, then," Harry said, though he was beginning to doubt they would clear a bar as low as 'palatable'. Non-toxic seemed more reasonable.

No matter how many times the pair of them attempted to mix the vanilla, cream and eggs, or how carefully they were in their mixing, by the time it came to boiling the mixture all that they would be left with was a horrid, burned mess. The only benefit that Harry found out of it, other than spending time with Fleur, was that he was beginning to become truly very good at the vanishing charm.

After the seventh attempt, where even the vast stocks of the castle's kitchens were beginning to wane under the strain of their failures, even Fleur herself began to sigh.

"I had hoped we would make some progress," Fleur complained. She met his eyes, the stolen jumper she wore covered in spilled vanilla extract and egg yolks. "I thought I could surprise Maman with it when I see her next."

"You're going to visit her?" Harry asked.

Fleur nodded, the act slow and deliberate. "It is something I wished to ask you about," she said. She drew a breath, and Harry rushed to her side. "They asked that I visit them this Sunday as I haven't seen them in months, and at Beauxbatons usually we go home for the weekend once a month."

Harry smiled. "That's brilliant!" he said. "We can go to Hogsmeade on the Saturday and have a day to ourselves on Monday."

Fleur smiled too, before biting her lip. "There is another thing," she said. "They wished to meet you, too."

"Really?" Harry asked, slightly breathlessly. "You've mentioned me to them?"

"It is hard not to when Gabi told them the moment she got home," Fleur said. Harry smiled. "But, despite your faults, you do make me happy occasionally."

Harry grinned, leaning toward her. "Only occasionally?" he asked.

"Slightly more than that, perhaps," Fleur said, grinning back.

Harry's eyes dipped down to look at her lips. "That's more like it," he said. His eyes shot up to meet hers. "What faults?"

Fleur's grin didn't falter. "I forget," she whispered, kissing him for a moment. "But would you like to meet them?" She took his hand in hers. "Because I would really like you to."

"Definitely," Harry replied immediately. He stood still for a moment, before smiling again, the expression slowly blooming. "I can't believe that you mentioned me."

Fleur shook her head in fond disbelief. "Do you think we spend all our time together by accident?"

"I thought it was to get Hagrid and Maxime together," Harry said. They shared a smile, and Harry kissed her once more before retrieving what he then decided was to be their final batch of ingredients from the store cupboards.

"They send their thanks, by the way," Fleur told him. She took the cream from his hands and poured it into a freshly vanished saucepan.

After the swimming success that was their date at the Yule Ball, the pair had hardly been seen apart. Harry had only spent one afternoon at Hagrid's in the month or so since that night.

Harry was moments away from adding the vanilla extract into the cream, when he happened to take another glance at his recipe and nearly dropped the bottle on the floor in shock.

"Hey, Fleur?" Harry asked, his eyes not drifting from the recipe. "What's the word for extract in Francais?"

Fleur placed her elbows upon the kitchen worktop, her eyes studious in their perusal of him. "Pardon?"

"It's definitely not 'gousse', is it?" Harry asked. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's definitely, one hundred percent, 'extrait', right?"

Fleur slumped onto the kitchen table, the construction of her arms holding up her head falling apart, allowing her forehead to meet the wooden top with a gentle thud. "So, the entire time we should've been using vanilla pods, not vanilla extract?"

"Yeah," Harry said. He drew a deep breath, the scent of vanilla inadvertently filling his senses. "At least the room smells nice now?"

Fleur's mood was not improved by his words, though thankfully their end product was. At last, their mixture began to at least partially resemble the desired outcome, its thickness manageable after boiling, rather than resembling partially set concrete.

Together, and only together, they strained the mixture into a jug, their hands overlapping upon the sieve, their elbows touching. Once finished, they poured the mixture into containers upon a baking tray and put them into the oven to bake. They looked over at one another, and Harry had no doubt that they were thinking the same thing; that they would both rather face the second task tomorrow than ever attempt to make crème brûlée ever again.

"How's your Godfather?" Fleur asked after the oven door had closed and the timer set, the pair of them sagging against the countertop. Through tired arms, Harry had managed to make himself a cup of tea, and Fleur a black coffee. They tasted like victory, albeit a pyrrhic one.

Harry smiled through his weariness. "He's great," he said. "Enjoying his freedom, I think."

"And how is he doing that?"

"Spending most of his time in muggle London, he says," Harry explained. "Catching up on every film that came out in the last fifteen years."

In the letter that Sirius had sent describing himself doing so, it had been accompanied with a picture of Sirius, James, and Lily outside a cinema, posing in front of the showcases. They looked no older than Harry himself was, and they looked so, so happy.

"He ought to go to the riviera, then," Fleur said, her mind's eye holding views of home. "The Cannes film festival is incredible."

"We'll have to take him there, then," Harry said. "If it's so amazing."

"He may never wish to return if he does," Fleur said.

Harry thought then, of the image that Fleur painted of home in their time together. One of sun-filled beaches, sun-soaked shores, and sun-kissed women. Of great wine, great food and generosity. Such a place to sell ice cream year-round, and listen to wonderful music year-round, and see fine art year-round.

Harry could think of worse fates than spending every summer there with Sirius.

He looked at Fleur and leaned over to kiss her, his hands careful not to spill either of their drinks in between their adjoining bodies. His free hand came to rest against her cheek, holding her beautiful face in his touch.

The ping of a timer sounded in the air, signalling that the crème brûlée had finished baking. They jumped up in unison, sending splotches of tea and coffee up the two Weasley sweaters that they wore. Through an odd mix of care and haste, they set the remainder of their drinks on the kitchen counter. Fleur opened the oven door and took out the baking tray with her bare hands, unbothered by the heat.

Mercifully, what her hands took from the oven was exactly as the recipe described, their consistency soft as they pushed in their containers. The next method, as told by the recipe, was to put them in a fridge overnight, but by then their patience had worn so thin it was nearing invisible, and so a swift Cooling Charm solved the problem perfectly. At least to their eyes.

Fleur looked at Harry with a weary grin. "Now comes the fun part," she said, before retrieving caster sugar. She quickly spread it over the top of their crème brûlées, smoothing it over with the underside of a tablespoon.

Suddenly, Fleur's hand began to glow. First, a white light emanated, which soon passed into a vibrant red and then a cool blue.

"Your turn," Fleur said.

Harry blinked. "Pardon?" he asked. "After all this, you really want me to practice the fire now ?"

"Think of it as extra incentive," Fleur said. Harry sighed.

Slowly, much more slowly than Fleur did, Harry's hand began to gloss in the beginnings of a flame's wreath. A duller flame, but a flame nonetheless. One born of several months' arduous effort. Even then, his forehead took to shining in his exertion.

"Now, we are to mimic a blowtorch," Fleur said. From where her hand fully glowed, the flame thinned until it was a uniform surface across her skin. And then, it shrank further still, until this piercing, burning blue beam of flame covered only her index finger. " Allez ."

Harry's free hand formed a tight fist as he set about doing the same. It took him several tries, and the result was a form far less clean, yet it emanated the same direct heat.

Fleur met his eyes and gave a proud smile. "Be careful now," she said. "You only get one chance."

After all was said and done, only two crème brûlées survived to make the journey to Fleur's parents, the rest eaten like the trophies of battle that they were. Fittingly, one bore the caramelisation born from Harry, the other, Fleur.

---

Saturday

Hogsmeade's air was filled with blustering wind as the carriage upon which Harry and Fleur sat, approached the village. So windy, in fact, that Fleur's long blonde hair was sent in every direction by its force, though mostly into both of their faces. Her usual, natural poise disrupted by, well, nature.

Harry, Fleur, and Hermione had managed to procure their own carriage, though such a feat was entirely born from delay, rather than promptness; Hermione's delay, specifically. Harry had woken very early, a veritable rarity, as had Fleur, and the two had waited at the foot of the stairs to the girl's bedroom for over an hour, with Hermione appearing at random intervals, her attire switching and swapping manically, until Fleur had grown tired of watching her fretted worrying and entered the fray to help her get dressed.

They were half an hour more after that, too, as even after Hermione had found what to wear, her worry had dissipated nil. She'd begged Harry for the use of Hedwig to send a letter both to Andrea, to reschedule, and to Professor McGonagall, to beg for a leave of absence under grounds of intense duress. Harry had refused on both counts.

Yet, after several hugs and even more pep talks, Harry and Fleur did manage to get Hermione into their carriage, albeit at around midday. The wind threw her curly hair around chaotically and her bottom lip was permanently worried between her teeth and she hadn't made eye contact with either Harry or Fleur since they sat down, but she was there.

Fleur squeezed Harry's hand significantly. They met eyes, and she offered him a significant look, her head nodding quickly at Hermione.

"So," Harry began at once, "where are you planning on meeting Andrea?"

"'m not sure," mumbled Hermione, her eyes searching the floor of the carriage in apparent fascination. "I think Flourish and Botts. That's what we agreed on, but I don't know. I don't think I'll go, you know." She nodded to herself. "Yes, I'll just send her a letter saying that I've changed my mind, or that I've taken ill or that I'm feeling feverish, which I think I do, and I'm sure she'll understand and then we can go back to normal." She nodded again. Once, twice. "Yes, that's a perfect idea."

Fleur reached out, taking Hermione's hand in hers. The contact seemed to still the tempest that brewed within her. "'Ermione, take a breath," said Fleur. Hermione did so obediently. "That is a terrible idea. You're not doing that."

"It's not a terrible idea!" Hermione insisted. "It's a significantly better idea than the alternative, in fact." She placed her hands on the tops of her legs and pushed down hard against her jeans, wringing out the worry from her hands. "None of this… angst comes with bottling it all up, you know. I was perfectly calm before this."

Harry shook his head. "Really?"

Hermione did look at him then, only briefly, to give a small smile. "Really."

Harry looked to Fleur then for a moment as he pondered until he, much like Hermione, nodded to himself. Yet, his action held considerably more conviction.

"You think you're content being just Andrea's friend, forever?" he asked, his voice as soft as could be, while still carrying over the wind.

"There's nothing 'just' about it," Hermione argued. "But yes. She's a treasured friend; a dear friend. And romantic love isn't the only love that matters, you know. Platonic love matters just as much, if not more so, than that."

" Hermione ," Harry said, reaching out to take Hermione's other hand. "I know." He squeezed her hand. "Do you really think you can hold only platonic feelings for her? That how you feel will just disappear if you wish it will, or ask it kindly to?"

"Definitely."

"Okay," Harry said. Fleur offered a sideways glance, though he did not falter. "Thought experiment. Close your eyes." Hermione looked at him, though he shook his head at her. "Just, close your eyes." She looked to Fleur, who shrugged, and slowly allowed her eyelids to dip closed. "Now, imagine Andrea. She's comfortable, sitting in your seat at the fireplace, her hands clutching the spines of some book by Asimov. Got it?" Hermione nodded, beginning to smile. "Now, imagine Pansy Parkinson curled up beside her, looking at her lovingly."

Hermione's eyes were open in a flash.

"I'm not going to be able to be just friends with Andrea, am I?" she voiced; asked rather than stated.

Fleur shook her head. "No, you're not," she said. "You're on a road that goes only in one direction. Perhaps, at the end of this road, you will be friends, and there will be another that lights up your life, but I think you know that the path, wherever it may lead, goes through Andrea."

Their carriage stilled as the three had reached the outskirts of Hogsmeade. Hermione jumped out the moment they came to rest, her legs at last free to pace out the restless energy. Harry jumped out soon after, rushing around to help Fleur down. Not that she needed it, but it did serve to bring an amused smile to her face. Fleur offered her arm to Harry, and he threaded his arm through.

"I need you two to be completely honest with me," Hermione said. "Do you truly think Andrea reciprocates whatever it is I'm feeling?"

Harry and Fleur shared a look. "Yes," they both said.

Harry unthreaded himself from Fleur to walk to Hermione, placing his hands on her shoulders to steady her. "Hermione, little sister-"

"-big sister-"

"-little sister," continued Harry. "One moment of bravery. Just one, and then all those moments where you want to kiss her but can't, suddenly disappear. Because then you can."

Hermione threw herself into Harry's arms then, her arms gripping powerfully enough upon his jacket for worries over her tearing holes into the fabric to begin to form distantly in his mind. Harry held her just as tightly.

"Thank you," she whispered against his shirt.

"I'll always be here for you," he said back, before pulling himself away, his hands running along her arms reassuringly. "Now, go on. The sooner you do it, the sooner it's done."

Hermione nodded, drawing a deep breath. She gave Fleur a quick hug before wandering slowly along the path that ran into the village square; the path that no doubt ended with Andrea.

Harry allowed himself a sigh then, as he watched Hermione go, her head turning backward occasionally to meet his eyes until she disappeared completely from his vision.

"So, you wanted to kiss me?" Fleur then asked, walking until she stood behind him. She placed her chin on his shoulder then, her arms wrapping around his middle. "And all that time, I thought your intentions were pure."

"No you didn't," Harry argued, his body turning into her touch. "You did hours of research finding an archaic spell because you thought I was a prodigal genius."

She kissed his cheek. "How wrong I was."

"And are you really surprised I wanted to kiss you?" he asked then, "given how I can't seem to stop myself from doing so now?"

Fleur shook her head, her nose brushing against the back of his neck. "No," she said. She turned Harry around so that they could look at one another. "But not just because of that." She rested her forehead against his. "Because of how much I wanted to kiss you."

---

It was an hour later that they actually entered Hogsmeade themselves; the time spent in all manner of ways, though never far from one another. Or apart at all.

Eventually, however, they did begin to stroll through the village's streets. They had been before, together, and so there wasn't any one place that either felt entirely drawn to. The true rarity of that day was that, with everyone so wrapped up in one another, they could finally walk the streets without constant stares, aided in no small part by the ring adorning Fleur's right hand.

Some people did pause their snogging to wave as they went past, though it was then the exception, not the norm. Cedric and Cho stopped to say hello and exchange pleasantries, though they rushed off before long.

Yet, Harry did begin to feel an odd magnetism to one place in particular; Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop. It seemed to pop up at every corner they turned; likely as Hogsmeade was small and did not possess very many corners to speak of.

Eventually, Fleur and Harry did meet eyes as they passed by; a silent question in their gaze.

"It will be busy," Fleur said, sizing up the small shop. "And I don't like tea very much."

"Nor do I," Harry said. He let go of her hand, only to offer his hand once more. "Shall we?"

Fleur raised a perfect eyebrow, amused, before taking his hand again. "If we must."

Upon entry, only one thought prevailed within Harry. Pink.

The walls, tablecloths, dishes, and napkins; everything. Everything was pink, with either white or a lighter shade of pink as its accent. It was crowded, though given it was of wizarding construction and could expand whenever it so desired, it needn't have been. It was hot, despite the wind-chill of the elements outside. And, true to form, it was filled with their fellow students, all in the various throws of affection.

From the nervous (Ginny Weasley and Dean Thomas, for whom even the barest brush of hands caused an immediate, fearful recoil and near-instantaneous repetition) to exuberant (Ernie and Antoine, who could not go what seemed like a second without kissing each other's cheek or brushing a misplaced lock of hair behind the other's ear) to vulgar (the couple who'd asked both Fleur and Harry to the ball simultaneously, who had been forcibly removed from the establishment.)

Fortunately, their removal freed a table for Harry and Fleur, who sat down amongst it all. And, such was the close packing everyone in the tea room, that it took Harry a moment to realise that their chairs backed against the table of Ron and Viktor.

Harry had seen the couple together, of course, in the two months it'd been since their relationship was made public news, complete with its own two-page spread in Witch Weekly and Quidditch Monthly. Yet, on nearly every occasion, it was with the company of others. With Neville and Aimée or, more commonly, with Hermione and Andrea.

Yet, with just the four of them, there was an awkward energy passing through the two tables. It was not that Harry disapproved of their relationship, as he could not even slightly dislike something that brought his best friend such utter joy, or that he disliked Viktor, whose brusqueness was born entirely of shyness, rather than rudeness. No, it was that Viktor meant change .

For three years, Harry and Ron's friendship had been consistent. Unchanging. And yet, with Ron with Viktor, and honestly Harry with Fleur, there were completely new, ever-changing dimensions. They'd certainly never stepped foot inside Puddifoot's before those two, nor ever wished to. It was good, Harry knew, but it was still strange.

And, no matter how warmly they muttered 'hullo' at one another, neither could seem to shake that.

"Good day?" Ron asked, grinning through the oddness of it all.

"Great," Harry said. "Do anything special?"

"I held the camera for about a hundred people asking for a picture with Vik," Ron said. "Less than the usual thousand, so I suppose so." He paused. "Saw Hermione and Andrea around Flourish & Botts; said hello."

Both Fleur and Harry leaned in. "Really?"

Ron gave them a wide smile. "She hasn't told her she liked her yet if that was what you're wondering."

"Did she tell you?" Fleur asked quickly.

"Did she need to?" Ron asked back. "She's as obvious as you two were."

Harry smiled at Fleur. "She hasn't started wearing Andrea's clothes yet," he said, deftly avoiding her playful swat of his arm.

"Hermione's always carrying around the books she gives her," said Ron. "That's like betrothal for nerds."

"Is that you're always taking rides on Viktor's broomstick?" Harry asked. "Is that your version of this nonsense?"

Viktor shook his head with a solemn frown. "I could not allow him to continue flying that Cleansweep," he said. "It is a crime against Quidditch."

Such was the focus that Viktor spoke, that Harry couldn't help but laugh. He couldn't help but notice the slight drop of tension in Viktor's stiff frame as he did, either; he looked younger for it. Harry resolved to laugh more in his presence.

They were interrupted then by who Harry assumed was Madam Puddifoot herself. A woman of middle age, with black hair and warm, brown eyes, a pot of coffee suspended aloft by her side.

"This is yours," she said, her soft, "don't worry about paying for it either, dearies. It comes from those two gentlemen over there."

She pointed toward a table at the other side of the shop, where Ernie and Antoine sat, their eyes having apparently left one another long enough to notice Harry's arrival. They noticed Madam Puddifoot's pointing too; Ernie gave a wave as Antoine kissed his cheek.

They raised their hands, making a heart. Antoine on one side, Ernie on the other. It was cuter than it had any right to be.

"And who said the English and the French could never get on, eh?" Ron asked. Harry and Fleur both laughed into their coffee.

They chatted for a time, the four of them. Viktor didn't say much, though as time went on, he smiled more and more, and inched closer and closer to Ron until their chairs touched and their hips met every time they moved, Ron's ears pink at even the modest public display of closeness.

Viktor and Ron stood to leave first, with Ron's hand very firmly in his boyfriends'.

"I feel like my mum, but it was nice seeing you," Ron said, rather dramatically. "what with how rare it is these days. God, it's only nearly all of the day and all of the night. We should do it again soon."

Harry laughed.

"There is a party on the Durmstrang ship," Viktor told Harry and Fleur. "You are welcome to attend, as are…our friends."

He and Fleur shared a look, a consensus made between their eyes.

"Thanks," Harry said. "But I think we might have a quiet one tonight, just us two."

Ron and Viktor faded from view not long after, and Harry and Fleur allowed themselves to fade into the crowd of the tea shop, enjoying the rarity of being one the many for a time. Just a drop in a sea of canoodling couples.

---

"Fleur, if you could be any flower, what would you be?" Harry asked as they walked out of the tea shop and onto the streets once more

Fleur stared right through him.

"I'm being completely serious."

"No you're not," Fleur said. "Are you really so tired of our conversations being on interesting matters, like magic or philosophy or art, or I don't know, anything else beyond mocking my name?"

"I love your name," Harry defended. "I don't know anyone else named Fleur, so it's special because it means you and only you. There's a billion Harrys." He sighed. "I just had this really vivid dream last night and I thought it might mean something."

Fleur's gaze softened completely. "And how would my favourite flora relate to it?"

"Well, so bear with me," began Harry. "But ever since Dumbledore cast that spell on me to 'wash away all of Voldemort's soul from me.'" Harry did raise his hands in quotation marks for the entirety. The Headmaster had disappeared for a week, only to reappear first thing of one Tuesday morning to whisk Harry to the infirmary for the day; Harry was asleep for almost all of it, "I've stopped having those weird dreams about snakes and started having these weird dreams about fire, and about flowers, and I don't know if it's my brain being ridiculous or if it means something more."

Her stunningly blue eyes widened. "Fire dreams?" she wondered. "Like when we first started on your affinity?"

Harry nodded. "Exactly like that," he agreed, his voice becoming quiet with recollection, "and this time, and it's both of us in this flame, Fleur. We look really happy, and then suddenly this flame grows bigger and bigger, and we do too, until the flame turns into, like fiendfyre. Except, instead of animals, it's a flower." He paused. "And it's a lily, I think. Best I can tell."

Fleur's eyebrows worried together in thought. "Well, lilies most often symbolise life, love, and rebirth, or purity," she said. Harry looked at her, a question in his eyes. "My mama's greatest passion is flowers; hence my name. She would teach us the language of flowers when we went for walks around gardens." Harry nodded. "Perhaps magic is trying to speak to you."

"I had hoped it was attempting to tell me your favourite flower."

Fleur smiled. "I do love lilies, but no," she said. "It might mean that what happened with our fire wasn't just some magical anomaly. That it has magical significance."

The personal significance, of course, was immeasurable.

Harry did agree. He'd always found that the bounds of his dreams grew beyond his mind's imaginings. Only time would tell how far, though.

Strange though it may seem, both Harry and Fleur had been happy to let the occurrence rest as it was, in the interim, their attention too often needed elsewhere for the spectacle to fascinate them greatly. It had not repeated again, even as Harry found himself capable of summoning fire with greater and greater ease, or when the two spent an afternoon in the Headmaster's office with Fawkes and Dumbledore. Not even playing with the skrewts could manufacture so much a flicker of even the ficklest of flames.

"What is your favourite flower?"

Fleur sighed, folding her arms. "I thought we agreed on no gifts for Valentine's Day?"

Harry shook his head. "It's not for that," he said. "I just wanted to know."

"Oh," Fleur said, deflating. Harry kissed her cheek, which brightened her immediately. "I know it's quite the cliché, but I adore sunflowers after the Van Gogh painting. I begged my parents for years to go to your National Gallery." She smiled. "It's why I was so happy to hear that you had been too."

Harry brought his arms around Fleur's waist, Fleur's slipping around the back of Harry's neck. "That we shared yet another thing?" Fleur nodded. Harry kissed her gently, his arms staying around her even as their lips parted. "Hey, Fleur?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Want to hear a joke that only works in English?"

Fleur rolled her eyes, though nodded anyway. "If you insist."

Harry grinned childishly. "You have to ask me what flower I would be."

"Harry, if you had to be any flower, which flower would you be?"

"Self-raising flour," Harry said, his eyes beaming with self-congratulatory amusement. "Get it? 'Cos, you know-" He pointed to himself. "-orphan?"

Fleur tried to stop herself, though she couldn't help but let slip a laugh or three before a disapproving frown fell upon her face; one that even she could not wear with any dignity. "That's not funny."

"It's hilarious," Harry said.

Fleur drew breath to speak, though Harry was saved from further reprimand, however, by the arrival of Neville and Aimée. They were not as publicly affectionate as most, Harry had noticed, though the true note of their closeness was the comfort that radiated from the pair of them. They did not explode into life together, like Harry and Fleur knew themselves to, nor did they seem to telepathically understand one another without need for words spoken, like Ron and Viktor. Instead, they just seemed to fit; and even the parts that didn't soon did, for they both felt safe enough to speak.

Neville's growth had become oddly literal then, as he stood with Aimée, his hand in hers. He'd grown four inches in a matter of months; his frame at last fitting him. Aimée, in truth, looked much the muse as she always had, though her eyes held a warm, proud joy in recent weeks that Harry had not seen in her before.

Aimée left Neville's side to give Fleur a hug, Neville and Harry in turn clasping the other's shoulder familiarly. Both Aimée and Fleur had, after a time, made the effort to repair their friendship, and so made a conscious effort to spend a greater amount of time together, both as the four of them, and indeed Fleur and she alone. They were not as close as they might well could've been, had circumstances differed, but they were more than they were before the school year began. And, to Harry's delight, more than they were the day before.

"Have you seen Émi?" Aimée asked, after a time. "She and Justin were supposed to meet us at the…" She looked at Neville.

"…the three broomsticks," Neville supplied. "It's probably heaving, but Justin mentioned buying out a function room to use." He paused deliberately, his nose scrunching. "Just the four of us."

"We were supposed to meet them twenty minutes ago; here," Aimée said, pulling upon the sleeve of her jacket. "I am beginning to worry where they'd gotten off to."

"They're quite…free-spirited, those two," Harry offered, "I'm sure it'll have just slipped their mind."

It would not be the first time that had happened. Fleur had reached out an olive branch to Émilie, too, at Harry's gentle insistence, upon finding out that they had been friends. Yet, on nearly every occasion, despite making plans to hang out, she and Justin had always, at the last moment, found something else to occupy their time. It wore on Harry and Fleur's collective patience rather quickly until, at last, they had stopped offering.

"We'll wait with you two if you'd like?" Fleur offered. Harry threaded his hand into hers as if to support the notion.

Aimée and Neville nodded their assent, and so the four of them found a bench in the village square and waited for the rogue couple to appear.

Truthfully though, they were not waiting long as, not ten minutes later, a figure appeared from the crowded The Three Broomsticks; Émilie, but without Justin in sight. And, worse still, with tears tracked down her cheeks. She appeared to wish to sprint out the village entirely, yet before she could, she caught sight of the four of them and rushed over, instead.

She didn't say a word, nor did she attempt to. Instead, she simply threw herself into Aimée's arms, and Aimée immediately, instinctively held her. Fleur moved over to rub comforting circles into her back until the sobs that Émilie made faded into choked tears, and then from tears to heavy breaths until she finally settled.

"J-J-Justin ch-cheated!" she did finally come to say. "H-him and some boy from Durm-Durmstrang, in front of me!"

No more words were spoken by anyone else, nor were they needed to. Fleur and Aimée formed themselves into a cocooned huddle around Émilie. Harry and Neville shared a glance; both coming to realise that they were not needed. Harry pressed his lips against Fleur's hair, their understanding silent yet immutable before he and Neville made themselves scarce.

He and Fleur would meet again later, they both knew.

Neville left to return to the castle, to the greenhouses likely, and Harry allowed himself to wander around Hogsmeade. He didn't know quite why, but he thought there was still a sight or two he needed to see.

---

The wind had settled as the afternoon drew on, and soon the air held a cool stillness as Harry wandered; stillness enough for Harry to stop walking entirely and take it in from a place of vantage.

Hogsmeade had the singular quality of, at all times, appearing to be the perfect setting for the great events, in no small part because of how utterly picturesque it was. In winter, it was the inside of a snowglobe, amplified and brought alive. In summer, it was a postcard; one whose scenes you could reach into and touch.

And then, in spring, it was as if new life filled the air. It looked as poems sounded aloud; as if Wordsworth's verses had been given form. A form one could only view as absolutely beautiful. Harry was subject to it all.

Mostly though, he found himself, to his own astonishment, with a vision of Hermione and Andrea. Hermione, in her panicked wisdom, had found the two of them in a secluded section of the village, away from all other eyes; all others but Harry's, of course. They sat upon a tree stump, in the middle of the woods between Hogsmeade and the carriages.

Their hands, Harry managed to see, seemed to be doing a dance, choreographed all by themselves. In the space between their two sides, they neared one another, only to dip away at the last possible moment. They would move yet closer, only to pull away further, until, at long last, the edges of their fingers met.

Hermione rushed to pull her hand away, but Andrea held on tightly; not allowing her to leave. Dazed though she was, Hermione did eventually hold her back.

The moment was entirely too intimate for Harry to bear witness to, and he made to leave the hill upon which he perched, though as he did so, Hermione's eyes squeezed closed. She drew in a breath Harry felt like he could feel a hundred yards away and closed the distance between her and Andrea.

One moment of bravery was all she needed.

And It was all she needed, too, for Andrea immediately kissed her back.

Harry left Hogsmeade then and there. He'd seen all he needed to, and the village had, once more, provide the perfect setting. For, in Spring, new life had formed.

And, new love too.

---

Sunday

Harry's Sunday began under similar circumstances as his Saturday, though instead of Hermione pacing the floor anxiously, it was he himself who fulfilled that role as he and Fleur stood outside the Headmaster's office, awaiting their chance to use the fireplace for the Floo.

Yesterday, the great delight of seeing Hermione newly and blindingly happy with Andrea had in turn blinded Harry's mind to the true nature of the day at hand. That he'd be with the parents of his girlfriend, and he'd have to make them like him.

Harry had no idea how to do that.

In his worry, he'd actually used Sleekeazy's Potion on his hair, seeing himself with straight, neat hair for the first time in his entire life, only to immediately realise that unobscured by his own hair, his face looked very annoying, and so he had another shower to wash it all out; his third stressful shower of the morning.

Such was the depths of his worry that Fleur had foregone teasing him for it.

"It will be okay, mon cœur," Fleur said, her hands holding the tupperware which housed their crème brûlée efforts from three days prior. "They're really normal, honestly, as far as wizards go. They'll love you."

"I'm sure they're normal to you ," Harry replied. "You're like, their beautiful, perfect daughter who lights up every room she's in and makes the world a better place and is most of the reason I wake up in the morning." He gasped a breath. "I'm just the monster who wants to date their pride and joy."

Fleur smiled. "They're not that divisive," she said. "You're not the enemy, Harry. You're someone that I adore, and they trust my judgement."

"And I adore you too," Harry said, "but what if they don't like me? Then-"

"-then nothing will change," Fleur interrupted. "No one, no one, else's opinion of you changes my opinion of you. Not even my parents. I love them, but they don't decide this for me."

"Promise?" Harry asked quietly.

"Promise," Fleur said. "If anything, them not liking you would only make you more attractive to me. I could at last rebel against them for something." She sighed. "They're so accepting that I've not been able to yet. The closest I got was when I had a really short, choppy haircut when I turned sixteen, but they just said I looked pretty, and that they were proud of me for 'expressing myself.'"

Harry laughed; Fleur's words having soothed his nerves. "You are a bit of a goody-two-shoes."

She had isolated herself only to study harder , after all.

"Not after today I won't be," Fleur said, standing up to take his hand in hers. "Bringing the rogue Hogwarts champion home as my date to dinner?" She smiled, gleeful. "With any luck, I'll be grounded."

Harry just shook his head. Fleur did always know how to make him feel better.

The door to the Headmaster's office opened then to reveal Professor Sinistra. She gave the pair a disapproving look as she walked past.

"They always say it's not what it looks like," she said, her jade eyes fixed on their locked hands. "They always lie." She nodded to the door. "He's free."

Fleur wrapped herself around Harry, her touch settling him.

"You'll do wonderfully, I'm sure," she said into his ear, before pressing her lips to his cheek. "Gabi has been singing your praises for weeks, too." She offered him her hand. "Shall we?"

Harry nodded and took her hand.

The sight of the Headmaster's office, and indeed the Headmaster, helped to distract his fretted nerves. Professor Dumbledore smiled at their arrival, taking off his spectacle as he did to rub at his face tiredly.

"I'm ever so sorry to keep you waiting," Professor Dumbledore said, "but Aurora and I have been up half the night trying to fix my telescope." He yawned, though fought against it. "You are going home for the day?"

Fleur nodded. "We should be home for the afternoon meal, though I doubt we will partake," she said, a smile unconsciously forming on her face at the thought of home-cooked food.

Dumbledore met Harry's eyes. "And this is your first time leaving Britain, isn't it?" he asked. "There is no better place to be your first visit, either. The south of France makes one question the need for any other place to live, for it is so lovely." His face fell, however, as he studied Harry further. "Nervous?"

Harry nodded. "A little," he said.

Dumbledore smiled kindly. "I suppose these are the good kind of nerves," he said. "Nerves like this mean you want to do something good, and that you're giving a big occasion the respect it deserves." He nodded to Harry. "You've proven yourself capable of many great things, Harry. I'm sure this will be yet another."

A small blaze erupted in the middle of their conversation just as he finished speaking as Fawkes appeared from nowhere. It had not been long since his latest burning day and so the immortal held a tiny form; his wingspan no greater than the width of Harry's two hands.

Fawkes trilled at the sight of the three of them, and immediately Harry's nerves were nothing, such was the phoenix's magic, replaced by the clear-minded joy that only Fawkes could inspire. Harry reached out to stroke the firebird, at the point upon his spine where the weight of his wings rested the heaviest; the place he'd learned he enjoyed being stroked.

"I dare say you two ought to be off soon," said Dumbledore, fighting against another yawn. "Any longer and I might collapse thanks to our dear friend Fawkes." He pointed to the mantelpiece where the bag of floo powder sat, before he made his way to his own private quarters. "Help yourself."

Dumbledore left without another word. Harry allowed himself a few more seconds of Fawkes' peaceful presence before he took a pinch of the powder for himself.

Fleur went first, though not before giving him one more kiss. "I adore you," she said, before calling out, "Delacour Home!" She disappeared into a cloud of green flame, leaving Harry alone.

And, with a final breath to collect himself, he followed her.

---

Before Harry could even open his eyes after his customary fall from the fireplace, the scent of what smelled like heaven filled his nose; nearly overwhelmingly so. Sugar and spice and Fleur .

He stood up and found himself in the middle of the Delacour living room, his face falling not too far from their plush, cream-coloured sofa, upon which Fleur was sat, curled up comfortably, waiting for him. Natural light filled the room from their bay windows which, even in February, offered the sight of one of the prettiest landscapes Harry had ever seen; the Nice coastline.

There was a light, airy nature to the décor of their house. The walls painted light colours with soft, blue accents, the cushions the same, as were the carpets that covered the hardwood floor. Flowers grew in pots upon the windowsills, sporting bright colours.

"I'll give you a proper tour later," Fleur promised, rising to stand and taking his hand. "But I don't think I can go any longer without Papa's cooking."

She pulled him along, and Harry was treated to the sights of her house in fast forward. Glimpses of childhood photos; moving images of a tiny, silver-haired girl in a children's ballet company zooming past as they rushed from the living room and through a set of open double doors until, at long last, they reached the kitchen, where Mr and Mrs Delacour stood expectantly.

Mr Delacour rushed over to sweep Fleur into his arms. He was a shorter man, Harry already taller than him at fourteen, though he did still pick his daughter completely off the ground, to her embarrassed laughter.

"You've grown so tall!" he exclaimed. "My little girl has grown up!"

"I've been the same height for four years, Papa," Fleur said, even as she laughed. "Your old age is making you shrink."

"They will be like that for a while," Mrs Delacour said to Harry. She was a stunningly beautiful woman, with blonde hair of an identical shade to Fleur's, though longer, and twisted into an elegant braid. Yet, her blue eyes, so very similar to Fleur's, were unwaveringly kind in their expression; the smile on her face beginning from there, rather than her lips. She offered a hand to shake. "I'm Apolline. It's lovely to meet you, 'Arry."

"It's lovely to meet you too," said Harry, shaking her hand. French all of a sudden felt clumsy on his tongue, as though it was not what he spoke almost all of his recent days. "We made crème brûlée, though it's currently otherwise engaged," he said, pointing to the father and daughter catching up and the tupperware caught in between.

Mrs Delacour held his hand in both of hers. "It is my favourite," she said. "We heard you land, by the way." Harry's cheeks grew hot. "Don't fret, it happens to me too, even at forty." She frowned, though her smile quickly returned. "It helps to break the visage of this perfect, angelic being that wizards think veela to be." Her hand left his, to gesture to the kettle. "Coffee?"

Harry nodded.

"And this must be your paramour!" boomed Mr Delacour, capturing Harry's intention. He rushed over to hug Harry then, taking him entirely by surprise. He did little more than stand there for a few moments until, hesitantly, he hugged the older man back. "The young man that has caught our Fleur's heart."

"Ignore him," Fleur said, her pretty face peering over the bald head of her father. "The vapours from his icing have melted his brain."

"There wasn't much there to begin with," Mr Delacour said, pulling only far enough that he could look Harry in the eye. "Étienne Delacour, champion baker, champion husband, champion, well everything; is there anything I can't do?"

"Grow a full head of hair?" offered Apolline.

"See over the counter of your own bakery?" offered Fleur.

"Be humble?" offered Apolline, again.

"Ride the rides at Disneyland?" came yet another voice, though this one was behind Harry, younger, and distinctly belonging to Gabrielle. Harry spun around to greet her, and just as well as she'd already begun launching herself at him in a bear hug. "'Arry!"

"Gabi!" returned Harry. He'd missed her, truly. She'd returned to Hogwarts again one weekend in January and spent two days teaching him and Fleur to make choux pastry and mocking them mercilessly for failing to grasp a skill she'd 'learned at four'. It was amazing.

"Have you been practising?" she asked, referring to her lessons.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. "I've been a little busy lately," he said, "I'm sort of in the Triwizard Tournament."

"That's no excuse!" Gabi declared, before turning to Mr Delacour. "You need to make him éclairs, Papa. He needs the incentive."

"Well," said Mr Delacour, "knowing that Fleur would be home, I've already made forty, that way he may get half of one."

Fleur did not reply to his teasing, but instead, her eyes grew dreamy. "Where are they?" she asked. "It's been far too long."

Mr Delacour pulled his wand from his apron to send a silent spell toward one of their larders which brought a tray of eclairs floating into the kitchen. The scent alone made Harry's mouth salivate.

"I find I'm much more likeable when people are eating my food," Mr Delacour said to Harry, drawing the eclairs to a standstill. "As our guest, you may have the first."

"Be quick though," Fleur added.

Harry took the pastry closest to him.

He took one bite.

He was in heaven.

"That is the face of a man whose life has changed forever," Mr Delacour said, though Harry did not see him say it. Harry's eyes had dipped closed, to pull any other sensation from his brain other than the pure euphoria that was the food in his mouth. "Now, am I good, or am I good?"

"So good," Harry found himself saying without conscious thought.

"And you could have them all the time, if you practised," Gabrielle told him. "Well, close enough to that!"

In a sort of dessert-induced daze, Harry ushered himself into a seat around their kitchen island, Fleur sat to his left in a similar state, and Gabrielle to his right. After a few éclairs, it was then financiers and madeleines, macaroons and profiteroles, each bite better than the last, to Mr Delacour's eternal amusement.

"So, how did you two meet?" asked Mrs Delacour, as Harry sampled a canelé. "Beyond the tournament, of course. How did you begin to talk?"

Harry glanced over to an equally blissful Fleur beside him. "We were trying to set up our Professors with one another," he said. "It was around the time of the Yule Ball, and they'd expressed an interest in one another, so we thought to bring them together."

Mrs Delacour grinned at him. "Fleur didn't like you to begin with, did she?"

Harry laughed, soothed by the sugar lining his stomach. "She thought I was part of some grand conspiracy to rig the tournament."

Mrs Delacour hummed. "That is very normal for our Fleur," she said. "When she was a child, well a younger child, she would rush around the house with a brush dusting for fingerprints." She sighed. "I think she read a little too much Poirot as a child."

"Maman!" Fleur cried. "Don't tell him that!"

"It is only true," defended Mrs Delacour, her palms held aloft. "She was adorable, truly. She would wear a deerstalker and crawl on her hands and knees looking for clues."

"I did that once!" Fleur said, beginning to blush. Harry found her hand upon the table. "And it was Halloween."

Mrs Delacour smiled at the two of them. "If you insist," she said. "It is nice anyway that Fleur has found someone that reminds her that she needn't grow up quite so fast." She met Harry's eyes. "I trust it was all plain sailing after you set her straight?"

Harry nodded. "I've never been happier," he said. Fleur nodded too.

Mrs Delacour drank a sip of her coffee, savouring the moment. The five of them sat for a while, speaking warmly over desserts until, after having her fill, Apolline stood up.

"Would you like a tour of the house?" she asked. "If you stay here, my husband will only let you gorge yourself to death."

"Definitely," Harry agreed.

---

Feeling far heavier than he had as he'd entered their house, Harry soon found himself taking a guided tour, with Mrs Delacour leading the effort and Gabi by his side; she was mostly there to point out the embarrassing childhood pictures of Fleur that waved at him shyly as they walked past.

Fleur had let the three of them be, preferring to follow her father around the kitchen, catching up.

"That's her at primary school," Gabrielle said, pointing to a class of twenty, where Fleur's silver hair stood out spectacularly. "We have our picture day soon, and I want mum to put my hair in braids like she has."

"You'd look nice," Harry said. "I did accidental magic on my picture day. I'd just gotten the worst haircut ever from my Aunt and I really didn't want my picture taken, so I wished really hard that I didn't have to, and my name never got called."

"That's sad," Gabi said, "Now you don't have a picture to remember it by."

Harry chuckled. "I think that haircut is better forgotten."

"Speaking of school," Mrs Delacour said. "Have you done your homework, Gabi?"

Gabi didn't speak.

"Gabrielle?" Mrs Delacour pressed. "Have you?"

"No," Gabi admitted, her voice and her face hidden behind her hands, "but it isn't due until Tuesday."

"But you'll be spending tomorrow with Grandma, and you know you won't get any work done there," Mrs Delacour commented, her hands on her hips. "She'll spend the whole time telling you stories and feeding you chocolate and then you'll have nothing to take in."

"The homework is really hard though," Gabi said. "We have to write two pages about a magical creature, and I don't know what to do. I want mine to be special, but we have to take measurements and pictures and stuff and to do that, I need to see it in real life, and that means all I'll be able to do it on is our owl and everyone is doing owls."

She delivered that entirely in one breath. Harry found himself impressed.

"And 'Arry is here," Gabi then said, her arms clutching around his waist forcefully. "I don't want to waste that time doing a stupid report on owls."

Mrs Delacour frowned at her youngest daughter, attached as she was then to Harry. "You did have a few weeks to do this assignment, Gabrielle," she said. "If you'd planned ahead, you wouldn't be in this position."

Harry cleared his throat, finding two pairs of crystal blue eyes on him as he did. "I think I have an idea," he said. "How about instead of doing a report on owls, you did it on a phoenix?"

Gabi peered up at him. "But where would I find one of those?" she asked.

He smiled. "Fawkes," he called and, in an instant, the telltale fireball appeared, and a tiny phoenix with it, his wise eyes taking in the new surroundings for a moment, before perching upon Harry's shoulder. Gabi gasped. "Meet Fawkes. He's a friend, and I think he'd love to help you out."

Fawkes gave a wondrous trill. Gabi's smile was blinding.

The phoenix flew from Harry's shoulder, coming to softly land upon Gabrielle's arm.

"He likes to be stroked along his spine," Harry said. Gabi followed his advice at once, and soon trills fell in waves from Fawkes' beak. "I'll be around for a while too, so we can still hang out."

Gabi's arms hugged him as tightly as they were able. "Thank you, 'Arry," she said, before leading the immortal firebird to their living room, and leaving Mrs Delacour and Harry alone.

Mrs Delacour drew breath to speak several times, though no words came out at first.

"Fleur mentioned that odd things seem to follow wherever you go," she said after a time. "It seems so strange to see it first-hand, however." She sighed, beginning to smile. "Thank you, anyway. That was astoundingly generous. I know how rare the gift of a phoenix's summons is, and to give it so freely is just…unbelievable."

"Gabi seemed like she needed it more than I did," Harry said.

Mrs Delacour offered him a fond look. "She did," she agreed. "Gabi has dyslexia, so she struggles with a lot of the written work at school. She's so good practically, and she takes after Étienne with her baking, it just seems a shame that she has to go through all that writing when it's clear that it's not a fair reflection of her." She took a deep breath. "Sorry…it's just very nice of you to help out."

Harry smiled bashfully. "How did you and Mr Delacour meet?"

Mrs Delacour began to walk again, to start the tour anew; Harry followed along diligently. "We've known each other since we were children," she said. "Our parent's homes were on the same street, in Paris. We were best friends growing up, and his parents were working a lot so he would spend most afternoons with me. It was my mother who introduced him to baking." She stood still for a moment. "She is a veela, and food and its preparation is sacred to her, well, our people."

"So you were best friends?" Harry asked. "And then one day, you just became…more?"

"He is still my best friend, just as I am his," Mrs Delacour said. "Then, over time, I came to realise that my heart was his too." She paused, her hands twisting around a braid. "When we were sixteen, and my other, veela senses came to be, I began to push him away. I didn't want this new thing about me to ruin the most important thing in my life." She laughed to herself. "But Étienne would not let me lock myself away. He would send me letters until I would meet him again. And then, he said to me:

"'Apolline, I love you. I love every part of you, even the parts you're afraid of. And, no matter what changes you go through, I want to be by your side as you do. We will grow, but we will always grow together.'

"And," she finished, leading the two of them onto the patio outside, under the beaming sunshine, "we've been together ever since. We say twenty-two years, but we know it's really thirty-two. From the moment I moved onto his street."

The Delacour's garden was a consortium of colour, of plants Harry had never seen the likeness of, and all cared for immaculately. It appeared at first glance to be a meadow, though the most perfect meadow imaginable, with blue, yellow, and red wildflowers threaded the long grass. Bushes sprouting fruits bordered the garden, with tall trees shading corners of the garden where benches sat. it seemed to sprawl on for miles and miles, stopping only for the cerulean sea and the horizon.

"Beyond my family, this is my pride and joy," Mrs Delacour said of the garden. "Life is too short not to fill it with the most beauty you can, I think."

Harry couldn't agree more.

"We have quite high expectations of romance in this family," Mrs Delacour said, her voice warm along the warm Mediterranean air. "I've only ever been in one relationship, and it is to the love of my life. I know you and Fleur are young and I can tell that you are every bit the man she professes you to be, but love is…another force entirely." She paused deliberately; long enough for Harry to meet her eyes. "Do you see your future holding Fleur in it?"

"Definitely," Harry said immediately, the words as natural as the air that gave voice to them.

"I don't expect you to be perfect, or to never make mistakes," Mrs Delacour said to him, smiling all the while. "Life happens, and despite all the best intentions, you two will get hurt. All that I ask is that you always try and do your best to take care of her. To try to place your love before your pride."

"I will," Harry promised, resolution concentrated into those two tiny words.

"Good," Apolline said. "We're going to be a team, you and I and Etienne and Gabi and all of Fleur's loved ones." To be included in that list gave Harry goosebumps. "We all want the same thing. To make Fleur happy, and the fact that you're doing your part so well makes me inordinately thrilled already." She stopped in her tracks. "Anyway, that was my attempt at a serious parent-to-daughter's-boyfriend speech. How did I do?"

Harry laughed, relief flooding him. "Terrifying," he said. "I pity the person that Gabi brings home."

She waved a hand at him. "I have ten years to practice for that poor schmuck," she said. "Now, shall we go inside and see what my husband has dreamt up for you?" She sneezed suddenly. "My hayfever is beginning to play up."

Harry smiled, bemused. "You have hayfever?" he asked, his eyes pathing their way around the garden. "But, how?"

Mrs Delacour shrugged, giving him a bright grin. "Funny how life works, isn't it?"

---

Strange though it did feel, as Harry sat around their kitchen island once more, with Mr Delacour flying around him, he found his mind utterly devoid of panic. Fawkes and Gabrielle perched beside him and Fleur's hip rested against his, her lips occasionally pressing against his cheek, and he felt, rather rarely for him, that he was exactly in the right place.

"Did that dream happen again yesterday?" Fleur asked, her voice a whisper by his ear.

Harry nodded. "It did, yeah," he said. "Just the same as it was before."

Fleur hummed lowly. "Maybe we ought to speak to Professor Dumbledore, whenever he finally wakes up."

Harry laughed. "Maybe."

Mr Delacour came to a stop in front of the two of them, effectively ending their moment of closeness.

"It is a shame that you're not here for longer, 'Arry," Mr Delacour said. "We could've gone to the beach." His eyes went wide. "We could've had Nice ice cream! " He sighed dreamily. "Next time, 'Arry. Next time."

"When is the next time, 'Arry?" Gabi asked, her hands clutching on his arm. "I want to see you again soon."

"I'm not going anywhere just yet," Harry said lightly, tussling Gabi's hair, to her irritation. "And, honestly, as soon as we can." He looked over to Fleur. "Easter?"

"Easter," Fleur agreed.

"You know," began Mrs Delacour, coming into the room to stand behind her husband, her arms around his portly middle and her cheek resting companionably upon his head. "There is a whole summer coming around after Fleur beats you in the tournament, 'Arry."

"No there isn't," Harry said, smiling. "I think you mean to say that, after I trounce Fleur, there's going to be a summer that I can devote to celebrating my grand success."

"Whatever the case may be," Mr Delacour said, diplomatically. "I think it'd be nice if you spent some time here, that way you can see all that Nice has to offer." He settled into his wife's embrace. "It's the finest place in the world to be in love."

Harry looked over to Fleur then, and though it should, those words were not as daunting as they might well have been. She leaned into his touch and he felt utterly settled.

"You're all so gross," Gabi said suddenly, flattening the moment like a spoiled soufflé.

They all laughed.

"You'll understand when you're older," Mrs Delacour said.

"No, I won't," Gabi insisted. "I'm going to stay single forever and never be weird like you."

"Of course you will," Fleur said, shaking her head.

Mr Delacour drew his wand once more; this time to return their desserts back into the larder. And, as Harry soon came to learn, to draw forward a full beef fillet from his fridge.

"Now, in honour of our English guest, I'll treat you to their finest offering to the culinary arts. And, for once, I'm not joking," Mr Delacour said. "It combines two brilliant, and yet totally separate things, to make something greater than the sum of its parts." As if from nowhere, a knife appeared in his hands and pointed to Harry and Fleur with it, the blade an extension of himself. "Not unlike you two. However, in this instance, I'm referring to red meat and puff pastry to create the Beef Wellington."

"Have you had it before, 'Arry?" Mrs Delacour asked. She, much like Harry himself, just reclined in her chair, content to watch her husband work.

"Never," Harry said.

"You will not understand just how good I am then," Mr Delacour said. "Yet, mine will be the only one you know. A trade I am willing to make."

"I do apologise for Papa," Fleur said beside him. "He's easily excitable."

"You are just so mild-mannered!" Mr Delacour exclaimed, glazing the fillet with olive oil. "We are having wonderful food; that is reason enough to sing in the street!" His gaze settled upon Harry, his eyes beseeching. "Tell me you agree, dear boy?"

Harry shrugged. "Depends on if you're as good as you say you are," he said.

Mr Delacour's eyes went wide. "Did my éclairs not inspire faith? Or my financiers?" he questioned, before standing tall; as tall as he was able, anyway. "But no matter, you have thrown down the gauntlet and I have little choice but to accept." He placed his hand over his heart. "I will make you the finest thing you've ever tasted, or I will die trying."

Fleur rolled her eyes beside him, her hand tracing patterns along Harry's palms. "I worry for your nerves, Papa," she said.

"My heart is strong, little one," Mr Delacour said, pounding upon his chest. "You can not be as great as I am without strong conviction."

"I meant more literally," Fleur said. "A man your age, raging like this?"

"I am only thirty-five!" Mr Delacour claimed. Fleur just raised an eyebrow at him. "Or I was five years ago. It is all semantics, anyway. I'm as strong as an ox."

"A very small ox," said Gabi, her head not lifting at all from her study of Fawkes beside Harry. Harry laughed into his own palms.

Mrs Delacour's eyes were overwhelmingly fond. "I'd love to say he is not like this all the time, but I would be lying," she said. "'Arry, tell us about yourself, before he gets going again."

Harry felt the room spin to centre itself upon him, though he did not feel any great worry from it. It was difficult to become a spectacle when one shared a room as Mr Delacour.

"I like Quidditch, I like meddling in the relationships of my friends, and I'd like to say that I like going on adventures, but they really just tend to happen to me," Harry said.

Mrs Delacour smiled at his candour. "You speak wonderful French, I must say."

Harry beamed, proud. "Thank you."

"Tell us though," began Mrs Delacour, "how did you come to speak with an accent as horrid as yours?"

Harry turned to look Fleur dead in the eye, though she was too busy laughing to pay a great deal of attention.

"That is not my doing," she did eventually say, kissing Harry's cheek. "Face it mon chéri , it's terrible."

"I ought to move to Canada," Harry said in a huff. "I'll be appreciated there."

"You're dearly appreciated here," Fleur said. "As your girlfriend, I want what's best for you. And, truly, what's best for you is to learn to speak properly."

Harry sighed.

"Just, question to the room," he said. "What's my name?"

"'Arry," they all said, discordantly, their words overlapping.

"And how would you go about spelling that?" he asked. "Probably H-A-R-R-Y, correct?" They nodded. "So where has the 'H' gone with you all, huh?" He folded his arms. "I assume you're all too good to pronounce all the letters of a word, aren't you?"

They were silent for a moment. Though only one.

"I suspect the 'H' in your name disappeared off to whatever farm your accent lives on," Fleur replied, and they all fell into peals of laughter; even Gabrielle.

Harry sank into his chair. He fought the urge to pout at first, though it soon overwhelmed him until the pout bloomed on his face at full force.

"It is such a shame, for your sake, that you are so cute when you're grumpy," Fleur said, delighting as his raging pout was joined by his cheeks blushing red. "It only makes this all the more fun."

Harry stared at Mr Delacour. "This Beef Wellington better be amazing."

Thankfully, it was.

Harry's day in Nice ended in the same manner as it started. With the finest food he'd ever had, and his favourite person in the world. They laughed, they told stories until the sun began to dip below the horizon, and all of their eyes began to droop after their eating, with Gabi snoring softly against his shoulder.

There was a moment in the middle of it all, as the Delacour family lived and laughed around Harry, that he found spellbinding, for it was Fleur at her most comfortable; surrounded by those that she cared most for.

Her eyes captivated him then. They were always so piercing, so arresting. And yet then, they held complete ease.

She had never been more enthralling.

Soon, Harry and Fleur departed, hand-in-hand, under Fawkes' care just as the sun set, though they left with far more than they came and quite literally too. Mr Delacour had packed up half his bakery for them to take back to Hogwarts, with promises that Harry would visit for Easter and that Fleur would write more often.

They did not leave each other's side as they got back to Hogwarts though, even as it was past curfew. They wandered the halls of the castle, quietly though utterly content, tasting and savouring some of what Mr Delacour had given them.

Eventually, they decided to retire to the Gryffindor common room, which appeared as it most often did; the loveseats surrounding the great fireplace filled with lovebirds. Ron and Viktor, Hermione and Andrea, Neville and Aimée, all in their places, cuddled up with one another, and they had the good grace to leave Harry and Fleur's place free too.

For that, they gave each of them a box of cookies as they sat.

"Did you have a good time, Harry?" Hermione asked as they sat down, nearly glowing with joy as her hand was laced in Andrea's, their heads leant against each other.

Harry smiled, looking toward Fleur. "It had its moments."

And, they sat, as they so often did, and did nothing more than enjoy the evening together.

As the night came upon the world and the non-Gryffindors returned to their dorms, Harry and Fleur stayed as they were, wrapped up in each other. They fell asleep together, cradled in the warmth of the fire, cuddling deep into the night and onto the next morning.

Harry did have that same dream once more too, though this time the fire formed not just one flower, but a full meadow.

---

Monday

Harry and Fleur woke up at the same moment, just as the light of dawn filtered into the common room, with Fleur's head upon his chest, her nose brushing against his collarbone. Harry ran a hand through the locks of her hair.

"Happy Valentine's Day," he said quietly, desperate not to break the peace of the morning.

Fleur blinked up at him; a smile capturing every part of her. "Happy Valentine's Day," she said back.

And Harry was then, what he'd been for a while.

Utterly taken by Fleur. Body and soul, heart and spirit.

And, for the first time, Harry said the very words his heart was filled with.

"I love you," he said.

Not a moment passed before Fleur spoke.

"I love you too," she said.

And Valentine's Day was theirs.

---

And, there it is!

I truly hope you enjoyed it. I loved writing this epilogue, and writing this story again. I'd love to know what you thought with a review.

Thank you all so, so much for reading. It's been brilliant. Thank you once again to everyone that beta read, and that provided the moral support on the Flowerpot Discord. If you're not there, you're missing out.

Until next time!