Chapter Text
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Returns
In a brief statement Friday night, Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge confirmed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned to this country and is active once more.
“It is with great regret that I must confirm that the wizard styling himself Lord—well, you know who I mean—is alive and among us again,” said Fudge, looking tired and flustered as he addressed reporters. “It is with almost equal regret that we report the mass revolt of the dementors of Azkaban, who have shown themselves averse to continuing in the Ministry’s employ. We believe that the dementors are currently taking direction from Lord—Thingy.
“We urge the magical population to remain vigilant. The Ministry is currently publishing guides to elementary home and personal defense that will be delivered free to all Wizarding homes within the coming month.”
The Minister’s statement was met with dismay and alarm from the Wizarding community, which as recently as last Wednesday was receiving Ministry assurances that there was no truth whatsoever in these persistent rumors that You-Know-Who is operating among us once more. Details of the events that led to the Ministry turn-around are still hazy, though it is believed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and a select band of followers (known as Death Eaters) gained entry to the Ministry of Magic itself on Thursday evening.
Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, reinstated member of the International Confederation of Wizards, and reinstated Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, was unavailable for comment last night. He has insisted for a year that You-Know-Who was not dead, as was widely hoped and believed, but recruiting followers once more for a fresh attempt to seize power. Meanwhile, the Boy Who Lived—”
“There you are, Harry, I knew they drag you into it somehow,” Hermione said, peering at him over the top of her newspaper. They were gathered in the hospital wing, clustered around two beds. Harry was seated at the end of Ron’s bed and they were both listening to Hermione read the front page of Sunday Prophet. The lioness had sustained more injuries than originally thought, with a few cracked ribs and the possibility of concussion. Despite Fleur’s spell and sacrifice, the Veela magic had not cured her completely, for it had not been asked, and she was currently on a ten-potion regime. She had improved greatly, and was completely bored of the hospital wing already.
Her Veela rested beside her, her injuries, if she’d ever sustained any, had already healed on their own accord. She cursed herself for not asking the sacrifice to heal the lioness, but was thankful it had returned her safely nonetheless.
Ginny was with them as well, her ankle strengthened by Pomfrey after she went against Fleur’s instruction to sit still, and curled at the foot of Hermione’s bed. Luna had joined them for a visit with Neville, the latest edition of The Quibbler in hand and upside down. Neville had been treated and returned to normal with a few swishes of Moody’s wand, in no need of Pomfrey’s attention.
“He’s ‘the Boy Who Lived’ again now, though, isn’t he?” Ron said darkly. “Not such a show-off maniac anymore, eh?” He helped himself to a handful of Chocolate Frogs sent by Fred and George, throwing a few to Hermione, Harry, Ginny, and Neville. Ron bore deep welts on his arms from the brain’s tentacles, but was improving quickly as well.
“Yes, they’re very complimentary about you now, Harry,” Fleur murmured, reading Hermione’s paper where the lioness rested against her chest in an upright position. “‘A lone voice of truth… perceived as unbalanced, yet never wavered in his story… forced to bear ridicule and slander.’ Hmm…”
“Yes, that is odd, they don’t acknowledge that they were the ones doing all the ridiculing and slandering.” Hermione bit. She glanced down the paper. “And it’s certainly given them plenty to write about.” She winced suddenly and put a hand to her ribs. Though the breaks had been mended, the bones and muscles were sore, screaming out in protest occasionally. Fleur carefully reached over the bedside table and picked up her third potion for the day to numb the pain. The lioness took it gratefully and turned her head away to swallow the potion down.
“Anyway, what’s happening in school?” Hermione asked, wiping her mouth and biting into a piece of chocolate to rid herself of the taste.
“Well, Flitwick’s got rid of Fred and George’s swamp,” Ginny piped up. “Did it in about three seconds. But he left a patch under the window and roped it off—”
“Why?” Ron asked.
“Oh, he just says it was a really good bit of magic,” said Ginny, shrugging.
“Seems like a monument to Fred and George,” Harry said quietly.
“So has all the trouble stopped now that Dumbledore’s back?”
“Yes,” Neville answered softly. “Everything’s settled right back down again.”
“I bet Filch is happy about that, isn’t he?”
“Not at all,” Ginny returned. “Keeps saying Umbridge was the best thing that ever happened to Hogwarts…”
Seven pairs of eyes looked around. Professor Umbridge was lying in a bed opposite them, gazing up at the ceiling. Dumbledore had strode alone into the forest to rescue her form the centaurs. How he had done it—how he had emerged from the trees supporting Umbridge without so much as a scratch on him—no one knew, and Umbridge wasn’t telling. Since she’d returned to the castle, she had not, as far as any of them knew, uttered a single word. Nobody really knew what was wrong with her either. Her usually neat mousy hair was very untidy and there were bits of twig and leaf stuck in it, but otherwise she seemed unscathed.
“Madame Pomfrey says it’s shock,” Fleur said, not bothering to lower her voice.
“Sulking, more like.” Ginny added.
“Yeah, but she shows signs of life if you do this,” said Ron, who began making soft clip-clopping noises with his tongue. Umbridge sat bolt upright, looking wildly around.
“Anything wrong, Professor?” Pomfrey called.
Ron ceased making the noise, and wordlessly, she settled again. The seven bit back their chuckles, and another question bubbled to the surface.
“Speaking of centaurs, who’s Divination teacher now? Is Firenze staying?” Hermione asked.
“He’s got to,” said Harry. “The other centaurs won’t take him back, will they?”
“Looks like he and Trelawney are both going to teach,” Fleur murmured.
“Bet Dumbledore wishes he could’ve got rid of Trelawney for good,” Ron said, munching on his fourteenth frog. “Mind you, the whole subject’s useless if you ask me, Firenze isn’t a lot better…”
“How can you say that?” Hermione demanded. “After we’ve just found out that there are real prophecies?”
Harry’s stomach turned over and his heart stuttered. He hadn’t yet spoken to anyone of his chat with Dumbledore after they’d returned to Hogwarts, and he was sure that the present moment wasn’t the right time. He chanced a glance at Fleur. Her arm was wrapped around Hermione protectively, watching the conversation unfold. Undoubtedly, she knew something had transpired, for she met his gaze briefly and nodded with a small, reassuring smile. Neither Fleur nor Hermione had asked him anything, and gratefully so. But how does one tell their best friends and comrades that, in the end, he must either kill or be killed?
“Where are you going?” Ron asked suddenly as Harry stood.
“Er—Hagrid’s,” Harry replied quickly. “He just got back, you know, I promised I’d go down and see him, tell him how you two are…”
“Oh all right then,” Ron returned grumpily, looking out the hospital window at the bright patch of blue sky beyond. “Wish we could come…”
Hermione shifted in her bed, her expression irked as she was still deemed bed-ridden. “Say hello to him for us, and ask what’s happening about… about his little friend!”
Fleur watched the lion take his leave. She burrowed closer to Hermione, sighing against her. After a few moments, she kissed the girl lovingly, and excused herself for a moment, giving the excuse of needing to speak with Professor McGonagall. Hermione saw straight through her, but nodded nonetheless, offering a small smile.
Fleur walked the nearly empty halls alone, the occasional student she passed waved to her, or simply said hello, each of which was politely returned but with the firm air that conversation was not desired.
The Veela found Harry sitting alone at the bank of Black Lake. “May I sit?” She asked softly. He gave a small lift of his shoulder indifferently. She folded herself at his side and stared out at the water. Their voices never lifted. The silence was thick, heavy, but lighter than it would have been had they uttered a single word.
The air itself was not tense, but incredibly light, warm in the early summer. Harry was both offended by and grateful for the Veela’s presence, and for a time sat trying to decide which was stronger. After several long, silent minutes, Fleur offered her hand to Harry. He glanced up at her, his expression guarded, and did not grasp her offering.
“I heard the prophecy, Harry,” she said softly.
His eyes widened and he nearly made a move to leap from the ground, his legs tensed to run. She could catch him, he knew. But he also knew that she would not give chase. For all her fierce displays, she was incredibly gentle, tranquil. And that, more than anything, kept him grounded.
“I trust Dumbledore’s told you?” she asked, her voice carrying easily between them despite its gentle, soft timbre. Silently, he nodded. She sighed. “I did not hear it all, but I did hear enough. I’m not here to try to coerce you into talking about anything or to tell you right from wrong. I’m here as a friend, and to tell you it’s okay.”
“How?” Harry barked. His voice came louder and harsher than he intended, but he no longer had any damns to give. Fleur didn’t flinch. “How could it possibly be okay? Did you hear something Dumbledore didn’t? I either have to kill or be killed. On what planet is it okay to justify murder with murder?”
“When you don’t have a choice, Harry.” She returned, her voice gentle, but her words were firm. Her hand was still being offered to him. “When you don’t have a choice and killing one person who’s done so much wrong to the world, to prevent any more death, any more destruction. How many families has he dismantled? You have felt his impact directly, and you are not the only one. How many mothers and fathers has he left childless? Neville’s grandmother is not alone. How many people have been heartbroken and left to wallow in once-pleasant memories of their lost beloveds? How many people regret that they hadn’t said ‘I love you’ just once more? He’s caused this wreckage once, and he’s doing it again. But there’s a new variable. You. There’s something inside of you that protects you from him. What it is, for all my study I cannot answer. But there’s something.”
Harry held his head in his hands.
“I’m terribly sorry this duty has fallen to you,” Fleur murmured. “But I offer you comradeship. I offer you assistance. I offer you a voice, a shoulder, a wand, a life. Anything you might need, I offer what I have.”
“What has Voldemort done to impact your family?” Harry asked softly, tear tracks running the length of his cheeks. He looked up to see Fleur’s eyes were past their brims, diamond tears left her bloodshot eyes in pursuit of freedom.
“My family suffered losses a long time ago, before I came into the world. I have lost nothing yet. But I have more to lose now,” she returned. “I have worlds to lose now. I ache and I weep for those who know that pain, and I swear I will do all I can to keep her from it. And that oath starts with my every offering to you.”
“But, I have to kill, Fleur… I know what he’s done, I know what he could do, but he was human once, too.” He wiped his cheeks irritably with an enormous sigh.
“He has traded humanity for something he deems as superior. He doesn’t wish to be human. He has no wish to admit he fears death, and certainly no desire to meet it.” Fleur looked down at the hand she wasn’t offering Harry. “If it is any consolation, I fear there will be several hands bloodied with this war, not just your own.”
“Do you plan to kill?”
Fleur drew a deep breath in contemplation, swiping at her face. “Harry, have you ever thought of spells or charms as living?”
“…I don’t understand.”
“Your Patronus, for example. Would you say it has life?”
“I suppose.”
“My Patronus killed a dementor last year in the Third Task. She consumed it. There was nothing left. Do you feel remorse for the dementor my Patronus killed?”
“No, it intended to hurt you.”
“Indeed. And I, like my Patronus, will destroy anything that stands in the way of purging this world from the taint Voldemort has cursed it with. They kill for pleasure and power. I will kill for the protection of innocent people. I will kill to protect those I care about, those I love. I am not uncomfortable with this philosophy; I have accepted it. I do not like it, but I do not question it. I would kill anything that tried to harm Hermione. Not due to the fact that my death will follow hers, but due to the fact that I love her, and I do not want her to hurt.” She trailed off softly, her arms aching for Hermione’s warm, solid weight within them.
“Why didn’t you kill the other night?”
Fleur drew a breath. “I’ve been asking myself the same question, though I think I might have killed one. Before he was revived, if they succeeded. I would never be so petty to use the curse, something so instantaneous is almost cowardly. There was so much going on… every other charm I cast was a shield for her. I didn’t think about killing. I thought about protecting. And, perhaps once, a kill was a consequence of the act of protecting. This is war, now. Hesitance will cease to follow me.”
Harry looked away from her. She would kill. She handled the reality as easily as she drew breath. She accepted the fact that her hands would be covered in the blood of others, if they were still unblemished. But would that be criminal, or martyrdom, giving up some of the good in oneself to protect it in others? Her face had already hardened, her eyes had grown colder. She did not like the idea of killing, much less pledging to do so in the name of innocent people. Innocence should never be a target. It should never need sacrifice, nor shield. But here it was, once again, pursued by a dark entity that wanted it destroyed.
She had already suffered from the acknowledgement of her part in the war. She already resented it. And her suffering would not end until the piper had been paid in full. Until the war was over. Until they could rebuild their world. Until prayers begging forgiveness had been offered to every god, until she lost count of how many therapy sessions she’d attended or how many nights she woke shaking, sweaty, and cold from nightmares of the past.
But love would be there, too. Love, the single-most important element would thrive, where, had there paradoxically been no death, it would not. She could curl against Hermione, burrowing into her chest or her shoulder, her voice chasing away the vivid memories. They could have children, if they wished. They could watch them grow, strong and healthy, unafraid of a snakelike face with Dark magic and red eyes, more unearthly than their Veela mother’s own.
Hermione would teach them the value of study and learning. Fleur would teach them the constellations, sneaking them outside past their bedtimes to study the sky. She’d use Hermione’s own teaching of study against her when she got caught, sheepishly inviting her to join them, doing her best to soften Hermione’s scowl with her own lop-sided grin.
And that, Harry decided, was worth fighting for. Fleur openly offered everything she had for a chance at that future, that possibility. Harry took her hand in his own. Fleur squeezed his fingers gently.
“Don’t let your actions be for vengeance, Harry. Let them be for protection. People fuck up when they act for vengeance.”
He nodded, and the two fell into silence. “Thank you, Fleur,” he said quietly after a time.
She chuckled and gave his hand another squeeze. “If you need anything, Harry, say so. There’s no weakness in that. We’ll always stand by you.”
He nodded again. Fleur looked up to the sky and sighed heavily.
“I need to get back to the hospital wing, I’m sure Hermione’s hungry at this hour. Try to get some rest, mon ami. You’re not alone; you never will be.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. She rose to take her leave, but paused momentarily before she did so. “I want to thank you for protecting her when I couldn’t. That means everything to me.”
Harry cracked a small smile. “It wasn’t a choice, Fleur. I love her, too.”
She smiled back at him, and strode to the Great Hall before returning to the hospital wing. Hermione asked how McGonagall was, and Fleur reported honestly for she had met her on the way from the Great Hall while Hermione ate far more than Fleur expected. Her metabolism had grown enormously, and was cleared to leave the hospital wing the next morning with explicit instructions to refrain from strenuous activity. Hermione rolled her eyes and sighed.
Fleur knew the warning signs, and braced herself to hogtie the lioness come daybreak, for the gleam in her eyes promised she would be running the Hogwarts grounds as soon as she left the infirmary. Sure enough, when Fleur returned to Hogwarts the next day after visiting Tonks, Hermione was sprawled out atop her blankets with a cold compress against her ribs.
Fleur sighed heavily. “You knew better,” she chided softly.
Hermione scoffed. “Please, it was barely a mile. Besides, this pain isn’t from the bruises, it’s from a nasty stitch I got. A few days and I’m already out of practice.”
“No,” Fleur returned, helping the lioness into a sitting position. “You’re dehydrated. You need rest and plenty of fluids and a slow introduction back into your regular routine.”
Hermione’s ear actually twitched in distaste. “I’m tired of resting.”
“I know, love.” Fleur murmured, smoothing a flyaway lock behind Hermione’s ear. “Just a little while longer, okay?” she kissed her forehead gently, smiling as Hermione wrapped her arms around the Veela. “All packed up?”
“Almost. Just a few random bits left to go, but for now, the feast’s starting.”
Fleur nodded and Hermione stood, wincing slightly. “How’s Harry?”
“I haven’t talked to him much,” she admitted. “He doesn’t seem to want to talk about anything, and I’m not going to force him.” She peered up at Fleur in question. “Have you?”
“Not since yesterday.”
“And?”
“He’s… coming to terms with what Dumbledore told him. I just comforted him, gave him someone to talk to.”
Hermione nodded. “Yeah, you’re better at talking than I am,” she chuckled. “We’ll be fine. Everything will be okay.”
Or I will die fighting… Fleur thought darkly, squeezing Hermione in her arms gently. She kissed her lips again, softly pressing against Hermione, allowing her fingers to plunge into the dark auburn tresses, memorizing the silk against her skin. She gently ran her tongue over Hermione’s lower lip, relishing as she felt her breasts rise against her as she drew a surprised breath, as her mouth opened to accept her. Fleur fought a smile, and slipped the tip of her tongue past the threshold of the brunette’s lips but only for a brief moment. Hermione growled softly, chasing Fleur. The blonde allowed her entrance, and reveled as she plunged deeper. Fleur chuckled, and pulled away after a few moments.
“Come, now, love. You’re running late for the feast.” The Veela chided gently as Hermione continued to plant kisses along her neck.
Hermione groaned and reluctantly untangled herself from Fleur’s arms. “I hate the voice of reason sometimes.” She grumbled, opening the door. Fleur followed her to the Great Hall and partook in the end-of-term festivities, keeping a careful eye on Harry throughout the proceedings.
It went smoothly enough, although she still didn’t know what all Harry and Dumbledore had spoken about, she was far more comfortable in blissful ignorance, content to know that if it involved herself, or her mission, she would be told promptly. She pulled out a well-worn poker face, smiling and chatting happily, but her mind was divided in several different sectors of processing. She kept one arm around Hermione’s waist and held her hand when they ran to the entrance hall to see Umbridge being chased away by Peeves, apparently taking George’s words to heart, who was alternating between hitting her over the head with a walking stick and sock full of chalk. The heads of houses only halfheartedly attempted to reign in their students, while McGonagall was smiling broadly, using one of Fleur’s shoulders for support in lieu of her walking stick.
The next morning was found to be dark, gray and dismal. The students poured out of Hogwarts, marching into Hogsmeade, and boarded the scarlet train waiting there. Fleur joined the three Gryffindors on their way, an Order meeting beckoning her return to London. She bought a ticket, and took turns battling against Harry and Ron in wizard’s chess. She joined in the car’s laughter as Malfoy attempted to hex Harry as he returned from the toilet and was met by surge of D.A. members so large, Fleur didn’t feel the slightest urge to rise. She did, however, help the others hoist the hexed, enormous slug forms of Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle to the luggage racks to ooze.
Harry seemed tense in his seat, obviously discontented to be returning to the Dursleys. Rather than attempt to provide comfort, which would inevitably bring the subject to the forefronts of everyone’s minds far sooner than necessary, she joked, played, entertained. The time would come soon enough.
When they got off the train and stepped through the magical barrier between platforms nine and ten, the Weasleys were waiting there, along with Hermione’s parents, both of which welcomed the Veela warmly before exchanging hugs with Harry and Ron. Behind them stood Moody, Lupin, and Tonks with her bubble-gum pink hair. Fleur excused herself from the others and launched herself at the other witch, hugging her tightly and inquiring of her health. The other witch seemed entirely detached, and only half-heartedly returned Fleur’s embrace. She was guilt-ridden, she realized, worn with sadness over Sirius’s death, and her inability to protect and defend her cousin.
Fleur offered her a small smile, and squeezed her again, much gentler this time. She coaxed her into conversation, anything to give her a distraction if only for a moment or two.
The twins’ business was booming, and they were quite happy with the way their shop was operating and the paychecks they were making, if their snazzy new clothes were any testament. The rather large group conversed happily, even Harry’s spirits lifting to some degree. And then Moody deflated them again with the simple statement of “Shall we?” and an inclination of his head and whirling magical eye. It was then that Harry noticed the Dursleys gathered behind them, huddled together as if afraid of being seen in such company. At once, the Order members approached the Muggles, forming a semi-circle around them although their approach was not aggressive.
“Hello!” Mr. Weasley said pleasantly. “Good afternoon. You might remember me, my name’s Author Weasley.” Harry chortled behind Fleur. She’d heard the story. Two years ago, Author had single-handedly demolished most of the Dursleys’ living room, and Harry would be incredibly surprised if Vernon had forgotten him. Memory proved strong, and the large man’s face purpled with rage, but Author acted as though nothing had changed.
“We thought we’d just have a few words with you about Harry,” he continued, still smiling.
“Yeah,” Moody growled. “About how he’s treated at your place.”
Vernon’s mustache seemed to bristle with indignation. “I am not aware that it is any of your business what goes on in my house—”
“I expect what you’re not aware of would fill several books, Dursley,” Moody snarled.
“Any way, that’s not the point,” Tonks interjected, whose pink hair seemed to offend Petunia so much so, she’d rather close her eyes than look at her.
“The point is,” Fleur spoke up, easily stealing the attention away as they looked at her. She seemed unfazed by their surprised expressions and Dudley’s drooling, despite how long it had been since someone drooled over her. The adults seemed to sense danger, and began to eye her curiously. Hermione slipped her hand into the Veela’s, glaring at Dudley, every inch of her demeanor screaming mine as she kept the space between her body and Fleur’s at a minimum. The male seemed to sense her own thrall, and tore his eyes away from the blonde to glance worriedly at the lioness. She kept her glare trained on him until he locked his gaze on the floor. “If we find out you’ve been horrible to Harry—”
“—and make no mistake, we’ll hear about it,” added Lupin pleasantly.
“Yes,” Mr. Weasley chimed in. “Even if you won’t let him use the fellytone—”
“Yeah, if we get any hint that Potter’s been mistreated in any way, you’ll have us to answer to.” said Moody.
“Are you threatening me, sir?” Vernon said loud enough to attract the attention of passersby. He swelled up and puffed his chest out, though to the people around him, his display was hardly frightening.
“Yes, I am,” said Moody, seeming to be quite pleased than Vernon had grasped the fact so quickly.
“And do I look like the kind of man who can be intimidated?” he barked in return, glancing between the Order members.
Fleur bared her teeth in what was the in-between of a snarl and a smile. Her eyes bore the Veela’s trademark pupils, as if to taunt them. The large man looked at the Veela, stunned, and back at Moody where he’d upturned his bowler hat to reveal the deep scars and magical blue eye.
“Well…” said Moody, allowing him a few minutes of flabbergasted study after he’d leaped back in horror.
“Yes, I for one, must say you do, Dursley.” Fleur returned softly, politely, acid lining her words. Vernon turned to her again, and she smiled serenely, her canines barely human although the current pair and not yet been exchanged. The man before her did not reply.
Moody turned away from Vernon to survey Harry. “So, Potter… give us a shout if you need us. If we don’t hear from you for three days in a row, we’ll send someone along, probably either myself or Miss Delacour if available.” The Dursleys gave obvious signs of their undesired presence, huddling closer to one another.
“I’ll make sure I’m available.” Fleur said softly, with a taunting lift of her brows.
“’Bye, then, Potter,” Moody said, grasping Harry’s shoulder with one gnarled hand.
“Take care, Harry,” said Lupin quietly. “Keep in touch.”
“We’ll have you away from there as soon as we can,” Mrs. Weasley promised, hugging him again.
“See you soon, mate,” said Ron anxiously, shaking Harry’s hand.
“Really soon, Harry,” Hermione promised earnestly while she hugged him. “We promise.” She broke away from his embrace and Fleur took her turn.
She met his eyes silently, studying the emerald flecks buried in his irises. “Let’s make use of my parent’s beach this summer, hm? Far too short a time last year. You’re welcome there anytime, and you’re welcome to my own home as well.” She gripped him in her arms. “Godspeed, mon ami.”
Harry only nodded as she pulled away. There was so much he yearned to say to all of them, but could not speak the language necessary. Instead, he smiled, truly, genuinely, at them all and raised a hand in farewell as he turned and led the way out of the station.
Fleur watched him go. She prayed for him. Had she not been surrounded by non-Veelas, she probably would have offered sacrifice. But a prayer would have to suffice for the moment. Hermione’s hand squeezed her own, and she pulled the Veela to her family, a gentle kiss on her cheek immediately soothed her ruffled feathers. By the time she turned to face Jean and Thomas, her pupils had returned to normal, though her vision was quite sensitive.
“Well, would you like to join us?” Jean offered. “Every time she comes home, we always go out to the café and have a little lunch together. You’re more than welcome, Fleur.”
The Veela smiled and blushed before she agreed.
With full bellies and contented sighs, the four hardly spared a thought for pudding. The school year had been discussed, their dealings with the Ministry of Magic skipped out for the moment, due to the multitude of ears about, as well as Fleur’s growing career with Gringotts and the Order. Jean and Thomas’s own time since Christmas was talked about, as well as plans for the summer.
“And Hermione, you sure have sprung up! I thought the doctor said you were finished growing?” Her mother asked suddenly.
The lioness flushed darkly and glanced at Fleur.
“Yes, I noticed that too. Several inches taller than the last time we saw you, dear,” Her father chimed in. By now, Fleur’s blush had risen high on her cheeks as well.
“Um, yeah, I guess I wasn’t,” Hermione laughed, desperately trying to rid herself of the blush.
“That seems highly unlikely, but I am a tooth-doctor, not a general physician,” Jean laughed. Then she caught sight of Fleur’s blush. “Or is it… oh. Oh. I… I see…”
Hermione looked up guiltily. But Jean was smiling, actually shaking to keep from laughing. The lioness flushed further, and between herself and Fleur, she was sure they’d risen the temperature in the room by several degrees.
“That’s simply fascinating.” She breathed, leaning her chin on her hand as she looked at Fleur.
“What? What’s fascinating?” Thomas asked, looking between the three females.
“Nothing, nothing, love,” she said, patting his arm with a smile. “Just seeing them so happy together, I’m so glad to see my little girl so happy,” she sighed, winking the eye Thomas couldn’t see.
Fleur nearly fell out of her chair. Well, this certainly wasn’t how she’d foreseen this meeting going. Nor had she foreseen Jean’s incredible ability to see though any façade as she’d seen glimmer in her eyes before now proven to the extreme, let alone that she would be so calm about it. But that’s where Hermione had learned the philosophy of it’s the most natural thing in the world. At the present time, Fleur couldn’t be sure her father would feel the same way, but she’d take what she could get. Of course, she might be sleeping alone in her own house that night due to Jean’s incredible ability to see though bullshit as if it were crystal, but she’d take this reaction and that consequence over any other her mind had offered her thus far.
Fleur offered Jean a small, shy smile, pleased when it was returned. She very nearly paid her own bill, but a quick look in her wallet showed a complete lack of Muggle currency. She promised to pay them back, but it was waved away with a gentle hand, as if it were the most ridiculous theory Jean had ever heard as she covered the bill after a brief squabble with Thomas, insisting that it was her turn.
In the car ride to Hermione’s home, Fleur kept seeing Jean steal glances at them in the backseat from the rearview mirror. Each time, the expression in her eyes was not surprise or shame, but genuine, untainted happiness and love. It was refreshing, really. Almost like her own family, no need to hide or to be afraid or make up excuses.
Fleur found herself staring intently out the window after the first few miles had been put behind them. Her stomach had begun rolling slowly, but not due to motion sickness. Fog was rolling in, the clouds had condensed, shutting light out from the sun. The temperature seemed colder, not brisk as summer can be with a gust of wind, and not cold enough to imply summer’s late arrival, but the cold that chilled the marrow in the bone. It was the cold that brought with it dark tidings, shots of fear that mingled at the back of the brain, waiting to be processed, while happiness stole away the forefront, unwilling to share center-stage just yet.