"Ow—"
Tom steadied the tiny figure who had just cannoned into him with a Rocket-Headbutt. The little one giggled uncontrollably as he caught her.
"Gabrielle, you'll hurt yourself one of these days," Tom scolded lightly.
"I knew you'd catch me!" the girl laughed, bright and fearless.
He pinched her round cheeks with mock severity. "What happened to calling me big brother?"
"Because my sister doesn't call you that. So I won't either!"
"Oh? Then I'll just make your sister call me 'big brother' first," Tom teased.
A voice, smooth and silken, drifted from behind. "You still dare think I'd call you big brother?"
Fleur glided into the room in a flowing sapphire dress, her eyes narrowed in feigned annoyance. Yet no matter how she tried, the smile tugging at her lips wouldn't stay hidden.
Tom's own lips curved upward as he looked at her.
Half a year apart, and Fleur was no longer the delicate bud he remembered—she had blossomed further, a striking flower whose beauty was almost cruel in its perfection. Most Veela possessed a kind of standardized loveliness, dazzling but lacking uniqueness. Fleur, however, was different. Her beauty struck like a blade, sharp and unforgettable, with eyes that could shake the soul after only a glance.
"Not allowed?" Tom raised an eyebrow, stepping inside with Gabrielle perched on his arm. The room was warm—no, hot—and it explained Fleur's choice of a light dress indoors.
"You've grown taller again," Fleur remarked, almost wistful. When they had first met, he'd been shorter than her by a head. After slaying a dragon, he'd nearly caught up. And now—he stood above her.
"Me getting taller isn't the problem. You—don't grow too much more, or you'll end up with a frame too big for your beauty."
Before Fleur could reply, Madame Delacour swept in with a tray of sweets. "Tom, dear, sit, sit. Have a bite before dinner."
"Thank you, Madame." Tom accepted politely, popping a biscuit into his mouth, then another into Gabrielle's.
Fleur's sigh was exasperated. "She's eaten enough already. If she keeps stuffing herself she'll turn into a little pig."
"Doesn't matter. Children grow fast—it's good for them to be plump," Tom shrugged.
"I don't want to be a pig!" Gabrielle squealed, cheeks puffing as she shoved the last three macarons into her mouth, clutching the dessert plate protectively.
Tom shot Fleur a pointed look. "You're stingy."
Fleur only smirked, triumphant.
To distract herself from the loss of sweets, Gabrielle dragged out schoolwork—a magical jigsaw puzzle—and bent over it earnestly, leaving Fleur free to finally talk with Tom.
Monsieur Delacour was still working late. Good news: he'd make it home for Christmas dinner. Bad news: he'd barely make it in time to catch the tail end, closer to eight. Fleur had long since gotten used to it.
So she chatted with Tom instead—about Hogwarts, about his new house—and slyly tried to prod him about Daphne and Hermione. What she didn't realize was that her "intel" was already outdated.
"So that's why you waited until yesterday to visit us—you were with them?" she pressed, feigning nonchalance.
"No!" Tom protested loudly. "I've been busy setting up the new place. Half the house is still unfinished. And my teacher's been piling on assignments nonstop. This holiday's busier than school itself!"
He sighed, adding, "Even now, there's a mountain of work left undone. I'll have to pull overtime when I get back."
Truthfully, he wanted to remodel the entire place like Nicolas's enchanted mansion—a fully automated magical household system. But the workload was immense. So far he'd only managed the living room and kitchen.
Fleur frowned sympathetically. "You're on break. They won't even give you a few days' rest? That's too harsh."
Tom nodded gravely. "Utterly inhuman. But what can I do? Once I'm stronger, I'll make them pay it back in full."
Fleur rolled her eyes at him. "Don't be ridiculous. A strict teacher only means they care about you. If I had a teacher like yours, I'd count myself lucky."
She, of course, assumed his teacher was Dumbledore. Who else could forge a monster like Tom Riddle?
"Brother! Play fishing with me!" Gabrielle whined, waving a toy fishing rod.
Tom abandoned Fleur without hesitation, plopping down on the carpet beside the little one. Together they cast their rods over the enchanted toy pond, waiting for the magically animated fish to bite.
Within minutes, Tom had a small pile of catches. Gabrielle, meanwhile, hadn't hooked a single one. Her lower lip trembled, tears threatening, until she begged Fleur to help.
Sisters united—they still lost, but not as miserably.
"Children, dinner is ready!" Madame Delacour called.
The dining room table was laid with the feast of France: buttery foie gras, rich boeuf bourguignon, crisp confit de canard, steaming bouillabaisse, and scallops Saint-Jacques, each dish glowing in the candlelight.
Fleur, normally tasked with keeping Gabrielle in check, was freed for once. With Tom here, her little sister clung to him instead.
The star of the night, though, was the bouillabaisse. Tom soaked golden garlic bread, slathered with aioli, into the saffron-scented broth, savoring the layers of flavor.
They were halfway through when Monsieur Delacour finally arrived, weary but smiling. He clapped Tom in a warm embrace before taking his place beside his wife.
And with everyone gathered, Tom finally spoke of Nicolas Flamel's invitation.