The war ended on a Tuesday.
Harry Potter killed Lord Voldemort in front of what felt like the entire British wizarding world, and by Friday morning, he was already sick of it. The stares. The whispers. The endless gratitude that somehow felt more like obligation than genuine feeling. People wanted him to be their hero, their symbol, their bloody poster child for a new era of peace and prosperity.
He just wanted to be left alone.
The first few months after were hell. Everyone wanted a piece of him. The Ministry wanted him for press conferences. The Auror department wanted him to join their ranks, as if he hadn't seen enough dark magic to last several lifetimes. Old classmates wanted to reconnect, suddenly remembering they'd been such good friends at Hogwarts. The few times he'd tried to go to Diagon Alley, he'd been mobbed before he could make it past the Leaky Cauldron.
And then there was Ginny.
That breakup had been uglier than he cared to remember. She'd wanted the fairy tale—the wedding, the house, the kids, the whole domestic dream that apparently came with being the girlfriend of the Boy Who Lived Twice. Harry had wanted space. Room to breathe. Time to figure out who the hell he was when he wasn't fighting for his life or preparing to die.
They'd fought about it. A lot. She'd accused him of not loving her enough. He'd accused her of loving the idea of him more than the actual person. Both accusations had probably been true. The final argument had happened in the Burrow's kitchen, with half the Weasley family listening from the other room and pretending they weren't. She'd thrown a plate at his head. He'd left and never come back.
That had been over two years ago.
Fleur had reached out a few days after the breakup, when Harry was at his lowest point. She'd always been perceptive, had always seen through the bullshit in a way most people couldn't. Her letter had been simple and direct: Come to France. The sun will do you good. No one here cares about your scar.
He'd accepted within a week.
Fleur's father, Sebastian, had been instrumental in getting him settled. The man had connections throughout the French wizarding community and had helped Harry find a property that was perfect for what he needed—isolated enough for privacy yet close enough to civilization that he wouldn't go mad from loneliness.
The fact that it shared a wall with the Delacour home had been presented to him as a coincidence, but Harry suspected Fleur had orchestrated the whole thing.
The house was old, probably built sometime in the 1800s, but it had been maintained beautifully. Stone walls, exposed wooden beams, windows that let in floods of golden sunlight. The garden was what had sold him on it, though. Nearly an acre of space with fruit trees, flowering bushes, and a complete lack of nosy neighbors peering over the hedges.
He'd bought it outright. The Potter fortune, combined with the Black inheritance he'd gotten from Sirius, meant money wasn't something he'd ever have to worry about. Some people might have found that life boring or purposeless, but Harry found it liberating. No job meant no obligations. No obligations meant no one could make demands on his time.
He'd settled into a routine that would probably bore most people to tears.
Mornings were for coffee on the terrace, watching the sun burn off the morning mist that clung to the valley. He'd gotten into the habit of reading—novels that he ordered from a shop in Paris. His French had improved dramatically in two years, though his accent apparently still made people wince.
Afternoons varied. Sometimes he worked in the garden, which had become something of a hobby. Magic made it easier, but he often did things by hand anyway, finding the physical work oddly satisfying. Other times he'd practice magic, pushing himself to learn things he'd never had time for during the war. Transfiguration had become a particular interest. There was something almost meditative about it.
He'd taken on some tutoring work, though not for the money. Some of the local families had children who'd be starting at Beauxbatons in a year or two, and they wanted their kids to have a head start on basic magical theory and control. Harry had initially resisted—teaching meant responsibility, meant people depending on him—but Fleur had convinced him it might be good to stay connected to the magical world in some small way.
She'd been right. The kids were easier than adults. They didn't care about his history or his fame. Half of them barely knew who he was. They just wanted to learn how to make feathers float or understand why some potions needed to be stirred clockwise. It was simple. Uncomplicated. He liked it.
Evenings were usually quiet. Sometimes he'd go into the nearby village for dinner, sitting at a small bistro where the owner knew his name but respected his privacy. Other times he'd cook at home, experimenting with French cuisine with varying degrees of success. His coq au vin was passable now. His attempt at a soufflé had resulted in something that looked like it had been attacked by a curse.
The Delacours were good neighbors. They didn't smother him, but they also didn't treat him like a stranger. Sebastian would occasionally stop by to discuss property maintenance or share a bottle of wine. Apolline sometimes brought over food, claiming she'd made too much, though Harry suspected she just enjoyed feeding people. Fleur visited when she could, but her work with Gringotts kept her busy.
It was a good life. A quiet life. Nothing like what he'd expected when he was younger, but then again, he'd never really expected to survive long enough to have a future.
The social side of things had been more complicated.
After Ginny, he'd sworn off relationships. The idea of opening himself up like that again, of letting someone that close, made something in his chest tighten uncomfortably. But physical needs were physical needs, and France had proven to be considerably more relaxed about such things than Britain.
There'd been Marie, a witch who worked at the local apothecary. That had lasted about three months before she'd started talking about meeting her parents. Then Colette, who'd been fun until she'd started leaving things at his house and referring to his guest room as "our spare bedroom." A few one-night stands scattered in between, mostly after nights at the local wizarding pub when the loneliness felt particularly sharp.
He'd learned to recognize the signs now. The moment a woman started talking about the future, about plans, about anything that extended beyond the immediate present, he ended it. Politely. Firmly. He wasn't interested in a girlfriend. Definitely wasn't interested in marriage. The guilt that came with these endings had lessened over time. He'd rather hurt someone's feelings early than lead them on.
Some people probably thought there was something wrong with him. Maybe there was. But after everything he'd been through, after all the people he'd lost and all the choices he'd been forced to make, he figured he'd earned the right to live exactly how he wanted.
Even if that meant living alone.
xXx
The afternoon sun was particularly warm for early October, and Harry had decided to take advantage of it. He was stretched out on one of the lounge chairs in his garden, shirt discarded on the grass beside him, a book open on his chest that he wasn't really reading.
Two years in the South of France had done wonders for him. The constant sunshine meant he'd developed a tan that would've been impossible in Britain. The physical work in the garden, combined with his habit of flying laps around his property on his broom most mornings, had left him lean and defined. He wasn't bulky like some of the guys he'd seen at the gym in the village—that kind of mass had never been his goal—but there was clear muscle in his shoulders and arms, definition in his abdomen when he moved.
The scar on his forehead had faded somewhat in the sun, though it would never disappear completely. He'd made peace with that. It was just another part of him now, no more significant than the one on his hand from Umbridge's detentions or the various other marks left by a childhood spent fighting dark wizards and dangerous magical creatures.
He was half-dozing when he heard voices approaching.
"—honestly, Apolline, I still think we should have asked him earlier—"
"Sebastian, we only decided yesterday. Stop fussing."
Harry opened his eyes and sat up, squinting against the sun. Sebastian and Apolline Delacour were making their way across his garden, Sebastian looking apologetic and Apolline looking characteristically unbothered by the spontaneous visit.
"Harry, my boy!" Sebastian called out. "I hope we're not disturbing you?"
"Not at all." Harry reached for his shirt, but Sebastian waved him off.
"Don't bother on our account. You're in your own garden."
Harry settled back into the chair, though he remained sitting up. Apolline's eyes had flickered down to his chest when she thought he wasn't looking, a quick there-and-gone glance that was probably meant to be subtle. He pretended not to notice.
Sebastian was a good man—tall, distinguished, with silvering hair and the kind of easy confidence that came from old money and good breeding. Apolline was still beautiful, with the same silver-blonde hair as her daughters and he could tell that she'd been absolutely stunning in her youth. She still was, really, though Harry tried not to think about it too much.
"Wine?" Harry offered, gesturing toward the bottle he'd brought out earlier.
"Too early for me," Sebastian said, settling into one of the other chairs. "Though I'll never understand how you English can resist French wine."
"I'm not resisting it. I'm literally drinking it right now."
"True." Sebastian smiled. "We won't keep you long. Just wanted to let you know we'll be heading to Britain and then Iceland for a while."
"Oh?" Harry poured himself another glass. "Business or pleasure?"
"Bit of both," Apolline said, sitting beside her husband. "Sebastian has some matters to handle with Gringotts in London, and I thought we could make a trip up north. We've been thinking of going there for a while now. It seems as good a time as any."
"That's great. How long will you be gone?"
"A month, maybe a bit more." Sebastian crossed his legs, looking relaxed. "We wanted to make sure you knew, in case anything comes up with the property."
"I'll keep an eye on things," Harry assured him. "I doubt your home needs much watching though. Your wards are better than most of the ones at Hogwarts."
"One can never be too careful," Sebastian said, looking pleased at the compliment.
Apolline had been quiet, her gaze drifting around the garden before returning to Harry. Another quick glance at his torso, this one lingering just a fraction of a second longer. She was better at hiding it than most women, but Harry had gotten good at spotting interest over the past two years. Living as an eligible bachelor in a small community meant developing certain radar.
"Your garden looks wonderful," Apolline said, and Harry couldn't tell if she was genuinely complimenting the flowers or just trying to cover for wherever her thoughts had wandered. "The roses especially. What's your secret?"
"Magic and stubbornness, mostly." Harry grinned. "And a lot of trial and error. You should've seen them last year. Pretty sure I violated several laws of nature trying to get them to bloom."
She laughed. "I remember. Fleur mentioned you'd turned them blue by accident."
"Not my finest moment."
They talked for a while longer, talking various topics. Sebastian mentioned some changes to French magical law that might affect property owners. Apolline asked about his tutoring, curious how the Beaumont boy was progressing with his levitation charms. Harry caught her looking at him again when Sebastian was talking about the politics in the French Ministry, her eyes tracing the line of his shoulder before darting away.
This time, when she glanced back, he was looking directly at her.
Their eyes met. There was a moment before Apolline's cheeks colored slightly and she looked away, suddenly very interested in the wine glass Harry had left on the small table between them.
Harry smiled politely. He wasn't offended. If anything, it was almost flattering in a way. Apolline wasn't going to act on whatever passing interest she might have. She was happily married, from everything he'd seen, and whatever looks she snuck were just that—looks. Harmless.
Besides, he'd been looked at enough to know the difference between simple appreciation and actual intent.
"Well," Sebastian said, standing and brushing off his trousers, "we should let you get back to your lounging. We'll stop by once more before we leave, just to say goodbye properly."
"Sounds good." Harry stood as well, accepting the handshake Sebastian offered. "Have a safe trip."
"We will," Apolline said, also rising. She smiled at him warmly, the brief moment of awkwardness already passing. "Try not to burn while we're gone. You English and your sun tolerance."
"I'll do my best."
He watched them walk back toward their estate, Sebastian's hand resting comfortably on the small of Apolline's back. They looked good together. Happy. The kind of long-term partnership that Harry had once thought he might want, back before everything had gotten so complicated.
Maybe someday he'd want that again. But not now. Not yet.
For now, he had his garden, his books, his quiet little life in the French countryside. No expectations. No pressure. No one needing him to be anything other than what he was.
It was enough.
Harry picked up his shirt, pulled it on, and headed inside to start thinking about dinner. Tomorrow he had tutoring with the Laurent girl, who was still struggling with the concept of intent. The day after, nothing planned at all.
The war was over. Voldemort was dead. And Harry Potter was, for the first time in his life, exactly where he wanted to be.
xXx
Three days after Sebastian and Apolline left, Harry was in his study trying to organize his bookshelf when he heard the scream.
It wasn't loud, but it was sharp enough for him to hear. His wand was in his hand instantly, and he was out the door and running toward the Delacour estate within seconds.
The wards recognized him. They'd been keyed to allow him access in case of emergencies. His heart was hammering. The war might be over, but some reflexes never died. A scream meant danger. Danger meant someone was hurt or dying or—
He burst through the front door, which Apolline never locked during the day, and found himself in the entrance hall. Another sound came from deeper in the house. The dining room.
Harry moved quickly but cautiously, his wand raised. When he rounded the corner, he found a young woman leaning heavily against the dining table, taking deep, heaving breaths. Blonde hair fell around her shoulders. She wore casual clothes, jeans and a light top.
She must have heard his footsteps because she whirled around, her wand coming up fast, her eyes wide and startled.
"Wait—" Harry started.
Recognition dawned on her face almost immediately. The tension in her shoulders eased, though she kept her wand raised for another second before lowering it completely.
"Harry," Gabrielle Delacour breathed out. "Merlin, you scared me."
"You scared me," Harry countered, lowering his own wand but not putting it away yet. "I heard you scream. What happened?"
Gabrielle looked embarrassed now, color rising in her cheeks. She tucked her wand away and ran a hand through her hair. "It's nothing. I'm fine. I was looking through the attic for some old photos, and there was a boggart up there. Caught me off guard."
Harry relaxed completely, finally pocketing his wand. "A boggart. Nasty surprise."
"Yes." She managed a small laugh. "I handled it, but it startled me badly enough that I screamed. I didn't think anyone would hear."
"Are you okay now?"
"I'm fine. Really." She straightened up fully, but Harry noticed she was still gripping the edge of the table. "Thank you for coming to check. That was very kind of you."
"Of course." Harry paused, studying her. "What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you'd be at school."
"I wanted some quiet time, so I got the permission to leave early," Gabrielle said. "With everyone away, the house is empty. Peaceful. I thought I'd spend a few days here."
Harry felt there was more to the story, but he wasn't going to push. If she wanted to talk about it, she would.
"Right. Well, if everything's alright, I should probably get going."
"No, wait—" Gabrielle spoke quickly, almost hastily, and then seemed to catch herself. She looked down, a hint of shyness crossing her features. "I mean, you don't have to leave if you don't want to. I don't mind the company."
Harry smiled. He'd known Gabrielle had a crush on him for a while now. It was fairly obvious in the way she acted around him—a bit shy, a bit flustered, always seeming to find reasons to be wherever he was when the families got together. He found it endearing more than anything else. She was a sweet girl, genuine in a way that was refreshing. No ulterior motives, no expectations beyond maybe hoping he'd notice her.
"Alright," he said easily. "I could use a break from organizing books anyway."
Her face lit up, and Harry felt a small pang of something. Not attraction, not exactly. Just a realization that she was happy he was staying, and that simply made him feel… good.
They ended up in the sitting room, settling into comfortable chairs near the windows that overlooked the gardens. The evening sun streamed in, making the room almost uncomfortably warm.
"This heat is brutal," Gabrielle said, waving her hand in front of her face. "I've been casting cooling charms every hour."
"Same here." Harry stretched his legs out. "I'm starting to think I should just spend the entire day in my pool."
"That does sound nice."
They talked easily after that. The conversation flowed without much effort—the weather, the differences between life in Britain and life in the French countryside, a funny story about one of Harry's tutoring students who'd accidentally transfigured his cat into a teapot. Gabrielle laughed at that, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
"I should probably let you get to dinner," he said after the sun had fully set.
Gabrielle blinked, looking surprised. Then she smiled sheepishly. "I haven't really thought about dinner. I'll probably just make something quick."
Harry looked thoughtful for a moment. She'd come here to be alone, apparently, to escape something in school. The boggart incident had shaken her more than she was letting on. And now she was going to spend the evening by herself, making whatever sad meal people made when they didn't really care about eating.
"How about this," he said. "Why don't you come over to my place? We can cool off in the pool for a bit—this heat isn't letting up—and I'll throw some vegetables and sausages on the grill. Nothing fancy, but better than eating alone."
Gabrielle's eyes widened. "Oh, I don't want to impose—"
"You're not imposing. I'm inviting you."
She bit her lip, looking uncertain but also pleased. "Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Okay." Her smile was bright now, genuinely happy. "Thank you, Harry. That sounds wonderful."
"Great. Head over in about twenty minutes? That'll give me time to get things started."
"I'll be there."
Harry made his way back to his house, feeling oddly satisfied with the decision. It was just dinner. After what happened with the boggart, Gabrielle probably didn't want to spend the evening alone in that big house, even if she wouldn't admit it.
He changed into swim trunks, pulling on a t-shirt over them, and headed out to the garden. The grill was built into the outdoor kitchen area near the pool, and he started gathering ingredients from the cold storage. Vegetables—peppers, zucchini, onions. Sausages from the local butcher. Some olive oil and herbs.
Magic made preparation quick. His wand directed knives to slice vegetables while he seasoned the sausages. Everything was laid out and ready to cook by the time he heard footsteps approaching.
Harry looked up and his wand stilled.
Gabrielle was walking toward him across the garden, and for a moment, all he could do was stare. She wore a light sundress that stopped mid-thigh, clearly meant to cover a swimsuit underneath. Her hair was loose, catching the evening light. She looked nervous, a bit shy, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her dress.
But it wasn't the nervousness that made him stare. It was her.
She'd grown up. Harry knew this—Gabrielle was almost nineteen now, a fully grown veela woman—but seeing her like this, in the soft evening light with that uncertain smile on her face, really drove it home. She was beautiful. Delicate features, clear blue eyes, and a curvy figure that the sundress didn't quite hide.
He realized he was staring and shook himself out of it.
"Hey," he said, smiling as she got closer. "Perfect timing. Food's ready to go on the grill."
He gestured toward the utensils that were still moving with magic, arranging themselves on the workspace. Gabrielle watched them for a moment, then turned to him with that shy smile.
"It smells wonderful already."
"Wait until it's actually cooked," Harry said. "Come on, let's cool off first. This heat is killing me."
Gabrielle nodded. Her hands went to the hem of her sundress, and Harry politely turned away to adjust something on the grill that didn't need adjusting. He heard the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of her dress being laid over one of the chairs.
When he turned back, she was standing there in a one-piece swimsuit. It was modest—high-cut on the legs, low-cut but not scandalously so on the chest. Black with some subtle pattern he couldn't quite make out in the fading light. She looked nervous again, her arms crossed loosely over her stomach.
The style reminded him of something. Harry frowned, trying to place it.
Then it hit him. Fleur. The second task of the Triwizard Tournament. She'd worn something similar when she'd dived into the lake.
Gabrielle must have caught him looking because she gave him another shy smile, looking slightly self-conscious.
Harry smiled back reassuringly. "Water's great. I tested it earlier."
He pulled off his own shirt, tossing it onto a chair, and walked to the pool. The water was cool against his heated skin when he dove in, and he sighed with relief after hours in the heat. When he surfaced, Gabrielle was descending the steps into the shallow end, moving carefully.
They swam for a while without talking much. Harry did a few lazy laps while Gabrielle floated on her back, staring up at the darkening sky. Eventually, they ended up near the edge of the pool, arms resting on the stone lip, legs kicking slowly in the water.
"This is nice," Gabrielle said softly. "Thank you for inviting me."
"My pleasure." Harry summoned two glasses of wine from the outdoor bar with a flick of his wand, passing one to her. "So, what's going on that made you want to come home early? Shouldn't you still be at Beauxbatons?"
She took a sip of wine, her expression guarded. "I couldn't stand it anymore. The NEWTs were over anyway. I asked to leave, and they agreed."
"Couldn't stand what?"
Gabrielle was quiet for a moment, staring into her wine glass. When she spoke, there was frustration in her voice. "My veela maturity finished over the summer. You know how it is with veela heritage—we develop later than most witches, and when we do, it's... significant."
Harry nodded, staying quiet and letting her talk.
"Before, no one really noticed me at school. I was just Fleur's little sister. The girls ignored me or mocked me for being a child. The boys barely looked at me." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Now it's the complete opposite. The girls are jealous and catty, spreading rumors, making my life miserable. And the boys..."
She trailed off, and Harry could see the discomfort on her face.
"They won't leave me alone," she continued. "Always staring, making comments, trying to touch me in the corridors. Acting like I'm some prize to be won, like I owe them something because they suddenly find me attractive. None of them care about me as a person. They just want to get in my bed because of what I look like now."
Harry felt a surge of anger on her behalf. He knew exactly what she was describing—he'd seen it happen to Fleur during the Triwizard Tournament, the way boys had suddenly swarmed around her, the way some had gotten aggressive about it.
"That's awful, Gabrielle. I'm sorry you're dealing with that."
"It's so hypocritical," she said, her voice tight. "These same people who treated me like I was nothing now act like I should be grateful for their attention. And when I turn them down, they get angry or call me names. I just... I couldn't take another day of it. So I came home."
"You did the right thing," Harry said firmly. "You don't owe anyone your time or attention, especially not people who only care about how you look."
She looked at him, something vulnerable in her eyes. "Do you think I'm overreacting?"
"Not at all. What you're describing sounds exhausting and invasive. Anyone would want to escape that."
Gabrielle smiled slightly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Thank you. That means a lot, hearing you say that."
"For what it's worth," Harry said carefully, "you are beautiful, Gabrielle. But that's just one part of who you are. From what I've seen today, you're also intelligent, thoughtful, and kind. The people at school who can't see past your looks are idiots."
Color bloomed in her cheeks, and she looked down at her wine glass, a shy smile playing at her lips. "Thank you, Harry. That's... that's very sweet of you to say."
"Just being honest."
Her warm eyes met his. "You're different from other men. You always have been."
Harry wasn't sure what to say to that, so he just smiled and took another sip of his wine.
They talked more after that, about her future plans, about his tutoring, about nothing in particular. Harry found himself enjoying it more than he'd expected. Gabrielle was easy to talk to, once she relaxed. There was an openness to her, a lack of trickery that he appreciated. She asked questions and actually listened to the answers. She didn't try to impress him or steer the conversation toward anything uncomfortable.
"This is nice," Harry said eventually. "Getting to know you better like this. We never really got the chance before."
Gabrielle looked pleased, color rising in her cheeks. "I... yes. I'm glad you think so. I've always thought you were very easy to talk to, even if I get a bit tongue-tied sometimes."
"You're doing fine."
She smiled into her wine glass.
Eventually, the timer Harry had set for the grill went off. They climbed out of the pool, water streaming off them. Harry grabbed towels from the storage bench, tossing one to Gabrielle. She caught it and started drying off, squeezing water from her hair.
As he stood there, Harry found his eyes following her movements. Water droplets traced paths down her neck, disappearing into the neckline of her swimsuit. More droplets ran down her arms, her legs. The suit clung to her in ways the sundress hadn't shown. Curves. The dip of her waist. The shape of her thighs. The swell of her breasts. The curve of her perky rear.
She was attractive. Very attractive. The thought came unbidden, but Harry didn't push it away. He just acknowledged it. Gabrielle Delacour had grown into a beautiful woman, and he was noticing.
"Harry?"
He blinked, realizing she was looking at him. "Hmm?"
"Is something wrong?" She sounded uncertain, shy again. "You were staring."
"Sorry. Just zoned out for a second." He smiled and turned toward the grill, starting to arrange the food. "Let's eat. I'm starving."
Gabrielle smiled back knowingly. "Me too."
They settled into chairs at the outdoor table, plates piled with grilled vegetables and sausages. Harry had set out bread, cheese, and more wine. The food was simple but good, and they ate hungrily after all the swimming and drinking on an empty stomach.
Throughout dinner, Harry kept finding his eyes drifting. The way the light from the lanterns caught on her damp skin. The curve of her shoulder. The hollow of her throat. Water droplets had mostly dried by now, but there were still a few clinging to her collarbone, and he watched one slide down between the valley of her breasts as she reached for her wine glass. Even though she had the towel wrapped around her body, the swimsuit clung to her like second skin, leaving nothing to imagination.
He was seeing her differently now. Not as Fleur's little sister or the girl he'd saved in the Black Lake or his neighbor's daughter. But as a woman. An attractive woman who was sitting across from him in a swimsuit, her hair drying in waves around her face, her eyes bright, and her face flushed with wine.
"Harry?"
He blinked again. Gabrielle was looking at him with that same uncertain expression. "What?"
"You keep..." She trailed off, then smiled shyly, ducking her head. "Nothing. Never mind."
"What?" he pressed gently.
"You keep looking at me like..." She shook her head, taking a bite of food instead of finishing the sentence.
Harry felt heat that had nothing to do with the weather. She'd noticed. Of course she'd noticed. He probably wasn't being as subtle as he thought.
"Sorry," he said. "Not trying to make you uncomfortable."
"You're not." She said it quickly, looking up at him through her lashes. "I don't mind."
The meaning was not lost on either of them. Harry took a drink of wine and changed the subject to something safer.
They finished dinner as the sky turned fully dark, stars beginning to appear overhead. The conversation flowed easily despite the undercurrent of whatever was building up between them.
She listened with genuine interest, asking questions that proved she was actually paying attention. It was nice. Easy. He'd enjoyed the evening more than he'd enjoyed most of his casual dates over the past two years.
Finally, Gabrielle set down her fork and sighed contentedly. "That was wonderful. Thank you, Harry. Really."
"Anytime."
She stood, and Harry felt a pang of disappointment. He didn't want her to leave yet. But he also wasn't going to suggest she stay longer. That felt like crossing a line he wasn't sure he wanted to cross with his neighbors' daughter, with Fleur's little sister.
"I should get going," Gabrielle said, reaching for her sundress and pulling it on over her swimsuit. "It's getting late."
"Yeah." Harry stood as well. "Let me walk you back."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
Gabrielle blinked at him in surprise before smiling shyly. She nodded, and Harry felt into step beside her.
They walked across the garden in comfortable silence. The night air was still warm, but cooler than the heat of the day. When they reached the edge of Harry's property, where it bordered the Delacour home, Gabrielle stopped and turned to him.
"Thank you again," she said softly. "For checking on me earlier, and for dinner, and for just... this. It was exactly what I needed."
"I'm glad."
Gabrielle stepped closer, and before Harry could process what was happening, she rose up on her toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. Her lips were soft and warm. She lingered for just a moment before pulling back, her cheeks flushed pink even in the darkness.
"Goodnight, Harry," she said, her voice a bit breathless.
Before he could say anything, she turned and hurried across the boundary between their properties, disappearing into the shadows of the Delacour garden.
Harry stood there for a long moment, his hand rising unconsciously to touch his cheek where she'd kissed him. He could still feel the warmth of it, the softness of her lips.
Well. That was... something.
He shook his head, smiling slightly, and made his way back to his house. The evening had taken a turn he hadn't expected, but he couldn't say he minded. Gabrielle was lovely. Sweet. Genuine.
And he was absolutely not going to think about the way that swimsuit had clung to her, or the shy way she'd smiled at him, or the fact that she'd kissed him.
He was not.
Even as he cleaned up from dinner, his mind kept drifting back to it anyway.
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