Flowerpot

It was addictive, and when she pushed for more, he obliged. Her tongue peeking from her lips into his own, a delicate dance that sparked something within the pair. Their bodies ground together in an almost desperate fashion, trying to nurse the flame in their lips to beat back the freezing cold.

She was fire made flesh, beauty made ethereal and love made magic, and in that moment, she was a goddess to be worshipped.

They soon broke for air, leaning their foreheads against the other; their heavy breath made his heart race all the faster.

Her body and soul enraptured him, every so often he'd reach up to steal her lips once more, or she'd press down upon him, reigniting the flame - the duel of desire.

Then, they'd return to staring into the eyes of the other. He finally allowed himself to be fully submerged in the ocean depths to see her heart and soul beyond.

She was not Fleur Delacour. She was not the Veela, nor the Triwizard Tournament Competitor. She was not the woman of wit that had been a godsend to him, nor the enigma that he could never decipher.

She was his.

And he was hers.

Even if it was just for a night, it was enough. Even if the war would strip him of whatever he had left, he had this.

"Why am I upsetting you, Harry?" Fleur asked. Same soft tone. But decisive. Fearless. He envied her and hated her and wanted her in that moment, a confusing miasma of emotion that made his extremities tingle, like a panicked flight-or-fight response.

"Because I love you," Harry said.

There was a second where it seemed that the entire night had gone still, the stars had been extinguished, and the world reduced to their small shared space on the top of the Burrow. Harry turned on his side to look at Fleur. He didn't want to, but he had to know what she was thinking.

Harry wasn't sure what he had been expecting. Surprise, perhaps. Discomfort. Maybe, if this were a dream, happiness.

There was nothing but a unobtrusive sadness. Not exactly pity, but close enough that Harry felt the slightest pang of frustration. Pity was the worst of it. He could stand for anything but Fleur's pity.

"I'm engaged, Harry," Fleur said.

(Fleur was engaged. Fleur was engaged to his best friend's brother.)

He hadn't revealed the whole of himself, the most vulnerable, terrible, inner thoughts he had only to be turned away by such an insufficient statement. A true statement, but too clunky and meaningless to stop him.

"That doesn't mean anything," Harry said. He kept calm, divorced himself from any petulance or fear. He wasn't a child. He could talk to Fleur without sounding like one.

"Engagement doesn't mean anything?" Fleur asked.

"You've teased me, flirted with me. Nothing you do is unintentional. You drank with me, stripped in front of me, taught me, learned from me; we've spent more time together in the last couple of months than with anyone else. You've told me things about yourself that you've never told anyone and asked me things I've never told anyone before. So you can't just say, 'I'm engaged,' as if that settles things. It doesn't mean anything."

Fleur was meeting his gaze, but Harry thought he saw some indecision. Some hesitance which prevented her from saying what she thought she should say.

"We're friends, Harry. Friends share things with each other; even tease each other sometimes," Fleur said.

"Not like you did with me. You can't just pretend that any of that was trivial," Harry said.

"Why are you pushing this?" Fleur asked.

"Because you haven't said that you don't care about me," Harry said.

He found her hands wrapped up in the sleeves of her robes, extracting them with a coaxing gentleness and brushing his fingertips against the knuckles, and then down to the tips. He threaded his fingers through hers and she complied. His hand was freezing, even to him, but she accepted it.

He gained strength and courage through pushing forward. "I love you, Fleur. And I can't pretend that I know exactly what you feel for me, but you wouldn't have done all of that with me, trusted me like you did, if you felt nothing," Harry said.

It hurt her not to be in control. She was as shaken as he had ever seen, like a ship that was slowing being tilted on its axis until it would crash into the deafening waves below. She was cracking and he was watching her and helping to push her closer to the edge.

Theirs was not an equal relationship. Harry knew that. She was older, beautiful, smarter, even more articulate than he was. He needed her more than she needed him. But that didn't mean she didn't need him.

"Look where we are, Harry. Look what you're trying to get me to say," Fleur said.

"I love you," Harry said. She didn't say anything so he repeated himself.

A pause.

"I can't say that back, Harry. But I love being around you. I love spending time with you," Fleur said.

Harry squeezed her hand. It wasn't what he wished for, but it was more than he had any right to expect

Fleur made up the distance between them, letting herself rest against him, her body tangling carelessly with his.

"You're a bastard," Fleur said.

Harry tilted her head up. He didn't have to hide his delight in her anymore. When he kissed her, she kissed him back.

It was better than he had expected. The softness, the warmth, that he had been able to anticipate.

The feeling behind it, the tenderness of emotion, was something he couldn't have imagined. It had to be experienced.

"Guess I'm not as bad as you keep saying," Harry said.

"Just stop talking," Fleur said. Her voice was muffled as she leaned her face against Harry's chest. He could feel her breath against his robes.

Harry knew they would have to talk soon. Things needed to be said, boundaries established, their relationship elaborated upon. But for the moment he was content.

He hadn't ever thought it possible that he would have Fleur curled up against him. It had never been more than a painful dream and now that it was a reality Harry could say that he had never been happier. It was a cliché, a phrase that had been trammeled to death before he was even born, but now Harry understood why it was used. A cliché that came close to expressing the ineffability of love was a precious thing.

A champagne glass slipped out her hand and shattered on the hardwood floor.

"'Arry?"

For an answer, he gently touched her cheek, tracing a path down behind her ear and to the back of her neck, then he wrapped his other arm around her slender waist.

Fleur's eyes widened.

At the last moment, the left side of his lips pulled back in a cheeky smirk—and then he dipped her just as he'd seen done a hundred times in the old movies he watched on Privet Drive when no one else was home.

With eyes closed, he sank into breathless perfection. The universe melted away leaving only the feeling of life and love surging through him, the warmth of her lips, the caressing fingers that burned his cheeks with their delicate touch, they were the only reminders that he had not ascended into the heavens.

And then it was over.

He pulled away and set her on her feet again.

"Oui," his voice echoed in the utter silence, answering her question.

He nodded to Paige, then turned and walked away; trying nonchalantly to reach for a glass of champagne and hoping no one saw his hand shaking. He drained it in one tip of the head while heading towards the balcony, wondering what in the hell he had just done.

Gabrielle happened to be standing by the sliding doors, grinning widely and holding out her hand. Harry gave her the glass and stepped outside.

[. . . ]

"'Ow dare you kiss me in front of all those people and then walk out on me!" She spat out when she reached him. Without waiting for an answer, she clutched his shirt in both hands and yanked him forward, their bodies crashing into each other.

She planted her lips on his and a primal need surged forth, her Veela nature emerging hungry and predatory. Needing more of him, she wrapped her arms around his back and pulled him tighter, her hands tangling in his hair and more than aware of the arms that wrapped around her; they were larger, stronger than they were last summer, but so much more important than that, was something that she was finally feeling again, something she had silently longed for since the day he pulled her into his embrace in the Burrow.

She was safe; she was cared for; she was home.

He could hear the question was thick with emotion and paused to consider what she was asking. These were delicate moments, he shouldn't respond without forethought. He recalled, all too well, how fragile he'd been when he talked with Dumbledore, in the hospital wing, after killing Quirrell.

"In what way?" He wanted a clarification. Was this in respect to a romantic interest? Was this some kind of misplaced in adequacy for not doing more? Or, was this for having killed and losing her innocence?

An answer didn't come, Harry felt hot tears on shoulder, sobs coming from the older girl.

Harry closed his eyes, he needed to help her through this.

"I don't think less of you, Fleur." He dropped his head on top of hers and risked upsetting his ribs by lightly squeezing her between his left arm and chest. "If anything, I think more of you now. You didn't run, you didn't cower." He let his words sink in before he spoke further, he let her breathing calm.

"I was in awe of you." He breathed out quietly, remembering a specific moment.

She pulled her head off his shoulder and her eyes sought his. She stared at him; the proud arrogant girl missing. In her place was a fragile young lady.

But that wasn't what Harry saw. He saw a remarkable young woman, one that had willing walked into a lair of acromantula. She'd killed, been wounded and done what was necessary to come back out alive.

"You were amazing, you stood your ground, you controlled the battlefield with your flames and you never gave in, even after you were wounded. I could barely tear my eyes off of you, after Cuddles saved us, you were glorious." Harry ardently announced.

"I couldn't think less of you, not after seeing that. I doubt I could respect you more than I did in that moment, seeing you wounded and defending against the last of the spiders."

He broke eye contact with her. Perhaps he shouldn't have said it, he shouldn't have been so open and honest with her. But he knew this was critical. If he'd been told he was growing up to be a monster, just like Voldemort, after the Chamber, after Quirrell, he'd be a different person today. He wouldn't fail Fleur, he wouldn't let her question whether her actions made her a horrible person, not when they were in self defense, the defense of others.

"Don't let anyone disparage you for today. You fought and bled to keep us safe, honestl-" Any further comments were cut off, his lips had been captured, captured by Fleur's.

Her lips were soft, warm, was a delicacy to the kiss, an expression of deep emotions, this wasn't a lust filled snogging. Her lips moved slowly, deliberately. Her hand found his cheek and she traced his jawline.

Eventually, her magnetic lips released their pull on him. She kept her hand of his face, ensuring he looked her in the eyes, he could feel her breath on his face. "'Arry, I'm falling for you."

"You do not drool." She pointed out, smile still going strong.

"You're not that attractive." He retorted, his voice still calm, even as he twisted the truth into almost-lie territory.

"Then how attractive would I have to be for you to drool?" She challenged him, a mischievous glint in her eye.

"Dunno. I'm still a bit new at being in love with you." He admitted, feeling his face heat up at the confession.

She stared into his eyes for a long moment, her own face slowly heating in response.

"That is a good answer, Harry Potter." She finally smiled. "Maybe an experiment is in order?" She began to advance on him, hips swaying in a distinctly feminine way.

And as her smile turned playfully predatory, their faces inches apart, Harry realized something that went completely against everything he'd ever known.

There didn't exist poetry flowery enough to describe her kisses.

The beauty of a good listener, priceless compassion, a robustness of character, a powerful realness and intellect that made all other women look thin and fragile as paper in comparison. That was his wife. That was who she was when her name was Fleur Delacour and it was her now that she was a Potter.

Yet, for all the honesty of her soul, Fleur Potter was still a stunningly gorgeous woman.

The river of silver that was her hair had been braided and wrapped into a bun at the back of her head. The elegant twists, eye-catching on their own, were heightened by the sunflower yellow hair clip nestled at the top of the braided bun, a splash of color in the shape of gently curving wings. It was a gift from her mother, given after Fleur's rite-of-passage when she turned eighteen.

The orange light of an autumn sun served it's only purpose as a spotlight, throwing the nearly invisible freckles under Fleur's eyes into view. Constellations only Harry had ever been close enough to map out fully.

His eyes continued their descent. Delicious lips, at times both generous and demanding. A neck, sumptuous and slender, curving to meet the narrow bridge making up her collarbones.

A dress of burnt sienna wrapped about one shoulder before flowing downwards, resting at the middle of her calves. The dress accentuated as much as it hid, hinting at the lush lines of Fleur's figure, all delicate curves and cutting angles. An outfit whose modesty was made a mockery by the woman who wore it. Through sheer force of will Harry reengaged his brain. He had to compliment her, let her know just how jaw droppingly magnificent she was, how his heart beat with his love for her. She smiled at him, watching, waiting, knowing. Poems formed and died on his tongue.

"Fuck," he said distractedly.

A delectably raised eyebrow, a twitch of her lips, a dance in her eyes, "Dinner first, I think," was her breathy, amused reply.

Harry shook his head, chiding himself. Caught flat-footed at his own wife's beauty, a ridiculous notion to be sure, if a fairly uncommon one in his life. "No, damn it. Give me a redo," he muttered resolutely, glancing at her.

She nodded solemnly at him, a hint of glee quickly stifled.

He cleared his throat, scratched the back of his head, shuffled his feet a bit, and looked at her. He had always been bad with words. It had taken him months to feel decent about his wedding vows. His ineloquence was a source of anxiety at times. Fleur deserved good words, beautiful words, words that extolled her character and significance. Harry just could never seem to construct them correctly. Fleur waited patiently for him, watching him silently.

"You are… a gorgeous autumn day given form," he said, gesturing to the yellow hairclip and reddish-orange dress. Blood suffused his cheeks, he could feel the burning of his face acutely. A sense of smallness and stupidity eroding him.

His wife smiled, reaching up to pull him by his collared shirt downwards so that her lips could reach his. They were hungry, possessive. Harry deepened the kiss, his hands clutching at the small of her back, right above the delectable swell of flesh below. His mouth seeking, claiming… worshipful. A low, feminine moan vibrated against his tongue.

Harry felt drunk, victorious, in love. The taste of pomegranates he associated with his wife overtaking his senses as he tried to show her without clumsy words what she meant to him. Yes, words had never been his strong suit. He preferred action.