Fleur's apartment was not overly large: Two rooms, a bathroom, and a small en-suite kitchenette. What was clear however was the amount of time she had spent in making it into a home, even if she was only planning to be in England for another year.
It was an open space as well with the only divisions between the bedroom and the rest were shimmering gossamer fabrics or perhaps curtains. The walls were a light sea blue color, like those of a calm sea, accented by white baseboards and shutters like clouds in the sky. The furniture was a mix of browns and earthy tones. It was a place of calm, relaxed tranquility, where you could shed your deadlines, timetables, and other plans. The wooden pecan-colored floor somehow served to keep the place grounded. "Deep thoughts, positive thinking to face life's uncertainties?" asked Harry.
"Well, you had a Goblin fashion consultant," she countered, teasingly, "I had a goblin interior designer."
"Makes you wonder what it is the Goblin's don't do well," he said with a laugh as Fleur disappeared into the kitchen to make some coffee.
"No sugar no milk?" asked Fleur, "And they only do things poorly - if it is possible - are things that they cannot profit from it!"
"Black," he confirmed, "Like my heart," he muttered to himself.
"A black hole maybe," he blinked, did she just teleport from the kitchen? "But there is hope that someone, someday can fill that void in your life," Her hands were filled with two cups of steaming coffee.
"Is that extraordinary hearing a Veela thing?" he asked, discreetly giving her the once over from head to toe. It was not the first time he'd caught himself doing it, and he was pretty sure it was not the first time she'd caught him doing it either.
"No," she handed him the cup, and he sipped it appreciatively, "that unnaturally sharp hearing is something I got from my mother." She collapsed onto one end of the sofa and beckoned to him.
"She must have be quite a woman," he said wistfully, "You got the best of wizard and Veela in your, and as part of a family." He almost sat down on the sofa but shifted at the last possible moment to land on the single-seat facing her, "I would know something about dysfunctional families."
"Dysfunctional families?" she laughed, "There is no such thing as a perfectly normal family that has it all perfect. We're, all victims of that," she said, "It's just that some of us are victims of something different, but regardless we are all victims of something."
"Except that, we are victims of something different," countered Harry, "What binds us together, as friends, here and now, is what we have lived through. Nobody else can understand it, not in the way we can."
They sat, quietly, for a few minutes, considering their words to one another, wondering where that exactly placed the two of them. Finally, Fleur set her empty mug down on the table, "You want to go for a swim?"
"You have a pool?" he asked suspiciously, "Here?"
"Not here, but I know your… place has one." She answered smoothly, almost shyly, letting that damnably delectable French accent slip through as she smiled, and it really did light up the room.
"Get a grip!" growled Harry in his head, "Just. Get. A. Grip!" He was not sure if she was playing with him or not, he was not sure if he really wanted to know. However, he knew that he was going to have a challenge dealing with Fleur Delacour in any kind of bathing suit.
"Don't think you can handle the sight of me Harry?" she teased.
"Get a grip!" Harry thought again but he could not help it when his mind wandered towards getting a grip of something, of someone, of her. He slapped himself mentally. She was beyond teasing him, at this point; she was openly flirting with him. He took it in stride and grabbed her around the waist, "Let's go!" then vanished from her apartment in a swirl of colors, light, and magic.
With Harry and Fleur making their way upon wings of magic to his… estate, other things were afoot at the Weasely family's home, on the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole in Devon, known simply as "The Burrow" has always been more than a slightly odd construction. However, given the size of the family that was no real surprise. Dilapidated with its seven floors, magic is literally the only thing that keeps it standing upright.
Nestled amongst rolling hills and fertile meadows, the gnome-infested garden saw three of the Weasely children, in conversation about one thing, and the betting pool was growing rather large. "Before we get back to Hogwarts," said Ginny, tossing a handful of Sickles and Knuts on the pile.
"Before his trial next week," replied Fred, matching his sister's money.
"Before the end of the week," countered George, exceeding both their bets with a Galleon.
"We're pathetic aren't we?" said Ginny, "Betting on how long it takes the two of them to just fess up and admit what they feel for each other?"
"It can't be easy for either of them though," remarked Fred, "I mean, you know… he showed us what happened that night, how… everything happened, with Cedric and, Hermione."
"You don't get over that sort of thing overnight," agreed George.
"I know, but he needs more than any of us, can give him," said Ginny, almost wistfully, and the twins grinned.
"You're not still hoping to one day snare yourself the last of the Potters are you, Gin-Gin?" they chorused. Ginny turned that classic rose red shade and the twins renewed the offensive. Their offensive however went a little too far as she unleashed her patented hex that had both red-haired twins running for their lives around the garden, much to the amusement of Ron who had been sent to gather them for some damn errand or another. He just did not care.
Ron had not exactly had a very good summer. He had been at odds with his parents, alienated in his own home virtually his entire family. Truth be told, he was left wondering whether he should go and talk to stuck-up Black Sheep Percy. He had wanted to visit his… friends, but his parents had not given him permission. He was still being punished for what had happened the year before, he just knew it. He makes new friends and suddenly, he had become the pariah. It was not fair! He had spent a lot of his time thinking about the past year, about everything, especially about what Harry had said to him during the only two real conversations that he and Harry had shared. He had no idea what he could do to fix the situation, with his friends in Slytherin, or with his former friends in Gryffindor, "Oi!" he shouted, "mum wants you lot for something!" message delivered he stalked off. What did he care if they didn't listen to him?
At a manor house far to the North, the witch and wizard arrived in the foyer of the mansion with only the faintest of pops. He held on to Fleur a moment longer than necessary but still let go before it would seem…inappropriate. Dobby and Winky were there in moments, greeted the pair, and then popped back to whatever they were doing. Fleur could not help but ask, "What is Blake doing?"
"Good point," Harry mused as he whistled. Hedwig flapped her way into the room and it took Harry only a moment to conjure quill and parchment and send Hedwig on her way, "Blake suddenly has the evening off," he said with a rouges grin. She laughed as they made their way down to the pool
"You didn't give me time to pack anything," Fleur mock pouted, "but I'm sure I can transfigure something… maybe…"
It was, strange, the way the friendship and laughter, suddenly, seemed to just…die… they were sitting on the edge of the pool, both of them doing nothing more than taking in the sunset when finally she asked him, "Harry, we just can't be friends, can we?"
The silence was the only answer he had to that question. He knew what she was talking about, she knew he knew, and given their past, their first "real" conversation had been her attempted seduction of him, to get him away from Hermione. "Do you really want to go there, Fleur?" he asked, quietly.
She shook her head, "Not so much a matter of whether I want to. You know what I am, you know, how, Veela… are… non? It is not as if we can control it, as fully as we would like," she admitted
"So, it is because I'm single…" he muttered, meeting her gaze for the first time, "isn't it?" she nodded. "So we can't be friends," he said, "Because you are the epitome of hotness, and I'm… me." He joked weakly, "And I…" he just stared, "You've got an insane smile…"
She smiled just a little more, and he saw the faintest tinge of rose in her cheeks. If she was the epitome of hotness before, he had no idea what she was now. "In a league of her own, you idiot," he thought, "Where she always has been." He mentally slapped himself, again, trying, to stay on topic, "We can be friends… for now… Fleur… I don't know if…"
She rose to her feet, not in anger, but more out of frustration. She had done all she could, to avoid him, put distance between them. London and Hogwarts should have been far enough! Instead, he had Floo'ed and come out at her feet instead! There were few things she wanted, needed, more in her life. Not because she chose it, but because the Veela had chosen for her and she just had to live with the consequences of that. Her curse, she thought bitterly, "At least Harry knows what to do with his accursed destiny."
He was standing next to her, closer than they had ever been before, "Fleur?" he whispered.
She took a step back from him, and smiled, "I'm going for a swim," she smoothly stripped of her top and shimmied out of her jeans in a single fluid motion that left Harry agape, "You coming?" she dove in
"Fleur Isabelle Delacour," Harry muttered with a shake of his head, "You're lucky I'm so far past beyond the point of no return, that I have no idea what it looks like, or where it was." A flick of his hand brought his wand into his hand from its holster on his wrist, a cutting charm his own shirt lay on the edge of the pool followed by his jeans. He dived in after her.
Fleur had felt that rush, the emotions of desire, and lust that radiated off Harry and smiled as she surfaced on the far side of the pool. The feelings were there, the feelings were mutual. If he was feeling it, so was she, but how far could she push him. This was supposed to be the savior of the wizarding world - or at least the British wizarding world - and he could not handle her? She drew her wand from its holster and wordless cast two spells. The first transfigured her underwear into the same bikini she had worn the previous summer at the beach in St. Tropez with her extended family. Her second spell conjured up a simple air mattress with a backrest before clambering onto it.
She was dripping wet and the water was cooler than she expected, but she did not mind the water's effects on her, since it would hopefully have a similar effect on Harry. She cast a few warming charms on herself and waited for him to catch up. He surfaced close by, but she had her back to him, "I would have liked one of them too you know?" he swam round to face her and it took him several long seconds to start breathing again as he took in the sight before him. And it was truly, almost all of her.
The bikini was not exactly the of the modest variety, and he found himself wondering how on Earth it was possible that bikinis could come that small and still hide everything they were supposed to, yet leave so much fertile ground for the imagination, "is that… even legal?" he stuttered
"Of course Harry," she said in that seductive drawl of hers, combining her French accent with the merest hint of her charm, "Many of the beaches in France allow women to go topless, if not completely nude, to avoid those unsightly tan lines." Harry just studied her, hungrily. Moreover, she did not mind, enjoying the hunger in his eyes that followed every curve of her, "Like what you see?" she purred.
It took a long minute for her words to click in his brain, and even though he had felt both pulses of that Veela allure, he knew he was resistant to it. That did little to change his reaction or response: Yes. He liked what he saw, and he wanted her.
He pushed away from the air mattress and dove, going underneath the air mattress like a shark and tipping her over. She managed one "Eep!" of surprise before she was in the water. The pool was only a meter deep where they were but she floundered for a few seconds before strong, callused hands grabbed her arms and steadied her, against a warm body. Suddenly, she was kissed and kissed hard.
They pulled together in the water, something about her saving him, or him saving her. Neither one need saving from the other, but they both did need saving, in different ways. She felt good under his hands, hard muscle underneath soft skin. Everything was suddenly right with their world, even if it would only stay that way for a few minutes. It was enough; it would be enough for the moment. It had taken just a little to push him over the edge, as it were, but he had caught her and dragged her down into the abyss with him.
She did not care, as far as he was concerned, he had done her a favor. Harry was not sure whom, but there was a bubblehead charm surrounding them, and it meant that they did not have to stop. Just as well, it was unlikely that they would have.
All of it was driving him wild, had driven him wild, he wanted her… needed her. His hands roamed across her back and wandered lower, pulling her close to him, and she obliged, her legs wrapping around his back, pulling them as close as possible as they broke the surface. Somehow, without letting go, they had propelled themselves to the edge of the pool where a flight of stairs would let them walk, or stumble out.
Neither of them was sure how they made it out of the pool, and back in the mansion, in their tangle of limbs and passion, but Harry was not going to bother with the waiting, not for this, not like this. He managed to focus himself, just long enough to apparate both of them, into one of the furnished but never used bedrooms but his aim was more than a little off as they crash to the floor.
It was that unfortunately landing that broke them apart, as they both lay facing each other, out of breath. There were flames in her eyes, he realized, and for a moment, he could not help but notice just those eyes, the fire, and the raw nakedness of passion.
He hesitated for a long moment, and in that instant, the spell was broken. However, for her, it was not. She closed the narrow gap between them and kissed him, hungrily, and the blast of raw sexual energy came as a slap. He pulled away from her, scrambling to his feet, putting some distance between them. "Fleur…" he breathed, "I can't do this."
"Cannot or will not?" she growled, as she stretched out a hand towards him, "You know full well what it is you want." She smiled, but it was a brittle smile, "I've seen you, looking at me, wanting me." Harry watched her hands carefully, wondering if he was about to see shades of that Veela temper. All they did was tiptoe a line up her side, and around her neck, "You know what you want. Why don't you just take it?" she took a step forward, like a cougar on the hunt, "why don't you? When I'm willing to give it to you?"
Harry contemplated his choices: He could run. He could try to talk her into calming down, even though he knew full well that he himself needed a long cold shower, or he could tell her the truth. "Fleur, please…" he resorted to begging instead, "I don't know if I'm…ready…" he whispered the last word, barely loud enough for her to hear it, "I know you, and I know what it means. But if you love me, even as half as much as you want me…" he hesitated, knowing that bringing up the past was not the right way to calm her down. "You won't push… me; us into this… you won't force this, and push me away."
There are many ways to deflate a balloon. Let out too much air too fast and you risk losing the balloon. You need to let the air out slowly, and he breathed a sigh of relief. It had worked, he hoped.
Water had dripped and soaked the carpet underfoot but he was still attractive, so damn desirable to her, whether he was the windswept Quidditch player, the dark brooding man of mystery or, this soaking wet teenager fighting a war between his head, heart, and hormones over whether or not to give her what she wanted. However, he had found the weakness in her armor and had driven home through that chink. Veela are what they are. She wanted him. She could have him now, and lose him forever or wait… and have him, forever. There was no choice. She took a deep breath, to calm herself, and it took several of those breathes to extinguish the flames of desires.
He breathed a sigh of relief. That fire in her eyes was gone, replaced by something else. He was not sure if it was guilt, pain, or a mix of both. However, whatever it was she felt, it worked, and he breathed a little easier, "Why can't I just… have, what I want?"
"Because I can't give it to you," he said quietly. "Because… I can't let go of the past. Because even though, I can control my nightmares, I can't block them out. They still… haunt me."
The silence between them stretched on, for what felt like an eternity. Finally, she nodded, "Should I leave?" she whispered.
"Yes, No!" he said, "Stay," he hesitated, "I…I'm not ready for that, but I could…"
"I know," she interrupted him smoothly, "I know," she stepped towards the bathroom, "I'll get ready, and perhaps we can go, for dinner?"
He smiled at her, "It's a date. Anything but Italian," he added suddenly. She smiled back and slipped from the room, and Harry blinked, "I didn't see you bring anything…"
"Mr. Potter," she laughed, "I'm a woman and a witch. If I have a wand, I have everything I need!" Harry chuckled, he was about to apparate when she tossed the question out, "Ever had Japanese food?"
"No," he admitted, "But, I suppose I'll try anything once…" Harry made his way out of the room for a shower – a short sharp and arctic cold one.
In Little Haggleton, Riddle Manor had undergone some much-needed cleaning, repairs, and maintenance but large portions of it were still in their dilapidated state. The Death Eaters had only cleaned out those areas that they themselves and their Lord used regularly - why waste the effort after all? They had plans to dominate Britain, and then the world! When their conquest was complete, they would have all the squib and muggle slave labor to do the cleaning without magic.
The burning of the Dark Mark had summoned only a few of the Death Eaters to their master's side: Peter Pettigrew, as rat-faced as ever, was the first to answer the summons as he was never far from his master. A number of others arrived and Lucius Malfoy was the last one to arrive, standing behind his seat at the right hand of his master.
"I am sorry for my delay my Lord," he said smoothly, "I was engaged with the manager of the Daily Prophet, and have ensured that both Potter and Dumbledore will have their names and reputations dragged through the mud for the foreseeable future."
"You have done well then, Lucius," said Voldemort conversationally, "Be seated, for we have much to discuss, regarding our special, project."
The five Death Eaters were the only five involved in the project, "What progress have you made?" asked the Dark Lord, politely, almost conversational as he sipped his wine.
"We progress well, my Lord," said Pettigrew quietly, "We have managed to stabilize the basic process, and have had some limited success in more complicated… replication." He gestured towards the two other Death Eaters seated at the table, "They have been able to create human forms, but they are but mere shells, without mind or soul."
"So you progressed upon schedule?"
"Thus far my Lord," confirmed Pettigrew, "But I feel, that I must respectfully remind you, that such a blend of alchemy, magic and… muggle science… nothing can be guaranteed. All we can do is provide…" the curse slammed him backward in his chair, as pain flared across his skin and set his nerves ablaze.
"Lord Voldemort," he hissed, "needs no reminding of anything! I am aware of the risks! I am aware of the problems, and complications and pitfalls!" He raised his wand bringing an end to the Cruciatus Curse before turning his attention to the silvery blond Lucius Malfoy, "Lucius?"
"All goes well, my Lord. The finances are more than sufficient for now," he answered, "So long as costs remain within the constraints established at the outset of the project, we shall have no problems financing it for the foreseeable future."
"Excellent," he said, "Proceed as planned. Leave, my Death Eaters." He added the last almost as an afterthought, "Lucius, a moment."
Lucius stood behind his chair and waited as everyone else departed. He took his seat as Voldemort gestured, "I recall that you mentioned that your son Draco had managed to subvert one of the purebloods who follow Albus Dumbledore?"
Voldemort smiled, "Enlighten me, old friend." The head of the house of Malfoy did just that, providing great detail as to who and how Draco had accomplished his most artful manipulation of Ronald Bilius Weasely, "Could we use him as a spy?"
"Unlikely, my lord," he replied, "Draco was shortsighted, and seeking a way to hurt Potter, nothing further," he added hastily, "He achieved his aim, breaking the "Golden Trio" of Gryffindor, but the damage is irreparable at present."
"So noted," said the Dark Lord dryly as he pressed the Dark Mark upon his own arm, summoning Severus Snape who arrived within minutes of the summons.
"You sent for me, my lord?"
The Dark Lord nodded curtly, "As Malfoy is in charge of our propaganda campaign against Dumbledore and Potter," he spat both names with as much venom as he could muster, "I believe it's time to provide you," he nodded to Malfoy, "with a little more ammunition."
Snape nodded briskly, "It took Potter somewhat longer than expected, and he could only do it with the Goblins whispering in his ear, but Potter made his move: The rift between Potter and Dumbledore has widened into a significant breach, and with a little subtle manipulation, the breach will be irreconcilable."
Snape rapidly brought Malfoy and an eavesdropping silver pawed rat up to speed on these latest developments, "Ms. Skeeter would prove very useful if pointed in the right direction."
It was at this moment that the rat chose to retake his human form and intervene, "Is Snape's course of action the wisest one to pursue Master?" that simple question brought all activity to a halt, as Voldemort twirled his wand between his fingers. "Potter manipulated a press blackout throughout the previous school year, using the Quibbler to wage his own public relations war against the Prophet, and he marginalized the Prophet quickly."
It was true that now the Quibbler was a respected publication in its own right, and its readership and fan base had remained remarkably loyal, despite the Prophet's mudslinging, "Your point?" snapped Severus.
"What is to stop him from doing the same again?"
"A valid concern Wormtail," conceded Voldemort, "One neither of you even thought to consider!" It was low hex, but still strong enough to mimic a powerful slap across the face. It was doubly insulting: That neither Snape nor Malfoy was worth the effort of a Cruciatus Curse, one that had Wormtail sniggering inside.
"Indeed," replied the Dark Lord drily, "Draco has done well, with one, but can he do more? When war comes, I must know that Hogwarts will fall! Draco, can rally Slytherin House, but can he rally others?"
"Ron Weasely is the first step. The boy is not overly popular or influential but he can be a stepping stone to reach others. For the moment if we proceed as planned…"
"Yes," interrupted Voldemort, "We proceed as planned," he met the gaze of each Death Eater before him: Snape, Wormtail, and Malfoy, "It will not be long before this country is mine!"