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The Goblet’s fire had long burned out.

And so had she.

The promised glory never came.

What she got instead was shame, and nightmares that haunted her all summer.

She returned to Beauxbatons, of course. She listened to polite applause and her professors’ speeches about “honourable showings” and “diplomatic importance.” But she had seen the truth in their eyes. She heard the teasing, the laughter, the whispers about how she finished last, but at least not dead.

She couldn’t take it.

But she did.

She woke up early and drank black coffee. Read thick texts on spell theory to remind herself she was more than her face. She studied Elvish and Gobbledegook, which somehow came easier than that awful English accent.

Madame Maxime checked on her often.

“You were so brave, my dear. So brave and unfairly judged,” she would say. “It wasn’t supposed to be like that. It was supposed to be a friendly school competition. No one warned us the fight would be so real.”

Fleur had sent out multiple applications to ministry offices. She received only rejections. It seemed her reputation of failed champion who did not win even one task had preceded her.

All she wanted, all she had worked for, was a cosy diplomacy post. Work in elegant rooms, speaking with elegant people. Building relationships, solving problems.

“Do not worry about this, dear. I have contacted some of my friends. We will find something fitting for you,” Madame Maxime promised in May.

Now it was June.

And she was gone.

“Called away,” the staff said.
“Diplomatic mission. Something sensitive.”

It was so urgent that the Headmistress hadn’t even attended the graduation ceremony.

The ceremony was held outdoors, in the lavish gardens. Gold fountains and neatly trimmed hedge-mazes she avoided looking at altogether.

She picked up her diploma. First-class honours, several awards for service to the school. She held her head high.

But inside, she felt like she was drowning again. Back in Scotland. Back in the cold, dark, dirty lake water.

— • —

The parchment arrived two days later. One of Madame Maxime’s contacts had come through. A thin envelope bearing the Ministry emblem.

We are happy to inform that you are invited for an interview for the position of Second Assistant within the Department of International Magical Cooperation.

She put on her best dress, her most elegant heels, and walked into the Paris Ministry office faking confidence, as if she already worked there. Her heels clicked loudly on the marble floor.

She spoke carefully, thoughtfully. Her French was precise. Her English, she thought, passable.

They asked about her magical theory scores. About her impressions of the British education system. About her time at Hogwarts.

One man, older, heavy-lidded, asked if she had enjoyed her “moment of fame.”

She smiled and said nothing.

When she left the room, she heard one of them murmur to another:

“Charming girl. Very decorative. Shame about the English.”

The other laughed.

Fleur walked down the steps with her chin high, her nails pressed into her palm.

She didn’t tell her mother what they said. She simply said, “They had already chosen someone else.”

— • —

Fleur sat at her desk, flipping through a spell theory book she had read three times before. She wasn’t reading it now. Her eyes drifted to the window, where the garden stretched green and soft in the late June light. Lavender bent in the breeze. Her sister’s laughter rang faintly from the orchard.

A soft knock.

Her father stepped inside, wearing a pale linen shirt and the expression he used when something had to be handled gently.

He held an envelope in his hand.

Not Ministry parchment. Not heavy or wax-sealed. But official enough.

He didn’t sit. Just looked at her for a moment.

“I spoke to a friend in the London office.” he said. “Gringotts. They are reorganising their vault system, especially for the older families. French bloodlines. Lestrange. Black. Rosier.”

She nodded once. She understood what that meant, even if he did not say it directly.

“They need someone who speaks French and read Runes. Someone they can trust not to set off the curses while making a catalogue.” He smiled gently. “It is not the work you dreamed of, chérie. But it is real work. And a chance to practise English.”

Fleur said nothing.

He walked to the desk and placed the envelope carefully in front of her.

She touched the envelope but did not open it.

“You do not have to take it. But it might be a way to get what you want. In time. You could practise your English. Gain experience. Come back stronger. Then make the Ministry chase you.”

He left her with that.

When the door clicked shut, she opened the letter.

It was short. Formal.
They had a position for her. An internship in vault classification. Travel costs covered. Fluent French preferred. Runes required.

She read it twice.

Then she leaned back in her chair and let herself think.

She believed Harry Potter. She had seen the fear in his face. She saw Dumbledore giving orders, worried, in a rush. She had not told her parents, but she knew in her bones that Voldemort was back. The threat was real.

And she had made herself, her family, visible. She had stood on international platforms, revealed her heritage, her name, and talked about her grandmother.

If they came for people like her family again, she needed to be ready. She needed to be close to information.

And London was where the world was shifting.

She folded the parchment neatly and stood.

She would go.

— • —

The apartment was a mess.

Not the kind of mess that came from laziness, but the curated chaos of a man who never fully unpacked. Maps were pinned over peeling wallpaper, magical relics glowed from the corners of bookshelves, and something in the kitchen cupboard occasionally hissed. A cracked stone bowl sat on the floor beside the fireplace, still dripping faintly with green light from the last curse he had dismantled.

Bill Weasley stepped over a coil of rope, sat down on a worn sofa and pulled off his boots. He had just come back from Marrakesh. Or maybe it was Fez. The weeks blurred together.

He didn’t notice Dumbledore at first.

The old man was seated in the only clear armchair, wearing sandals with socks, deep purple robes embroidered with golden suns, and a wide sunhat drooping slightly to one side. In one hand, he held a conjured glass filled with iced tea. In the other, he absently stroked the wing of a charmed bat preserved in resin.

“You need a new filing system.” Dumbledore said mildly.

“I have one.” Bill replied. “It’s just vertical.”

Dumbledore smiled. “Of course. And the adventures? Deadly as promised?”

Bill tossed a folder onto the table. “Deadlier. Lost a fingertip today. Grew back, though.”

Dumbledore raised a brow. “May I assume the goblins are satisfied with your work?”

“They’re thrilled. Except for the bit where I pointed out the cursed ring they ignored for seventy years.”

“Ah.” Dumbledore leaned forward. “Then you’re just the man I need.”

Bill rolled his eyes. “No offense, but you usually say that right before asking me to do something deeply unglamorous.”

“In this case, yes. I need you to come back to London.”

Bill stilled.

Dumbledore went on, unbothered by the silence.

“Gringotts is shifting. There’s unrest, uncertainty. The goblins don’t trust the Ministry, and they’re watching the magical world more closely than anyone else.”

“And you want someone close to the vaults.” Bill said.

“Someone who understands goblin law. Someone they already know. Someone who can listen.”

Bill sighed. “So you want me to stop breaking curses in tombs, and start eavesdropping in break rooms?”

“Call it diplomacy.”

Bill sank onto the edge of the sofa, his arms crossed. “I didn’t get into curse-breaking to sit at a desk.”

“You didn’t get into it for the glory either, William.” Dumbledore said gently.

He paused, watching Bill closely.

“Your family is relocating this summer. The Order is moving to a new headquarters. They will stay there. Permanently.”

“All of them?” Bill asked, frowning. “Even Ron and Ginny?”

“Yes. Your family will be safer there. Less comfortable, perhaps, but safe. The enchantments on the house are dark, but impossible to break.”

Bill looked away, jaw tight. He said nothing, but his hand curled around the edge of the sofa cushion.

Dumbledore let the silence settle.

He stood, his sunhat flopping as he brushed imaginary dust from his robes.

“They trust you. And if we’re going to win what’s coming, we need ears in the deep places. The goblins won’t talk to me. But they’ll talk near you.”

He turned toward the door.

“London will be waiting.”

Dumbledore left with a soft pop of magic.

The silence returned.

Bill leaned back, looking up at the cracked ceiling.

Ron would be sixteen now. Caught up in things he couldn’t always explain in letters.

He trusted Harry. Of course he did. But sometimes he wished his little brother had a safer best friend.

He looked around his apartment. At the cracked bowl, the glowing blade on the windowsill, the half-finished translation scattered on the rug.

It all felt a little less exciting tonight.

— • —

Fleur sat on her new bed, brushing her damp hair in calm, even strokes. She looked around her new home. It was a studio apartment her father had helped her rent, owned by a colleague of his who had recently relocated to France.

The room was more spacious than she had expected, and even though it was just one space, the sleeping area felt separate. A small, three-step platform led to the bed she was currently sitting on.

Fleur stood, conjured a small cup, and dropped in the tea bag she had purchased on her way home from the bank. A lazy wave of her wand, and boiling water filled the cup. She had dreamt of a glass of crisp white wine, but tea and a cigarette would do.

The day had been more tiring than she’d thought it would be.

The tea turned in clouds from light to dark. She was too lazy to take out the tea bag and not British enough to put milk in it yet. She moved toward the small table by one of only two windows, the tea floating next to her and settling gently on the table.

It was quiet, but not silent. She could hear footsteps above and the low murmur of conversations. Buses and cars passed by below, making noise that wasn’t unpleasant. In a strange way, it reminded her of sea waves, the ones she had grown used to listening to while falling asleep at home.

She reached into her bag and pulled out the stack of papers and forms they had given her at work that day. Every page was stamped with the bank’s emblem at the top, cursive letters spelling out Fortius Quo Fidelius.

Strength Through Loyalty.

An interesting motto for a banking institution.

The goblin with the clipboard who had handed her the documents had made a point to mention that she would be expected to memorise and recite the motto whenever asked. She had replied in Gobbledegook that she would.

He took offense.

She knew the rules and etiquette of the wizarding world. But clearly, this was a different world altogether.

Just another item on the growing list of things she needed to learn.

— • —

“I’ll go.” said Sirius, standing up with sudden urgency.

Dumbledore sighed. He had been looking older lately, more tired, and definitely less festive than he had two weeks ago when he visited Bill in Cairo.

“Sirius, please, sit down. You know well enough you can’t leave this house.” said Bill’s mother.

“And we have important tasks here.” she added.

“Yes. Cleaning. What an adventure.” Sirius muttered as he slid back into his chair, resigned.

Bill couldn’t blame him. Being locked in the house after being locked in Azkaban for thirteen years hardly seemed like an upgrade. No Dementors, sure, but the place was miserable in its own way.

“I can help.” said Bill.

His mother gasped. Loudly.

“Thank you, Bill.” said Dumbledore. “But your purpose here is different. I need you at Gringotts, with the goblins. Stay close to them. Listen to their moods.”

Sirius gave Bill a look. There was a flicker of satisfaction in it, but also understanding. A fellow adventurer, temporarily tamed.

“We have important work here too.” Molly added. “We need to make this place habitable. And I still don’t understand why you cannot stay here with the rest of the family.”

“I need to be close to the goblins. You heard Professor Dumbledore, Mum. And the bank provided me a flat with the transfer. This house is crowded as it is.”

“How did you convince the goblins to transfer you?” asked Mad-Eye, his magical eye focused on Bill while the other stared suspiciously at a cabinet that occasionally hissed and let out a puff of smoke.

“I told them I was ready to settle down.” Bill said. “Said I wouldn’t find a wife in the tombs. Not a living one, at least.”

There was a pause, and then Sirius barked a laugh.

“They called me a sentimental fool.” Bill added. “But they didn’t question it. They’re tightening up security on a lot of vaults. Lestranges. Rosiers. Malfoys. They’re securing their wealth before the war starts, I think. The goblins needed someone they trusted here. You never know what kind of object you’ll find in those familie’s vaults.”

“True.” said Sirius. “I bet we’ll find some cursed junk in here too. My dear mummy had a fine taste for dangerous heirlooms.”

“It needs to be Sturgis, Kingsley, and me.” said Arthur calmly. “It makes perfect sense. We can always make an excuse for being there. Something urgent, or simply that we’re lost.”

“But all of you have work. You can’t do this alone.” said Molly, frowning.

“We won’t. But we’ll start. Then we’ll memorize the corridors and find the hiding places. We’ll make a map so others can take shifts guarding it too.”

“A map? Sounds like a job for us, Moony!” said Sirius, with a flicker of excitement that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Alright, I agree with Arthur.” said Lupin. “And you should count in Tonks. She works at the Ministry and everyone will believe her when she says she got lost. Happens often enough with her.” He glanced at her teasingly.

Tonks pretended to look annoyed. Her hair turned violent shade of red, but her face was happy. She was glad to be included.

“Then it’s settled.” said Dumbledore, rising from his chair. “I have urgent matters to attend to. I’ll send a Patronus to you all with the time and date of the next meeting.”

— • —

The new apartment was unusually empty.

The chaos he had grown comfortable with in Egypt had been left behind. Some of it had been claimed by the goblins, some gifted, some sold. Money was an uncomfortable topic with his family. They never thought of it as important, but Bill quietly believed it was smart to have some savings now, with the world shifting the way it was.

The new place was spacious and clean.

Annoyed by the silence, he pulled out the fake wands Fred and George had slipped into his bag. One squeaked and turned into a rubber duck. The other curled itself into a violently green frog that ribbited once and flopped off the table.

He caught it and set both on the stool next to the fireplace. 

A bit of color in this otherwise empty place.

Sitting down, he thought of the conversation he’d had with his mum as he was leaving.

“Nymphadora is a lovely girl, don’t you think?” she had said.

He had rolled his eyes.

“Mum, you know what I said about settling down was just an excuse for the goblins. I needed an awfully human reason for them to approve the transfer.”

“Yes, Bill. But you would be happy with a nice girl too. Dora likes adventure, like you. Her job is dangerous as well.”

“She’s a nice girl. I’m just not interested in her like that. And isn’t she related to us in some way?”

He understood his mother.

Both eldest sons, away for so long. No wife. No grandchildren. She was reaching for something simple, something comforting.

But it wasn’t something for him. 
Not right now anyways. 

— • —

She walked through the marble entrance hall, straight to the back toward the elevator section, and pressed the button to call it.

She greeted the goblins she passed, though they only observed her in return. She nodded to the security guard near the lifts, a wizard around her age. He mumbled something back and turned red.

Her office was small, barely enough space for two desks and a narrow window that let in grey morning light. She arrived with a black coffee in to go cup in one hand and a briefcase in the other.

She did this every day.

Came early, before opening hours, to avoid the morning crowds. Coffee, then a stack of papers in English and French. Most of the work was proofreading, checking for typos in the French sections, correcting translation inconsistencies.

She worked for hours, took a cigarette and more coffee for lunch, and left before the afternoon crowds spilled across the ground floor.

In the afternoons, she usually browsed the shops, purchasing small keepsakes when she felt homesick.

On her second weekend alone, when she couldn’t handle the quiet apartment anymore, she marched straight into the Magical Menagerie and returned with a spotted owlet; tiny, alert, and stubborn.

Now the excited bird followed her around the flat, fluttering from shelf to chair, always waiting for a task. Fleur named her Lilou.

The first time Lilou returned from France, she brought a thick envelope. Inside was a long letter from her mother, a scattering of drawings of the owl from Gabrielle, and a folded check from her father with a note scribbled across the bottom.

I know Wayne has no taste. He doesn’t cook, so probably there are no bowls or pans. 
Make yourself at home, Flower. 
I miss you.

So now she was unpacking bowls and plates with little, uneven flowers hand-painted on them, ones she had found in a cozy second-hand shop down the street.

She owned pale blue sheets. A couple of beige pillows. A candle.

She had placed two small lavender pots on the windowsill. The scent helped her sleep.

Her English hadn’t improved much. Goblins weren’t exactly conversationalists, and though she tried to practice at the shops, her answers always came a little too slow. Lines were long. People impatient. Eventually, she started nodding, smiling, and leaving without speaking at all.

For dinners, she had been going to a little French bistro tucked between two apothecaries. The food was fine. The wine was drinkable. But the atmosphere grated.

Too many old names.

Too many familiar accents.

She caught snatches of gossip. Whispers about the Ministry. Talk of galleons exchanged for favors. Laughter that wasn’t kind.

She stopped going after two weeks.

Instead, she started visiting the small pub near her flat. It was warm, dimly lit, and smelled of roasted garlic and bread. The menu was short, the music soft, and the bartender never stared.

The waiter looked familiar. Probably a student from Hogwarts. He had long braids pulled back, always smiled, and carried a kind of confident energy that seemed to buzz in the air. He exchanged a few words with her every evening.

“Can I have a tea, please. With lemon. And the house salad.”

“Back again, are we? So fond of Rick’s famous shepherd’s pie?”

“I have to eat. And I don’t have any pots yet to cook. And it’s nice here.”

“Nice? Wow. Hogwarts must have really lowered your standards.” he said with a wink.

“I think it’s the goblins.” she replied. “I work at Gringotts now. You know me from Hogwarts?” 

“Yes. We all watched you compete. I wanted to enter too, you know. Missed the age limit by a couple of months. Good thing, now that I think about it.”

“Actually,” she said, “can I change the tea for a glass of white wine?”

“Coming right up.” He gave a mock salute and disappeared into the back.

“I’m Fleur, by the way.”

“Yes, I know,” he said as he returned with her drink. “I’m Lee. Lee Jordan.”

More days passed, and sometimes the friendly exchange with Lee was the only conversation she had all day. Then he left for school, and an older girl took his place. She was kind enough, but never stopped to chat.

Before Fleur realised, September had arrived. And she was deep in her new routine. 

She just wasn’t sure she liked it yet.

— • —

He came in late. Always did.

It was easier that way. Goblins talked more after the rush. Less guarded, more pleased with the day’s numbers. Their conversations loosened into muttered grumbles, and if you listened closely, really listened, you could learn a lot.

His office was on the top floor. A good one, with a view over the cobbled stretch of Diagon Alley. Spacious, with thick green carpet and a desk far too shiny for his liking.

He would give it up in a heartbeat for the sand and the tombs.

The paperwork was a nightmare. Before he got there, the goblins had dragged out every curse-breaker report from the last twenty years and marked them up like an exam. Dozens of “inconsistencies.” Red-inked notes.

Now it was his problem.

And he was good at it, which meant they kept giving him more.

Efficiency. Goblins loved it.

So he was stuck behind that shiny desk most days, clearing a mountain of magical audits, too busy to catch anything useful in the passing chatter.

At lunch, he escaped. Crossed into Muggle London and tried something new every day.

Monday it was Thai. Tuesday, Korean. Friday, a little French place that smelled like burnt butter and wine-soaked garlic.

If he couldn’t have real adventure, he would at least have a culinary one.

He visited the family now and then. Grimmauld Place looked a little less cursed these days. His mum had been scrubbing it with tears and determination. Arthur kept busy with the Ministry. Fred and George came by to show him new products they’ve been testing, hoping to sell them at Hogwarts. Their inventions were really clever, he thought.

When he got the phoenix-shaped Patronus with a message about an urgent meeting, he felt a flicker of shame.

He hadn’t had any important updates. Just general impressions. A sense of the mood shifting, but no real leads.

He needed to step up.

When he overheard goblins discussing vault cataloguing, he volunteered.

Goblins were chattier underground. Less careful in the quiet of the deep vaults. 

He told them he missed tombs, that the atmosphere would feel more natural for him.
They had been suspicious, of course, but eventually agreed.

His role would be to escort an intern and make sure they didn’t touch anything dangerous and die.

Babysitting.

He had run from the Burrow to avoid being a nanny, only to end up one at work.

It frustrated him more than it should. And he knew his thoughts were unfair, even cruel.

He had to start somewhere too.

“Please send the intern a note to meet me at my office tomorrow at eleven,” he told the goblin at the desk beside the main archive lift. “We’ll go down together.”

The goblin grunted in response, already scribbling on a scroll.

“Let’s see how this one handles the underground.” Bill muttered.

The goblin made a noise like a strangled laugh.

That wasn’t promising.

— • —

She picked up the note and read it again.

Vault assignment starts tomorrow. 
Vault number 433, inventory check.
Meet your escort at eleven(Floor 7, room 13). 
Dress appropriately.

“Dress appropriately.” she read aloud, narrowing her eyes. “As if I’ve been showing up in ball gowns.” she muttered.

Lilou fluttered nearby, clearly picking up on her mood. The little owl gave a sharp squeak and landed on the back of the chair, watching her with wide, alert eyes.

She looked at all the clothes she had brought with her. A neat selection of blue work dresses, grey pantsuits and pale blue shirts. Small kitten heels. A pair of ballet flats.

How, exactly, was she dressing inappropriate?
Had the goblins been paying attention? Enough to make a comment?

The morning sun crept through her windows. It was a beautiful day. Rare September sunshine casting golden stripes on the floor of her little flat. And she would spend it underground. In the vaults. Escorted by goblins.

She sighed and reached for her charcoal turtleneck and dark blue jeans. Pulled on warm socks and the pair of boots she had brought in case of British rain, and which seemed suitable for maze-like corridors under the city.

She felt strange. Casual. Underprepared.

After a pause, she braided her hair into a loose French plait and tied it with a soft grey ribbon. It was her favourite hairstyle, one that made her feel like herself. She needed that today.

Then came the burgundy leather jacket she had found in her favourite second-hand shop. The one where she got all her flower dotted bowls and plates. It was a little too big on the shoulders, but it made her feel effortlessly cool. 

She grabbed her bag, finished her coffee, then doubled back to leave a few owl treats for Lilou, who hooted once and blinked at her with sleepy eyes.

On the way to the bank, she stopped at her usual bakery. She ordered her coffee to go, the cup warm and familiar in her hand. She held it like armour.

“You look really nice today,” said Anne, the older woman who owned the shop. “Casual day at work?”

A simple question, but it made Fleur second-guess everything.

Should she go back and change into something more formal? 

She thanked Anne with a tight smile and stepped outside, suddenly really aware of the boots on her feet and the ribbon in her hair.

— • —

Once she reached her office and finished her coffee, Fleur told herself she was being ridiculous.

Why was she nervous?

It was just a standard vault assignment. Probably more typos in the French sections, just filed in some chamber underground instead of her usual stack. Nothing special.

She still had a few minutes, so she read over the paperwork they had delivered.

The vault belonged to the Rosier family. Four chambers, not one. Wealthy. Though they were English, they had holdings in France and Germany too, and were apparently moving most of their collection to London now.

Curious.

Her role was to catalogue the newest arrivals from France, to verify whether the descriptions matched the actual items. Straightforward enough. If anything seemed suspicious, she was to report it, not examine it.

At 10:45, she left her office and made her way to the lifts.

“I need to meet my escort. Floor seven, room thirteen.” she told the goblin standing watch near the main archive section.

“Weasley,” he grunted, without looking up, and waved her through.

Weasley?

The name sounded familiar.

She was sure she’d heard it in passing at the bank, once or twice, murmured in side conversations, always in Gobbledegook, and always quickly.

Was that an important goblin?

Why would she be going down with him?

— • —

She stood in front of the heavy, dark wooden door. A small engraved plaque read:

W. Weasley.

Her watch ticked to 11:00.

Just as she raised her hand to knock, the door opened.

A particularly striking man looked back at her with surprise, his eyes wide. He was tall, really tall, with a pale face and a scattering of faint freckles across his nose. His eyes were bright blue with flecks of gold, quite different from her own blue-grey. His long red hair was tied back loosely.

His outfit was… questionable.

He wore a khaki collared shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, showing off a collection of worn leather bracelets. Over the shirt, a black waistcoat. His trousers, also black, were decorated with silver chains. His wand had been tucked behind his ear, but he reached for it on reflex when she startled him. A pale scar curved along his left forearm.

He did not look like a goblin. Or a banker. He looked like someone who had lived through explosions… and enjoyed them.

He looked like adventure.

And he was really, undeniably handsome.

And she had seen him before.

“Not a goblin then.” she said bluntly, before she could stop herself.

He lowered the wand he had instinctively pointed at her and shook his head, eyes closed for a moment longer than necessary. When he looked up again, his face was brighter, eyes full of amusement.

“Not a goblin yourself.”

“They told you you were meeting a goblin?”

“No, not exactly. But I was expecting a Ministry man’s son.”

“Well, I’m a banker’s daughter. Is that better?”

“We’ll see. Shall we?”

“Yes.”

The door closed behind him. As they walked, her eyes flicked to the lettering carved into the wood: W. Weasley.

“W. Weasley?” she asked. “What does the W stand for?”

“William.”

“William. My name is Fleur Delacour.”

“No one really calls me William. Except maybe  Dumbledore. And my aunt Muriel. You can call me Bill.”

“I like William better,” she said, again, without thinking.

He laughed. “Do you now?”

They stepped into the lift. It rattled a little as it began its slow descent, the sound of gears echoing around them.

Fleur stood on one side, arms crossed, eyes fixed ahead. Bill leaned casually against the opposite wall, watching her with obvious interest.

“So, you’re the intern.”

She turned to him. “I prefer ‘junior specialist.’ But yes.”

“Specialist in what?”

“Languages. Runes. Cataloguing.” A pause. “So far, mostly typos.”

Bill smiled. “Crucial to the vaults. Typos have killed before.”

“Do not mock. I have to start somewhere.”

“Not mocking.” he said, raising his hands in surrender.

She looked at him, one brow arched in clear suspicion. 

“I swear.” he added. “All I’ve done this past month is sort through twenty years of paperwork. One goblin found a missing comma and acted like the world nearly ended.”

That made her exhale, something between a sigh and a laugh.

Silence settled between them again. The only sound was the slow creaking of the lift as it sank deeper beneath the bank.

She let herself glance at this curious man again and noticed a small, fanged earring dangling from his left ear. She rolled her eyes. Of course. 

“Do you always dress like that?” she asked suddenly, nodding at the silver chains on his trousers.

He looked down at himself, then back at her. “Only on special occasions.”

“And today is?”

“I’m escorting a junior specialist.” he said, mock-serious. “Had to make an impression.”

She gave him a long, slow look.

“You did.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them. And she hadn’t meant them that way. Or maybe she had. Too much time without proper conversation with another human being was making her reckless.

He looked far too pleased with himself for her liking.

“Alright.” he said, turning toward the tunnel. “Let’s go. We need to take the trolley from here. Grikk will take us down, won’t you, mate?”

He patted the goblin on the shoulder like an old friend. The goblin grunted but stepped forward.

“Scared?” Bill asked, glancing at her.

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. Speed. Heights. There’s a dragon down there, you know.”

“I’ve fought a dragon before.” she said simply. “I’ll be fine.”

“Cheeky.” He grinned. “Alright, ladies first.”

He offered his hand, a little dramatic, a little too charming.

She raised an eyebrow but took it anyway.

So he’s the gentleman. 
Dressed like a madman. 

Interesting.

— • —

She was a Veela.

She had to be, at least partially. That was the only explanation for the way his mind faltered the moment she appeared in his doorway.

His instincts kicked in first. Years of Curse-Breaker training had taught him to react before thinking. So his hand had gone straight to his wand, and his eyes had snapped shut in reflex.

Which was a shame. Because he really wanted to look.

Then she said something ridiculous, in a thick French accent, and it snapped him back into himself, because honestly, was he seriously about to hex a pretty girl?

He forced himself to look at her. 

And she was breathtaking.

Tall and lean, with long legs and curves that made his brain go quiet. She wore jeans, a fitted sweater and burgundy jacket. Nothing flashy. But somehow, she looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine.

And her eyes. Deep blue. The kind of blue that made him think of stormy water. A little wild. A little sharp.

Her hair was tied in a loose braid, nearly to her waist, silver-blonde and shining even in the dim hallway light. A ribbon at the end, grey. Feminine.

And yet, what caught him more than all of it was the look on her face.

Cool. Focused. Not here to impressed him or anyone else.

She was breathtaking, sure, but she wasn’t here to be looked at.

And he could tell, just from the way she stood, that she was about to make his life a lot more interesting.

— • —

Now they were in the trolley together, speeding through the tunnels beneath the bank, headed toward a vault full of pure-blood heirlooms.

What could possibly go wrong?

Bill leaned back against the railing and glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

She sat with her arms folded, gaze fixed on the tracks ahead. Her braid moved slightly in the wind, that soft grey ribbon trailing like a flag. Not a single hair out of place.

He wondered what it would take to undo that braid.

He shook his head. Definitely some sort of Veela magic happening in here. He was never like this.

“Try not to fall out.” he said lightly as the cart tilted into a sharp curve. “Wouldn’t look great for your escort.”

“I’ve flown higher than this.” she replied.

Of course she had.

Who was this girl?

The trolley began to slow as they approached the vault. He sighed quietly, reminded himself to focus, and pulled out the key. Four chambers. A full delivery from France to catalogue. Cursed heirlooms to check. Probably at least one artifact that would try to eat them both.

Maybe she’d lose the ribbon in the process...

He shook the thought away and stepped out first, turning to offer her his hand.

Just like before, she eyed it suspiciously. But she took it.

Her touch was electric.

“Alright.” he said as the vault doors slowly opened. “Time to meet the Rosier’s family jewels.”

— • —

They worked for hours in a comfortable silence, occasionally sneaking glances at each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking.

Grikk had left after the first hour, clearly unimpressed by the Rosier heirlooms and bored with supervising two humans who weren’t about to blow themselves up. “I’ll be back at five.” he grumbled, and vanished down the corridor.

So far, nothing had been cursed.

Bill examined each object carefully before passing it over to her side of the chamber. Fleur stood at a desk she conjured in the corner, her paperwork already neatly organized.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked, breaking their quiet rhythm.

He looked up, surprised, then smiled.

“How very French of you.”

“Yes. Nasty habit.” she said with a shrug. “I didn’t smoke much in France, but lately… it’s nice.”

“Can I have one?”

“Sure.”

She crossed the room and opened a slim silver cigarette case. He took one and put it between his fingers. She lit hers with a wave of a wand, then offered to light his too.

He leaned in slightly. Let her.

“You don’t smell like cigarettes.” he said.

“There’s a charm for that.” 

“I didn’t know there is one.”

“I invented it.” she said simply, taking a slow drag and blowing the smoke away.

“You’ll have to teach me.” he said. “Might come in handy before my mum’s next visit.”

She didn’t reply, just looked at him with a small, rare smile.

His brain began to fog again. He needed a distraction. Fast.

“So,” he said, clearing his throat, “when did you come across the dragon?”

“At Hogwarts.” she replied simply.

He raised his eyebrows.

“Last year. I was Beauxbatons’ champion.”

Everything clicked into place.

“Oh. I was there for the last task. I saw you.”

“Well, if you saw me, you didn’t see me for long. The tasks weren’t exactly entertaining from the stands. And I finished fast. And last.” she added honestly. Then, quieter, “I saw you though.”

“You did?” He blinked, surprised.

She nodded. “At the end. After… at Harry Potter’s bed.”

He was oddly satisfied that she remembered him. But instead of saying that, he said,
“I’m sorry for how it ended.”

“Yeah. Me too. I liked him. Cedric.” Her voice softened. “But he didn’t stand a chance against Voldemort.”

“You believe Harry?” he asked, surprised.

“Of course. Harry Potter doesn’t lie.” She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“They say he does.”

“Who?”

“The Ministry.”

She snorted. “Then the British Ministry is stupid. Just like the French.”

He smiled. “What did the French Ministry do to you?”

“They didn’t hire me.”

“Oh.”

She finished her cigarette first. Put it out in a delicate crystal ashtray that hovered beside her, one that definitely hadn’t been there a second ago. She offered him one last smile, then turned back to her conjured desk and returned to the endless records.

— • —

They worked until five.

Grikk returned with an impatient grunt, unimpressed by the gleaming goblets and gilded mirrors they’d catalogued. He barely glanced at Fleur’s organized stack of parchment or the cursed pocket watch Bill had set aside for further analysis.

Back in the trolley, as they jolted into motion, Bill stretched his legs out and gave Grikk a friendly nudge with his elbow.

“Cheer up, Grikk. No one got hexed today. 
I was very responsible.”

Grikk made a sound that could’ve been a grunt, a snort, or a curse. Possibly all three.

Bill turned to Fleur. “See? He’s speechless with gratitude.”

On the ride back, Fleur sat with her arms folded again, her eyes tracing the tunnels ahead. 

When they reached the bank’s upper levels, the goblin vanished without ceremony.

Outside, the sunlight was softer now, brushing gold against the cobbled street.

“See you tomorrow.” Fleur said, putting on a leather jacket and adjusting the strap of her bag.

“Yeah,” Bill replied, watching her turn and walk off into the street. “See you.”

He stood there a second longer than he should have. Then he shook his head and turned toward his own flat.

Later, alone in his apartment, he sat on the couch, sipping the Muggle beer he’d picked up last week.

He should’ve been reviewing notes. Or preparing some clever strategy to eavesdrop on goblin politics. Something useful. Something the Order might actually thank him for.

Instead, he was sitting in silence, his wand abandoned on the table beside. 

And all he could think about… was a braid.

The way it trailed behind her as she walked ahead of him. The way the strands of hair came more and more loose with every passing hour. One strand slipping free, then another, until by the end of the day, it looked like the braid had been barely holding on at all.

Just like him.

He sighed, leaned his head back, and took another swig of beer.

He wondered if she would wear it like that tomorrow.

— • —

A soft knock.

“Ready?” Bill’s voice came through the open doorway, his head poking around the frame. Then he laughed. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?” she asked, clearly irritated.

She looked down at herself. Crisp cotton shirt buttoned neatly, black trousers, and ankle boots. Perfectly reasonable. Functional.

“Nothing.” he said with a grin. “Very Ministry of you.”

“I’m wearing boots. That’s casual.” she muttered, then turned to really look at him. And just like yesterday, it hit her again.

He was very handsome in the morning light.

Something about his features, unusual, sharp, captivating. It made it hard to look away. She had forced herself not to stare yesterday. Today might be even harder.

He wore black jeans, a navy shirt with the sleeves pushed up, a worn leather jacket in his hand, that looked like it had seen things. The whole look was effortless. Cool.

“Besides.” she said, lifting an eyebrow, “you’re wearing a shirt too.”

“Yeah, but mine isn’t white.”

“I’m ready to go.” she said, grabbing her half-finished cup of coffee like it was a weapon.

— • —

This isn’t right, she thought, eyeing the necklace.

“Seventeen-carat ruby gold necklace.” the document claimed. But the stones didn’t glisten like rubies. No depth. They looked… matte. Dull.

Red onyx, she guessed. That would be her bet. Wouldn’t be the first time a pure-blood family didn’t know what they owned.

She lifted the necklace closer, inspecting the stones more carefully. 

Then screamed.

“Mon Dieu!”

Bill nearly dropped the gilded chalice he’d been examining. He turned fast, wand already out. “What? What is it?”

She didn’t move, still frozen, the necklace dangling from her hand. “This is cursed.”

He blinked. “What?”

“It’s not ruby.” she said, her voice steady now, though still tight. “It’s red onyx. Laced with some sort of Tainted Memory Hexes. Old ones. Subtle.”

Bill crossed the room in three quick strides. He took the necklace gently from her hand and muttered a detection charm under his breath. Faint golden threads shimmered along the stones, barely visible.

He frowned.

“I missed that,” he admitted slowly. “The goblins would’ve caught it eventually, but…”

He looked at her. 

“I’m really sorry, Fleur. I should’ve caught that.”

“But you didn’t.” she said, raising one eyebrow, not unkindly. “Lucky for you, I did.”

He stared at the necklace a moment longer, then looked back at her.

“Noted,” he said quietly. “Next time I see ‘Junior Specialist’ on a memo, I’ll remember not to underestimate it.”

Her lips curved, just slightly.

“Good.”

— • —

She suggested the break.

Bill joined her gladly, leaning against the stone wall outside the vault as she pulled out her cigarette case. He took one when she offered.

Fleur watched him carefully.

“You don’t really smoke, do you?” she asked.

He paused, the unlit cigarette between his fingers. “What gave me away?”

“You hold it like it’s a quill,” she said, deadpan.

He laughed softly, a little embarrassed, and let his head fall back against the wall.

“Busted.”

“Why pretend, then?”

He glanced sideways at her, lips twitching. “Well… you invented the no-smell charm. I had to look cool in front of the inventor.”

Fleur shook her head, trying not to smile, as she lit both cigarettes.

— • —

They worked in comfortable silence, the soft scratch of her quill and quiet rustling of parchment the only sounds in the vault, until they were interrupted.

Grikk appeared in the doorway, looking tense. His expression was sharper than usual, and his voice cut through the air.

“You need to leave. Now.”

Fleur straightened. “Why?”

Bill was already vanishing the desk and chairs with a flick of his wand, all humour gone from his face.

“Come on, Fleur,” he said briskly. His tone left no room for argument.

They stepped into the corridor. A trolley was waiting at the far end, but before she could move toward it, Bill caught her hand and pulled her toward a wide stone pillar near another vault entrance.

Grikk gave a curt nod, understanding immediately. With a flick of his long fingers, the vault behind them shimmered and sealed. No trace left. As if no one had been there at all.

“I demand to…” she began.

“I’ll explain later.” Bill said in a low voice. “Just stay quiet.”

Another trolley rattled down the tracks and screeched to a halt.

Then came a voice, loud, commanding, and unmistakably human.

“MOVE.”

She couldn’t see clearly from behind the pillar, but that voice… it made her skin crawl.

The sounds followed next: the clinking of metal, the shuffle of coins and parchment.

“I want you to send this to the Minister’s wife.” the voice said. “A gift from a dear friend.”

More ruffling. “And this pile, donate it. Department of International Magical Cooperation. Make sure they know who it’s from.”

Bill’s hand tensed in hers.

She glanced at him, but he didn’t look back. His jaw was tight, eyes narrowed as he listened.

The vault door shifted again with a loud clank. More steps. Laughter.

Then silence.

She suddenly became very aware of how close he stood. The warmth of his arm brushing hers. The way their hands were still linked. He smelled like earth and cigarette smoke. She still hasn’t shown him the charm.

Fleur didn’t move for a long time. Neither did he.

— • —

“Explain,” she said flatly once they were back in her office.

“Not here.”

“You promised.”

“It’s not safe.”

She stared at him. “When?”

“Free tonight?”

She blinked. Then blushed.
Wait. Since when did she blush?

“I didn’t mean it like that.” he added quickly. “I mean… it’s really not a good idea to talk in here”

“Yes. Okay. Where then?”

“There’s this small pub on the Muggle side of London,”he said. “The Sand&Barrel. No wizards ever come. Quiet.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You go there often?”

“Not really.” He shrugged. “But I trust the owner. And they have excellent chips.”

She hesitated. Then gave a small nod.

“Alright. What time?”

“Seven? In the Leaky Cauldron. We’ll walk.”

“Fine.” she said. 

But as he turned to leave, she watched him with narrowed eyes.

He wouldn’t tell her anything. She knew his type. Charming smiles and vague promises.

He’d buy her a drink, change the subject, and pretend he was protecting her.

She wasn’t stupid.

But she’d go anyway. Just in case he slipped.

— • —

He walked into the Leaky Cauldron and nodded a greeting to Tom.

“Just passing through today, thanks.”

She wasn’t there yet.

He lingered by the door, pretending to be relaxed while his eyes scanned the room. An old warlock was slumped over at the bar, half-sliding off his stool. For a second, Bill considered ordering a drink just to look less suspicious. She was late.

Was she going to stand him up?

He didn’t think he’d care. He shouldn’t care. She wanted answers, and he had to be careful with what he said. It would’ve been easier if she didn’t show up at all. 

But still, there was that strange, unsettled feeling curling in his stomach.

He was just about to head toward the bar when he saw her.

She walked in confidently, her hair down this time. Soft waves over her shoulders, not a ribbon or braid in sight.

He stood there like a complete idiot, suddenly breathless.

This was getting ridiculous. He needed to get a grip.

“You’re late.” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. It wasn’t meant to sound harsh, just the only thing his brain could come up with at the moment.

“Sorry. I got a letter from my sister. Needed to reply.”

His expression softened immediately. “Everything good at home?”

“It’s all good. She’s at Beauxbatons. We start school earlier in France. She’s nine.”

“Is she alright?” he asked, frowning slightly.

“She will be.”

She didn’t explain, and he didn’t press.

— • —

They walked down the street in comfortable silence. She seemed lost in thought. So was he.

He kept turning phrases over in his mind, what to say, what not to say. The entire Order business was off-limits, obviously. But she had questions, and he had promised answers.

When they reached the pub, he stopped in front of the acid green door and turned to watch her reaction.

She didn’t flinch. Just gave a single, measured nod and stepped inside.

The dim lighting gave everything a slightly golden hue. Wooden beams stretched overhead. A fireplace flickered lazily in the corner. Two old Muggles played cards near the bar.

He watched her as she took it all in. Then smiled and ushered her toward the booth in the back that was permanently reserved for him.

She sat with quiet grace, folded her coat beside her, and smoothed her sleeves.

He sat across from her.

She met his eyes, calm but expectant.

“Well?” she said softly. “Let’s hear it. The explanation.”

“Not even a drink first?” he asked, aiming for a light tone.

He regretted it the moment the words left his mouth.

Her cool blue eyes narrowed, turning darker, almost steely. There was a sharpness in her expression that made something in his chest twist. And what made it worse, what made him hate himself a little, was that he liked it.

He opened his mouth, ready to take it back, say something disarming, anything…

But salvation came in the form of the bartender.

“Bill! Isn’t that my favorite guy!” the man called out, grinning. “And you brought a girl in here. Weird move, mate. She’s way too pretty for this dump.”

“It’s not a date.” Fleur said quickly, her voice dry.

“Well of course it isn’t.” the bartender replied, still grinning. “Just look at you, then look at him. The sand in Egypt aged him at least thirty years.”

“Ten.” Bill said flatly. “It aged me ten. Thank you very much.”

He gestured between them. “Fleur, this is Joe. We met when he was studying in Egypt.”

“Egypt?” Fleur echoed, caught off guard.

“Well, yes. Bill was the youngest and often the drunkest archaeologist in town. Fun times.” Joe added cheerfully.

“Archaeologist…” Fleur muttered under her breath, her tone unreadable.

Joe raised his eyebrows, sensing something, but Bill shook his head slightly. A silent plea not to press.

Joe winked and turned back to the bar. “Drinks coming up. Same as usual?”

“Yes. And whatever the lady will have.”

“Glass of white wine, please.” Fleur said.

“Alright then. Coming right up. I’ll bring the good stuff.” Joe said before disappearing behind the bar.

“Archaeologist?” Fleur asked the moment he was out of earshot.

“He’s a Muggle.” Bill said. “I couldn’t exactly explain my real job without violating the Statute of Secrecy.”

“And what is your real job? Because I’m starting to think it’s not escorting interns around.”

“Curse-Breaker. I was based in Egypt for couple of years.”

“And now you’re back.” Her voice was steady. Matter-of-fact.

“Yes. I am.”

“Why? Fancied a desk job after years of danger and sun?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. He couldn’t fake enthusiasm for that. So he just shrugged.

She watched him for a long moment. Calm. Patient.

Joe returned, balancing a glass of white wine, a beer, and a bowl of chips. He set them down with a wink, then wandered off again, whistling something vaguely off-key.

She took a sip. Elegant. Composed.

“So,” she said at last, setting the glass down with a quiet clink. “Egypt.”

“You ever been?” Bill asked, buying time.

She shook her head. “No. But I imagine it’s a bit warmer than London.”

“A little bit, yes.” he said with a dry smile.

Silence stretched between them. She was waiting for more, but he wasn’t sure what to say.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said after a pause. “Why did you leave?”

He tapped his fingers against the glass.

“Family.” he said, voice light. “Mum wanted me closer.”

More silence followed. She was thinking. Too intently for his comfort.

“I promised to explain about today.” he added, trying to shift the focus. “It wasn’t anything big. Just goblin politics.”

That got her attention. She looked up, brows slightly lifted. “Politics?”

“How long have you been at Gringotts?”

“Since July.” she said, frowning.

“And how many wizards have you worked with?”

She paused. “You...”

“Exactly.” he said, leaning back with something like quiet triumph.

“I don’t understand.”

“You said you’re a banker’s daughter.” He reached for a chip. “Didn’t your father ever explain how it works in wizarding banking?”

She didn’t answer.

“It’s a secretive world. Goblins don’t like people poking around.”

He popped the chip into his mouth, then pushed the bowl toward her.

She slowly reached out, took a chip, and ate it. Gracefully, like everything she did.

“Goblins like to maintain illusions.” he said. “They don’t want clients to know they hire humans. It makes them look weak.”

“Those old families. High-profile clients.” Bill went on. “They don’t want wizards knowing what they’re keeping in here, or how much they’re really worth.”

She tilted her head slightly, intrigued. He could see her mind working.

“The Rosiers, for example. Wealthy, obviously. You saw that for yourself. But there are other families. Pure-blood lines clinging to their names long after their gold ran out. Vaults mostly empty. But they keep up appearances.”

She sipped her wine.

“They trust goblins. Goblins don’t gossip. Wizards do.”

Fleur leaned back in her chair, still watching him.

“So Gringotts hides its human staff.”

“Especially ones who are memorable,” he said, glancing at her. “It’s easier to pretend it’s all goblin-run. Keeps the illusion intact. Keeps secrets safe.”

He didn’t say it. He never would. But when he realised Rosier Senior was coming to the vault, his first panicked thought had been to hide her.

Hide her from the Death Eater.

She was beautiful. Talented. Resourceful.

And he had only known her two days, but he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

He didn’t want her anywhere near their radar.

“Why did you come here?” he asked, curious. 

“For a job.” she said, surprised. “I told you. The French Ministry didn’t hire me.”

“But… why?”

“English.” She said it flatly. “They said I’m very decorative. But my English is bland, and my accent poor.”

“I think your English is great.” he said, more earnest than he meant to sound. “Honestly.”

“You think that because you speak French.”

“What? I didn’t tell…”

“I saw you,” she said simply. “Correcting some of the typos when you thought I wasn’t looking. You’re clearly fluent.”

He blinked. Then smiled, slow and impressed.

“And you’re very observant, Miss Delacour.”

“More than you think.” She offered him a weak smile now. 

“Yet you missed French typos.”

“At least I didn’t miss a cursed necklace.”

He leaned back, mock-wounded. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

She lifted her glass in a slow, deliberate toast. “Not a chance.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Brutal.”

“Truthful,” she corrected, taking a sip. “There’s a difference.”

“Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“Too late.” But there was a glint in her eye now, the faintest trace of amusement.

He sat back, watching her. She was clever. Unflinching. And every time he thought he’d found her rhythm, she shifted.

Merlin help him. He was intrigued. 

— • —

“So they didn’t even say it to me, no feedback, nothing. I just heard it on the way back. ‘Very decorative, but poor English.’”

She laughed without humor. “And I go home thinking maybe I’ll apply at a robe shop in Paris. Then my dad says he got me a job in London to ‘practice my English.’ So I come here… and for two months it’s nothing but goblins grunting at me. Zero practice.” 

She was babbling now, relaxed from two glasses of wine as they walked down the quiet street.

The moonlight made her hair glow silver, nearly the color of the Moon. The breeze played with it, tugging a few strands loose. She looked beautiful. Out of this world.

He noticed one curl brush her cheek and instinctively reached out to tuck it behind her ear, then caught himself.

She turned to look at him.

“This is me.” she said softly. “Thank you for walking me back, Bill.”

“Cheers.” he said, hands in his pockets. “See you on Monday, Fleur.”

“Yes. See you.”

She slipped behind the blue door, pausing to give him a small smile before it close

He stood there for a moment, then turned on the spot and Disapparated straight into his living room, where a glowing Patronus was already waiting with a message. 

He brushed his teeth, changed into something more comfortable, and left again, off to Grimmauld Place to talk more politics. Goblin and all.

— • —

He looked really tired today.

At first, she thought he’d gone out last night. Maybe met up with Joe again, reminiscing about student days over too many pints. But then she noticed the frown as he set the newspaper down, the deep lines around his eyes. A messy, green-inked letter lay open on his desk. Beside it, a chipped mug of coffee, long gone cold.

“Troubling news?” she asked carefully.

“I don’t know,” he replied vaguely. “Hogwarts has a new High Inquisitor.”

“A High Inquisitor? What is that?” she asked, frowning.

“I don’t know. The Ministry says it’s a success. There are a lot of ‘Educational Decrees’ lately.”

“Well, that’s very much needed, isn’t it?”

He looked at her, visibly startled. The disappointment in his expression was hard to miss.

“I was at Hogwarts last year, remember?” she said quickly. “A student died. The entire castle… it didn’t feel safe for children.”

“The castle is fine,” he said sharply. Clearly annoyed. “And that’s not what they’re reforming, anyway.”

“What are the changes, then?”

He lifted the paper again and read aloud in a dry, mocking voice: “Intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.”

“Whatever does that mean?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow, clearly annoyed with the overcomplicated phrasing.

“I really don’t know.” He sounded uncomfortable. He picked up the letter again, scanning it quickly. “My sister says… they’ve stopped teaching them magic.”

“What?” she said, startled. Her eyes widened.

“Defense, in particular.”

“Now?” Her voice sharpened. “When Voldemort is back?” 

“They say it’s all a lie. Remember?” he said quietly.

— • —

“I could speak to Madame Maxime.” Fleur said quietly. “If you’re worried about your sister’s education.”

Bill looked up, clearly startled. He hadn’t expected that.

He thought for a moment, then let out a low, tired laugh.

“What?” she asked, mildly offended. “She would get a very good education in France.”

Bill sighed. “It’s not that. I just pictured Ginny’s face if we told her we were shipping her off to Beauxbatons. She’d be furious.”

“What year is she in?”

“Fourth.”

“And you have a brother too? Harry Potter’s friend?”

“Yes. I have five brothers.”

She blinked, genuinely surprised. “Five…?”

He nodded. “My parents really wanted a girl. Three of my brothers are still at Hogwarts. They’ll look after her. I’m sure.”

She didn’t reply.

Silence fell again.

Around two, Bill stood up.

“I’ve got to leave for a bit.” he said, grabbing his worn jacket. “Family thing. Don’t touch any of the heirlooms on this side. Grikk will be here in ten minutes to stay with you.”

She looked up, surprised. But said nothing.

Just nodded.

— • —

She proofed the documents, pausing occasionally when Grikk let out one of his signature grunts from the corner. After a particularly loud one, she looked up, visibly annoyed.

Grikk stared back at her, head tilted slightly, eyes sharp with curiosity.

“He’s looking for a wife, you know.” he said bluntly.

“Pardon…?”

“Weasley. Said he wanted a transfer because he’s ready to settle down. Wants a wife.”

She blinked. That… was not what he told her.

She frowned and looked back down at her papers.

What a strange day.

— • —

Bill was waiting for her in the lobby at 5:20, holding a cup of coffee.

“Sorry,” he said as he handed it to her. “It took longer than I expected. I hoped to make it back before five.”

“It’s fine. It’s a boring job. You don’t need to babysit me all the time.” she said honestly.

“I’m really sorry.”

“Is everything okay? With your family?” she asked, noticing how tense he looked.

“Yes.” But his eyes didn’t meet hers.

She didn’t push.

“Want me to walk you home?”

“If you’d like.” She pulled on her jacket and stepped outside without looking back.

She heard him follow with a sigh.

— • —

“I hope Grikk was a perfect gentleman.”

“He was alright. Just made a lot of noise.”

Bill snorted.

They walked in comfortable silence after that. He seemed deep in thought, but she didn’t mind. Something was clearly bothering him, but she wouldn’t press. Not tonight.

The wind tugged at her braid, which was barely holding together after the long day. Strands of hair slipped free, dancing in the breeze.

When they reached her place, she noticed him watching her hair with a small frown. Just as she was about to say goodbye, he reached out and gently tucked a loose strand behind her ear.

“Bye, Fleur.”

She stood there a moment longer, watching as he Disapparated, the wind lifting that same strand free again.

— • —

She entered her apartment to find three owls staring at her.

Lilou, clearly annoyed, was perched beside her treat bowl, guarding it from the unwanted company. Fleur crossed the room and untied the two letters, then reached into the cabinet and gave each owl a treat, despite Lilou’s indignant hoots.

The unfamiliar owls took off immediately.

She set her bag and keys on the small cupboard by the door and looked down at the envelopes. One was large, stamped with the Ministry’s emblem, the address written neatly in black ink. The second was smaller, her name scrawled in a rushed, unfamiliar hand.

She opened the Ministry one first:

Miss Delacour,

We are pleased to inform you that a position has opened in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and you are a strong candidate for this post.

We are aware of your experience as a Triwizard Champion and are prepared to offer you the role of Assistant to the Department Head.

We were highly impressed with your abilities and conduct during the interview held in June. At this stage, the final step in the recruitment process is a short written statement detailing your experience at Hogwarts.

We are particularly interested in your impressions of the British educational system and of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. Your unique perspective as a foreign delegate and competitor is highly valued in shaping our international approach.

Please submit your statement via owl no later than September 29th. Should your response meet our expectations, you will receive an official offer within three business days.

We look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,
Geneviève Laroche
Senior Coordinator
Department of International Magical Cooperation
French Ministry of Magic

„Pfff!” she said aloud. “You want me to lie.”

Without hesitation, she crumpled the letter and tossed it straight into the bin, eyes sharp with annoyance.

She took a deep breath, then reached for the second envelope.

The handwriting was unfamiliar, sharp, uneven, almost impatient. Definitely not official. She turned it over and broke the seal.

Fleur,

I hope this finds you well. I heard from someone that you are in London now, working at Gringotts.
That is brave. Goblins are not exactly… easy.

I don’t know if you wish to hear from me, but I believe I owe you an apology.

At the time, I didn’t fully understand what happened in the maze.
I was told I’d been cursed, that I attacked others. I didn’t remember much… until recently. Some of it is coming back now, in fragments. Enough to know I frightened you. Enough to feel ashamed. It was never my intention to hurt you. You were always respectful and brave, during the Tournament and after.

I should have said something long ago.

Things aren’t right here. My coach says I shouldn’t talk about it. That I should focus on Quidditch, not… politics.

But it’s hard to play when everything feels wrong.

If you ever want to talk, write me back. 
You always understood more than people gave you credit for.

Viktor Krum

She hadn’t expected that.

Of all the memories from the maze, that one had stayed buried the deepest. And now, dragged back to the surface, it left a bitter weight in her chest.

She read the letter again, slower this time.

“You always understood more than people gave you credit for.”

Fleur stared at the words for a long moment, her thumb brushing the edge of the parchment.

She didn’t know if she wanted to reply.

So, she made tea. Took a long, hot shower. Tidied her apartment. Anything to push the words from her mind.

But they stayed with her.

“You always understood…”

She glanced at Lilou, perched on the windowsill, alert and hopeful for a job.

“How do you feel about a long journey, hmm?” she asked gently, stroking the soft feathers of the owlet’s wing. Lilou hooted once in reply.

Fleur sat down at her small desk, pulled out her parchment and quill, and began to write.

— • —

Things were starting to get real.

Or maybe they already had. But the arrest of Sturgis Podmore shifted something in him. Sturgis had been caught trespassing during an Order mission. It was meant to be quiet. Simple surveillance. Nothing that should have ended in chains. Now he was sentenced to six months in Azkaban. Six months. With Dementors.

The news from Hogwarts wasn’t much better. Ginny’s latest letters were short and full of half-said things. That alone was enough to worry him.

He’d told Fleur his brothers would look after her, and he believed that. But he also knew them. Every single one had a reckless streak a mile wide. Hotheaded Gryffindors, the whole lot.

Bill started working late, trying to pick up more from the goblins, trying to get a clearer sense of where their loyalties might fall.

He still escorted Fleur every day. Her dry wit and quiet insight distracted him more than he cared to admit. Some nights, he walked her home, only to regret it later, telling himself he should’ve been chasing leads instead of conversations.

They wrapped up the Rosier vault project by mid-September and returned to regular office duties.

On a tip from Lupin, he began finding excuses to linger near Ragnok. Word was the goblin might be leaning in their direction. Bill spent days building that bridge, only to learn the door had closed long ago. Ragnok wanted nothing to do with wizards, especially not after Ludo Bagman skipped out on a string of bets and vanished without paying his debts.

A dead end.

A few days later, a letter arrived.

Bill recognized the handwriting immediately.

Impossibly stiff. Far too formal.

Dear Bill,

I hope this letter finds you well and thriving in your new role at Gringotts. I was pleased to hear you’ve finally transitioned into a desk post. It was a wise move. It’s reassuring to know you’re applying your considerable talents somewhere more stable (and respectable) than the tombs of Egypt. It speaks, I think, to a certain maturity that we, as former Head Boys, always strive to uphold.

Speaking of which, have you heard the good news? Our brother Ronald has been named a Prefect! Another Weasley in the long tradition of leadership and responsibility! I must say, it’s gratifying to see the younger ones following the example we set. I actually heard about it from Dolores Umbridge herself! She’s taken a personal interest in improving Hogwarts’ standards, and I believe her reforms are long overdue.

That said, I’m concerned. Ron’s continued attachment to Harry Potter and his… theatrics could jeopardize his progress. As you’re no doubt aware, the Ministry has had to take decisive action in the face of certain destabilizing influences and Dumbledore’s behavior of late has only made matters worse.

I’ve written to Ron. I thought it important to offer guidance as his older brothers, and the only other Prefects in the family, it falls to us to set a proper example. I reminded him that loyalty to family doesn’t mean following bad leadership.

Perhaps you might consider writing to him as well? He’s always looked up to you. Hearing from both of us might help him remember what being a Weasley ought to stand for.

I hope you’ll give it some thought. In these times, it’s vital to show the Ministry we are clear-headed and unified. I believe you still understand that, even if others… do not.

Yours sincerely,

Percival I. Weasley
Junior Assistant to the Minister for Magic

Bill looked at the parchment and blinked several times, trying to process what he’d just read.

Then he read it again. Slower this time. As if that might somehow make it better.

It didn’t.

“Former Head Boys.” he muttered. “Merlin’s beard.”

Bill was rarely speechless. But this did it. He cursed. Loudly.

“Clear-headed and unified, my arse.”

He needed to write to Ron.

Bloody hell. He was still just a kid. A stubborn, brave, annoyingly loyal kid.

His friendship with Harry wasn’t some political allegiance. It never had been. And no matter what Percy thought, loyalty didn’t mean obedience.

Bill rubbed a hand over his face.

Ron was going to be livid when he saw that letter. He could almost hear the yelling now.

Still, maybe it was a good idea to write him. He should hear from a different brother.

He picked out a parchment and quill and wrote a short message:

Ron,

Percy wrote to me too. What a pompous brat.

Don’t listen to him. I know you won’t. Still, it’s sad to see how easily he’s been manipulated. Hopefully he’ll come to his senses.

All good on your end? I hope that old bat Umbridge isn’t giving you too much trouble.

Write me if you need anything.
And kick Mrs. Norris for me.

Yours,
Bill

Just as he was about to leave to send the owl to Ron, a memo flew in and hovered stubbornly in front of his face. He plucked it out of the air and scanned it.

Assignment:
Vault 93:  Lestrange Family
Preliminary inventory to be conducted prior to applying enhanced security protocols.
Escort: Junior Specialist Delacour.

He stared at it for a long moment.

Lestrange.

This was going to be interesting. 
And maybe even useful.

If he could get a copy of that inventory… well. The Order would want to know exactly what the Lestranges were keeping underground.

He tucked the memo into his coat and turned, heading for the owlery.

— • —

The new vault assignment began on Monday. The family name on the record was Lestrange, which sounded French, and sure enough, it turned out they had many ties to France. The vault was filled with ancient gold, heirloom jewelry, and even a few original paintings by Cézanne.

Bill escorted her as usual, but he had been less chatty lately. He seemed serious, more focused than before, especially whenever they passed goblins speaking in hushed tones.

The Lestrange vault was one of the oldest in Gringotts, guarded by the Thief’s Downfall. The enchanted waterfall poured over the track just before the vault entrance, stripping away every enchantment it touched. They had to pass through it each morning, arriving at the vault soaked to the bone.

And just beyond the curve in the tunnel, was the dragon.

A Ukrainian Ironbelly, enormous and pale-scaled, kept chained deep below the level of the vaults. Fleur had only caught a glimpse of its gold eyes, but that was enough. The sound of its claws scraping stone echoed faintly through the corridors.

Bill had said, without much ceremony. “Don’t look it in the eye. They see that as a challenge.”

Unlike the Rosier vault, which had multiple rooms and alcoves, the Lestrange vault had only a single chamber. But it was enormous, carved in a way that made her feel small. Cold air clung to every wall, brushing against her neck like fingertips. This job would take time.

They worked for days, supervised by two goblins now, both frowning at her every smoking break.

Finally, after a week, they earned enough trust to be supervised by Grikk alone. Eventually, even he grew bored.

Now he stood guard just outside the vault, arms crossed, muttering the occasional goblin phrase under his breath. Inside, Fleur and Bill worked quietly, moving deeper into the chamber.

“This is morbid.” Fleur said suddenly.

She had stopped in front of a display case filled with stuffed magical creatures. And what appeared to be…

“Werewolf.” said Bill horrified.

“This isn’t right. It’s…”

“It’s a trophy. Some pure-blood families see this kind of thing as a show of power.”

“But this is human.” she said sharply. “They’re keeping a dead human in a bank vault. How is this legal?”

“It’s not human. It’s a werewolf.”  Bill replied, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

Fleur stared at the display for a moment longer. Then looked at Bill, slowly, deep in thought. 

“Then I am no human either.”

Bill blinked, then narrowed his eyes.

“I knew it. You’re Veela.”

“No… not exactly.”

“No?”

“Well… my grandmother is.”

“Bingo.” Bill said, more to himself than to her.

“I didn’t choose it.” Fleur replied, her voice low but firm.

He looked at her then. Really looked. Something flickered behind his expression, too quick to name.

“I didn’t mean it like…”

“I know how you meant it.” She cut him off, not cruelly. Just tired.

There was a beat of silence. The air between them grew heavy.

Then he said, softer. “I really didn’t mean it like that. Just… you scared the hell out of me. That first day.”

She let out a breath. Almost a laugh, but not quite.

“You’re blaming magic?”

“Absolutely!”

“Then I suggest you stay focused, Curse-Breaker.”

Bill grinned, but didn’t reply.

They didn’t say anything for the rest of the day, but she caught him looking at her with a coy smile.

The chair at the head of the table was empty.

No one said it aloud, but the silence that followed each report seemed louder because of it. Dumbledore’s absence wasn’t rare, but it always made the room feel colder. Alastor Moody stood instead, scarred arms crossed, his magical eye spinning slowly in its socket.

“We’ll start with the werewolves.” Moody growled. “Lupin?”

Remus leaned forward, hands folded. “Still no unified movement. Greyback’s getting bolder. He’s pushing others toward Voldemort, promising protection, blood, revenge. Some are tempted. Most are scared.”

“Keep pressing where you can.” Moody said. “We need names.”

Next came Snape, his pale face unreadable. He didn’t look at anyone directly. “The Dark Lord’s circle is growing. Quietly, but deliberately. Many names we once suspected are now confirmed. Some are still playing both sides.”

“And Sturgis?” asked Kingsley. “Was he bewitched?”

“Imperiused.” Snape said, voice low. “I know that firsthand. It was Malfoy.”

A murmur swept the room. Sirius scoffed.

“Of course you do. Still in good graces with your precious Dark Lord, are we, Snivellus? Bet you offered him some useful tips.”

“You,” Snape hissed, turning to him with hatred. “You sit here comfortably in your mummy’s house with no idea what I risk every single day.”

“They know I’m a dog now,” Sirius snapped. “Malfoy recognized me. Care to explain how they found out?”

“Ask your beloved pet rat, Pettigrew.”

Sirius went pale. He stood, wand half-drawn.

“Don’t talk to me about that traitor! ”

“Enough,” Moody barked, slamming a hand on the table before wands could rise. “Tonks. Your turn.”

Tonks straightened. “We’ve made progress inside the Ministry. Two Unspeakables are with us now. I’ve also heard whispers that Fudge is favoring anyone who donates to his campaign. He’ll do anything for gold. We might have to tighten the security, plan extra rounds... ”

Moody nodded. “We’ll go over the new schedule later. Weasley?”

Bill looked up. “The goblins are still keeping their distance. They take jobs, but they’re watching both sides. I’ve been assigned to the Lestrange vault. Inventory check. They requested additional security. The instructions came directly from Azkaban.”

Mad-Eye snorted. “Goblins have you cataloguing vaults now? You must be bored out of your mind, boy.”

“I’m not really doing the catalogue,” Bill said, unbothered. “I’m more of an escort for an intern. I make sure they don’t touch anything they shouldn’t.”

“Do they?” Mad-Eye asked, his magical eye swiveling toward Tonks, who grinned.

Bill hesitated. “No. I mean.., yes. I missed a cursed necklace at Rosier’s. It was my fault though. And she’s fine.”

He still felt a little guilty about that. 

“She?” Molly asked with interest, eying Bill’s new, bigger fanged earring. 

He ignored his mother and sat straighter.

“Anyway, I’ve been thinking. If I can get a copy of the Lestrange vault catalogue, it might be useful. We’d know what assets they’re holding, what’s being moved. And who still has access that isn’t locked up.”

“You planning to steal it?” asked Kingsley, voice calm but clearly disapproving.

“Won’t the intern report you if you steal it?” Snape added dryly.

“No. I’d make a copy. Geminio it ”

Arthur looked concerned. “That’s risky, Bill. You’ve worked hard to build goblins’ trust. Dumbledore’s counting on your relations.”

“I won’t risk it unless I’m sure.”

 “And the intern?” Asked Moody. “Trustworthy?” 

“I think so. She believes Harry. Uses Voldemort’s name often, without flinching.” Like on command, several people did flinch at that. 

“She knows Harry?” Molly pressed, motherly instincts rising.

“Fleur Delacour.” Bill said, carefully and quickly. “She was at Hogwarts last year. One of the Triwizard Champions. Beauxbatons.”

Molly narrowed her eyes. “And you’re working closely with her?”

Sirius gave a low whistle.

“She might be spying for the French.” Moody said flatly.

“She’s not. She’s not fond of her Ministry, actually. Complains constantly.”

“Why?” Tonks asked cheerfully. Her hair was a deep shade of orange today, like she was trying to pass as a Weasley but didn’t quite succeed.

“They didn’t hire her. She applied for a diplomatic role and got rejected. They said her English was too poor. She took the job in London to practice.”

“And who’s giving her lessons? Surely not the goblins ?” Sirius asked, eyeing him with a smile, suggestively raising his eyebrows.

Bill rolled his eyes but then grew quiet. “She’s… sharp. She notices things.”

He hesitated again, his voice quiet when he spoke.

“There’s a display in the Lestrange vault. A werewolf. Stuffed. On show. Like a prize.”

That made the room fall still.

He watched Remus closely. But the man wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“No idea who it was,” he added. “But she saw it and… she understood. Said they keep a dead human in the vault. And if a werewolf isn’t human, then she isn’t either.”

That made Remus look up. His eyes were full of shame, but also surprise.

“Her grandmother was a Veela.”

Remus swallowed hard but said nothing. Moody gave a grunt.

“Yes. She would know about that. Voldemort slaughtered the lot of them.” He looked at Bill for a moment, then added, “Keep watching her. And the vault. Find out what’s so special they’re trying to stuff in there.”

Bill gave a quiet nod. “I will.”

“Alright. Let’s go over the new patrol routes. Arthur…”

They moved on. Bill tried to focus on the plans, but he could feel his mother’s suspicious eyes still on him.

— • —

“Molly looked absolutely thrilled, you know. You, locked underground… with a Veela,” Sirius teased, handing Bill a goblet of elf-made wine.

The meeting was over. Some members had left for patrols, others returned to their families. The long table remained cluttered with notes, scrolls, and half-empty mugs. Mundungus was snoring loudly in the corner, his head resting on a stack of parchment.

Molly was already at work, wand flicking in practiced motions. Plates floated to the table, potatoes peeled themselves midair, and carrots chopped on the counter. Tonks hovered nearby the stove, trying (and failing) to convince her to let her help.

“Mum’s weird about any girl near me,” Bill said with a sigh. “She’s been trying to interest me in Tonks.”

At that, Lupin looked up sharply. His hand jerked, knocking over his goblet and spilling wine across a map he’d been sketching.

“Tergeo,” Remus muttered quickly, vanishing the wine with a flick of his wand.

“Don’t worry, mate,” Bill said with a grin, clapping Remus on the back. “I’m not interested in Tonks like that. She’s all yours.”

Remus flushed and cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cheer up, Moony,” Sirius chimed in, smirking. “Bill’s not looking twice at Tonks when he’s got a Veela to work with.”

“I’m not really looking for distractions right now, Sirius,” Bill replied, settling into a chair and eyeing the nearly finished map.

“Aha! So you’re admitting she is a distraction,” Sirius said, raising his goblet with a theatrical flourish.

Bill said that no, she isn’t, but even he knew his denial sounded just as weak as Remus’s.

— • —

She was drowning again.

The lake was still. Silent. Then something pulled her under, just like before. Only this time, there was no audience, no task, no surface light flickering above. Just darkness. Just the pressure in her chest and a scream caught in her throat.

She jolted awake, breathless, tangled in too-warm sheets.

It was nearly 8:30. She was late.

She stumbled out of bed, nearly tripping over a stack of notes she had dropped the night before. Her robe was half on, hair a tangled mess, wand forgotten somewhere under the cushions. The kettle refused to boil fast enough.

The parchment still lay open on her tiny desk, Viktor’s narrow messy writing staring back at her.

They exchanged a few letters now. It was like cutting open same wounds each time. Sometimes it helped. Not this time. She had stayed up drafting her reply, scratching through sentences again and again. And even after sending it with Lilou, her chest still felt heavy. Like the lake hadn’t quite let go.

Fleur dressed in a rush. Her trousers were wrinkled, boots still damp from the day before. She shoved everything in her sight into her bag. 

She arrived at Gringotts twenty minutes late. Grikk raised one grey brow but said nothing, motioning her toward the lower lifts.

“Late night?” Bill asked as they met at the trolley platform.

“I’m fine.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but didn’t.

They passed under the Thief’s Downfall again, water crashing over them like punishment. Fleur didn’t even flinch. She was already drowning on the inside.

The vault was colder than usual. Or maybe that was just her. She worked through the crates too fast, skimming notes, mislabeling things.

“Fleur,” Bill said gently, “you missed this. That inscription matters.”

“I said I’m fine,” she snapped, not looking up. She grabbed the next thing from the pile to measure. 

It happened so quickly she barely remembered touching the artifact. A glint of green and silver, old runes stitched into a chain. Her fingertips brushed the surface, then burned. 

She gasped, jerking her hand back. A spark lit at her wrist, then curled up her arm in a slow shimmer.

Bill swore and grabbed his wand.

“Merlin, Fleur, don’t move.”

“I’m fine!” she said again, louder this time.

But her voice cracked, and the sparks flared brighter, now mixed with blue flames emitting from her fingertips. Suddenly the blue flame took over. Then all of it stopped, all at once.

Bill stepped closer, cautious. His wand was steady, but his eyes weren’t. “You’ve been off all day. Talk to me.”

“You’re not my Healer, Weasley,” she hissed.

“I’m your partner in this vault. And you just lit up like a bloody phoenix ready to be reborn. Talk. ”

For a second, she looked ready to shout at him, but then her breath caught. 

“I didn’t sleep.” she whispered. “And I didn’t eat. All night I was drowning in that damn lake again. But I’m fine.”

Bill didn’t speak.

The silence stretched.

Then he said softly, “I’ll handle the rest of this shift. Go sit down.”

But she didn’t. She stayed. Quietly, determinedly. They worked in silence for hours after that.

It was long past closing when she finally returned to her office. The lights were dim, papers stacked in messy piles. Official looking envelope was waiting for her at the desk.
The reminder. Today was the deadline. 

She lit a single candle, sat down at her desk, and stared at the seal.

When the knock came, she didn’t move.

The door creaked open.

“I brought dinner,” Bill said, holding up two paper-wrapped portions from the pub.

She didn’t answer. She was holding the Ministry letter in one hand, wand in the other.

“I don’t want it,” she said.

And just like that, the parchment went up in flames.

Bill blinked. “Right.”

He stepped inside and set the food down anyway.

— • —

Bill watched the ashes curl in the candlelight.

He didn’t speak right away. Just pulled off his coat, set it on the chair opposite hers, and opened the takeaway parcel slowly. The smell of roasted potatoes filled the room.

“So,” he said casually, “lover’s spat?”

“What?”

“The letter,” he clarified, setting the food down. “Looked dramatic.”

“It wasn’t.”

He looked at her, eyebrows raised. He knew he was pushing, knew he was stepping into dangerous territory, but couldn’t stop himself.

“It was a job offer.” Her tone was flat.

Another look. Eyebrows still raised.

“Or I should say, a bribe.”

That made him pause. His brow furrowed. “From who?”

“The Ministry. The French one.” She exhaled sharply through her nose. “They offered me a position. One I applied for months ago.”

“Isn’t that good?” he asked, trying to push down the strange twist of disappointment curling in his stomach.

“But now they want an essay,” she continued. “About British education. About Hogwarts. About Dumbledore.”

She reached for a glass of water with a steady hand. “They want me to say he’s unfit. Old. That Harry Potter is unstable.”

Bill’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I don’t want it,” she said again. “Not like this.”

There was a pause.

Then he pushed one of the warm paper parcels toward her.

“How’s your arm?” he asked. “You should let me check that. Or go to St Mungo’s.”

“It’s fine.”

“Yes, I’ve been hearing ‘it’s fine’ all day long. But clearly it isn’t.”

“Veela fire burnt the curse out. I can’t exactly go to hospital and admit that.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “So you’re really fine?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked.

Then, quietly, “Will you report me?”

“Report you?”

“A dangerous creature. Not fit to work with humans.”

Bill set his fork down.

“Aren’t we all.” He said at first, trying to play it out as a joke. Her face remained stony and serious. 

Then sighed and tried different angle. His voice was soft but steady. “You’re not a creature, Fleur.”

She looked him deep in the eyes. Raw. Honest. 

“But I have magic. Different magic. Sometimes untamed.” 

Bill didn’t look away.

“So do I. So does Harry. So did Dumbledore, when he was our age. He still does.”

“They make fun of my sister,” she said. Her food still untouched. “The same way they did to me. She’s just nine.”

Her voice was flat, but her expression wasn’t. That perfect face, so often composed, polished, was troubled now.

“I didn’t make it easy for her. Competing in the Tournament. Being chosen. They called it cheating. The creature won the race.” Her jaw tightened. “I thought I was doing something brave. Important. I wanted to make it easier for her. But I made it harder.”

He didn’t know what to say. How to comment. How to make her feel better. How to show her how brave she was. How talented. How human.

So instead, he said quietly, “My sister was possessed by Voldemort when she was eleven.”

She looked at him, shock and fear clear on her face. Her eyes wide. One hand slowly rose to her mouth.

“A Death Eater gave her a diary. It once belonged to Lord Voldemort.”

She was absolutely terrified now, eyes fixed on him, her hand still at her lips.

“She was cursed for a year,” he continued. “And none of us saw it. The entire family failed to see the signs.”

He looked down, ashamed.

“I was too busy in Egypt, chasing adventure. And I failed to notice that she hadn’t written me all year. She was so excited for Hogwarts. ‘I’ll write to you about everything, Bill.’ Then she didn’t. And I didn’t pay enough attention to see that something was wrong.”

“But she is okay now,” Fleur said softly, her eyes still wide.

“Yes.” Bill nodded. “Harry saved her.”

He didn’t say anything else for a moment. Just let it hang there, the weight of it settling between them. Fleur looked at him like she was seeing something new.

“He was twelve,” Bill added quietly. “Twelve, and already risking his life for people he barely knew.”

“Yeah. He did the same for my little sister,” Fleur said softly.

Bill looked at her with question. 

“In the lake. Second task,” she continued. “I was attacked by Grindylows. Didn’t know the right charm. They drugged me under. Then the teachers pulled me out, but she stayed… still tied beneath. They didn’t take her out. They waited. And I couldn’t go back for her.”

She met his eyes.

“He did it. Harry. He took her out. Even when she wasn’t in any real danger. Even when she wasn’t his to save.”

Silence fell between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Both lost in thought.

After a moment she started to eat. Finally. He noticed and exhaled quietly. He hadn’t realized how tense he’d been until that moment.

He was really worried about her.

She took a few bites, then asked, out of nowhere. “Do you think I’m wrong?”

“About what?”

“Turning the job down.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

“No,” he said. “You’d be miserable.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

She held his gaze, and something shifted. Not heavy, not sudden, just warmer. A thread of something playful between them.

He cleared his throat. “Anyway, you’d miss all the vaults.”

She smirked. “And the goblins.”

“Especially Grikk.”

“Yes, and Grikk would be devastated without grunting at me.”

“You’d miss me…” he added with a sly smile, before he could stop himself.

She didn’t respond right away, and just as he started to worry he’d crossed a line, she smiled.

“Yes. Maybe I would.”

The smile lingered. So did the silence. Neither of them moved.

— • —

He walked her home, as he usually did now.

She was calmer than before. Happier. His mother was right, sometimes a warm meal could fix more than just an empty stomach.

Fleur spoke quickly, words tumbling out with a lightness he hadn’t seen in her before. She told him about the pale pink roses her mother grew in the backyard, the ones that hummed old French songs after dusk. She told him about her little sister. How Gabrielle tended to follow her everywhere, mimicking her every move. She talked about the sea, the sound of the waves lulling her to sleep, the scent of salt and warm breeze. It was nothing like the dark, stagnant lake from her dreams.

She had a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. And he watched her, quietly mesmerised.

Her hair was messier than usual. Her clothes still stylish, but more lived-in now, her shirt hanging loose, untucked from her trousers. Effortless and real. She had never looked better. No one ever had.

They turned a corner, just a block from her building, when she suddenly stopped mid-sentence.

“I know that man,” she said, her tone shifting. “Weatherby. He was filling in for Mister Crouch during the Tournament.”

Bill followed her gaze. His jaw clenched the moment he recognized the stiff shoulders and bureaucratic stride.

“Percy,” he said, voice tight.

His brother spotted them too and changed direction, heading their way.

“Bill,” Percy called. “I wanted to check… I assume you wrote to Ron?”

“I did,” Bill replied, matching his brother’s formal tone. “Told him not to listen to any of your pompous speeches and to stay loyal to his friends.”

Percy’s expression twisted. “I see. So you’re with the Order now? Is that why you’re back from Egypt? To ruin your career following old fools and the statements of unstable boys desperate for attention?”

As he continued, Bill’s anger built, jaw clenched tight.

“I beg you to see reason, Bill. You used to be the sensible one. Prefect. Head Boy. I looked up to you.”

“If we’re all mad, that’s your opinion,” Bill said coldly. “At least we’re not selling out our own.”

“If you want to throw your future away siding with Dumbledore and Potter, that’s on you. But you should be encouraging Ron and Ginny to aim higher.”

Fleur stepped forward then. Her voice cut clean through the night. Her face was cold. Eyes sharp enough to slice glass.

“Ginny wouldn’t be here without Harry. He saved your sister’s life,” Fleur said. Her voice was calm, but sharp as a blade. “How can you speak about him like that?”

Percy flinched, just slightly.

“That was a tragic accident. New facts have come to light. The boy speaks Parseltongue. Did you know that? Perhaps he was manipulating Ginny all along. He’s always had a strange hold over her.”

Bill stepped forward, eyes blazing. His wand was already in hand, grip white-knuckled.

“How can you… how DARE you... You were there. A prefect, that position you love to brag about. And what did you do? You ignored every sign. So excuse me if I don’t give a DAMN about your judgment.”

Percy straightened, mouth open to fire back…

“Bill,” Fleur said softly. Her hand found his. “Come on.”

He hesitated.

“Bill.”

Her fingers closed around his. A soft touch, grounding and warm. It woke him up.

He closed his hand over hers, fingers intertwining, and let her lead him down the street.

Together, they walked the final stretch to her flat in silence. Their hands stayed linked between them, warm despite the night chill.

Just as they reached her door, a voice rang out behind them. 

“She’s a Veela, you know!”

Fleur stopped. Began to turn back.

“He’s blinded by the position,” Bill said quietly. “It’s not worth it.”

She held his gaze for a beat, then nodded, and led him inside.

— • —

The door shut softly behind them, muffling the city noise.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Fleur stepped out of her boots and dropped her keys into the bowl by the door. Bill leaned against the wall, eyes closed, taking a couple of deep breaths. She gave him time.

Lilou’s cage sat empty, the owlet still on her journey to Bulgaria. With a few elegant wand motions, Fleur tidied up the mess she had left that morning in her rush. When she glanced up, Bill was watching her.

“Tea?” she asked.

“Yes, please.”

She pulled out two matching mugs and dropped a teabag into each.

“Sorry, I don’t have any milk.”

“That’s alright,” he said, his voice softer now. He moved toward her small table and sat down.

They drank their tea in silence.

The room had settled, the air warm and quiet. The candle flickered gently on the table. Neither of them seemed to need to fill the space with words. Everything that needed to be said had already been said, or understood without speaking.

Bill looked around her tiny flat, his eyes lingering on the cluttered fridge. His gaze caught on a few uneven pieces of parchment put up with care, childlike drawings of owls in flight. One had massive, lopsided eyes and a rainbow-colored beak, carrying an envelope three times its size.

He smiled faintly. “That one’s terrifying.”

Fleur followed his gaze and let out a quiet laugh. “Gabrielle’s first attempt at drawing my owl, Lilou. She insists it’s beautiful.”

“It’s… definitely something. Now I want to meet that owl.”

She laughed again, properly this time.

“She sends me one every week,” she said. “Since I moved. Says she’s happy I’m not alone, that I have my owl friend. That she made a deal with her to watch over me.” She reached over to straighten one of the drawings with a gentle touch. “I keep them all.”

Bill didn’t say anything to that. He just looked at her. 

She stood barefoot, the kitchen cabinets behind her, dressed in wrinkled clothes, her hair still a little damp from the autumn drizzle. She was smiling at a child’s scrawl on her fridge like it was priceless art, her own personal gallery, held up with magnets instead of gold frames.

He took another sip of tea.

“Thank you,” he said suddenly, voice quiet again.

“For what?”

“For inviting me in. For letting me cool off.”

She nodded. “Anytime.”

They stayed like that for a while, sipping tea in comfortable silence. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the window slightly. Inside, the warmth lingered.

Fleur watched him from where she stood, still leaning against the cabinets. Bill glanced at the drawings again, then stood, placing his mug in the sink and leaning against the counter. Close, but not too close.

“That owl’s a menace,” he said, a spark of amusement in his eyes.

“She’s adorable.”

He raised a brow, smirking. “So we’re in denial, are we?”

Fleur rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling when she walked him to the door.

— • —

The office smelled faintly of parchment, coffee, and something flowery.

The vault work was finished. The Lestrange catalogue was complete (or nearly). Now came the corrections, the annotations, the footnotes the goblins insisted on.

Bill had started working in her office now. It was smaller, cozier, without the big glossy monstrosity of a desk that made him feel more like an accountant, (or worse, like Percy) than a Curse-Breaker temporarily office bound.

He was just finishing the report on the goblet that filled with elf-made wine when he touched it, and black coffee when Fleur did, still debating whether that counted as a curse or a miracle, when she walked in. Two paper cups in hand, a brown bag tucked under her arm. Her hair was tied back in an elegant bun, her shirt crisp and tucked in again after the chaos of last week.

“Peace offering,” she said, setting one of the cups down by his elbow.

He raised an eyebrow. “We’re not fighting.”

“Still. You’ve earned it.”

Inside the bag were two croissants, one plain, one filled with what he guessed was almonds. Bill gave her a curious look.

“I didn’t know what you liked. You can have the almond. I’ll allow it.”

He laughed. “Very generous of you.”

They worked in a quiet rhythm after that, side by side. The Lestrange files were still growing, notes, artifacts, translation issues. Fleur scribbled runes in the margins, muttering to herself in French. Bill paused occasionally to watch her, but only briefly. 

He Geminio’d a couple of pieces of parchment when she wasn’t looking and sneaked it into his bag.

The door creaked open mid-morning, without a knock.

“Working hard, Weasley?”

Mad-Eye Moody stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. His magical eye was already darting across the room, scanning every detail, the cramped space, the second cup of coffee, the half-eaten croissants.

“Cozy,” he said, with no real opinion behind the word.

Fleur looked startled, and Bill couldn’t blame her. It had taken him some time to get used to Mad-Eye’s wounds, missing limbs and unexpected arrivals.

She straightened a little in her chair. “Mr Moody.”

“So goblins are hiring ballerinas now, I see. Not bad for you, Weasley. Not bad.”

Fleur, clearly offended, opened her mouth to respond, but Moody lifted a hand before she could speak.

“Not meant as an insult, Miss Delacour. I’ve heard you did well in the Tournament last year. Took on a dragon without flinching.”

She blinked, looking deeply confused, not sure if she should accept complement of keep being offended.

“Should’ve seen it myself,” he added, grumbling.

Bill knew he still hadn’t forgiven himself for being tricked by Crouch’s son.

“You bringing trouble or tea?”

There was a long pause. The only sound was the soft whirl of Moody’s magical eye as it scanned the room.

“Trouble, then,” Bill muttered. “So what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s ever right, boy.”

Moody’s gaze drifted to the potted flower in the corner. He frowned at it, unimpressed.

“I was in the area. Thought I’d check in. Ran into Fletcher. He was hiding in Tattershaw Alley. For once, he had something useful to say.”

“Oh,” said Bill casually. But his eyes flicked to Fleur, wondering why Moody was sharing Order business with her still in the room.

“It’ll be public record soon,” Moody said gruffly, reading his mind. “New Educational Decree’s probably being inked right now. But I figured you’d want to know first.”

“What is it?” Bill asked, thinking what on earth Dung could’ve sniffed out this time.

“Looks like the young ones are creating their own resistance,” Moody said.

“What?” Bill asked, truly worried now.

“They’re calling it Dumbledore’s Army.”

“Dumbledore’s…” Bill started, confused.

“All your siblings at school are involved. Looks like Potter, Weasley, and Granger started it. Always those three. Stirring the fire.”

Fleur turned in her chair, surprised. “But Mister Moody… this is not right. They’re children.”

Moody gave a dry grunt. “So were we, once.” He offered a rare smile that twisted his face into a frightening frown. “Looks like they don’t like that toad, Dolores. Fletcher said they’ve been calling her names.”

Bill leaned back in his chair. “So what do you want me to do?”

“You can tell your parents. I won’t.” Moody’s eye swiveled to him. “I approve. But maybe someone should teach your brother it’s better to whisper in a crowd than scream in an empty room.”

He turned toward the door, then paused.

“Walls have ears.”

Then he was gone.

— • —

“What are they thinking? This is so irresponsible.” His mum’s voice was tight with panic. She was on the verge of tears. “Sirius, did you pass my message? Did you tell them they absolutely cannot…”

“Yes, Molly, I said what you wanted me to say,” Sirius interrupted, mid-sentence.
“But for the record, they can. And they should.”

“You cannot possibly believe that. You’re his godfather, his guardian…how can you…I won’t agree…”

“Molly, please, calm down,” said Arthur, his voice tired. “They aren’t doing anything wrong. They formed a study group. It’s innocent.”

“How can you say that? Fabian and Gideon… they were teaching others to fight and then they…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Yes, well. Fabian and Gideon didn’t die at school,” Sirius said. “They fell in battle. There’s a difference.”

His mother was crying now, tears falling down her cheeks. Bill took a long breath, then moved closer and wrapped his arms around her. He knew it wasn’t easy for her. She hadn’t been involved in the Order during the First War, but she had lost enough to know what was at stake.

“Mum, it’s okay. No, Mum, listen. They just want to study.”

“But the… the defence,” she hiccuped.

“Yes, the defence,” he said, gently stroking her back. “But think about it. You know them. It’s probably Hermione freaking out about O.W.L.s. She’ll read books, find spells in the library, and share them with the others. That’s it. They’re not going to fight…”

He wasn’t sure he believed the last part.

“I can recommend some books for them, Molly,” said Remus. “Something safe. Age-appropriate. Something they need to study anyway for exams.”

Molly looked around the room.

“They won’t have to fight?” she asked.

No one responded. Everyone avoided her eyes. 

— • —

Fleur slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open with her shoulder, the familiar creak of the hinge greeting her like a friend. She was exhausted: physically, magically, emotionally. But her mind was still spinning. Percy Weasley’s words from days ago echoed louder now, sharpened by what she’d seen today. Worldwide famous Auror Mad-Eye Moody, in her office. Not just visiting Bill, but chatting with him like an old friend. No introductions. No explanations.

Then she saw Bill copying their reports and sliding the duplicates into his bag. 

She dropped her bag onto the table, the books from Flourish and Blotts thudding against the wood. The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts. Profiles in Resistance. Shadows of the First War. 

Her owl, Lilou, welcomed her with a cheerful hoot. She had finally returned from Bulgaria, proud and ruffled, clearly pleased with a job well done.

Fleur untied the letter, brushed her fingers through the bird’s soft feathers, and congratulated her on the successful trip. She rewarded her with a few new treats she’d picked up on the way home.

She looked at the envelope. Viktor.
She set it aside. There were things she didn’t want to revisit tonight.
Not when her head was full of questions, her fingers itching to turn pages.

She took a quick shower and changed into her robe. Then she picked up her new books, poured herself a glass of wine, and settled comfortably in bed. She began browsing through the pages. Lilou made a soft sound in the background, saying her goodbyes before leaving for a night hunt.

After some time, a passage in one of the books caught her attention:

“One of the most prominent resistance groups of the First Wizarding War was a secretive organization known as the Order of the Phoenix. Though its existence was denied by many at the time, several credible sources attribute the founding of the group to Albus Dumbledore. The Order is believed to have operated throughout the late 1970s, and early 1980s working against the rise of You-Know-Who and his followers.

Alleged members included Dumbledore himself, James and Lily Potter, Marlene McKinnon, Dorcas Meadowes, Fabian and Gideon Prewett, Benjy Fenwick, Caradoc Dearborn, and Sirius Black(later imprisoned for mass murder, though his ties to the group remain unconfirmed).

When approached for comment during or after the war, surviving individuals either denied involvement or offered no information. Most of the group’s known members perished in the conflict.”

She read the name aloud, quietly.

Order of the Phoenix.

Bill had said something about a phoenix in the vault, when she got cursed. You lit up like a phoenix, ready to be reborn.
Was that a coincidence?

She read on.

Most of the group’s known members perished in the conflict.

She let that sit with her for a moment.
Names of suspected heroes. Silent sacrifices.

She set the first book aside and opened the next one. Profiles in Resistance was more scattered, less history, more speculation. It listed small groups, unknown names, a few maps of suspected safehouses. All very vague. Not much confirmed. 

She closed the book and let it rest on her chest.

Enough for tonight.

Lilou hadn’t returned yet. She listened to the quiet for a while, then waved her wand to turn off the light.

— • —

He felt her eyes on him more often now. At first, he liked it. He really, really did. It stroked his ego. And, after all, he was stealing glimpses of her too.

But then he noticed the focus in her gaze.

Every time he left early for a “family thing,” right after overhearing something strange or catching sight of a suspicious vault transaction, she watched him. She never asked questions. Just quietly nodded in acknowledgement.

He didn’t know what to make of that.

The atmosphere in the office turned strange, heavy in a way he didn’t like or understand. So one day, he decided to lighten it up. He was a Weasley, after all, damn it. He’d rather charm a dragon than sit in silence like that.

So one evening, when they were working late, he walked in with a paper bag in hand and dropped it on the table.

“Figured you’ve been in England long enough,” he said lightly. “Must be getting homesick. A little treat to help with that.”

She sniffed the bag, opened it, and frowned.

“What is that?”

“A little treat for you,” he said again, casually.

“Yes, I get that. But what is that?”
“Uhh… French food?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is. Just picked it up from a new place outside the Leaky.”

She kept staring into the bag.

“I don’t know what this is,” she said, “but it’s not French.”

“You sure?” he said with a little smile. “The bloke had a thick accent and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth,” he teased. “Looked just like you when I squinted hard. Thought it made it authentic.”

She shoved him, laughing. “Stop that! And my accent isn’t that bad.”

“Yep. Not anymore. Thanks to moi.”

“Yes. I’ve learned to say bloody and damn every two words. Very useful in diplomacy. Think the Ministry will be impressed ?”

They laughed, sitting side by side, poking suspiciously at what was supposed to be cassoulet. It was awful. But also kind of great.

She looked over at him, still smiling.
“Thanks for that.”
“No problem.”
“But for the record, it’s still not French.”
“Really not?”
“One day, I’ll cook for you. Show you what it’s supposed to taste like.”

He glanced at her, amused.
“Yeah?”

— • —

A small owl landed inside, hooting happily as it dropped a parcel nearly twice its size.

“Wait, is that Lilou? The star, the muse of all three arts?”

Fleur scratched the tiny spotted owl’s feathers gently, muttering her thanks in French.

“I’m honestly a little disappointed,” Bill said, eyeing the bird’s beak. “Expected a rainbow one.”

“Shh. Don’t hurt her feelings like that.”

“So, a package from home?”

“Yeah,” Fleur said fondly. “Early delivery, I guess.”

“Wait…”

He watched as she opened the box. First, she pulled out a long wool scarf, in the kind of grey bluish color that made her eyes stand out. Then a couple of notes, something that looked like a check, and…

“It’s your birthday today and I didn’t know?” he asked, eyeing the child-drawn card with balloons and stars.

“No, it’s not. They send it early, like I said. They must’ve be worried about me getting it on time.”

“So when is it then?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Ahh. Any fun plans?”

“Shopping, I guess,” she said, studying the check.

“Nothing exciting planned?”

“Not really. I’m turning nineteen. Not a big deal.”

“But we can’t have that. I’m meeting my brother Charlie and his friend for a pint. They’re only here for the weekend. You should join us.” His offer was sincere. He wanted her to come. He was thinking about how it would feel to hang out with her outside of work again, like the last time in the pub when she was all relaxed, her hair down, talking fast and smiling at him like she was having fun.

She looked up, a little curious. “Another Weasley? What’s he like?”

He grinned. “Charlie? A bit mad. He’ll probably be talking about dragons all night. You’ll be the only normal one. Come and keep me company.”

“Dragons?” she asked, surprised.

“Charlie works with them in Romania. He’s completely obsessed. Completely mad.”

“Wow.”

“So, you’ll come?”

She nodded, tucking the card back into the box.

“Yeah. Why not.”

— • —

The Drunken Badger was tucked behind Camden Market, down a narrow alley that smelled faintly of fried food, wet stone, and someone else’s questionable decision. The sign was old and chipped, a cartoon badger swaying under a crooked lamp. The inside was no better: dark wood beams, mismatched chairs, a jukebox that hadn’t worked since the eighties. Bill liked it very much.

He sat at a corner table with a clear view of the door, nursing a pint and listening to the low hum of conversation. The crowd was mostly Muggles, off-duty artists, shopkeepers, a few people clearly on awkward dates.

He checked his watch. Charlie was late. Typical. And Fleur… well, it was her birthday. An evening with him and two dragon keepers hardly sounded like fun. He didn’t really expect her to show up.

The front door swung open with a gust of cold air and the sound of boots on wet floor.

“William!”

Charlie strode in like the cold hadn’t touched him, his coat dripping, curls damp from the rain. The grin on his face was far too smug for someone this late.

Bill didn’t get up. “Charles, shut up.”

Charlie laughed, loud and familiar, and pulled him into a quick, damp hug.

“You love it,” he said, clapping him on the back.

“Right. Like dragon fire to the face.” Bill rolled his eyes but clapped him back. “You’re late.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” said the redhead, grinning. “Bill, you remember Damian.”

The man just behind him offered a quick smile. He had short, buzzed hair and a strong nose. A little taller than Charlie, but with the same broad-shouldered, heavy-set posture you got from years of wrestling dragons.

“Of course,” Bill said, reaching out to shake Damian’s hand. “From the reserve. Good to see you, mate.”

They quickly grabbed a booth that had just opened up and ordered a round, the table soon filling with pints.

“So as we’re flying over the ridge,” Charlie said, already halfway into a story, “we get rained on properly. You know me, English weather, didn’t care much. Caught Snitches for Gryffindor in worse than that. But Damian here starts shaking so hard I thought he was going to fall off the bloody broom.”

“I was fine,” Damian said. “I just don’t like flying the way you do. Some of us prefer not to barrel-roll in a thunderstorm.”

“No, I’m telling you…”

“You’re not telling it right,” Damian cut in, smirking.

Charlie grinned and took a long sip of his pint. “So, Bill,” he said, leaning back. “Didn’t you say someone from work was joining us?”

“Actually, I’m not sure she…”

“Bill.”

He looked up.

Fleur stood at the entrance, brushing damp hair from her face as she wrestled off her coat. She wore dark jeans with a raw hem, slim black boots, and a fitted black jumper. Effortless. Stunning.

Bill stood to wave her over before Charlie or Damian could say anything dumb.

She approached with a half-smile, a little hesitant but not shy. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he said, stepping aside to let her slide into the booth beside him.

Charlie blinked. “This your coworker?”

Bill gave him a look. “This is Fleur.”

“Right,” Charlie said slowly. “Didn’t expect you to bring someone… someone… hmm, cool.”

Fleur raised an eyebrow. “Would you have preferred someone else?”

Charlie grinned. “Honestly, I thought we were meeting an old bloke from accounting.”

“I can do an impression,” she said. “But I left my calculator in the vault.”

There was a beat of silence. Then all three of them laughed, surprised, a little caught off guard. Damian shook his head once, giving Charlie a look that clearly said, Be nice.

Charlie didn’t notice. He was too busy raising his eyebrows at Bill, like he wanted to ask, Did you really find this girl in the bank?

Bill ignored him, keeping it cool, watching Fleur instead, who only smiled, like she was already three steps ahead of them.

“I got you a glass of wine,” Bill said, clearing his throat. “Figured you might not be a beer person.”

Fleur blinked at the glass, then looked up with a small smile. “Thank you.”

Charlie looked at him once more, with a coy Weasley smile. Bill pretended not to notice, again.

She took a sip and settled into the booth, one arm on the table as she leaned in, fingers loosely supporting her chin. Completely casual.

It reminded him of that one time he saw her barefoot in her apartment, shirt untucked, hair loose. Quietly relaxed.

He liked this version of Fleur very much.

“So,” she said, glancing between them, “Bill told me the safe topic was dragons.”

“Oh, did he?” Charlie laughed. “Did you say dragons were safe, Bill?”

Then, leaning forward, “Go on then. Know any fun dragon facts?”

Fleur tilted her head, thoughtful. “Yes. Welsh Greens hate blue skirts.”

Pause.

All three of them stared at her.

“I’m sorry… what?” Damian said.

“It’s true,” she said, sipping her wine like she hadn’t just said something mad. “I personally tested it. Still wondering if they really love green or just deeply hate blue.”

Charlie blinked. “You… what?”

“Tell me, dragon experts,” Fleur said, glancing between them. “Is that a known thing, or was it just mine?”

“I’ve never worn a skirt around one,” Damian said. “But we should test the theory. What do you think, Chuck?”

“Yeah, you do that,” Fleur said, nodding with mock seriousness. “Mine wasn’t a fan. She sneezed on me. Caught fire. Skirt didn’t survive.”

Bill leaned forward. “Wait, this was during the tournament?”

“Triwizard. First task.” She shrugged. “Put her in a trance. It was going well. She looked quite cute, sleeping like that. Until the fire part. They docked points. I didn’t love that.”

Damian let out a low whistle. “Harsh.” He reached for his pint. “At least she didn’t try to bite your face off. That’s what mine did.”

Charlie grinned. “He still has the scar.”

“I still have the nightmares,” Damian muttered.

Charlie snorted into his drink, then glanced at Fleur more closely.

“Wait a second,” he said, pointing. “I knew you looked familiar. I was on the handling team for that task. But I was stuck dealing with the Horntail. She gave us hell.”

“Mine was a Welsh Green. I still have a model somewhere. My sister painted her toenails and named her Elvira.”

“Elvira?” Damian asked, raising an eyebrow.

Fleur gave a small nod. “She’s nine. It was between that or Griffette Étoile.”

Charlie squinted. “And that means…?”

“Sparkleclaw.”

That did it. All three of them burst out laughing.

“Wow. That’s bad,” Bill said, still grinning.

He leaned back, watching her. The pub was warm, noisy, alive. And Fleur fit into it just right.

— • —

So far, she had met three Weasley brothers.

Well, technically four, if she counted the one she’d seen at Hogwarts, always hovering near Harry Potter. But did that really count?

The two eldest, Bill and Charlie, had something in common.

They were wild.

Not completely reckless, but clearly drawn to danger like it was oxygen.

Now that she knew more about Bill’s work in Egypt, and after weeks of watching him behind a desk, she could see it more clearly. He was restless. He didn’t belong behind polished wood and stacks of parchment.

Charlie was almost like that, but not quite. He didn’t care about runes or wand movements. He liked physical work, being outside, and it showed in his face and in his arms.

They looked nothing alike. Charlie’s hair was brighter, more orange. Bill’s was a deep auburn, almost brown. Charlie had curls, freckles, and dimples that made him look adorably young when he smiled. The only thing they shared was the same bright blue eyes.

Charlie was just finishing a story about trying to toast marshmallows over a Chinese Fireball’s nesting pit, something about a broom mishap, balancing on a rock, and zero common sense that ended in a singed eyebrow. Fleur laughed out loud. It was easy to do that tonight.

If the rest of the family was like this, brave and a little mad, drawn to chaos and heat and wild, she understood now why Percy, with his stiff posture and Ministry ambitions, had a falling out.

The stories of adventure grew more reckless as the night went on.

Bill, clearly more at ease now with a couple of pints in him, had joined in too. He shared tales of near escapes and cursed vaults, of sandstorms and smugglers and wards that had gone wrong.

She sipped her wine and laughed more and loud.

It was really nice.

When she first walked into the pub, she had felt out of place.

Now, she was drunk on their stories, caught in the rhythm of laughter and flame and memory. And a little jealous. She didn’t have much to add beyond the tired tale of her dragon fight.

But this was the kind of company she wanted. These were the kind of people she needed around. Brave, unafraid, and a little silly.

She felt alive.

“I can come outside with you if you want a smoke,” Bill said quietly, leaning a little closer.

Fleur glanced at him, surprised. “How did you know?”

He shrugged. 

“You do this thing with your hand when you’re thinking about it.”

She gave a soft huff of amusement and didn’t argue.

“We’ll be back in five. Birthday girl wants to destroy her lungs,” Bill said casually as they left the booth.

“Wait, it’s your birthday today? Bill, it’s her birthday?” Charlie called after them.

Outside, the air was damp and cool. Fleur lit her cigarette and offered him one. He didn’t take it this time.

“I didn’t tell them before,” Bill said, leaning against the wall. “Didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

“Good call,” Fleur replied. “I didn’t want to make your family reunion about me. I don’t need the fuss. It’s just nice to be out.”

Bill smiled. “So, what do you think so far?”

She took another drag, eyes on the puddles. “Oh, you and your brother are mad.”

He touched his heart like a wounded animal and opened his mouth to say something back, but she cut in.

“…but I’m having a good time. Thank you for letting me tag along.” She smiled.

She finished the cigarette quickly and flicked her wand near her shoulder.

“Fumosia,” she murmured.

The charm worked immediately. The smoke faded, replaced by clean air and the faint trace of sage and bergamot. She really thought she had nailed the perfect scent combination with this charm.

Beside her, Bill tilted his head, leaning in slightly.
“Is that the famous charm you invented?”

He was close enough to catch it, the shift in the air, the scent just behind her ear. She felt his breath on her skin.

She didn’t move.

For a moment, she almost did, almost leaned in, just a little, just enough.

Instead, she turned her head and met his eyes. Time had stopped.

“Hmm. We should go back,” she whispered, even though she didn’t want to.

Slowly, carefully, she turned toward the pub, before he could hear how fast her heart was beating and how much she wanted to stay and lean back.

— • —

“Where’s Charlie?”

“He’ll be right back,” Damian said with a suspicious smirk.

“Oh no,” Bill muttered.

A moment later, Charlie returned with four glasses that he balanced carefully in his hands.

“Firewhisky for the birthday girl!”

He handed one to each of them with far too much excitement.

Fleur hesitated. “Oh, I’m not sure. I don’t usually…”

“You have to! Weasley tradition. I don’t make the rules,” Charlie said with a grin.

Bill glanced at her.

“He’s not wrong.”

Then, quieter,
“But you don’t have to…”

“Oh, fine…” she said, taking the glass.

They all raised theirs.
“Cheers!”

Fleur knocked it back with the others and drank it fast.

She coughed instantly.
“Ugh, this isn’t Firewhisky!”

“No,” Charlie said proudly. “I asked. It’s Muggle stuff. Not for the weak.”

“It burns.”

“Yes it does! And now you are officially part of the club!” he said, raising his glass again.

— • —

Charlie and Damian insisted on finding real stuff.

Bill, the only one acting his age now, warned them that if they wanted to Apparate, now was the time. One more drink and surely they would splinch.

So now they were back in Diagon Alley, taking a slow walk through the quiet night. The shops were closed, the fog curling low. Everything looked calm, disproportionately calm compared to the chaos of the shopping street during the day.

“So, you know the place?” Fleur asked Bill casually. Ahead of them, Charlie and Damian were deep in conversation, muttering and half-laughing. They looked like they were in on a joke that was only theirs.

“I do,” Bill said. “It’s a bigger dump than the one we just left, though.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly teasing.
“Then I don’t know if I want to go, Weasley.”

“It’s my apartment.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “So you’re inviting me up?”

“I saw yours. Only fair you see mine.” After a second, he added, “And it’s better those idiots crash at mine where I can keep an eye on them than risk facing Mum.”

“They aren’t that drunk.”

“I have a lot of Firewhisky at mine. Give it time…”

He smiled and looked like he was about to say something else, but then he stopped abruptly.

His eyes were fixed on something at the far end of the alley.

“Charlie. We need to Apparate. Now.”

“What…?” Charlie turned. Something flickered through his expression. Recognition. He sobered at once.

“Who’s on patrol tonight?” Bill asked, his voice low.

“Tonks,” Charlie replied.

“She’ll need backup,” Bill muttered. “Maybe it’s time we rethink the rotation. Start watching from inside and out.”

“Bill.”

“I know. You’re right.”

Bill drew his wand and murmured a spell Fleur didn’t catch.

A burst of silver lit the alley for a heartbeat, rushing forward in a blur of motion. Fleur didn’t see the full shape, only the shimmer of a mane and the sound of hooves striking stone, distant and thunderous.

She grabbed his arm.

“Bill, what is…”

“Not now,” he said quietly. “Come on. I’ll side-along you to mine. Ready?”

He moved her hand from his sleeve to his palm and held it tightly.

They Apparated straight into an unfamiliar flat. Bill’s sitting room was dim and quiet. The furniture was modern, a little bare. Clean lines, pale walls, cool colours. But a few details didn’t quite match. Books were stacked unevenly on side tables. Scrolls and maps spilled from an open desk drawer. Two colourful rugs were layered in the corner, not quite aligned.

Near the fireplace, on a side table beside a plant, a bright green toy frog sat next to a yellow duck. They looked incredibly out of place. Fleur’s gaze lingered on them.

She took a step forward but stumbled slightly from the landing. Bill still had her hand from the side-along. He steadied her without a word.

The moment they were through, Charlie and Damian immediately raised their wands and started muttering charms.

Bill sighed.
“Really?”

“You’ve got gaps,” Charlie muttered, walking toward the window.

“I do not have gaps.”

“You always miss at least one wall,” Damian added, half-distracted as he paced.

“I do not…” Bill caught Fleur’s raised eyebrow and stopped. “Alright, let’s leave them to it. You alright?”

She gave a small, amused nod.
“I’m fine.”

“It was nothing, really… I thought I saw… someone,” Bill said quickly, trying to explain but clearly not wanting to. “It’s not exactly safe… Shouldn’t walk around at night... Stupid idea.”

“Right.”

A pause.

“So… you have wards on your flat?”

“You don’t?” He looked at her like she’d just told him she left her Gringotts key under the doormat.

“Not really.”

“Okay, well, then you’re staying here tonight,” he said firmly. “And we’ll fix that tomorrow.”

She didn’t argue.
“Alright.”

The wand movements and protective charms were finally done. The flat had settled into a quiet hum.

Charlie disappeared behind one of the doors without much ceremony, muttering something about staying the night “just in case.” Fleur caught a glimpse of Damian already snoring on the pullout bed, boots still on, before the door shut.

She lingered, unsure what to do next.

Bill rubbed the back of his neck.
“Sorry… that’s the spare room. Told them they could crash there.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll sleep in mine,” he added quickly. “I’ll take the sofa.”

She hesitated.
“Alright.”

He nodded toward the far side of the flat, and she stepped into his bedroom. He watched her, curious.

It smelled like him. Warm parchment, cedarwood, and something faintly herbal. The bed wasn’t perfectly made, but it wasn’t messy either. A shirt hung over the back of a chair. A book lay open, face down on the nightstand, next to a couple of hair ties.

She offered him a faint smile and slipped into the bathroom to freshen up. Tied her hair back with one of his ties, splashed cold water on her face. Her reflection looked tired, but not worn down. Her cheeks were still flushed. Maybe from the drink. Maybe not.

When she came back into the room, Bill was still standing there, hovering near the wooden dresser.

He had something in his hand.

“I meant to give you this earlier,” he said, voice a little rough. “Got distracted.”

He opened his palm. A gold chain, delicate and light. At the center, a small oval stone, some shade of purple or maybe blue, pale and translucent, set in a twisted gold frame.

Fleur blinked.
“What’s this?”

He gave a half-shrug.
“Found it on a job. Goblins didn’t claim it back. Thought maybe you’d like it.”

He didn’t step forward. Just held it out gently, waiting.

She took it from him. Her fingers brushed his. The pendant was warm from his hand.

“Happy birthday,” he said quietly.

Fleur nodded once, still a little surprised.
“Thank you.”

Then he gave her a small smile, slipped past her, and disappeared into the bathroom.

She stood there for a moment, the chain curled in her hand.
Then she moved to the bed and lay down. The scent of him was everywhere now.

She fell asleep playing with the pendant, tucked into her palm.

— • —

It was a really quiet night.

Bill sat on the arm of the sofa, fingers absently tracing the pattern on one of the throw pillows. He hadn’t lit the lamps, just let the silver streetlight spill through the window, casting long shadows across the floor. 

He heard the floorboard creak before Charlie appeared, barefoot, hair a mess, shirt wrinkled from sleep he hadn’t managed to catch.

“You’re not asleep,” Charlie said, though it wasn’t really a question.

Bill shook his head.

“Neither are you.”

Charlie dropped into the chair across from him. He didn’t speak for a while.

Then: “You think that was Yaxley?”

Bill let out a breath, slow and quiet.
“Looked like him. Hard to say for sure in the dark.”

“Do you think they suspect who’s in the Order?”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Bill said. “Maybe they’re just keeping tabs on anyone loyal to Dumbledore. Anyone too close to Harry.”

A pause stretched between them.

“I get Mum and Dad,” Charlie said finally. “But us? How would they know?”

Bill hesitated.

“Maybe Percy talked.”

Charlie blinked.
“Percy? What’s Percy got to do with this?”

“Ran into him a while back. He tried to get me to talk Ron down. Said Harry was dangerous. Said I was being irresponsible. When I wouldn’t agree, he accused me of working for the Order.”

Silence settled again, thicker now.
Not surprise, just that old mix of quiet anger and guilt they didn’t say out loud.

If they hadn’t teased him so much. If they’d seen it coming. If...

Bill didn’t finish the thought. Neither did Charlie.

Like a whisper drawn from the dark, a burst of silver light blinked past the window.

Both brothers turned.

A lynx Patronus slipped through the cracked window and danced once before fading. Kingsley’s voice echoed behind it, calm and clipped.

“I’m with Tonks. All is good. Emergency meeting tomorrow. Same time as last time. Do not reply.”

Charlie gave a slow nod. “Good.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then Charlie said, “She’s great. Fleur.”

Bill didn’t respond right away.

Charlie nudged him with his foot and tilted his head.
“You’re in deep already, huh?”

“She’s… different,” Bill admitted. “Smart. Calm. And observant. Maybe a little too much.”

Charlie grinned.
“Yeah. She noticed you can’t stop staring at her, by the way.”

Bill gave him a tired look.
“Thank you.”

Charlie leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, smirking faintly.
“French lady, huh? Mum’s going to have a heart attack.”

“She won’t. There’s nothing to tell her anyway.”

“Uh-huh.”

Bill didn’t answer. Charlie went quiet too, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve.

Then Bill asked, voice low,
“And when are you going to tell her?”

Charlie stilled.
“What?”

“Come on,” Bill said. “Even Fleur noticed. Said you two looked good together.”

Charlie opened his mouth, ready to deny it, then stopped. His whole body seemed to sag, like the fight had gone out of him. He just shrugged.

“It’s not the same, and you know it.”

Bill raised an eyebrow.
“At least he’s not French.”

Charlie chuckled, shaking his head.
“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah. And you’re next in line.”

They sat a while longer, the silence easier now.

“You know it’s alright, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Then Bill stood.

“Okay, good. Now go to sleep, Chuck.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Charlie pushed himself up, yawning.
“Night.”

He gave him a quick, brotherly hug and left.

Bill watched the shadows stretch across the floor long after his brother disappeared.

The flat was quiet again.

He sat back on the arm of the sofa, fingers absently tracing the same pattern.

— • —

Bill opened his eyes. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what time it was. The room was dim, quiet. Someone had drawn the blinds.

He reached for his wand.
“Aberto,” he murmured.

The blinds lifted, letting in faint threads of grey morning light.
No rain today. That was something.

He showered quickly, still towel-drying his hair as he walked toward the kitchen, half-expecting to find Charlie or Damian raiding his cupboards.

Instead, he stopped in the doorway.

Fleur stood barefoot near the counter, wearing only a shirt. His shirt.
Around her neck was the delicate gold necklace he’d given her the night before, the pale stone catching the morning light. Her wand rested beside the kettle. She stirred something in a mug.

She looked up.
“Coffee?”

He nodded, grateful, and accepted the mug. Their fingers brushed. His brain did a small, traitorous flip.

“Is that mine?” he asked, gesturing to the shirt, though he already knew. She made it look… different. He already had trouble resisting her charms. Anyone would. This image wasn’t going to help.

“Yes. I hope you don’t mind,” she said, knowing perfectly well that he didn’t. “I wasn’t comfortable sleeping in jeans. Should’ve asked.”

She turned slightly to twist her hair up, securing it with a tie.

“For the record,” she added,
“I also stole your hair tie. Yours are better than mine.”

He took a sip of coffee to cover the stupid smile threatening to escape. Bloody hell, Bill. Get a grip. Say something clever...

“Where’s my brother?”

That was all he managed, but he didn’t care if Charlie was still in the country or halfway to Romania by now. He was too busy trying not to look directly at her.
Too busy pretending the mug in his hands was the most fascinating object in the world.

“They left,” Fleur said.
“Said something about wanting a proper breakfast at your mum’s.”

“Alright. What would you like to have?” Bill asked.

Fleur took another sip from her mug, considering.
“Actually, I was thinking I should get back to my flat.”

He glanced at her, a little surprised.
“Yeah? You sure?”

“I should probably change,” she said, gesturing loosely to herself.

“I think you look great,” Bill said before he could stop himself.

She gave him a look and shoved his shoulder, half-laughing.
“Stop. I want a proper shower. And I have food at mine.”

“Right.”

She set the half-empty mug down and moved toward the door, where he still leaned like an idiot.

“You’ll come with me, oui?”

That caught him off guard.

“You want me to come?”

She tilted her head.
“You promised wards, no? And I can make us breakfast.”

He blinked.
“Fair exchange. Can you cook?”

Fleur raised an eyebrow.
“We’ll see. I promised you French food, didn’t I?”

She disappeared down the hall to grab her things. He dried his hair with a flick of his wand and tied it back in a low bun, trying not to think too hard about any of it.

When she returned, she took the last sip of coffee and stepped toward him, slipping her hand into his without hesitation.

“Ready?”

The moment their fingers linked, that now-familiar flicker ran through him, warmth, nerves, and something he still couldn’t quite name.

Was he ready?
He didn’t know.
But he wasn’t planning on pulling away.

With a soft crack, they disappeared.

They landed just inside her flat.
He let go of her hand reluctantly.

“I won’t be long,” Fleur said with a small smile, already heading toward the bathroom.

Bill stayed where he was, hands slipping into his pockets.

The space felt different in daylight. Different than he remembered. The light coming through the thin curtains gave everything a soft, pale glow. At first glance, it was tidy: an organized kitchen, a clean desk, flourishing plants on the windowsill, books stacked just right. A wine-colored leather jacket hung by the door...

He paused.

It was the same one she wore the first time they met. He remembered the moment, how she’d stood at his door, radiant and unbothered, while he’d acted like a fool. He’d reached for his wand, convinced that beauty like that had to be a trick. An attack. At least part of that had been true. She did have Veela in her, and the pull of that strange magic was strong. He’d read about it, researched it late into the night. The book called it allure, said you became immune over time. But he’d seen her often over the last two months, and still, she managed to catch him off guard. Was it all part of the charm? 

At least he wasn’t acting like a complete maniac anymore. 

Or was he?

Charlie said he stared. He probably needed to work on that.

His eyes drifted to the bed, neatly made in pale blue linens, stacked with soft beige pillows. Elegant. Calm. Not like his own, where she’d slept last night, a mess of navy sheets, a half-folded blanket… and her. Her in his bed. Wearing his shirt.

He shook his head. No. He wouldn’t go there.

But his mind lingered anyway. Just for a second. A flicker of what it meant. Her, in his space. Her, in his shirt. What it might mean if…

He shook his head again.

By the bed, a neat stack of books. A little floor library. He wondered what she was reading but didn’t step closer. That part of the flat felt off-limits.

Instead, he wandered into the kitchen, toward the small table he’d sat at last time.

On the windowsill, lavender and herbs grew in chipped mugs, lined between a handful of seashells. A quiet reminder of somewhere warm. Provence, he guessed. It made sense.

A new owl had joined the others on the fridge. This one was purple, its wings too small, glitter smudged across the parchment. The birthday card he’d seen the day before had been added too, placed front and center.

Her flat was just like her.

Composed and organized at first glance.

But soft, warm, and quietly surprising when you really looked.

He stood there, glancing at the owls for a moment longer, until the bathroom door opened with a soft click.

Fleur stepped out, cheeks faintly pink from the steam. Her hair was pulled back into a loose French plait, a few strands falling around her face. Over her crisp white t-shirt, she was still wearing his shirt. Unbuttoned now, the sleeves casually rolled.

“Still here?” she asked, catching his gaze.

He cleared his throat, offering a casual, almost teasing smile.
“Yeah. Someone promised me breakfast.”

“Just a fair warning,” Fleur said as she crossed into the kitchen, “I don’t have sausages and beans.”

“Tragedy,” Bill said, leaning against the counter. “How will I survive?”

“Well, you won’t if you keep standing there,” she replied, stepping closer. “My flat is small. Go fulfill your promise and start on those wards.”

“But I want to help,” he said, not moving an inch.

She gave him a look, then smiled coyly.
“Then get out of the way.”

He meant to say something playful, maybe wind her up a little, he wasn’t even sure why, but then his eyes caught too much all at once.

The way her smile lingered. The strands of hair curling against her cheek. The long, loose plait trailing behind. The necklace he’d given her, resting just above the collar of his shirt. The scent of flowers... and something else.

She looked him in the eyes, those stormy blue-grey ones, just watching. Eyebrows raised. Teasing him. Maybe daring a bit. A little too knowing.

That’s when it hit him.

Damn.
Charlie was right.
He was in.

He was in deep.

He hadn’t meant to realize it, but there it was. And it hit hard. Knocked the breath out of him just a little.

He exhaled, shifting his weight, trying to move. Trying to hide just how obvious it all was.

He brushed past her.
Not entirely on purpose.
Maybe a little on purpose.

She looked up at him, still smiling.

Before he could stop himself, he leaned in, just slightly, and said, low and quiet,
“You can keep it. The shirt. Looks like it was always yours anyway.”

Then he reached up, tucked one of the loose strands behind her ear, and turned away. Wand in hand, he began on the wards, muttering incantations.

Two spells in, he let himself glance back.

She was still standing where he’d left her, eyes half-closed, fingers lightly playing with the pendant at her neck. She looked out of this world. Unreal.

Had he done that?
Had his words reached her?
Was it possible that...

Damn.

He was hypnotized. 
Unreal...

Suddenly she blinked, took a soft breath, and turned toward the fridge.

He went back to work on the protective spells, telling himself it mattered. That he should focus. Still, he couldn’t help but glance at her now and then, as he moved through the space carefully, tying new knots of magic into place.

He could hear her in the kitchen, humming soft French melodies under her breath. The kettle whistled. Cabinets opened and closed. A clink of plates. Laughter, low and real, at something small he didn’t catch.

For a second, he let himself imagine this was something that could last. That it could be an everyday. That maybe... just maybe... there was a chance.

She called over, cheerful. His heart skipped a beat, startled by the sound of her voice.
“Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee,” he said, without thinking.

“Good choice,” she replied, and he could hear the smile in her tone.

He finished the last of the wards and turned just as she set a small plate in front of him. Toast with butter and jam, scrambled eggs, and two mismatched mugs. He sat across from her, the chair creaking softly under his weight. A small table between them.

“Is this the French feast I was promised?” he asked, trying to slip back into their usual rhythm, despite the loud shifting in his chest.

“I guess it’s not that different,” she said with a shrug. “Maybe more simple. Less fat.”
A pause, then a small smile. “You’ll see more at dinner.”

He smiled, shook his head. So there could be more. Breakfasts. Lunches. Dinners. Maybe...maybe more.

They ate in easy quiet. Not silence, exactly. There was the soft scrape of cutlery, her humming returning now and then, his nervous fingers tapping against the mug.

He should say something.

He should tell her she looked beautiful like this, soft morning light catching in the strands of her plait. He should say how he loved her... wait, no, liked her hair like that. A lot. How he wanted to play with it so bad...wait, not that.

He shook his head. Maniac. He was acting like a maniac.

Which was odd, because he’d been cool around her before. Enchanted, for sure. But still cool. That it would be on purpose now made all the difference. That he would have to try. And try how? 

He should ask her to that damn dinner. French or not. 
He opened his mouth to suggest something semi-casual, but he was interrupted.

The sharp tap-tap of claws against the window cut through their quiet rhythm. Both of them turned.
Lilou was perched on the windowsill, feathers ruffled from the cold. A small envelope was tied to her leg, sealed in deep red wax. 

Fleur stood, murmuring something soft in French as she opened the window.

“Twice in one weekend?” Bill asked, aiming for a safe, playful, casual tone. “They must really miss you. Or is it more owl art?”

She laughed, untied the letter, and glanced at the seal.
“Oh,” she said, almost absently. “It’s just Viktor.”

She ran her thumb along the edge of the envelope, then set it down without opening it.

Bill paused, toast halfway to his mouth. 

“Krum?” he asked, too quickly.

She nodded, setting the letter down without opening it.

“The Quidditch star?”

“Yes. I don’t know if I’d call him a star, but I suppose he’s a good player. I met him at Hogwarts, we both did that Tournament last year, remember?”

“And you keep in touch?”

“Yes. I didn’t at first, but then he reached out. And I guess… something like that makes you close to people. The events from last year. No one else can really understand.”

“Huh,” he said.

Something twisted in his chest. He wasn’t sure what. He looked at the letter again, how gently she’d handled it, how casually she’d said just Viktor, like someone obvious. Expected. The way she explained their connection. Deep. Shared. Something no one else could really get…

Of course.
Made sense.
Famous Quidditch player. Talented. Rich.

A girl like her would make sense with someone like that.

But that wasn’t even what got to him. Not really.

What stayed with him was the way she spoke about Viktor. The weight in her voice. The ease of it. That bond forged in something brutal, something he hadn’t lived through. Something he’d never quite understand.

He suddenly felt naive. Foolish, even. Imagining he could make a move. That they were getting close. That he had any right to feel that way.

The truth hit harder than he expected. He didn’t know her. Not really. He’d only seen glimpses, her wit, her quiet strength, that strange calm she carried. And still he acted like he knew what she needed. Like he had anything to offer her.

He hadn’t even scratched the surface.

Quietly, he set the toast down.

She moved back toward the counter, humming again, completely at ease. Still barefoot. Still wearing his shirt. Still effortlessly striking.

He was barely holding it together now.

Fleur didn’t seem to notice all his shifts. She was clearing plates, asking about second helpings of toast, but he barely registered any of it.

He stood abruptly.

“I should go,” he said.

She blinked, looking over her shoulder.
“You don’t want to finish?”

“I have this thing I need to attend. A meeting.”

“Oh,” she said, surprised.
“Is everything...?”

“Yeah. Everything’s great. The food was great, and all. I just... I forgot about it. I need to go.”

She nodded slowly, though she still looked puzzled.
“Alright.”

He offered a faint smile but didn’t quite meet her eyes.

“I’ll see you,” he said, already moving toward the door.

It wasn’t technically a lie.
He had a meeting.
At five.

— • —

"Looks like it was always yours anyway."

She didn’t know why those words hit her the way they did.

Maybe it was the tone, low and deliberate, said just for her, not meant to be overheard.

Maybe it was the hair tuck. He had done it twice now, each time gentle, careful, like she was something delicate. Or maybe it was the scent, stronger when he leaned in. Cedarwood and something else she could not name. The scent she had fallen asleep to. The one she had woken up wrapped in. The one she had not wanted to take off.

"Like it was yours..."

The words echoed.

He was gone now, off to wherever he needed to be. And she was curled up on the sofa, still wrapped in his shirt, replaying the entire night in her mind. So different than she had expected. So much more than she thought it would be.

Lilou hooted softly from the corner, announcing her presence.

She had returned earlier, while Fleur and Bill were still seated at the half-eaten breakfast Fleur had prepared. Just bread, jam, eggs. Simple. Familiar. Like home.

"Twice in one weekend?" Bill had said, smiling. "They must really miss you. Or is it more owl art?"

He had looked almost excited. She laughed. Secretly, she loved that he noticed things like that. Things that mattered.

She had glanced at the envelope but left it for later, not wanting to break the quiet rhythm they had found. But Bill had not stayed much longer after that. Something urgent. She suspected it had to do with Diagon Alley last night.

She did not ask. 
Not yet.

Now she sat, playing with the pendant he had given her. She remembered how carefully he had passed it into her palm.

"Always yours anyway."

Oh, she had given up the want to be someone's long ago.
She noticed Bill’s glances, of course. The way he looked at her.
But that was expected. She had learned not to trust it. To file it away with everything else.

She liked his company. Liked their banter. Her humor was dry, not for everyone, but he never seemed to mind. He gave as good as he got. Sharp mind. Quick mouth. She liked that.

But a long time ago, she stopped believing things like that could become real for her.

She used to be romantic. Maybe it came from the adventure books she read under the covers at night. Stories full of yearning, sword fights, love that burned and stayed true. She believed in those once.

Then she fell in love.

Once.
Maybe twice.

The first was Theo Claremont. Tall, sandy-haired, a perfect smile. Popular. Fun. Kids usually avoided her, some overwhelmed, some too obsessed with her heritage to see anything else. Theo was no different. Until the day he played a joke on her and she laughed. He had blinked, surprised, and said she was funnier than he thought.

That was enough.
Someone saw her.
That was all it took.

She liked him for months, unsure how to act.

Then the Veela in her, impatient, took over. 
"Fleur, I’m yours. I’ll do anything. Let me be yours," he had said. Loudly. In front of a crowd.

He denied it later. Said it was her charm. Said she had bewitched him. Said she was mad.

The second boy was Lucien Lestrange. They had Runes together. Both top of the class. They studied late. Kissed often. Snuck out at night. Until the night she asked what they were, and he told her he would never date a dirty half-breed mud. She was just a good practice round.

She cried because of that boy.
She still had not forgiven herself for that.

Most recently, there was Roger. Roger Davies. Kind. Clever. Handsome. She thought maybe it was different. The novelty of her did not wear off right away. She took it as a sign. They were steady for half a year. She went all in. Only to realize he never really listened. Never saw what was underneath. Never even wanted to try.

There were more.

Glances.
Looks.
Flirty banter.

Some tried to date her, then backed down.
Some were not brave enough.
Some only wanted to—

Fuck.

She wanted to be wanted.
Wanted to be known. 
Was that a crime?

His hand, the warmth of it.
His voice, low and kind. It did something to her.
That had to mean something, did it not?

"It had to. Right?" she said out loud.

Lilou looked at her but did not make any sounds.

— • —

She decided it was time to move. Time to go out.

She’d received the check from her father after all, with a note insisting she buy herself something fabulous, and not at all practical, for her birthday.

The sun was out. Diagon Alley was bustling. Families spilled in and out of supply shops, parents chasing children, couples arguing over cauldron sizes. Every table at the cafés and ice cream parlors was packed. Fleur didn’t mind the crowds. She loved the sun. A rare thing in London.

She passed by Madame Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, gave a brief glance at the stuffy windows of Twilfitt and Tatting’s, and snorted at the jewel-toned, embroidered robes on display. Gladrags wasn’t much better. Sequined boots, glittering cloaks, ridiculous hats.

None of it was right.

British fashion was… behind.

Everywhere she looked: long sleeves, velvet trim, heavy emeralds and purples. She missed French fashion. The quality. The simplicity. No one in Paris wore wizard robes as daily attire anymore. Robes were for occasions, and even then, they were subtle. Elegant. Not dripping in tasseled hems and gold.

With the lack of decent choices, she gave up on the main street and turned down a quieter one. The noise of Diagon Alley faded behind her, replaced by the softer clatter of back doors and the hum of distant conversation. A few more turns, and the cobbles darkened beneath her feet. The signs above the shops grew more faded, more crooked.

Brasspot Alley was hardly a proper street. It curved off from Knockturn like a forgotten thought, too narrow for carts and too crooked for tourists. The shops were small, wedged between leaning brick buildings. Most wizards hurried past without glancing in.

Fleur, on the other hand, slowed down.

There was something charming about it. She liked the way the light hit the crooked windows, the way the air smelled faintly of incense and sea salt.

She passed the sandwich shop with the loud Italian owner and impossible hours (who closed at lunchtime?), the cat café that was really more of a tea shop(with a lot of cats), and the music store that sold Muggle records that (almost) worked despite all the magic around.

At the very end of the crooked street stood a shop that didn’t quite match the rest. Its windows gleamed, framed in sage-green paint, with gold lettering so delicate it seemed to float. Inside, soft light spilled onto worn rugs and neat rows of treasures, casting everything in a warm, inviting glow.

This was her favorite place.
The one where she got most of her apartment stuff.

She stepped through the door.

"Finally! You’re back!" the girl cried. She was tiny, with a dark bob and green eyes so big they nearly took up half her face. She threw her arms up, then gasped theatrically. "Wait! Don’t move!"

And just like that, she vanished into the back.

Fleur glanced around. There was more stock than last time. A few mismatched tables stood scattered around the room, each draped in rings and necklaces, a blend of vintage finds and newer designs. A colorful silk scarf caught her eye.

To the left, the homeware section. Mismatched mugs and rows of candles. This was where she’d found her favorite bowls and plates. Now, a matching butter dish sat proudly on the middle shelf. She was definitely taking it home.

To the right, a small clothing nook. Not many pieces, but each one carefully chosen. Tailored coats, soft knits, elegant skirts. Fleur thought it was the kind of collection that came from taste, not trend.

Only the back-left corner broke the harmony. A long rack crammed with glittering robes and tall purple wizard hats stood like a party that had wandered in and didn’t know when to leave.

"I know, right?" said the girl, emerging from the back. "I order that stuff for my uncle, Dedalus. He helped me out when I was opening the shop. Only one in the family who was actually excited, to be honest. His taste is… well, you can see it. But he’s fun."

"That’s really kind. Ordering it for him. The clothes are…" Fleur trailed off, unsure how to finish.

"Horrendous, huh?" the brunette said, grinning. "Anyway, I was waiting for you to come back. Got a delivery from Milan and thought of you the second I saw this."

She opened a bag and held up a dress. The perfect little black dress. It was short, maybe a bit too short, and cut close to the body, with delicate spaghetti straps. The design was simple, but the fabric and structure screamed quality. Effortless elegance.

It was perfect.
The kind of extravagant thing birthday money from her father should buy.
And she had absolutely nowhere to wear it to.

She stepped closer, fingers brushing the tag. Prada. A real find.

"This is incredible. How did you get this?"

"I’ve got good contacts," the woman said with a wink. "Definitely didn’t Confund anyone." She grinned. Fleur hoped it was a joke.

"It’s beautiful, but I can’t. I don’t really have any place to wear this to."

"Just try it on. I thought about keeping it myself, but you’re the only one who could really make it work. It shouldn’t stay hidden on a rack."

Fleur hesitated, then smiled. "Alright…?"

"Dalia," the woman offered. "I’m Dalia."

"Fleur."

"Hi. You’re my most loyal customer, you know. I’ll give you a discount."

Fleur slipped into the tiny changing room tucked behind the rack of glittering robes.

"Hah, I was right. Fits like a glove," Dalia said, a little smug, as Fleur stepped out.

Fleur moved toward the mirror, studying herself in the dress. She had long stopped pretending not to know what she looked like. But beauty was the easiest thing to notice. The least important. She didn’t flaunt it either. She got enough attention as it is.

Still, looking at herself now, she thought maybe she should show some skin more often.

The dress clung in all the right places. It was provocative, yes, but still elegant. She liked what she saw. She felt confident. Really confident. She searched for any excuse to wear it, anything to justify the buy.

"It’s amazing," she said slowly, "but I really don’t have anywhere to wear this…"

Dalia grinned, arms crossed, clearly pleased with herself. "Then we’ll find somewhere to go."

Fleur raised an eyebrow at her reflection in the mirror.

"I’m serious," Dalia said, stepping closer. "My friend and I are going out on the thirty-first. Bit of a Halloween thing. Pub crawl, maybe catch a show. Come with us."

Fleur turned, smoothing her hands down the dress. Then snorted. "Don’t wizards here go clubbing in robes? I can't imagine anyone in London wearing anything like that."

"Well, the old ones don’t go clubbing at all. And the young ones… some of us aren’t fans of robes. Come on, it will be fun," Dalia replied, grinning.

Fleur laughed. 
"This is mad, I don’t even know your friend," she said loudly, shaking her head.

"You don’t really know me either," Dalia pointed out. "But really, come on. At least you know we both have great taste. And unless you’ve got a secret party planned or you just really don’t want to buy the dress... which is mad, because it fits you like a glove."

Fleur bit her lip, considering. The idea felt strange. A night out just for fun. No goals, no vaults. Just music, drinks, a new outfit, and maybe some future friends. Just a night to be someone else. Or maybe just herself.

She met Dalia’s eyes again in the mirror. The girl was watching her with a huge, hopeful smile.

"Alright," Fleur said, smiling back. "I’ll come."

Dalia whooped. "I knew it."

Fleur turned back to the mirror one last time.

The dress was hers now.

— • —

The clock ticked.

Outside, the street noise drifted in through the windows.

But all he could hear was his mother's gasp. The break in her voice. The hurt she couldn’t hide.

The meeting had lasted long into the night. New maps. Patrol shifts. News that was worse than any of them had said aloud. Charlie sat across the table, serious, with Damian by his side. Bill had given the full report. They’d been out, off-duty, just having fun. They’d Apparated to Diagon Alley. Maybe they were followed. Maybe not. It was dark. Hard to say. Maybe they shouldn’t be that alarmed.

Tonks described her version of the night. She had seen Lucius Malfoy sniffing around corridors at the Ministry. When she tried to sneak past, she slipped, and he caught her off guard. She stayed calm, stalling him just long enough for Kingsley to arrive. Kingsley confirmed Bill’s message had gotten through in time. Malfoy left in a rush and didn’t come back. They finished the patrol together and that was that.

Moody drilled them, going into the details. Charlie had mentioned Fleur. His mum squinted at Bill then, sharp and suspicious. Moody only grunted and asked if "the French ballerina" had noticed anything. Said they ought to keep an eye on her, though he knew Bill was already doing it. His mother had pursed her lips at that.

Charlie watched him all night, grave, waiting. Bill knew what he had to do. Say it out loud. Break the news. Break his mother's heart.

He said it fast. Left out the details. Still, he heard her gasp.

His mum was difficult sometimes. Had strong opinions about his hair, his life. But he would never, ever want to hurt her.

And Percy's name hurt now. All of it hurt. It wasn’t supposed to happen. Weasleys stuck together. Betrayal shouldn’t be in their cards.

"We have to believe he wouldn't," his father said, rubbing a hand across his face.
"But prepare as if he had," Moody answered, colder. Practical.

They went over the usual round of surveillance, but no one had made much progress.

Bill shifted in his chair, dragging himself back to the present. He had been distracted lately. Too distracted. It was the most important thing. He needed to do his part. Deliver more. He had always overachieved in every role: student, Prefect, Head Boy, Curse-Breaker, eldest son, “cool” older brother... Now he was the Order’s Goblin Spy. And with a little focus, he was sure he could crack that too.

Just focus.

His office felt too clean. Too polished. Too official. The green carpet grated on him. The heavy chestnut desk took way too much space, impressive and useless. He hated it.

He let out a loud breath, counted to ten, and drank some water. It didn’t help much. He stood up, made a few rounds around his desk, then sat down. It did nothing.

The clock ticked.
The street noise filled the gaps.
The clock again.

He proofed two documents. Barely saw the words.

He hated being inside when everything outside was falling apart. Hated parchment. Hated the stupid pen in his hand. He closed his eyes.

Hated not being five floors down, in the smaller room with smaller desks and faded chairs.

He shook his head. The distance was good. She was taken. By no one other than an international Quidditch star. He should definitely not see her face, her hair, her small smile every time he shut his eyes.

"Focus, Bill," he said out loud, annoyed. Great. He was talking to himself now.

He itched for caffeine but did not trust himself enough to go out. It wasn’t natural to work in this office. They had a break from vault work now, just paperwork to proof and fill out. He had gotten used to working in hers, cozier, less polished than this one. But the space was definitely needed right now.

He glanced at the papers, trying real hard.

Someone knocked at the door. He looked up, expecting a goblin. Could they feel he was unproductive? They had always had surprisingly good instinct. Were they sensing things through the walls now?

The door swung open.
Fleur stepped inside, carrying two coffee cups.

Her hair was in that damn loose plait again. She wore a soft blue blouse, and the necklace he had given her caught the light. The familiar scent of flowers and fresh breeze clung to her. For a moment, it was just her. Everything else blurred out.

"Maybe we should go out for lunch?" she said lightly, setting a cup on his desk.

Bill raised his eyebrows, waiting. Would she mention the awkward goodbye? Would she ask where he’d been?

"What?" she asked instead, her smile almost teasing.

Of course she noticed. She had to. Didn’t she know him hiding up here wasn’t normal, wasn’t part of their routine? That it was and wasn’t right?

But then again, it made sense. She was taken. She did not notice things like that. It did not mean the same. Didn’t mean as much.

He wanted to say no.

But she looked at him with that soft, small smile. Eyes playful. A little daring. Did she know or not? Was it a game? Was it part of her natural charms?

He knew he was setting himself up for harm.

He reached for the cup.

"I know a place," he said. "Hope you like Thai."

— • —

He gave up on his office and moved back into hers, because clearly, he was a weak man. Plus distance didn’t work or help.

It was all fine. He was just under her spell, ancient magic pulling him in. That was all.

He told himself it didn’t mean anything. She was just a friend. A friendly face at the bank. Someone to sit across from. A colleague.

They fell back into rhythm, comfortably quiet and focused. Fleur muttered in French now and then when the translations annoyed her, though she was too proud to ask for help.

They took breaks at lunch sometimes, drifting outside Diagon Alley. He showed her some of his favorite restaurants. She hated all the French ones. She brought him coffee most mornings, just the way he liked it, saying it was her part. He walked her home at night.

Perfectly innocent. Perfectly normal. This was how friends acted. Right?

Later that week, a soft hoot broke the quiet. An owl landed at Fleur’s window. It wasn't her bird this time. 

She stood, opened the window, and took the letter. Her expression shifted, smile first, then unreadable blank. She reached for a quill and scribbled something quickly, then snorted and added a few more lines, sharp and fast. When she finished, she tied the message to the owl and held it out the window, watching the bird as it took off.

Bill hesitated.

"That looked... tense," he said, trying to sound casual.

She glanced up. "What?"

"That owl. And you snorted pretty loud. Annoyed by someone?"

She rolled her eyes. "Viktor. He’s acting a bit dramatic lately."

Bill blinked. He didn't need the details. Really regretted asking now. "Oh. Right."

"He wrote to say he’s still in touch with a girl from Hogwarts. They dated last year. Apparently she wouldn’t visit over the summer, but she still writes back. He asked what that means."

Fleur gave a small, amused smile.

"I told him it means no. She doesn’t want to date. He’s not lucky with girls, Viktor."

She said it lightly, with a shrug, and went back to work.

He sat there, looking at her a moment longer than necessary.

Viktor Krum is not lucky with girls.

So he’d gotten it all wrong.

Huh.

Focus, Bill.

— • —

The week blurred by, late October’s chill settling in for good.

Vault reports. Security checks. Endless forms stamped and filed. The ordinary grind.

Charlie was already back in Romania. It was too cold for a broom flight this late in the season, and after Damian's protests, they had taken a Portkey instead.

Before they left, Charlie had pulled him aside. Said he was thinking about telling Mum and Dad over Christmas. If he’d even be allowed home by then, with all the Order work he had in Romania.

Bill had just hugged him tight. Told him he’ll miss him and that he always had his back.

He tried to linger in the lobby every morning and after lunch. Just a little. Not enough to look suspicious. Listening, always listening, in case anything shifted with the goblins. The next Order meeting was scheduled for the thirty-first, and he wanted to bring something useful. Make sure the others knew he was focused. Reliable. Doing his part.

Ginny and the twins were writing him a lot. Ginny said they had all gotten into trouble with Umbridge, blamed it on their big Gryffindor mouths. She mentioned unfair punishments, but when he asked, she didn’t offer much detail. He hoped it was nothing worse than a few evening detentions. Fred and George kept their letters short. Practical. Business plans. New product ideas. Bill had quietly referred them to a man he knew who handled properties, knowing well enough they didn’t have enough gold yet, so no real harm. No need to tell Mum.

He saw suspected and confirmed Death Eaters at the Gringotts a couple of times. He tried to listen, but didn’t find anything interesting. Donations. The usual pureblood business.

On the morning of the thirty-first, Fleur came in late, a little out of breath.

"There is a man in the lobby," she said quietly, accent sharp in her rush. "Blond. Ponytail. He is very loud and ordering goblins around. Gave me goosebumps."

Bill stood up. 

He was already moving before she finished.

Lucius Malfoy stood by the main desk, polished and impatient, talking low and fast.

Bill drifted closer, careful not to draw attention.

He caught pieces of it, and Malfoy was not exactly quiet. He wanted vault access, special authorization to move an item. The goblins said the confirmation was still pending from the Lestranges. They talked for some time.

Finally, the goblin behind the desk, Ragnok, shook his head once, slow and final.

Procedure. Verification required. No exceptions.

Malfoy didn’t take it well.

Bill saw the tight line of his mouth, the hand tightening around his cane. He leaned in closer to the goblin, voice dropping hard. Said something Bill did not catch, and left.

Bill moved closer to the desk now. He greeted the goblin, quickly coming up with a question about a report he had already filled out. He glanced at the books on the desk.

A vault number he knew, confirming what he had heard. Lestrange vault.

An item reference: the number again.

He had been the one writing this record and instantly recognized it.

It was a small, enchanted cup he hadn’t been sure how to categorize.

Bill frowned.

It didn’t make sense. Why be so motivated to move a drinking cup?

He remembered the object filling with wine when he held it. It was enchanted, but nothing unusual. They saw a lot of magical stuff underground.

Was there some sort of liquor shortage planned? It did not make sense. He made a mental note to bring it all to the Order tonight.

He thanked the goblin for the advice on the report and turned back.

When he got back, Fleur looked at him, eyebrows raised.

"I wanted to see what the fuss was about," he said, but hated that he had to lie. She already noticed too much. "Just a difficult client. Normal stuff."

She just nodded, and watched him.

"So, any plans tonight?" she asked finally.

Bill panicked. Was she a Legilimens? Could she hear him thinking about the Order meeting right now?

"Not much," he said after a pause. "Why?"

"It’s Halloween," she said with a shrug. "I thought it was a big deal here. Otherwise I wouldn’t have spent birthday money on a black dress I have absolutely no reason to buy for..."

He didn’t quite follow the last part, but he relaxed anyway. She didn’t know. He hadn’t slipped.

He made a promise to himself to be more careful.

And to keep his distance.

For real this time.

— • —

The double-layered heating charm was holding. Barely.

Fleur tightened her long coat around her and crossed the street, heels clicking with every step. She paused outside the pub, checking the time, then the sky. Clear. Cold. Her breath curled in front of her. She tugged the coat tighter. The dress underneath wasn’t exactly made for waiting around.

Was she supposed to go in or wait here? The note Dalia had sent the night before hadn’t been entirely clear.

She turned slightly toward the glass, catching her reflection in the darkened window. Long black coat with fur trim. Black dress: the dress this night was all about. Hair down. Gold earrings from Mum. Rings she’d inherited from her grandmother (not the Veela, the other one). Light makeup, not much, just enough to look fresh for someone going out on a work night.

The door swung open beside her.

“You look incredible,” Dalia declared, bouncing with excitement as she pulled Fleur into a hug. “Ridiculous, really. I mean, who let you out like this?”

Fleur blinked, then smiled. “You did.”

“Right. I’m brilliant.” Dalia adjusted her leather jacket over her shoulders like she was posing for a photograph no one had taken. “Sara’s finishing up. Let’s grab a drink while we wait.”

Fleur raised an eyebrow.

“Relax,” Dalia said with a smirk. “This isn’t the place. Just one drink, come on. Sara’s almost done. I told her to clock out early, but she threatened me with a mop.”

Fleur must have still looked skeptical, because Dalia added, “I wouldn’t let you waste Prada on this. We have a fancy girl night planned.” Then she took her hand and dragged her inside.

Fleur had no choice but to follow. The familiar jingle of the doorbell felt oddly out of place with her outfit. The place was warm, low-lit, and smelled, as usual, of fresh bread and stew. As she walked in, she drew a few looks, one eyebrow raise, and a double take from the bloke who choked on his shepherd’s pie.

She was glad to notice that this time the attention wasn’t only on her.

Dalia looked incredible in a long red velvet dress, her dark lipstick a striking contrast to her pale skin and short black hair. The look might have been too elegant, if not for the shiny leather jacket that made it cool. Fashionable.

They sat down in a booth at the back. A moment later, the girl from behind the bar peeled off her apron, tossed on a leopard-print jacket over her black top and leather trousers, and slipped out from behind the counter with a tired wave to the barman.

Fleur blinked, surprised. “You!”

Sara cocked her head, smiling. “So you’re the mystery French customer with great taste. I should’ve put two and two together. Wait a second, I asked Jacob to mix one for us to start the night. Then we can head out.”

Soon enough, a twenty-something wizard came over and placed three glasses in front of them: a pale pink liqueur with a bit of foam. He blushed fiercely, eyes lingering just a moment too long on Sara.

“Thanks, Jake,” Sara said. “Thought we’d start on a theme, since we’ve got our foreign friend here. It's French martinis. Cheers!”

They raised their glasses. Fleur took a sip, smoother than she expected, sweet but not too much. She liked it more than she meant to.

“Okay, are we all committed to this?” Sara asked, putting down her cocktail. “Because all I need tonight is martinis and the usual show of Dalia flirting with herself in a mirror.”

“Oh, I don’t do that. That is not true. Fleur, don’t listen to her,” Dalia replied, though she didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed or annoyed. “But yes, we’re doing this. We just needed to wait until the right time. The place doesn’t open yet. Technically, it doesn’t even exist right now.”

Fleur blinked. “Pardon?”

Dalia grinned. “We’re going to Mirrorball. You’ll see.”

“It’s still hours before it starts. But relax. I found us a great first stop,” Sara said, already standing. “Come on, you'll like it.”

— • —

The Silver Snitch was a peculiar place.

Dark and moody, with midnight-blue walls and velvet booths, it wasn’t exactly large, just cozy enough, and elegant in a way Fleur hadn’t expected it to be. On the ceiling, hundreds of silver-painted snitches were charmed to stay in place, their wings fluttering softly, creating a constant, pleasant hum.

“Look out for the one flying around,” said Sara. “Jake said there’s one real Snitch up there, and if you catch it, you drink for free all night.”

“Oh, I don’t think we need a silver ball to get free drinks,” Dalia replied, voice smug as she nodded toward the bar. “Look at that guy. Want to bet ten Sickles he buys Fleur a drink before the end of the night?”

“He’ll buy me one in five minutes if I just smile back,” Fleur said. Not smug, just from experience.

Sara looked a little surprised at the confidence, but Dalia only laughed.

“Yeah, I believe that. Actually, look at that one. I think he’d buy us all one if any of us smiled. He’s doing everything not to look directly our way. He’s so obvious.”

Fleur glanced around. “This is a nice bar. I’ve mostly visited pubs so far.”

Dalia leaned back in the booth, swirling her martini. “You know, Fleur, I have to say, for someone who looks like a goddess, you sit like an Auror, ready for a fight.”

Fleur raised an eyebrow. “I am relaxed. Should I lean more?”

“No, keep it. It’s perfect. Intimidating and mysterious. Sara, back me up.”

Sara grinned. “You definitely give off ‘don’t mess with me’ vibes. But then you talk, and it’s like, oh wait, she’s just French.”

Fleur laughed, quick and surprised. She really liked it, the direct honesty. She was tired of people sugarcoating everything, and said so aloud.

“This is why I brought her,” Dalia said, nudging Sara. “We needed balance. I carry the charm, she’s the direct one.”

“Oh, but I bring charm too,” Sara replied, mock-offended. “I just hide it under sarcasm and combat boots.”

Fleur took another sip of the bitter drink Sara had ordered when they came in.

They talked about everything and nothing. Work horror stories. Awful dates. Weird customers. Fleur leaving France and why. Dalia confessed to flirting her way out of a hideous order she’d confirmed while very, very drunk. Sara told them about a regular at the pub who always tries to pay for Firewhisky with gobstones. Fleur listened more than she spoke, but she didn’t feel left out.

Eventually, someone caught the silver Snitch and the whole bar cheered. Music picked up, and a few people started dancing in the narrow space near the bar. Dalia had been right, the younger crowd wore mostly Muggle clothes, some stylish, some completely missing the mark.

Dalia pointed toward a man at the counter who had been glancing over for a while.
“Your next admirer. I think he’s working up the courage.”

Fleur shrugged. “He’s too slow. Missed his chance.”

Sara clinked her glass against Fleur’s. “Brutal. I respect it.”

— • —

They left the Silver Snitch just before midnight.

“Might be a little early, but this is getting ridiculous,” Dalia said cheerfully. Not annoyed, just entertained. The night had been going well, but the attention was getting old. One man had tried to impress them by standing on the bar to sing, only to trip badly over a stool. Another had made it as far as offering to buy Fleur a drink, then immediately forgot his own name.

Sara had lost patience somewhere around then.
“Did that guy just call you... the moon goddess of Great Britain? That’s it. We are leaving.”

Dalia grinned, pleased.
“Told you the dress was magic. This outing is really good advertising for my shop, it honestly is.”

Fleur smoothed the dress down with practiced calm, even as another wizard walked straight into a potted plant trying to catch her eye. She took the last sip of her drink and stood.
“Not my fault British men are delicate.”

“They truly are, aren’t they?” said Dalia happily, waving to the people still watching them and calling out that her shop sold magical attire for anyone who wanted to look fabulous and young.

Outside, the night had cooled further. Fleur tightened her coat, quickly reapplying the heating charm. They walked fast through side streets of Diagon Alley, lit with flickering lanterns and the occasional hovering spell-light.

“Okay, so,” Dalia said, walking backward as she led them, “Mirrorball isn’t on any map. Technically, it’s not even legal. I don’t think. But don’t worry, it’s fabulous.”

Sara grinned.
“It’s one of those ‘you have to know someone who knows someone’ places. Dalia bribed customer with free jewelry, I think.”

“Worth it,” Dalia said. “Best club in magical London. It moves locations. Tonight it’s in Knockturn, hidden behind a cursed mirror shop that’s supposedly closed for renovation.”

“That seems... extremely safe,” Fleur said dryly.

“Relax.” Dalia shrugged, her stylish bob bouncing with the motion. “Nothing bad happens. Usually.”

They stopped in front of a dark storefront. It was boarded up, with a cracked sign that read Fair Reflection: Specialist Enchantments. Behind the glass stood a tall mirror, warped and stained, reflecting only shapes, not faces.

Sara tapped three times on the window. Nothing happened. Then Dalia reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a pinch of silver dust, and tossed it at the glass. The mirror shimmered, shifted, and opened like a door.

“Voilà,” Dalia said, grinning.

Fleur stepped inside after the others. The sound hit her first.

Pulsing music. Something rich and layered, almost orchestral. The air was thick with magic. A soft, glowing mist drifted near the ceiling, shifting in multiple colors as it moved. The walls were dark, navy so deep it was nearly black, lined with fractured mirrors that caught and scattered the light.

“You see the fog?” Dalia asked. “It’s the emotion in the room. Gold is joy. Red is desire. Laughter is lavender, and so on.”

There was no sign. No staff. No menus. And yet, a drink appeared in Fleur’s hand, something cool, sparkling, floral.

“You pay on the way out,” Sara said, sipping her own. “It’s pricey, but worth it. The place gives you what you want. Or what it thinks you need.”

She glanced around, then added under her breath, “Don’t be fooled. There are at least thirty people backstage keeping up the illusion. I dated one of them once. That’s how I found out about this place...though we’re not exactly on speaking terms anymore. Hence Dalia had to bribe the customer to get us in.”

Fleur gave a small shake of her head, amused despite herself.

She didn’t have time to say anything more, Dalia was already dragging them toward the dance floor, where the enchanted tiles pulsed beneath their heels, responding to the rhythm.

Fleur didn’t overthink it.

She let her coat fall open. Let the music move through her. Let herself feel like a girl in a dress on a night out. 
Nothing else. 
No work, no expectations, no failures.
Just this. No future. No past.

The reflection in the mirrored wall caught her eye. 
Three women laughing. 
Beautiful. Confident. Alive. 
Moving in a haze of mist and sound.

— • —

Bill pushed open the kitchen door, boots scuffing against the worn floor.

"Am I late? I was held up. I actually overheard Malfoy. I’ve got news for us..."

"You're not," said Remus, slouched over a glass of liquor. His voice was low and tired. "It was cancelled. Dumbledore’s in France. Kingsley and Moody too. Something about the giants. They rescheduled for Friday night."

Sirius sat heavily beside him, a bottle of firewhisky in hand. He took a long swig and offered it to Bill with a dramatic flourish. 
"And now Moony and I, we're having a party. Want in?"

Bill hesitated, studying them.

Sirius had been sour for a long time, caged in Azkaban for a crime he didn’t commit, and now trapped again in this house, his name still not cleared. Free, but stuck. Tonight, though, he didn’t look angry. He looked resigned. Numb.

Remus, Bill had come to know a little better now too. Cool-headed, quietly funny in ways you only noticed if you were listening. His robes were never as polished as Sirius’s, but his steadiness had always felt unshakable. Until now. Tonight, he wore the same hunted look. And Bill didn’t know what to make of that.

It clicked suddenly.

Halloween night. Celebrated by so many as the day You-Know-Who fell. The end of terror. Freedom. The end of war for most of us... but often forgotten that the peace had come because someone died.

Bill glanced between them, feeling the weight settle low in his chest. Two men hunted by the past.

"Sure, but keep the bottle," he said. He drew his wand and, with a small flick, Accio’d a fresh bottle from the sideboard and conjured himself a glass.

"That's my guy!" said Sirius, doing another dramatic movement before taking a swig. "Cheers, Bill."

"Yeah." Bill sat. The silence that followed was thick. The firewhisky burned slow.

"So, how's life as the Order’s secret goblin spy?" Sirius asked eventually, voice rough. "Everything you dreamed it would be?"

Bill looked at him, taking in the smile that did not reach his eyes.

"It’s alright," Bill said. "Not really exciting. Mostly paperwork. Not much happening right now."

"Yeah. War’s slower than the stories make it out to be," Sirius muttered.
"Last time, it hit fast. Now it’s just spying and cleanup." He took another sip, chuckling. "Not enough wand-to-wand fights, if you ask me."

Remus shot Sirius a sharp look. Sirius’s smile flattened.

"Anyway. Heard from Charlie you're making progress on the Veela front.”

Bill stilled. Tightened his grip on the glass.

"It’s not what I'm focused on right now."

Sirius gave another low, humorless chuckle. The fire cracked.

"Mm. Shame. Always something more important, isn’t there?"

The silence dragged. Bill looked down at his glass. The room smelled like smoke and old wood. He felt cornered.

"The Order stuff," he said. "This isn’t exactly the right time for romance, Sirius. Besides, I don’t like her like that. She doesn’t like me either. We’re colleagues."

Sirius gave a dry huff.

"I don't know," Remus said, smirking a little. "Charlie said she laughed at your jokes. And you're the least funny Weasley I know…"

"Petty laughs," Sirius said with mock solemnity. "Girls flirt like that."

"Pfff. I’m funny," Bill said. "Maybe not Fred and George funny, but no one is."

"We were once," Sirius said, glancing at Remus.

"Yeah, right," Remus said, smiling faintly.

They sat for a while. Nothing moved but the cracking fire.

"Ugh, I wish I could go out," Sirius said, leaning back. "Halloween nights were always the most fun."

"Remember when we sneaked out sixth year?" Remus said. "To that Muggle town, still in our school robes."

"James broke the Statute of Secrecy," Sirius said, grinning faintly. "Told everyone we were wizards."

"It was Halloween, Padfoot," Remus explained. "They thought it was a costume."

"Then James saw Lily," Sirius continued. "She sneaked out to the same pub. Actually dressed up. Guy lost his mind."

"What happened?" Bill asked, leaning forward slightly.

"Nothing much. He drank too much. They yelled at each other. They always did back then," Sirius said, his smile dimming. "Then we went back, he threw up and cried. Fun times."

"Easier times," Remus said softly.

"The best times."

They fell quiet again.

Then Sirius looked over, sharp but quiet.

"You sound just like James back then. ‘Not the time, not safe, I don’t like her, well maybe I do. I’ll tell her after the next mission.’"

A beat.

"He ran out of afters, Bill."

Remus closed his eyes. His glass was nearly empty. The fire cracked again, louder this time.

"We thought we had time," Sirius said it quietly this time, without his usual bite or grin. "To fight the war first, then live. Turns out, that’s not how it works."

Bill didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a moment.

Remus finally spoke, quiet.

"They deserved more time."

He lifted his glass, just slightly. “To Prongs and Lily.”

Sirius didn’t move at first. Then he picked up his glass too, eyes fixed on something far away. “They were just getting started.”

Bill echoed the gesture without speaking.
He stared at the amber liquid in his glass. Thought of Fleur. Her accent, her laugh. The curve of her braid over her shoulder. The look on her face that morning, when she wore his shirt and made him coffee like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Not the time. Not safe. Later.

But what if there wasn’t a later?

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Just sat with it. The drink. The fire.
The weight of two men who had lost everything.

And the quiet knowledge that maybe he was giving up on everything too.

— • —

She took her time this morning. She slept later than usual, showered, and spent a long while untangling her hair after the night out. Her head was still spinning a little, and she wasn’t sure if it was from the alcohol or from all the fun she’d had last night.

On the way to the bank, she stopped at her usual bakery and grabbed two coffees. Anne, the silver-haired owner of the little café, smiled and handed her two pumpkin pastries for being a regular.

She walked fast through the main hall of the bank, her heels echoing elegantly in the room, now quiet after the morning rush. She waved to Grikk, who acknowledged her with his usual loud grunt, which somehow felt friendlier now. She shook her head to herself. Since when were grunts polite? Her etiquette standards had really lowered over time.

“Well, well, well...” Bill looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Half past eleven. I was wondering if you’d make it before lunchtime.”

“Bonjour,” said Fleur. Her head was still spinning a little from all the bubbly drinks she’d had last night. “I left you a note.”

“I don’t see any notes,” he said, raising his eyebrows, playful, but curious.

“It’s on your desk,” she replied, setting her bag down.

“I don’t see any notes. Accio note.” Nothing happened. “See? No notes.”

“Seventh floor,” she added, shrugging off her coat. There were tiny drops of water clinging to it.

November in London, she sighed to herself. Everything was wet, even when it didn’t rain.

“Oh. I haven’t been up there yet,” Bill said, then added casually, “I don’t like working there.”

“I should’ve known. I forgot that you just adore my company,” she said teasingly, slipping into her chair and into their familiar, easy rhythm. To her surprise, he frowned and looked down.

Strange.

“New assignment came in. Vault 247. Shafiq family,” he said after a moment, clearly changing the subject.

She made a mental note to circle back to that later, before replying, surprised, “Shafiq? I just met a Shafiq!”

“Really? One of the daughters? They’ve got, what, six of them and a son? Bit like my family, but the opposite, huh? So which one do you know?”

“Sara! I went out with her last night.”

That seemed to catch him off guard. “Out where?”

“Out out,” Fleur said. “Cocktails, heels, music. There was this strange place that moves and has all this fog and weird lights. It was fun.”

Bill blinked.

“So what’s the issue with their vault?” she asked, moving closer to the papers, and to Bill, and scanning the documents the goblins had provided. “Do they have ties to France?”

He smelled like cedarwood and that same sweet spice again, she noticed. The same scent that still lingered faintly on the shirt she’d stolen from him. The one she wore all the time at home.

“They do, actually,” he said. “Just married off two daughters to French purebloods. I need to check for curses, and you need to make a list of the items they’re sending over. To France.”

“Oh. Two weddings in one year? That’s lovely… but stressful.”

“Efficient, really. They’ve got experience. All their girls are married off by nineteen.”

Fleur paused. “Really?” she said slowly. “Sara is twenty-three and didn’t mention any husbands.”

“Maybe she’s the rebellious one.”

Fleur narrowed her eyes. “She works at a pub and wears a leopard jacket, so I guess she must be.”

“So you met her at the pub?” Bill asked. He was trying to mask his curiosity with an overly casual tone, but he was clearly interested in her little night out.

She felt a flicker of unfamiliar heat in the low of her stomach. She liked that he was curious. She liked it a lot. She also had the sudden urge to offer just enough detail, for him to keep asking, to stay interested.

“Yes and no. I was introduced by another friend,” she said. “In the pub. And I knew her from the pub before, but we didn’t talk much. And another friend. I met her at the store. She introduced me to the girl from the pub. So maybe… yes. Yes, I met her in the pub.”

So much for being mysterious. Chaotic oversharing it is.

“That’s a complicated thought,” he grinned.

She smiled back. “Well, London is complicated sometimes.”

He looked at her for a long, quiet moment, then said, “Looks good on you, though.”

I’m starting to like myself in it, she thought, but didn’t dare say yet.

— • —

They took the trolley back from the Shafiq vault. The job had been easy, the items to check were mostly jewelry and furniture. Bill hadn’t found a single cursed object so far.

They left the bank, and the cold November wind hit her face. She adjusted her blue scarf with one hand, pulling it up over her nose, almost to her eyes, and with the other, she flicked her wand while muttering a heating charm. Bill did the same.

“I’ll walk you home,” he said. It wasn’t anything unusual. He usually walked her back. Just a friendly thing to do. So why did her heart give a few traitorous beats, like someone had cast a warming charm right on it?

“I’m actually meeting the girls at the pub. They want to talk about last night,” she said, adjusting her bag strap to hide her momentary flush.

“Oh. Alright.” He sounded a bit disappointed.

She was too, so she added, “It’s right next door to my apartment, actually. If you still feel like walking…”

She didn’t want to say goodbye just yet. She liked their routine.

“Alright,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets.

They walked in comfortable silence, occasionally meeting each other’s eyes as they passed eccentric Diagon Alley customers. Just as they turned the corner near her place, she heard her name called out.

“Fleur! Oi, Fleur! I’ve been screaming your name for five minutes, don’t you dare ignore me after our fabulous night out!” Dalia called, catching up to them. “Oh. Bill Weasley.”

“Dalia? Hi,” he said, equally surprised.

“You know each other?” asked Fleur.

“Yeah, from school. And... from school.”

Dalia sounded like she wanted to add something else, but stopped under Bill’s sharp look.

“And you? Are you dating?”

Bill looked uncomfortable now. He shifted his weight, then glanced at Fleur and said,

“We’re colleagues.”

Colleagues. Right. It was the truth, Fleur thought, so why did the word feel strange? Was that really all they were?Colleagues. It was the easiest way to describe how they knew each other. From work.

Still, she wished there were another word. He could’ve said work friends, but that felt even worse. It didn’t fit either.

“Right,” said Dalia, sensing the shift and looking between them. “Shall we? Sara hates when I’m late. Jake makes her uncomfortable when she’s off duty.”

“Oui, yes.” Fleur nodded. “Thank you for walking me back, Bill. See you tomorrow.”

“He’s not joining us?” Dalia asked, eyebrows raised.

“I have plans,” he said, smiling. “But thanks. Have fun. Are you going to be late tomorrow too, Fleur?”

“No, no. I’ll be on time so we can start early on the vault.”

“Sure,” he said, nodding. “Alright. See you. Cheers, Dalia.”

He turned and Disapparated on the spot.

“That was strange. Did I just ruin some kind of romantic date night?” Dalia asked, raising her eyebrows.

“What? No! We’re just work friends. It’s me, him, and goblins, so we stick together,” Fleur said, her French accent thicker now, weighted by a little unknown chaos and the lack of sleep.

After a moment, she asked, “What was that about knowing him from school? Was there something else you were going to say?”

Dalia started walking toward the pub, shrugging.

“No, not really. He knows my uncle too, that’s all.”

Fleur still sensed some hesitation. The girl wasn’t being entirely honest with her.

Just as they reached the pub door, Fleur asked,

“Did you date?”

Dalia turned, one foot in, one foot out. She looked at Fleur with a knowing smile.

“Yeah. Colleagues, my arse. You like him, don’t you?” she said with a grin.

“I don’t! That would be unprofessional.” Then, quieter: “So… you did date him?”

Dalia’s grin only widened. Fleur did not like it one bit.

“No, I didn’t,” the girl said, still blocking the entrance. Behind them, a few annoyed men started to make a fuss. Dalia didn’t even flinch, completely ignoring them.

“I liked him, though. It wasn’t unusual. All the girls did, really. He was the coolest boy in school back in our time.”

And with that, she turned and went inside.

Fleur didn’t doubt it.

He was the coolest boy she’d ever known.

— • —

The next morning, Fleur was early, as promised. She’d woken with too much energy, got ready in ten minutes, and even had time to mail a few things she’d bought at Dalia’s shop to Gabrielle.

She brought coffee for herself and Bill anyway. She didn’t drink it for the energy, more for the taste, anyway. It went well with her morning cigarette too, which had become just a quick moment before work. A few puffs as the wind hit her face. Sharp. Cold. Unpleasant.

Bill was already in her office, more casual than she’d ever seen him, with his legs kicked up on the side of his desk, flipping through vault records with practiced boredom. He frowned at the papers like it was a crime they were so dull.

“Morning,” she said, setting the coffee down beside him.

He looked up, eyes lingering a beat too long on the necklace she’d put on that morning, the one he had given her, and smiled. “Look at that. Fleur Delacour: punctual.”

“I was late one time. And I left you a note. It doesn’t count if it’s planned.”

He slowly reached for the coffee, took a sip, and raised his eyebrows. “Told you I didn’t see any note.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Well, there was one. Go upstairs. Must still be up there, covered in dust on your unused desk.”

“Yeah, I hate that desk,” he said, glancing down at the papers again.

“What’s wrong with your desk?”

“It’s giant. And shiny. Percy’s dream desk. Not mine,” he mumbled.

“So this is it? You’re spending time here because you hate the desk?” she continued, looking at the papers too.

“Yeah, maybe,” he said cheerfully, still not looking up. “I like your office more.”

Casually flipping through the papers, she matched his cheerful tone. “You just like my company. Missed me yesterday morning and all.”

“Non.” He often used French when teasing her. “Didn’t even notice you were gone. It’s just my hatred for that desk that brought me here.”

She looked up. He was grinning, watching her.
She exhaled slowly. Back to normal, then. Good. She could work with that.

She opened her mouth to say something, but a noise came from the open door. A grunt. They both turned.

Grikk came stomping in and slammed a fresh pile of scrolls on the desk between them.

“If you two are finished with whatever that was,” the goblin growled, “there’s actual work to do. Check this, then we’ll go down.”

“Courtship rituals on bank time,” Fleur heard Grikk mutter as he walked off.

She felt a flicker of awkwardness. It was just friendly banter, but maybe they were crossing a line.
Were the goblins starting to think she was unprofessional?

She glanced at Bill, but he only bit back a smile and ran a hand through his hair.

“Well. That’s awkward.”

She decided to change the subject and reached for a scroll. “You should really work on your handwriting.”

“My writing is impeccable, thank you very much.”

She held up the scroll. “Alright. Then what is this supposed to say?”

He squinted. “That says inlaid serpentine with obsidian fastenings. Obviously.”

“Mm. I see. I read ‘ink salad.’”

He chuckled under his breath. “Close.”

They fell into a steady rhythm after that, passing scrolls back and forth, noting details from the vault logs, checking off inventory requests. Every now and then, she would glance over and catch him smiling at something she’d said, or murmuring a charm to keep the ink from smudging.

— • —

A few November days passed in small ways. Long afternoons in the vault. Warm coffee in shared silence. Rain on windows. Jokes and walks shared.

On Friday, they left the bank just after closing. The air was crisp, not raining yet, but heavy with the promise of it. Diagon Alley had already begun winding down, shop windows dimming, shutters half-drawn. The wind was sharp, but their steps were slow. Unhurried.

“I still think the best one was the trick cauldron,” Bill was saying. “George charmed it to melt from the inside out. Every time Snape stirred, it collapsed like pudding.”

Fleur blinked. “How did they not get expelled?”

“Oh, they almost did. But Fred convinced McGonagall it was part of an independent study on structural Transfiguration.”

She shook her head, smiling. “You’re all terrible.”

“Genetically. There’s no hope for us.”

They turned onto the next street just as the first drops of rain began to fall, cold, sharp, fast.

Fleur gasped. “Non, no warning at all?”

Bill looked up. “Brilliant,” he muttered, squinting.

She laughed, pulling her scarf over her head. “This is your country.”

“I didn’t say it made sense.” He reached for her hand without thinking and tugged her toward the narrow alley beside the bakery. “Come on. Shortcut.”

They ran the rest of the way, shoulders bumping, breath fogging, until they reached her front door. Soaked through. Laughing.

She fumbled for her keys.

“You should come up,” she said, still laughing a little, the words slipping out before she could second-guess them.“I’ll make tea.”

Bill didn’t hesitate. “Alright.”

They entered her flat. She kicked off her soaked boots and shrugged off her coat, hanging it by the door. Her ponytail was dripping, heavy with rain, so she pulled the tie out. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, clinging to her shirt.

She turned to say something. Maybe to offer him a towel. Maybe to laugh.

But stopped.

He was staring at her.

His eyes moved slowly, following the line of her hair, the shape of her shirt where the rain had turned the fabric sheer. Her lace bra showed through clearly, delicate and dark against the white cotton. She felt the cold air on her skin and the heat rising beneath it. Her breath caught.

He didn’t look away. He wasn’t apologetic. Wasn’t shy.

He wasn’t as soaked as she was. His leather coat had shielded him from the worst of it, but his hair was wet, strands stuck to his face, the bun starting to fall loose.
She had never thought she’d be attracted to a man with long hair, but how could she not be, when he was just so handsome...Like he’d stepped out of an old tale, all fire and storm, like some wild adventure she wanted, desperately, to take on.

She swallowed. Her pulse thudded behind her ribs. Something deep and low stirred in her stomach, spreading warm. Her shirt clung to her chest. Her fingers twitched.

He kept looking at her, his eyes moving slowly. She felt his gaze like a touch.
She didn’t move.

Then he lifted his gaze and met hers. Direct. Steady. Bright blue eyes sharp with want. There was a question in them. Or maybe a decision. She didn’t know. She couldn’t think.

She only knew he was looking at her like she was his.
And that was what she wanted to be.

She exhaled.
He was breathing fast.
Then, a step. Small. Closer.
She mirrored it.

He reached for her, his hand brushing one wet strand of hair clinging to her face. His fingers moved slowly, following the strand down her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, and hand, then to the front of her shirt. He took it lightly, deliberately, and moved it to her back, his fingers lingering against her skin. She felt the heat of it, even after he let go.

She stood there. Now completely uncovered. Not even one strand of hair left to hide her.
Her shirt clung, transparent.
She shook lightly, not from the cold.
His eyes burned.
He was moving closer.
And closer.

Tap, tap.

They both turned, startled. The sound was soft, insistent. It came from the window.

Lilou.

Fleur blinked, breath returning to her chest all at once. The little owl was drenched, feathers slicked down to a puffless mess, eyes wide and accusing as she pecked at the glass with a delicate but furious rhythm.

“Oh no,” Fleur whispered. She heard Bill swear under his breath as she crossed the room. She couldn't blame him. She wanted to curse too. “You’re so tiny. How did you survive that rain?”

She opened the window. A gust of cold blew in with Lilou, who fluttered once and landed gracelessly on the kitchen counter. Water splattered in all directions. She looked very small. And very offended.

Fleur glanced back.
Bill was still standing by the door.
Still watching her.

“I’ll change and be back,” she said, clearing her throat, but not meeting his eyes. “Do you want a towel?”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out at first. He tried again.

“No. I’ll use the drying charm.”

“Okay. I’ll be back. One sec.”

She slipped into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. Pressed her hands to the sink. Took a breath.

Her shirt clung to her chest, the lace underneath still visible, still damp. She cast a drying charm, slow and careful, but it didn’t help much. She wasn’t really focusing on the task. She hesitated. Then pulled it off and reached for the shirt she’d left hanging behind the door.

His shirt.

She wrapped it around herself and stepped back out.

When she came back out, the light was softer. Bill had turned on the lamp near her sink and Lilou was perched beside it like a soggy ornament. He was crouched nearby, wand in one hand, carefully drying her feathers with a charm that made her fluff up like a dandelion.

“There you are,” he said without looking up.

Fleur leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his shirt. Well, technically her shirt now.“You’re good with her.”

“She bit me twice.”

“She trusts you, then.”

He glanced up.

And saw the shirt.

He didn’t say anything, but something flickered in his eyes, something quick and quiet. His gaze dropped just slightly, then came back up, steady again.

“There was a letter,” he said, clearing his throat. “Tied to her leg.”

He handed it over. The parchment was a little crumpled from the rain, the ink slightly smudged. Her name was written in her mother’s handwriting.

“Thanks,” she said, not moving to open it.

Bill stepped back, gave Lilou one last pass of the drying charm. The owl blinked at them both, puffed and dry now, and began preening herself furiously.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

Then Fleur turned to the kitchen. “Tea?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Tea’s good.”

She set the unopened letter aside. It landed on top of a small, growing stack, others from her mother, from Gabrielle, from Viktor. Bill’s eyes flicked to it.

“How’s Viktor’s girl situation? Did he take your advice?”

“Not really,” she said as she set two mugs down. “He’s not listening to me. He still writes the girl at Hogwarts. Has hope. He’ll get hurt.”

Bill didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped slightly.

“Sometimes you can’t control it,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her. “Even knowing well enough it’s not good for either of you.”

The kettle whistled just then, so Fleur didn’t have a chance to look at him and see what he really meant.

— • —

The next day, there was no surprise rain. It was just pouring all day. Zero suprises. Constant, steady, and cold. Fleur tucked her gloved hands deeper into her coat pockets as she turned down Brasspot Alley, the wind slipping in behind her. The little street didn’t feel as cozy in the grey. Its closeness to Knockturn was more obvious now, too many shadowed corners, too few open windows. She felt a bit uneasy and hurried into Dalia’s shop.

The door creaked open. She stepped inside.

Inside, the shop was warm and dimly lit, the glow from low-hanging lanterns casting soft pools of light across mismatched shelves and tables. Crates of new stock were stacked near the front, half-unwrapped.

“Finally,” Dalia called from behind a rack. “You’re soaked. Come see the coats before Sara takes all the good ones.”

Sara appeared around the corner holding a heavy wool cape. “I am stylish and stealthy. Like a true Slytherin. A real fashion threat. Fear me,” she added, flopping the cape around dramatically.

Fleur smiled, shaking the rain from her sleeves. “What did you get? Any good stuff?”

“New shipment from France,” Dalia said. “Not all of it’s awful.”

“Some of it’s stunning,” Sara added. “There’s a velvet dress in your size that I’m pretending not to want. It’s very annoying.”

They moved toward the crates together, unwrapping pieces, passing fabric between them, half-teasing, half-serious. Fleur was just holding up a black silk blouse with a deep neckline and an attached scarf when Sara said lightly, “You need to get it. Hot Boss is so gonna love this one.”

Fleur blinked. “What?”

Sara grinned. “Bill Weasley. You know, tall, charming, the hair...”

“Oh,” Fleur said, carefully folding the blouse. “This is a bit too revealing for work.”

“Goblins don’t care. Bill, on the other hand, would enjoy this one. Hot Boss Bill Weasley. You’re so lucky, girl...”

“Please. I am professional.”

“Yeah, but he’s not really your boss, so... you could get some.”

“Stop.”

“I agree with Sara,” added Dalia, grinning.

“Stop...” Fleur began, but the bell above the door rang.

A man stepped in, tugging off a damp plum-colored scarf. His coat was long and patched in too many places, the fabric mismatched and bright against the gloom. He had a cheerful sort of smile as he took in the scene.

“Uncle Dedalus,” Dalia said. “We’re closed.”

“Nonsense. You said I could come by.”

Dedalus Diggle beamed at the room. His eyes landed on Fleur. “Ah. French madame. Heard a lot about you.”

Fleur stilled. “From?”

“William,” he said, like it was obvious. “Dalia too, but mostly William.”

And with that statement, Dedalus wandered further into the shop, his boots leaving little puddles behind.

“I’m in desperate need of a new hat,” he declared. “The last one was tragically lost to a chimney draft during Floo travel. I don’t know where it went... A very undignified partition for us.”

Dalia pointed toward the rack near the changing rooms. “There’s a whole section with wizard robes and hats. You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Oh, I always do,” he said solemnly, before diving into the pile with all the intensity of a man on a mission.

Fleur tried not to laugh as he muttered through his options aloud, things like “Too beige, too pointy, not enough flair,” until he triumphantly pulled out something truly hideous: a velvet top hat in bright violet, with a crooked feather and a silver star brooch half-hanging off the side.

“This,” he said, setting it on his head with a dramatic tilt, “feels right.”

Sara pressed a hand to her mouth. Dalia made a choked sound behind a curtain of scarves.

Fleur blinked. “It... the color matches your scarf,” she said. It was an observation, really, not a compliment.

Dedalus beamed. “Exactly what I was going for.”

Then, as he turned toward the mirror, he added offhandedly, “So. William. Does he walk you home every day, or only on Fridays? Why didn’t you use a water-repellent charm? I saw you run, quite wet... It looked fun, but you can catch a Muggle cold like that.”

Fleur nearly dropped the blouse in her hands, her eyes wide as her cheeks stung with heat.

Dalia whistled low. “So you’ve been busy with the Hot Boss...”

“I haven’t…He’s not…” Fleur started.

But Dedalus had already turned away, examining his reflection and adjusting the angle of the crooked feather. “Ah, yes,” he murmured. “Perfect.”

— • —

It started with a scream from the main hall. Then a crash. Then several loud goblin curses that Fleur definitely wasn’t meant to understand.

She looked up from the parchment she was checking. “Was that...?”

Bill was already halfway to the door. “Yeah. That was something.”

They stepped out just in time to see a blur of black fur dart through the corridor, trailed by two goblins, a wizard security clerk, and a trail of gold coins spilling from a broken money pouch.

“Niffler!” one of the goblins shouted. “Not one, but at least five!”

One of the little beasts dove under a bench, then reappeared and launched itself straight at the nearest suit of enchanted goblin armor.

“Brilliant,” Bill said, grinning. “A little action.”

When Fleur raised her eyebrows at him, he added, “We should help.”

Another crash. Fleur ducked as the armor toppled over, scattering parchment and loose sickles everywhere.

“Why are there Nifflers in the bank?” she asked, flattening herself against the wall.

“Looks like some kind of organized distraction,” Bill said. “Maybe someone trying to sneak in. I’ve heard of it, but never seen one.”

The Niffler shot past them again, something shiny clutched in its front paws. A pocket watch? No. A monocle.

Fleur instinctively raised her wand, but Bill caught her wrist. “I know. But don’t stun it. It might be holding something valuable. Goblins will hold you accountable. Not it.”

“It’s holding half the bank,” she hissed. “And you said we should help.”

“Yeah... that was just excitement talking. We’re not authorized to do much.”

They turned toward their office but were immediately stopped. Grikk stomped by, looking even more grumpy than usual.

“Office is unusable. The Niffler did its business on the scroll cabinet.”

“Disgusting,” Fleur muttered in French.

Bill turned to her, still somehow grinning. “Want to finish reports at mine?”

She blinked. “Your place?”

“Well, unless you’d rather stay here and sort through that.” He gestured behind them as another goblin started shouting about damages.

“Can we even get our stuff?”

Bill turned to Grikk.

The goblin grunted. “I’ll get what you need to be productive.”

Fleur narrowed her eyes. “I need my bag.”

Another grunt.

She turned to Bill. “Fine. I’m in. But we’re getting food first.”

He looked at her, his grin softening into something warm. “Always.”

— • —

They walked home slowly. No rush. The night was cold but dry for once, the streetlamps throwing soft streams of golden light across the pavement. The storefronts were quiet. Only a few witches passed by.

Fleur kept her hands tucked in her coat pockets, the tips of her fingers still warm from the tea at Bill’s. Her shoulder brushed his now and then, but he didn’t pull away. Neither did she.

She liked walking like this. Quiet. Side by side.

When they reached her door, she slowed. Turned to face him.

“Thank you,” she said, not sure what exactly she was thanking him for. The walk, the company, the quiet.
She had perfect balance, usually. Carefully trained during ballet lessons at Beauxbatons. So why did she stumble when she turned around? Was it his gaze that made her knees go so weak?

His hand reached her, steadying. He looked at her, and the way he looked...

Before she had a chance to thank him again, he stepped closer, his hand moving gently down her shoulder. His fingers brushed her elbow, then moved lower, slower, toward her back.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t break eye contact. Just looked at her like he was memorizing something, his hand still moving, now toward her plaited hair.

The air between them shifted.

Fleur’s breath caught. She wasn’t cold anymore.
She thought, for one heartbeat, he might kiss her.

But he didn’t.

He hugged her instead, warm and quick, before stepping back. The warmth, his scent, she could feel it everywhere.

“See you tomorrow?” he asked softly.

She barely heard him. Her head was spinning, the sounds around her muted. She nodded. “Yes. Tomorrow.”

He waited a moment longer. She could see a battle flicker in his eyes. Then he shook his head, squeezed her shoulder, and let go. Without another word, he turned and Disapparated with a quiet crack.

She stood there a moment longer, the night still around her. 

And she knew.
It wasn’t just that she wanted more.

She needed it.

— • —

“They ran out of afters.”

Sirius’s voice haunted him most nights now.

Halloween had gotten to him. The weight of it, the reality. He had always known that working with the Order wasn’t just another silly adventure to get gold, but something that might end in a fight they couldn’t win. Still, he felt it differently that night, sitting with Sirius and Remus. Felt the finality of it.

The alarm on his bedside table squeaked, “Constant vigilance,” then exploded with a loud crack.
He waved his wand lazily, casting a shield charm between yawns. Another flick, and he murmured the spell that came with the note from the twins. The clock reassembled itself with a soft whirr.

They’d sent him the invention last week, proudly announcing it was part of a new line of mundane objects charmed to test reflexes in everyday settings.
“Who better to test them,” they’d written, “than a real Curse-Breaker?”

Clever. Loud. Messy. Just like Fred and George.

He turned on the water. The stream hit him hard, hot as a sip of butterbeer. His shoulders eased under it.
His hair stuck to his skin as the dust of vaults and underground tunnels ran down the drain. It was getting too long. He fought a red curl tangled with his fang earring, thinking that maybe Mum had a point. Maybe it was time for a trim.

Long hair. Leather. Fangs.

When he was younger, that had felt like the epitome of cool. All his favorite bands wore it. His favorite Quidditch player too. It screamed careless, unafraid, free.

That had been the goal. To walk into a room and have people think:

This guy is brave. This guy is cool.

But lately, he felt like a fraud.
He wasn’t chasing anything. Not really.
Just standing still, pretending he wasn’t afraid to move.

Steam curled around the mirror, thick and silent. And in it, he saw her again.
Hair wet, shirt soaked through, the shape of her bra visible beneath white cotton. Her breath had quickened under his gaze, her lips trembling slightly from the cold, her body straightening like she wanted to show him more… 

And he just stood there, staring, caught between want and decision.

The water turned colder, not by his hand, but by some part of him he couldn’t hold back. It had been a long time since his magic had slipped the leash like that, but the pressure building under his skin was too much. The cold helped. He flinched, but didn’t move.

Once he saw Fleur like that, all his carefully drawn lines had gone to hell.

He, of all people, should have known lines didn’t hold up well against fire.
And she... she was all flame.

He was tired of caution. Tired of pretending to be someone he wasn’t. He had always chased the biggest adventures. Always gone after what he wanted. Why had he been so careful now?
Was it really about protecting her? Protecting himself? Protecting the Order’s secrets? 
Or was it just all fear?

Fear of wanting something permanent.
Fear of putting down roots.
Fear of letting London mean more than just family and duty.

And now he was done, too far gone to pretend.

He reached for a towel, cold water dripping from his hair onto the floor.

If he was going to fall, he might as well do it properly.
He would ask her. Not with a joke. Not with a shrug.
A proper invitation. A real dinner. Something noble and clear.

And if she turned him down, so be it.

But she deserved more than waiting in limbo while he figured out what he was afraid of.

— • —

The Sand & Barrel could be a bit depressing during the day, but Bill liked it that way. No music, no noise from the guys shooting darts. Just dusty sunlight filtering through stained windows and the low hum of the city outside.

The owner, Joe, an old friend from Bill’s Egypt days, usually had more time in the afternoons and often joined him for lunch. They talked about student days, swapping stories with the ease of two men who didn’t have to explain themselves too much.

So when Sunday came and he needed to kill time before the Order meeting, he grabbed a stack of unopened correspondence and his Muggle pen. He’d once made the mistake of using a quill in front of Joe, who had looked so alarmed that Bill laughed and claimed it was experimental note-taking, part of a project on how ancient civilizations wrote. Joe, a Muggle student back when they met, didn’t know Bill was a wizard. He just knew him as a slightly eccentric archaeologist.

Bill tucked everything into his bag and strolled out of Diagon Alley, into Muggle London, and toward his favourite pub.

He walked in and greeted his old friend.

"Finally, man. Thought you'd vanished on me," said the tall blond guy cheerfully. "Sit down. I’ll get the usual order in."

Bill sat down in his booth at the back, taking the letters and parchments out. Joe came back after a second with two beers and slid into the seat across from him.

“What’s with all the papers? You’re not bringing work in, are you?” Joe eyed the mess Bill was spreading across the table. “I thought you came to catch up with your favourite mate.”

“Who, you?” Bill didn’t look up as he pulled out his Muggle pen. “I just came to spend some money. Keep you in business and all.”

“I’m doing well, thank you very much,” Joe sniffed. He leaned back in the booth like he owned a manor, not this worn-out pub.

“Then how come I’m the only one here?” Bill glanced around, raising an eyebrow.

“You aren’t.” Joe tilted his head toward the corner. “Mrs Lockett. She comes in for tea every day.”

An elderly woman was perched on a chair, crocheting something in canary yellow. She didn’t look up.

“And you make a lot of money off her?” asked Bill.

“I don’t charge her, actually.” Joe grinned.“So. Where’s that fit girlfriend of yours?”

“Who? Fleur?” Bill’s tone flattened immediately. “She’s not my— ”

“You were such an idiot bringing her in here,” Joe cut in, grinning like he’d been waiting for this for weeks. “A bird like that deserves at least a proper restaurant. You know. Candlesticks, napkins, wine older than us. Not this place. I hope you’ve taken her out properly since.”

“She liked it,” Bill muttered, unfolding one of the letters and setting it aside.

“She lied.” Joe took a sip of his beer, then pointed at Bill with the glass. “So she really isn’t your girlfriend yet? She’s drop-dead gorgeous. I’ve never seen a lass like her. And she was feisty. I thought you liked birds like that.”

“Merlin’s pants, Joe, stop. We’re coworkers,” Bill said. He smoothed the corner of the parchment. The letter was from Ginny, and she seemed to have spilled half a bottle of ink in the corner while writing it. Some of the words were covered by green smudges, and he narrowed his eyes, trying to read them. “It’s not exactly that simple.”

“Did you ask her out?”

Bill hesitated. “Not yet.” He didn’t look up.

Joe gave him a long look. “Ahhh… Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on Meredith. Hate to break it to you, but she’s married, mate.”

“Oh. Meredith.” Bill blinked, like he hadn’t heard that name in a while. She was a girl he’d had fun with back in Egypt, another student on exchange. “I actually completely forgot about her. How is she? Married, you say? To whom?”

“Scott. That old fart. Can you believe it?”

Bill laughed softly. “Oh. That actually makes perfect sense. They were a lot alike.”

“Never mind them.” Joe leaned in. “Back to your hot bird coworker. Why haven’t you asked her out yet? She got a boyfriend?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. No.”

“Girlfriend?” Joe wiggled his eyebrows.

“What? No…” Bill gave him a flat look.

“So you’re just a coward?”

Bill dropped his pen and leaned back. “Where’s the food, Joe. I’m hungry. Honestly.”

“Aha,” Joe said, grinning like he’d won something. “So Mister Brave Archaeologist is a coward. Knew you were all stories and no action.”

Bill exhaled sharply, annoyed. He hadn’t expected to be grilled about it, here of all places. He’d left his flat to escape his own thoughts, if he was being honest, to give himself time to think of next steps. Now it felt like they were all being shouted back at him, from Joe, no less.

“I’m working on it. Alright?”

Joe grinned like he’d just cracked a code. “Knew you’d be mad to miss your chance with a lass like that. And from what I've seen, you do have a chance with her, mate. Don’t mess it up.”

He stood, clapped Bill on the shoulders, and stretched as he grabbed the menus. “I’m going to check on food.”

Halfway to the kitchen, he turned and added over his shoulder, “But don’t bring her in here again, mate. I’m serious. Candles. Napkins. Not chips and pints.”

Bill watched him go, jaw tight. He looked down at Ginny’s ink-stained letter again but didn’t see the words. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly tired.

“Working on it,” he muttered to no one. He exhaled again, pressed his fingers to his eyes, and forced himself to focus on his sister’s words.

Hi Bill,

Sorry for the mess. I spilled ink on everything. Don’t tell Mum. Or do. Maybe she’ll finally send me a better set.

Anyway, things are just lovely since our beloved Professor Umbridge took over. And she simply adores pink, Bill. You know how much I love pink too! Remember the toy broomstick Mum gave me for Christmas when I was five? I love our new teacher just as much as I loved that broomstick.

Professor Dumbledore isn’t around much, and it’s wonderful. More rules, more fun with Professor DUMBridge.

We read loads of books now, but no practice. Who would want to wave their wand and tire out their arms? Certainly not me! I’m absolutely not practicing in my free time. Just reading and reading. From now on, call me Hermione.

I promised to keep you posted about our friend. All I can say is, he’s still as moody as his godfather. But then again, he always is. Nothing new there.

That’s all I can really write for now.
Write back if you have time.

Love,
Ginny

P.S. I made the Gryffindor Quidditch team! I’m the reserve Seeker. Or maybe permanent now, since Harry’s banned. Fred and George too. I think they’re up to something. Don’t tell Mum.

Bill read it twice, chuckling at the memory of the pink broomstick that had been set on fire by five-year-old Ginny. It had been one of her first signs of real magic. Mum had been happy and furious at the same time.

He folded the letter slowly, slid it back into the envelope, and took a long sip of beer.

So Dumbledore wasn’t really around. It seemed like he didn’t have things under control at the school anymore. It looked like the Ministry had fully taken over. He was supposed to be at the meeting tonight, but Bill wouldn’t bet on it. He hadn’t been showing up much lately.

And Harry was moody. Nothing new, Ginny said. But there was something strange about the boy. Bill, who knew curses and jinxes better than most, had his own theory. But he had no proof, so he kept his mouth shut.

He was not at all surprised Ginny had made the Quidditch team. He had never been much of a player, but Charlie was great, and he’d been obsessed. Bill saw the same spark in Ginny’s eyes every time the topic of Quidditch came up, but others often chose to ignore it, not including her much in their games. He wondered if she was any good.

Maybe he should get her a broom for her next birthday. Nothing too fancy, but something new altogether. He knew it would be difficult for their parents to save up for another one. Maybe Charlie would chip in, and they could get her a decent one together. He’d mention it in a letter.

He didn’t like the news about Fred and George being suspended from the team. They often said Quidditch was the only thing that kept them in school. He thought, guiltily, about their letters and how they wanted to rent property in Diagon Alley. Don’t tell Mum, Ginny had written.

Well, he hadn’t been planning to.

Outside, a siren wailed somewhere in the distance. Inside, the pub had gone quiet again.

Bill scanned the next letter, Charlie’s handwriting unmistakable, but paused when he saw Joe returning from the kitchen with a crooked smile and two plates balanced on his arms.

He smiled back. It felt good. Simple, familiar, unmagical. Joe wasn’t part of the Order, didn’t know anything about the Ministry, Voldemort, or vaults. He just talked and teased, brought drinks and laughs.

Bill gathered all the papers and parchment into his bag in one swift motion and tossed the Muggle pen on top. He’d reply later tonight. Maybe visit his siblings at Hogwarts on a Hogsmeade weekend.

For now, he decided to just hang out. Joe deserved it, and he did too.
He’d focus on duty later.

— • —

“So zis is how it is,” said the elegant woman in black silk, her dark eyes sweeping across the dim, dusty room.

The fire creaked.
A heavy silence followed.

It wasn’t the story they’d wanted to hear. The mission had dragged on, the stakes high. One that could shape the coming months, maybe even years. Success had always been a long shot. But it was what everyone had been counting on.

Remus spoke gently. “And Madame Maxime, would you mind sharing why you and Hagrid parted ways?”

At that, she turned to him. She towered over him, her gaze pausing on his worn robes, then his scarred face. The full moon was still a week away. It felt like he had only just returned from the colonies, and now he was already preparing to go back. He hadn’t brought any good news yet. Just another mission for allies that was falling apart.

“I 'ad to trek fast,” Maxime said coolly. “I 'ave students to return to.” She turned back to the group. “Hagrid 'ad... different priorities.”

“Knowing Hagrid and his love for giant beasts,” Arthur offered with a chuckle, “He probably tried to bring one home.”

He regretted it instantly. Madame Maxime made a sharp, dismissive sound, almost a scoff, before speaking again.

“Zey are not beasts. Not tools for your war,” she said crisply. “It was a mission to gain support for ze cause, to bring zem to our side. Not to make weapons of zem.”

“Yes, of course, dear Madame Olympe,” Arthur replied quickly, flustered. “I misspoke.”

Molly’s sharp glance beside him did not help.

Dumbledore, who had given his updates first and then remained quiet through the rest of the meeting, finally spoke.

“Thank you, Madame Maxime, for taking the time to brief those who were not present earlier,” he said quietly, his tone serious. “I know the journey has been long, and I believe the Portkey is ready for you in my office.”

Then he smiled faintly, peering at her over his half-moon glasses, and added in his typical whimsical manner, “Though, if you’ve a moment, I was hoping to tempt you with a nightcap and a brief discussion on education. I’ve been wondering if it might be time to revive the Alchemy course for N.E.W.T. students. The subject never really took off at Hogwarts, but I see it remains extremely popular at Beauxbatons. I wonder…”

Maxime gave him a look that was almost fond, but no less firm.

“From what I 'ave 'eard tonight, I believe you 'ave more urgent problems at 'Ogwarts than Alchemy,” she said. “And I 'ave students waiting.”

“Quite right,” Dumbledore replied, seemingly unbothered. “The Floo is at your service.”

She nodded once, then swept toward the fireplace with the same elegance she had arrived with. With a burst of green flame, she was gone.

“Thank you all for your time this evening,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “I’m not certain I’ll be able to attend the next. Time, as always, pulls us in many directions.” He gave the room a small nod. “Alastor will take over, as usual.” 

Then, without another word, he took a small pinch of Floo powder and disappeared in flames, with surprising grace. 

The room fell quiet again. Several Order members exchanged uneasy looks until Mad-Eye cleared his throat, loud enough to jolt Mundungus, who had been asleep in the corner for most of the meeting. He blinked, sat up, and muttered, “’S’over now? Where’s that French woman? I wanted to show her some opal jewels I’ve got for sale…”

Everyone ignored him.

“Right. Maps are done,” Mad-Eye said gruffly. “No more solo patrols. You’ve all seen the shift charts. Everyone takes a shift now, and in pairs. No, not you, Black. Sit down. Anyone tied up with other missions gets skipped from time to time too.”

He looked around the room, his magical eye spinning, pausing on each of them in turn. “Now that’s clear: Tonks, Kingsley, you’ve got first tonight.”

Kingsley gave a small nod. Tonks yawned.
Sirius raised his goblet and said, “Ta,” sounding both bored and annoyed.

“If something urgent comes up and you can't make it, find someone to swap. No gaps. No excuses,” he continued, using his serious, commanding voice. “We’re stretched. You know that. And I’m telling you now, we can’t afford sloppiness. Constant...”

Tonks rolled her eyes. She was still in her standard Auror robes, though her hair, a gleaming violet, and the chipped turquoise nails made it clear she hadn’t surrendered entirely to the uniform.

“Yes, Moody, we know. Constant vigilance. And constant hunger,” she said dryly. “Molly, need a hand with dinner?”

— • —

Monday morning crept in quietly, pale and cold.

Bill tapped his fingers against the rim of his coffee cup, rereading the assignment scroll.
Rosier. Again. Back to the beginning. The first vault they had worked in together. The day he met Fleur, and her beauty had startled him.

She was already at the desk when he arrived, shirt tucked in, hair pinned back in that way that meant she meant business. She didn’t look up when he walked in, just pushed the scroll and a cup of coffee toward him without a word, still muttering in French as she worked on the report.
He took it. Their fingers brushed for a half-second too long.

They didn’t speak much on the way down. The lift was unheated and slow, groaning loudly every time it stopped. Fleur stood stiffly, arms folded tight across her chest. Before taking the trolley down, she whispered a heating charm and pulled on her gloves.

The Rosier vault hadn’t changed. Same carved stone, same unsettling quiet. But the crates had multiplied. New shipments. More from France than Germany this time: papers, objects, a few carefully wrapped portraits, their canvases still turned to the wall.

Bill crouched beside one of the open crates, brushing dust off the stamped seal.
“Officially cleared by the French Ministry,” he murmured. “But barely. This one glows red. You don’t have to be a Curse-Breaker to know it’s charmed.”

Fleur stood behind him, silent.

He turned, eyebrows raised. “You alright?”

She looked at him then, calm and unreadable. “It feels strange in here this time. You can feel it’s… darker.”

Bill didn’t press. He just nodded and stood. “Yeah. I feel it too.”

They got to work.

Fleur conjured a small desk and settled the scrolls. He started sorting heirloom objects, murmuring charms and spells as he examined them. She watched him for a moment, finishing her cigarette. Then she waved her perfume charm and stepped closer, helping him go through the crates. They worked in near silence until a cracked mirror buzzed sharply under her fingers.

Fleur frowned. “Definitely something is wrong with this one.”

“Let me try.” He cast the usual spells, but nothing happened.
“Yeah, I saw the flicker too, but nothing’s registering. I’ll examine it more closely later.”

She shook her head, lips pressed tight. “Try looking for the memory. I think there’s one trapped in it. Not a pleasant one.”

Bill stepped closer to inspect it. He tried a couple of charms. Nothing happened. Then, on a whim, he tried the Pensieve one. Something clung to his wand. It wasn’t the usual pale, clouded swirl of a memory, but something acid green and thick as oil.

“Interesting. This one will take time.” He turned to Fleur. “How did you know it’s a memory?”

“I don’t know. I could just feel it.” She shrugged, then waved her wand to reapply the heating charm.

“Huh,” he said quietly, still watching her.

Fleur turned away sharply. “I’ll take the inventory notes. You work on the crates.”

He didn’t argue.

— • —

They had been working underground for two days when, while cataloguing a gilded quill set, Fleur squinted at one of the engravings.

“This one says, ‘To Thérèse, for the penmanship that left me speechless.’” She tilted her head. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Bill glanced over, eyebrows raised. “I think Thérèse might’ve been more than a secretary.”

Fleur rolled her eyes. “Disgusting.”

He smirked. “Romantic.”

She snorted. “Pff, typique.”

Bill picked up the matching inkpot and gave it an exaggerated inspection. “Hmm. Slight perfume residue. Possibly lilies. A faint tint of betrayal.”

Fleur didn’t answer. She was too busy scribbling: “Quill set. Mildly cursed. Smells like adultery.”

He laughed. For a second, the vault didn’t feel cold.

Busy laughing and writing the mock report, they didn’t notice the shadow slipping out of the second crate. Didn’t notice the chill creeping up from the floor, or the way the lamplight flickered.

Not until Grikk cleared his throat behind them.

“You,” he said, voice lower than usual, gravelly. “The girl. Delacour.”

Fleur straightened. “Yes?”

“They’ve been found,” Grikk said. “Your mother. Sister. Dead. Killed by Voldemort himself. The message came that you were next.”

The air dropped ten degrees.
Fleur went white.

Bill turned, wand half-raised. “Grikk, what the hell are you talking about? Did you have too much elf-made wine last night? And why would you say his name? Since when do goblins…”

“They’re coming,” Grikk said again, ignoring Bill completely. “Your family’s dead. You’re nothing but a filthy half-breed. Not enough for a human, not enough for a beast. They’re coming for you next, Mud.”

Fleur took a step back. Her breath caught.
“Grikk,” Bill snapped. “Shut up.”
But Grikk didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Something was wrong.

Bill shifted in front of Fleur, instinct taking over.

“Fleur, hey. Look at me.”

But she ignored him, just as Grikk had a second ago. She was already alert and moving. Her hand raised. Not panicked, not shaking. Focused.

“Riddikulus,” she said clearly.

In an instant, Grikk’s face twisted. The grunt caught in his throat. He coughed once, then twice. Then he opened his mouth, and for a second, Bill thought he might be gasping for air.

But instead, a stream of soap bubbles floated out. Dozens at first, small and shimmering, drifting around the vault like enchanted dust. He scowled, tried to speak. Another bubble slipped free. Then another. And then, one large bubble, slick and iridescent, settled over his face. The sound cut off completely. The grunts stopped.

“I’ve wanted to use that on him for a long time. Not as satisfying as I thought it would be,” Fleur said, then flicked her wand again. The Boggart Grikk floated up and disappeared with a soft puff of magic.

Silence.

Bill stared.

“You knew?” he said, still breathless. “How… how did you know that was a Boggart? I thought you were…”

“In shock?” Fleur arched her brow. “Grikk grunts differently.”

Bill blinked.

She added, calmly, “He also doesn’t have a French accent.”

That got a stunned laugh out of him, short and bright.

He stepped closer, gently. “You okay?”

She exhaled. “As fine as one can be, having your worst fear shout at you at work.”

He looked at her for a long second.
She was steady now, but pale. The kind of pale that didn’t fade quickly.

Bill’s jaw clenched. This was his fault again. He was supposed to be the one in control of the situation.

Lately, it hadn’t felt like he was escorting a Junior Specialist. It felt like working with an equal. A partner.

She was really good at this.
Smart. Driven. Focused.
Steady, even when the situation turned unfamiliar and you had to think fast.

He watched her a moment longer. The words were close. A question forming on the tip of his tongue.

But then he saw the pale in her cheeks again, the ache behind her stillness, the quiet weight of the moment, with bubbles and dust still drifting in the air.

Not now.

So he asked the other question. The safer one.
“You ever think about becoming a Curse-Breaker?”

— • —

Bill left the office and turned quietly toward the lifts.

He’d arrived at the Ministry at half past eight, claiming he needed to see his father. Arthur had already been gone for hours. So much for the airtight security the Ministry liked to brag about. Bill waited in his Dad’s office until eleven, killing time by rummaging through a few Muggle inventions that were probably being hidden from Mum. The risk of anyone still being around to ask questions was low. The only person likely to stay that late was Percy, and he hadn’t been anywhere near this office in weeks.

As he turned left into the corridor by the Department of Mysteries, he was startled.

“Watcher, Bill,” said Tonks cheerfully. She was wearing muted clothes for once, her hair and nails matching the colour of the tiles on the walls. He saw, not for the first time, just how useful her abilities were.

“Shouldn’t we be quiet and careful here?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Having two left feet, I had to learn quieting charms fast. That’s how I barely passed my Auror exams.” She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “I hit you with one a second ago. Didn’t you notice?”

“Not really,” he said, surprised.

“Hah. Proving my point. It works,” Tonks said brightly. “Wouldn’t help you much in a fight, though. Don’t worry, I won’t tell Moody. But you should work on your vigilance. You know. So it’s constant.”

“I am working on it. I have an enchanted alarm clock.”

She raised her eyebrows.

He didn’t elaborate. “So, should we start the patrol?”

“Wait. Let’s do the Disillusionment Charms first.”

“For someone this upbeat, you’re quite paranoid.”

“What can I say. Being mentored by Moody for years left me with some bad habits. And an unhealthy dose of caution. All done. Shall we?”

They patrolled for hours. Tonks pointed out good hiding spots and which portraits to avoid. Talking under the charm felt strange, like trying to connect through fog. He couldn’t see her properly, but her voice still cut through, clear and cheerful. It was long after midnight when she asked,

“So. Doing anything for your birthday?”

He glanced at her, surprised she knew.

“Tonight? This. Guarding a hallway.”

“That’s grim.”

“Well, technically it’s tomorrow. I’m going to the Burrow. Mum’s making me.”

“I know,” Tonks said. “She invited me.”

Silence followed them for a few steps.

“Don’t worry, Bill. I told her I don’t like you that way. That I like someone else.”

He blinked. He’d known Molly had been dropping hints, but hadn’t realised she’d gone to Tonks too.

“That’s... awkward. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Molly means well. And I don’t have to come if it’s weird. Though I was counting on a nice dinner. I’m a rubbish cook, and with Auror hours and all this...”

“No, you should come,” he said quickly. “I just didn’t want a fuss.”

“Why not? Twenty-five. Feels like a good number to mark.”

He hesitated.

“I don’t know. Feels strange, celebrating. I’m not a kid anymore and Mum’ll light candles. Ask me to make a wish and everything.”

Tonks smiled faintly. “And what will it be?”

“No idea.”

“Really? Because I’ve heard whispers about a certain French lady friend...”

“Oh, come on. Not you too.” Bill rolled his eyes. For a secret organization, the Order was remarkably chatty. Did they all gossip behind his back?

“Remus said—”

“So you’re close friends with Remus now? Isn’t he a bit too old to be your friend?”

He hadn’t meant it to land hard. He just wanted to shut her up. Not really in the mood to hear what Remus had apparently said about him and Fleur. But he regretted it the moment the words left his mouth. He couldn’t see her face clearly, but the shift in her voice told him the smile was gone.

“He’s not old,” Tonks said. The spark had gone from her voice.

“I know. I’m sorry.” And he meant it. Sad Tonks wasn’t something he’d expected to see. It felt wrong, somehow.

“It was just a joke.”

“He’s not old,” she said again, softer now. There was worry threaded through the words.

“Sorry. Bad joke.”

The silence stretched. They walked on in practiced formation, quiet now.

Bill sobered. “Remus is great, you know.”

“Yeah. I know,” Tonks said. “Too bad he doesn’t.”

They moved through the dim corridor in silence, the quiet broken only by the occasional creak of old stone beneath their boots. A few portraits stirred as they passed, eyes narrowing at the faint shimmer of movement before settling back into sleep. The Disillusionment was holding.

After a stretch of quiet, Bill spoke. “Did they teach you anything about Veela during Auror training? Roles they might’ve had in the last war?”

“Not really,” Tonks replied. “I can see why, though. I looked into it a bit myself. They came up when I was researching werewolves' roles. Everything I found was vague or horribly written. For both.”

He glanced over, only half visible through the fog of the Disillusionment Charm, which had started to weaken. “Same. I’ve been trying to research it lately and keep hitting walls.”

“Did you know Veela are considered wizards in Poland and Latvia?” she said. “They’re allowed wands. They live openly with other magical folk. They’re not classified as creatures. Just wizards with different talents. Different magic. Like me.”

Bill blinked. “I didn’t know that. We don’t see many in Britain. I’ve only really come across them in Egypt. And at the Quidditch World Cup. Bulgaria brought them in as mascots.”

Tonks made a face. “Yeah. That’s wrong. You wouldn’t use goblins as mascots for England, would you?”

Bill thought of goblins, their politics and pride, their sharp-edged independence. “That’d be ridiculous. They’re not beasts.”

“Exactly,” she said. “And I think Veela are closer to us than to beasts too.”

He considered that.

“But what does that have to do with Voldemort?”

Tonks’ voice was quiet. “It disgusts him, doesn’t it? Anything that taints the idea of pure magic, pure blood, pure lines. I found stories about Veela who married wizards. During the first war, he put a target on both. Before that, there were more Veela in London, living with others, working, falling in love. That changed. He didn’t just attack them. He changed how people saw them.”

Bill thought of Fleur’s boggart, the one he’d seen earlier that day. Her deepest fear hadn’t come out of nowhere. She must have known this history well, known it deeply enough to be afraid it could repeat. She’d been visibly shaken. Was her grandmother one of the Veela targeted by Voldemort? How did you even ask a question like that?

He remembered the stories about his uncles, Fabian and Gideon. Remembered them vaguely, from when he was five. Fallen heroes of the first war. He remembered his mother’s face whenever their names came up. The grief hadn’t faded. His family had carried that loss for years. Maybe Fleur’s family had their losses too.

He thought of her question from weeks ago, when she was exhausted and had lost control. Her Veela magic had burst out of her then, blue flames fighting back cursed fire. She hadn’t been relieved. She had been terrified. She’d asked if he would report her. She’d mentioned her sister being bullied. Said she had been too.

He hadn’t really thought about her role in the war before. He’d assumed she had none. She was foreign, and it had been a British war, after all.

But maybe she was closer to it than he’d ever realized.

"So you were researching werewolves' roles?" Bill asked, voice low.
"You like him, don't you?"

Tonks didn’t answer right away. The stillness stretched, soft between their steps.

"And you were researching Veela," she said at last.
"Looks like we’re more alike than we thought." Then, after a pause:

"But you’ve got it easier."

"What do you mean?" Bill asked. It hadn’t felt easy. At least Remus and Tonks were both in the Order, he thought.

"I mean it. You don’t have to convince her you’re not dangerous. You’re not cursed. You’re not dragging some ruin behind you."

She met his eyes.
"You just have to act. That’s all. Go for it."

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded, barely, and kept walking.
But her words stuck.
Maybe it really was that simple.
Enough was enough.
It was time to take the next step.

— • —

Bill made his way to Fleur’s flat as soon as the patrol ended. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t changed, but it didn’t matter. It was chilly, the morning pale and crisp, when Fleur stepped outside, coat buttoned, clearly on her way to work.

She stopped abruptly, startled to see him there.

“Bill?”

He took a breath, suddenly feeling foolish. “It’s my birthday,” he blurted out.

Her eyes widened slightly, surprise shifting quickly to mild affront. “Your birthday? You didn’t say anything before.”

“Go out with me,” he said, before he lost his nerve. “On a date.”

“Right now?” she asked, sounding amused.

“Tomorrow night,” he clarified quickly. “Dinner.”

She studied him for just a heartbeat, the corner of her mouth twitching upward as she nodded yes.

“Alright,” she agreed easily.

He blinked, caught off guard, then smiled. “Yeah?”

“Why? Do you think I’m saying yes just because it’s your birthday?”

“Maybe,” he admitted, now grinning like a fool.

She smiled beautifully. Blindingly, really. Then she tilted her head slightly and asked, “Perhaps. Should I get you more gifts? A coffee and one of those pumpkin pasties you like so much?”

He shook his head, fighting the urge to kiss her right here, right now. No, Bill. Do it right, he thought. “No, this is all I want for now.” He glanced down the street, remembering he still needed to meet Moody for the report, shower, sleep, and get ready for the Burrow later. “I’ve got to go.”

“You’re not coming in today?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

“I have to take care of something.”

She tilted her head, studying him quietly. “Family business?”

“Something like that.”

She didn’t ask more questions. Just nodded softly. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Bill felt warmth spread through the tiredness. “Tomorrow,” he echoed, feeling lighter than he had in months. Joe was right. She deserved better than casual nights in dusty old pubs. 

He would get it right.

— • —

She looked at the pile of clothes on her bed and sighed. She was hopeless.

She liked Bill. A lot. She thought about him often, of his charming smile, his strong arms, the way he ran a hand through his hair when he was thinking. The glint in his eyes just before he delivered the most disarming comeback to one of her blunt jokes. He captivated her in every way. She was clearly attracted to him. But time had taught her caution. To wait. To be sure.

And now he had made a move, and she was completely unprepared.

She decided to start small. Her outfit. He’d asked her to dinner. That should be simple enough.

She tried a burgundy blouse, but it was too official. Then a white shirt. A blue dress. A grey jumper. Nothing felt right. Too much like work, like the uniform she wore each day, carefully chosen to remind everyone she was focused and serious. It wasn’t right. None of it felt suitable. Not for a night that was supposed to break their daily routine, and, if all went well, turn it into something... else.

“Evanesco,” she said, frustrated. The pile of clothes vanished. The bed was neat again. She’d retrieve them from non-being later. For now, she was too annoyed to look at it all once again.

She went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, though what she really wanted was wine. Lilou’s cage needed cleaning, so she brought it down and cast the first spells that came to mind, not bothering to speak them aloud. Cleaning charms were easy.

Lilou was off delivering a note to her parents, just a weekly update with some British cakes she knew they wouldn’t enjoy. Too fat, too buttery. She hadn’t liked them at first either, dismissing them as overly sweet, but Bill kept bringing them into the office. Now they were part of her day: sweetness balanced with black coffee and moments of focus broken by quiet smiles.

After a minute, the cage was spotless. She looked around for something else to occupy her, but nothing really needed doing. She poured another glass and returned to the closet. Most of her clothes had vanished, but a few pieces remained. Mostly over-the-top dresses and robes she wasn’t sure why she’d even brought to London. It wasn’t like the goblins were planning a ball.

Her fingers brushed silver fabric. Smooth, cool. Robes from the Yule Ball. She had forgotten she'd brought them here. She wasn’t sure why she had. She never liked remembering that night (or most of her nights at Hogwarts). But as her fingers traced the small, beaded stars, the memory came anyway.

"...and the ice sculptures... The snowflakes, the music... enchanted,” she went on, her voice bright with memory. The boy beside her listened, eyes wide, a smile playing at his lips. He looked excited and she felt the joy of sharing. It had been so long since she had had anyone to truly talk to. Now the words tumbled out in a rush, slipping free with no control, languages tripping over one another.

He was handsome, second only to Cedric Diggory at Hogwarts. That much was certain. His short black hair was neat, his robes polished and expensive. He was from the clever house. He must have been smart.

But as she spoke, she noticed his vacant expression. His mouth was slightly open. His elbow rested in the butter dish. She leaned back. Of course. Just like the others. Charmed by her beauty, hypnotized by her magic, her accent, but not really seeing her.

Still, weeks had passed, and she had been lonely in this cold castle. This boy was suitable company. He would have to do. He nodded as she spoke, so she kept going, listing the wonders of the life she had left behind. She hoped that naming them might pull them closer, might bring home to her.

The night blurred together. The music was too loud. The drinks too sweet, too fizzy. The food… she supposed it was fine.

Roger did not leave her side. Still staring, still offering nothing but the occasional compliment. She was tired, and she felt so alone. So when he led her outside, she let him.

They slipped behind the bushes. The stone was cold against her back, and it grounded her. Gave her something to feel. A flicker of excitement sparked in her. She let him kiss her. It was fast and hungry. His hands were impatient, wandering. And she just let him.

They were caught, and it was fine. She had not had the strength to stop him. She was glad someone else had.

Back inside, she tried again. She told him about the food back home, the sea breeze, how snow clung to pine trees in the mountains.

“You looked amazing tonight,” he said, then kissed her wetly and loudly on the mouth. After that, he was gone, rushing off, likely to deal with his excitement.

She exhaled, resigned. So predictable.

Across the room, she spotted Cedric saying goodbye to his date. His hand brushed the girl’s cheek with a tenderness that made Fleur pause. She watched them kiss, soft and gentle. Watched the girl leave with one last smile.

Cedric turned, saw her, and waved her over.

“Hi, Fleur. Enjoying the ball?”

She hesitated. “Not really.” Her eyes moved over the sharp stone hall. “And I wouldn’t call this… this dance a ball. ”

His smile widened, undeterred by her tone. He looked at her for a moment, thoughtful.

“It must be hard. Being far from home. Everything unfamiliar,” he said quietly. “But you won’t discover anything real if you’re always clinging to what’s comfortable, Fleur.”

As the words settled between them, he added, “There are good things here too. Things worth sticking around for.”

He glanced toward the door, where his date had disappeared. Then, almost to himself, he muttered goodnight and walked down the stairs, that dreamy smile returning to his face.

Fleur blinked, coming back to herself. She gently pushed the silver robes aside and reached for something else.

Hanging between the old Yule Ball gown and a silk blue dress was the little black Halloween number. She pulled it out and stared at it. That night had meant friends, hope, and fun. New London life. Maybe she would be lucky one more time.

She waved her wand to remove the fur trim from her coat. Clean, classic lines. Simple jewelry. The pendant he had given her, light makeup, black tights, heeled boots, small bag. One last charm for perfume and she was ready to go.

Ready enough.

— • —

The strange mist settled into the damp December air, making the world around her feel quieter, more intimate. She stepped outside, casting a warming charm for comfort. Locking the door behind her, she turned toward the street, her heart quickening slightly as she saw him leaning casually against the lamppost, waiting.

She blinked, a small smile forming.

“Didn’t keep you waiting long, did I?”

“Long enough to wonder if you’d changed your mind,” he teased gently as he approached.

His gaze moved over her, slow and careful, pausing briefly on her legs before meeting her eyes once more. He took her hand and pressed a warm, lingering kiss to it. His touch was deliberate, delicate, and it heated her skin despite the cold. Her heart skipped. Her breath caught quietly in her throat.

“You polish up nicely, Delacour.”

“I’m always polished,” she replied instinctively, her tone blunt, amused at herself for the defensiveness that slipped out.

He laughed softly, still holding her hand.

“Yes,” he said, warmer now. “You always are. But you carry yourself differently at work.” He paused for a moment. “I like seeing this side of you. Honestly, I like all sides of you.”

She studied him. He looked pleased, genuinely happy to be here with her. Steady, confident, and tall. So tall, towered over her despite her heeled boots. One hand rested casually in his pocket, his hair neatly tied back, his black robes crisp. He looked tired, with shadows beneath his eyes, but there was light in them too. Playful. Present.

“You clean up well yourself,” she said, slipping her hand through the crook of his elbow.

The warmth of his body was immediate. He smelled like wind and something deeper: old parchment, cloves, pine, earth.

He leaned close, his voice low. His breath touched her ear, sending a small shiver down her spine.

“You look incredible, Fleur. You always do, but this…” His eyes swept over her once more, slower this time. “This is something else entirely.”

She felt a flicker of satisfaction. And he had not even seen the dress yet…

He straightened again, his gaze shifting forward. She could feel the strength in his arm beneath her hand. They walked in silence for a few steps, her heartbeat still not quite settled.

“Where are we going?” she asked, keeping her voice light.

“You’ll see.”

That grin once again. He was entirely too satisfied with himself.

As soon as they turned the corner, Fleur knew where he was taking her. La Sirène.

She hadn’t been there in weeks. During those early, unsettled weeks in London, it had offered a kind of comfort. Candlelight, familiar wines, a menu in French. She had gone alone the first few times, aching for a piece of home in a city that felt cold and unknown. But eventually, she stopped. The place was full of entitled old names, elegant and polished, but stiff.

Still, she said nothing. Their arms were linked, the December air sharp on her skin, as their shoulders brushed. His presence warmed her more than her coat did.

So she smiled, and let him lead her inside.

They entered a grand room, all velvet cushions and gilded chandeliers. The air was warm and faintly spiced, soft music humming beneath the low murmur of conversation.

The hostess led them through the space toward the center platform, where tables were arranged like performers on a stage. Bill helped her with her coat, handing it to the hostess along with his own. He was trying. Or maybe it wasn’t effort at all. He was all charm and wit, but always a gentleman too. As he slid the fabric away, his fingers brushed her shoulders, and his gaze lingered.

“If I’d known this is how you dress for dinner,” he said, his voice quiet but full of mischief, “I might’ve worked up the nerve to ask sooner.”

She would have liked that moment. She should have been charmed by his honesty, his nerve, by the way he said it without flinching. She should have let herself feel the quiet triumph of being seen, of him noticing the effort. If only he had been the only one watching.

As she sat, she caught the glances. A few turned heads. She didn’t always notice that sort of thing. She had received too much attention for too long, often without trying, so she had learned to block it out. But here, in this stuffy room, she couldn’t. Not tonight. Not when she wanted to be seen by just one person.

Bejeweled fabrics, layers of burgundy and emerald, hung from shoulders like financial statements. Long cloaks. Old names. The kind who still fancied themselves royalty.

Her dress, here, was not subtle. She knew that. If it weren’t for her face, she suspected someone might have asked her to cover up or leave entirely. But beauty had its privileges, and it was always welcomed in places like this.

She turned back to Bill.

His hair was tied neatly in a bun at the low of his neck. His shirt was black, pressed. The rest of his outfit matched, modern and clean. Not traditional robes, but a deliberate gesture toward them. He could have passed for a pureblood heir, she thought. He looked like he belonged.

Then he looked at her and wiggled his eyebrows.

She laughed, quietly grateful, and caught the glint of the fang earring still in his ear.

She was glad he hadn’t taken it out. It suited him.The fang, the long hair, all of it. In a room full of performance and polish, it steadied her. A quiet rebellion, like her dress. A reminder they were still themselves.

“So,” he said, picking up the wine list, “shall we see what we’re drinking? I’ve heard the ’75 Lafite Rothschild is decent. Supposed to have a long finish and a hint of cedar."

She raised an eyebrow. “You know wine?”

“Not really. Just a bit.”

“A wine enthusiast?”

He smiled. “No. I just know a bit.”

“The Lafite sounds fine.”

“Good.”

She didn’t know what else to say, her mind suddenly blank. After a pause that was just a beat too long for her liking, he handed her the menu and asked what she thought of it. When he stumbled over a dish name or two, she didn’t correct him. Just watched him, amused. She must have made a million tiny mistakes herself, twisting a sentence or two every day. He never made her feel bad about it, and she didn’t now, either.

They ordered. Something duck-based, something with sauce. Fancy names, rich flavors. They ate, made small talk. She felt like she was acting a part.

But it was Bill. Bill, who drank black coffee and brought biscuits to the office, who made terrible jokes and had ink smudges on his hands (and sometimes his face). So she took another bite, sipped another sip, smiled prettily.

Several long minutes passed without speaking.

He was watching her. Thoughtful. A little hesitant.

And just when she couldn’t stand the silence any longer, he broke it.

“I messed it up, didn’t I?” he said quietly. “I wanted to give you something comforting. Something... elegant. A bit of France, maybe. Joe convinced me this would be a good idea. Candles, tablecloths, wine.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It doesn’t feel right, does it?”

She looked at him for a long moment.

He wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t scrambling to please her or explain himself. He was just telling the truth, still sure of himself.

Her gaze shifted to their reflection in the gold-framed mirror. The two of them, sitting there like any polished couple. Perfect from the outside. She had been here before.

She exhaled.

“Bill, you didn’t mess up,” she said, her voice low. “I used to come here. It’s nice. Everything’s nice. But…” She glanced toward the posh wizards nearby, both seated with perfect posture, sipping wine as if posing for a portrait. They didn’t speak. They didn’t laugh. There was nothing between them but silence. Then she looked back at Bill. “What if I don’t want France back? I won’t get anywhere clinging to what’s familiar. I want to try new things. I want something new… with you.”

He stilled. Then, slowly, he reached for her hand and gave it a soft, quick squeeze.

“I knew I should’ve trusted my gut,” he said. “No offense to Joe, but this wasn’t it.”

He picked up his wine glass, then set it down again without drinking. “Alright. Let’s go.”

She blinked. “Now?”

“You just said it. You want something different than this. So do I.”

He stood and gave a small wave of his wand. Their coats flew into his hand. Then he paused, looking at her, one eyebrow raised. “Unless you really want to stay. We can force down more duck and talk about wine pairings.”

She laughed under her breath and stood too. “No. I’m definitely done with the duck.”

— • —

“Well, that duck was dry and chewy.”

He laughed. “I know, right? And that wine…”

“Horrible.”

“I should’ve known better than to take wine tips from Aunt Muriel. She’s a hundred years old and her taste buds are definitely broken.”

She glanced at him, surprised, as they walked, surrounded by the evening wind and flickering lamplight.

“Your aunt gave you wine lessons?”

“Not exactly. But she did pay for a governess, since my parents couldn’t afford one. And of course, she picked the most insufferable, pure-blood-obsessed tutors. So instead of maths, I learned about wine... and waltzing.”

“You can waltz?”

“To be honest, I can waltz just about as well as I know wine.”

“So, a governess?”

“Yeah. I was the eldest. My parents always said I had to set an example. So I danced and studied Latin and Greek. Charlie followed suit. Percy did too...” he added the last name with a frown.

“And the twins?”

He smirked. “Let’s just say no one enforces rules on Fred and George. Trust me. Seven governesses tried. Every single one failed. Aunt Muriel was furious and stopped funding lessons altogether. My mum took over and schooled the rest.”

He paused, thoughtful.

“Sometimes I think it’s a shame Ron missed out. It might’ve helped him.”

“To know how to waltz?”

He exhaled a laugh. “Maybe. Might help with girls. I think he likes Hermione, but he’s hopeless at showing it.”

After a beat, he added, more quietly,

“But Latin wasn’t all bad. It’s actually useful for spellwork. Helped me get into Curse-Breaker training. Ron should’ve been offered the same opportunities. Ginny too.”

They walked in silence for a few steps, cobblestones echoing under their feet.

“I don’t really have a backup plan, but… do you want to come over?” he asked suddenly. “I’ve got some terrible wine at mine. Or hot cocoa, if you’re not feeling brave. The twins sent a box of their newest inventions this morning. We could go through it. They’re always good for a laugh.”

“Inventions?”

“Yeah, they want to open a joke shop.”

She hesitated, turning it over in her mind. She had learned more about him in the last few minutes than during the entire dinner. She liked how he spoke of family, of his duty and responsibility as the eldest… she understood that. She felt it too, with her sister. Maybe it was reckless, going to his flat on a first date. But she had visited him before. She had even stayed the night.

And truthfully, she didn’t want the evening to end, not when it felt like it was really just starting.

“Lead the way.”

— • —

They stepped into the flat, and the door clicked softly shut behind them.

The space was dark at first. Quiet.

Bill flicked his wand, and the fireplace crackled to life, casting a soft golden glow across the room. A few floating candles lifted from their holders, hovering gently in the corners. One of the low lamps brightened just enough to show the curve of the bookshelf, the gleam of glass on the window.

It looked exactly as she remembered. The flat didn’t suit him at all. It was too modern, too curated, but there were pieces of him scattered everywhere. Scrolls stacked beside a worn armchair. A leafy plant stretching toward the ceiling. Small brass figures lined on a shelf above the fireplace, collected from Egypt or somewhere else. The walls were mostly bare, but his desk in the corner was a mess of parchment and books. A couple of unopened boxes sat at the edge, one marked in bright orange ink: Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

He took her coat and hung it with careful ease, then turned back to her.

“Hot cocoa or wine first?”

“Cocoa,” she said. “I’m still recovering from the wine.”

“Fair.”

She rubbed her arms lightly. No matter how much she tried to give London a chance, that damp chill that sank into your bones was hard to love. Bill noticed.

Without a word, he crossed the room and came back with a cardigan. He handed it to her. It was navy, oversized, soft from wear. It smelled faintly like him.

He vanished into the kitchen. She heard cupboards open, something metal clink. She slipped off her boots and sat on the rug by the fire, her back against one of the leather armchairs.

He returned with two mugs. One with a hippogriff, the other stamped with Curse-Breakers Do It With Wards.

She raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I didn’t buy it,” he said quickly. “Birthday gift. From a goblin. Long story.”

She accepted the mug without comment. It smelled like cinnamon and something darker underneath. Real chocolate. Not powder.

He dropped onto the rug beside her and set a worn wooden box on the table between them.

“From the twins,” he said. “Open at your own risk.”

She lifted the lid.

Inside were strange little gadgets, an unreasonable number of sweets, glittering powders in corked bottles, and something that looked suspiciously like a smoking teacup.

“Should we touch them?” she asked.

“Absolutely not.”

They stared at the box for a moment.

Then both reached in at the same time.

Her fingers brushed his. He didn’t pull away. Neither did she.

She reached for the smoking teacup, and the moment she touched it, it chirped. A single note. Then another. The saucer began to spin in tight circles, wobbling like a top. The teacup kept singing, louder now, painfully off-key.

Utterly useless.

She laughed, surprised by it. He grinned like he couldn’t help himself.

Then her hand drifted toward something wrapped in bright pink foil.

“Don’t eat that,” he said quickly.

She raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t going to. It’s your sweets.”

“It’s never just candy with them. Last week I bit into something that looked like cake. Turned into a flappy yellow monster for two hours.”

She blinked. “What kind of monster?”

“Small. Yellow. Wings.”

She squinted. “Like… a canary?”

“Yes,” he said grimly. “Horrible. I hate small birds.”

She tried not to laugh, and failed. “That’s very specific.”

“I know. The flapping. The beady eyes. Terrifying.”

There was a pause. Then he added, very seriously, “Not Lilou, though. She’s a gracious lady. And an exception.”

Fleur nodded solemnly. “Of course.”

She tucked her feet beneath her. The mug was warm in her hands. The ridiculous teacup was still playing quietly on the table. The warmth from the fire reached her skin now. Her shoulders had relaxed without her noticing. The cardigan was soft against her arms. The silence felt easier than it had at the restaurant. It didn’t stretch awkwardly, didn’t rush them forward.

She looked over at him. His hair was starting to slip loose from the bun, one strand already falling near his eye.

He caught her watching. Tilted his head.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, looking away again, but not too far.

There was a pause.

Then she felt it, his gaze, still on her.

Her fingers curled around the mug a little tighter. The teacup let out another off-key note and fell quiet, finally spent.

She turned back to him.

He didn’t look away.

This time, neither did she.

Then, all at once, they were on their feet. The mugs were forgotten in the moment, kicked aside and scattered across the floor.

He reached for her, his hands sure now. One settled at her waist, the other at her back, as he pulled her in. Their bodies met, sudden and close. The cardigan slipped off her shoulders completely. His eyes flickered between hers and her parted lips.

“I never did get you a birthday gift,” she whispered.

He ignored her words. His fingers brushed her bare shoulders, tracing the straps of her dress.

“This dress,” he said quietly. “Fleur… you have no idea.”

His voice caught.

Then, like he couldn’t hold back any longer, he kissed her.

His lips met hers. Not rushed. Not greedy. Slow. His hand brushed softly along her back, like he meant to savor it. Like she was something precious, and he didn’t want to startle her, or break whatever this was.

It undid her completely.

She kissed him back just as gently, her lips matching his rhythm. And just like that, his carefulness gave way.

His hands tightened, pulling her closer. She rose onto her toes, reached for his neck, felt his breath stutter against her mouth.

Somehow they moved, feet unthinking, never parting. Her back hit the wall beside the fire. The stone was cold, but the heat from the flames curled against her ribs, and the heat inside her burned brighter. His hands didn’t wander, but they held her tightly, like he never meant to let go.

The kiss slowed, deepened. Her fingers curled into his hair, loosening what little still held it back.

This wasn’t noise and flattery and clumsy want. This wasn’t some boy fumbling for closeness. This was a man. Certain. Steady. And his touch felt like worship.

She never wanted it to stop.

But he pulled back, just barely, his lips brushing hers as he let out a breathless laugh. His forehead found hers, and they stood like that, still pressed together, hearts racing.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long. But I kept telling myself I couldn’t possibly dare…” he murmured.

She laughed softly, her fingers still tangled in his hair.

“I was waiting for you to dare,” she said, her voice low.

They didn’t move. Their arms stayed around each other, their bodies still close. Foreheads touching. Breath shared. Intertwined.

He looked at her, eyes bright and a little dazed.

Then he kissed her again.

— • —

Snape’s dreadful voice echoed against the stone arches of the underground kitchen in the Order’s headquarters. The report was detailed and long, occasionally interrupted by Sirius’s remarks on Snape’s attitude or questionable loyalties.

Usually, it was an entertaining affair for Bill. Their long-standing feud and mutual hatred were practically a reliable sideshow. Personally, he wasn’t much of a fan of his old Potions professor. He wasn’t at all sure of his agenda. But tonight, he couldn’t care less about any of it.

His mind was entirely elsewhere.

He hadn’t been the same since last night. He knew he was a fool. Charlie said so. Joe said so. Sirius, Remus, and even Tonks did. Taking the time to figure out the future, his intentions and wants, had felt smart at first. Chivalrous. Noble, almost. But he’d been an idiot, thinking he had any control over this. Any control over how he felt about her. Even if he did, last night he’d lost the last of it.

The firelight on her skin. The breathless sound she made when he kissed her neck. The way her eyes had looked, half-daring, half-wrecked. She had no idea what it took to hold back. What it cost him to stay gentle.

He swallowed hard, jaw tight. Glanced around, but it was still Snape’s turn. Dung was sitting by Sirius, one hand on the table, occasionally drifting off. His dad was nodding politely, though he’d bet his mind was in his office or shed. Hestia Jones seemed focused, but Bill caught her sneaking the occasional glance at Dedalus, whose purple hat was taking up nearly an entire chair beside him.

No one paid Bill any attention, except Moody’s eye, which was suspiciously fixed on him. Maybe it was stuck again. Surely it wasn’t so powerful it could read minds.

The second person watching him was Tonks. When their eyes met, she gave him a grin and a wink. He responded with a dismissive shake of his head. At that, she flashed a thumbs up, then her attention drifted briefly to Remus, who looked just as worn out and tired as expected. For him, she offered a small, worried frown, one he didn’t notice, before turning back to the report.

Bill stared at the table, expression unreadable, eyes fixed on nothing. His mind drifted, slipping back to last night.

“I should’ve asked you sooner…” he kept saying. Simple truth, repeated quietly between one kiss and the next.

“Bill,” she whispered.

“Mhm?”

“Bill.”

“Yes?”

“I’m going back to France,” she said quietly, her eyes locked with his.

“What? Now?” he managed to say. A bit stupid, really. But he couldn’t think straight with her this close.

“Not right now. For Christmas. My parents. My sister’s expecting me.”

He exhaled, relieved. Even laughed a little. He guided her gently toward the sofa, still holding her close. They sank into the cushions together.

“Well, that’s good. You’ve been here a long time. I’m sure they miss you,” he said, gently rubbing her knuckles. “There shouldn’t be any issue with the time off. Goblins are expecting hard work, but are surprisingly…”

“No…” She hesitated. “My mum. She’s scheduled a meeting with a career counselor. She thinks I should come back home. That now I’ve got some experience, it’s time. That there’s no real future for me here.”

That last part hurt a bit. Surely, he was something, wasn’t he? He looked at her for a long moment, hair a mess, breath still uneven from the kiss. He wasn’t ready to part with her.

“When are you leaving?” he asked.

“Don’t know. I’m applying for the Portkey at the Ministry on Monday. I’ve heard with Christmas coming, it can be quite a wait,” she replied with a loud exhale, a bit annoyed.

He reached for her hand again. His other one brushed her arm, as if to keep her there.

“I can help you with the Portkey,” he said, glad he could offer something. “My dad knows someone in the Magical Transportation Office. No need to wait in line at the Ministry.”

“Really?” she asked, surprised. Grateful. Then her expression shifted into that familiar look she wore before one of her blunt jokes. Or a sharp bit of judgment. “I thought things were better here, but it’s just like in France. You have to know someone to get anything done. It doesn’t really work, does it?”

“No. Not really,” he admitted.

“Your dad’s connection gives your family a lot of privilege.”

He paused. That was new. Different from what he was used to hearing.

“I guess. I never really looked at it like that.”

The candle on the table had burned halfway down. Shadows moved along the far wall.

“Fleur… you should really stay.”

She smiled, one of those charming, completely disarming ones she offered on occasion, the kind that made your day a thousand times better.

“In London?” she asked, teasing. “Or in your flat tonight?”

“In London,” he said, matching her tone. Back in their usual rhythm. “Although…”

She gave him a playful shove, then leaned in and placed one kiss on his cheek, then another.

“No, not tonight. It’s late. I should go.”

“Weasley?”

Moody’s voice cut through the air. Rough. Dry.

Bill blinked once. Sat up a little straighter.

“Patrol with Tonks,” he said. “All quiet. No movement near the vaults. Nothing new from the goblins.”

A pause.

“That’s all?” Moody grunted.

Bill gave a slight nod. “That’s all.”

— • —

It was Monday, December 4th, and once again, Gringotts was overrun with Nifflers. The cheeky little creatures had slipped into the upper vaults sometime over the weekend, causing enough chaos to grind half the security team to a halt.

Grikk had taken one look at the commotion, scowled, and promptly waved Bill and Fleur out of the building with a gruff, “Unprofessional distractions. Go.”

So they’d gone.

Just like last time, Bill had suggested they continue the day’s work at his flat.

Now the glass table in his sitting room was nearly invisible beneath the layers of parchment bearing the Gringotts seal.

They’d been at it for hours. The fire crackled steadily behind them. The street outside was hushed. Scrolls and reports continued to pile up across the table, their edges curling as the hours slipped by. And with each hour, so did the edges of formality.

They kept shifting closer. Not on purpose, exactly, but their chairs had drawn inward, inch by inch. Her elbow brushed his once, then again, and neither of them moved away. His knee bumped hers under the table. She didn’t flinch.

There were moments, just seconds, when he’d look up and find her already watching him. Or she’d pause, quill hovering, lips slightly parted, like she’d meant to ask something but thought better of it.

Bill looked back at the parchment, pretending to read, but the runes refused to settle into anything that made sense. He cleared his throat.

“Should I make a fresh pot?” he asked.

“I’m actually done,” Fleur said, stretching her neck slowly. “I’ve reached my limit for today.”

“I promised dinner,” he said, quieter now, testing the waters. “You still up for that? Want to keep me company while I burn something?”

Fleur glanced up, and for a second he wasn’t sure what she’d say. But then her mouth curved into one of those damn smiles that made it hard to think straight.

“Sounds good.”

He watched as she stood and wandered around the room, her shirt untucked, fingers brushing lightly along the edge of the shelf. Her gaze drifted, then paused at an odd little duo: a rubber frog and a duck.

“I meant to ask… what’s with this decor? It’s a bit strange.”

He gave a small laugh. “Hold on.”

He stepped over and picked up the duck. It gave a loud squeak, then transformed into a wand.

“What…?”

“Another one of my brothers’ inventions,” he said, already grinning. “Fake wands. Told you, they’re obsessed with pranks.”

She narrowed her eyes at the frog. “Alright. But why are they just sitting here, staring at us?”

He came closer, tapped the frog. It hiccuped and changed into another wand.

“I dunno,” he said. “This place was boring when I moved in. The goblins gave me the flat with the transfer, and I was glad, but it was too modern. Cold. Sterile. I needed something. Some color. The twins gave me these… pranked me with them, really. And I just… kept them. They’re part of the place now.”

He passed her the wands, and in a blink, they shimmered back into the harmless rubber frog and duck.

“Like my owls,” she said, glancing at him.

“Yeah. Like your terrifying fridge owls.”

She smiled fondly, looking toward the fireplace and the carpet where she sat the last time, curled up on the floor. “I like your flat.”

“Looks better with you in it,” he said before he could stop himself.

She gave him a look, part amused, part unimpressed.

“You’re not as smooth as you think, you know.”

That only made him laugh.

“Touché,” he replied. “Should I try again in French?”

He liked her like this. Sharp, unbothered, not easily impressed. A challenge.

She looked up at him again. They were closer than he’d realized, and for the first time, he noticed a faint beauty mark just above her lip.

“Did you ever feel guilty?” she asked quietly, a strange sadness creeping into her voice. “When you went to Egypt for work? About leaving your siblings behind?”

Bill paused, caught off guard by the question.

He exhaled. “All the time. I still do.”

She nodded. Her eyes weren’t on him now but on the duck she still held in her hand, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

“Same,” she uttered the word like a secret. “I know I need to be my own person and go after what I want… but still.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. He understood exactly what she meant.

Then he added, more certain, “But we can’t live for them, can we? We can set the example, but we still have to take what we want.”

She glanced back at him.

“And what do you want?”

Was that a dare in her eyes, or just his own wishful thinking?

The kiss hit like a spell. Like it had been waiting.

His hands were in her hair. Hers gripped the front of his shirt like it was the only thing holding her upright. They shifted, too fast, too close, and she stumbled backward into the wall.

The thud echoed in the flat, but neither of them flinched. His palm braced above her shoulder, his chest against hers, his breath against her mouth.

They didn’t stop.

Not until the sharp pop of magic.

The wards shivered. A soft crack split the air, followed by a polite but unmistakable clearing of a throat.

Bill jerked back like he’d been hit with a Stunning Spell. Within a second, he had a wand in hand. Fleur’s hands slipped from his shirt, but she didn’t move far, just stared past his shoulder, eyes wide.

Arthur Weasley stood in the middle of the sitting room, slightly winded, a rubber duck at his feet.

His gaze flicked once to Fleur, once to Bill, then to the duck lying facedown on the floor.

“Evening,” he said calmly. “I, ah, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

For a second, Bill couldn’t move. Couldn’t even blink. His brain struggled to catch up with what his eyes were telling him.

Was that really his father standing in his flat?

Bill’s pulse kicked up. His dad never just popped in. Not without warning.

“Dad… what… is everything alright? With Mum? With the O... with the stuff?”

Arthur bent down, picked up the rubber toy, and turned it over in his hands. It gave a loud squeak and promptly transformed into a wand.

“Ahh. The twins,” he said with a faint smile. “Fascinating magic, truly.”

“Dad…?” Bill tried again.

“Portkey,” Arthur said, a little embarrassed but mostly amused. “It came through this morning. Thought I’d deliver it straight away.”

He glanced up at them, eyes twinkling. “Though I see you’re... occupied, son.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small silver spoon. It gleamed softly in the firelight, delicate and old.

“But since I’m already here,” he continued, offering it with a small, respectful bow, “For Miss Delacour. Set to activate on the nineteenth, eight o’clock sharp.”

Fleur hadn’t moved, her eyes still wide. Bill could hear her breath had only just begun to steady. He was about to take the object himself, but to his surprise, within a second she adjusted her shirt, lifted her chin, and offered a composed smile. Then she stepped forward, accepted the Portkey, and gave Arthur a small, gracious nod.

“Thank you, Mr Weasley,” she said, her voice steady. “I hope you did not go through too much trouble. You’ve saved me hours and hours at the Ministry. I truly appreciate it.”

Arthur blinked once, and Bill caught it. Just the faintest pause, like his father had suddenly registered the full effect of Fleur’s smile. Then he straightened and offered a modest one of his own.

“No trouble at all,” he said. “Happy to help.”

His fingers rubbed the back of his neck. “Most of the approved objects were old boots or kettle lids. Thought this one had a bit more charm.”

“It’s perfect, Mr Weasley,” Fleur said eagerly. “Truly.”

Bill watched the exchange, lips twitching. His dad was rarely caught off guard, but Fleur’s quiet poise had clearly done the trick. Just Fleur being... well, Fleur.

He decided to help his father out.

“Thanks for bringing it by,” he said. “Would you like to stay for tea or…?” He trailed off, already knowing the answer.

Arthur smiled. “Thanks, Bill, but I should get back home. Before I go, though, could I have a quick word?”

Bill nodded, already moving toward the kitchen. “Yeah. Of course.”

They stepped past the cluttered table and into the narrow space beyond, where the air still held the faint scent of coffee, now gone cold.

“I’m sorry, son,” Arthur said with a chuckle. “Guess I got a bit ahead of myself. You’ve got your own life now, don’t you?”

He rummaged through his coat and pulled out a flat black square.

“To tell you the truth, I’ve got this new Muggle object,” he said, handing it to Bill. “I’ve been meaning to ask someone about it, and, well, I figured you’d know who to ask. For research. Probably should’ve waited, but I got a bit excited.”

Bill turned it over in his hands.

“It’s a floppy disk,” he explained. “I saw my friends in Egypt use them. They store data and let you move it between computers.”

Arthur took the disk back, holding it like it might hum with secrets.

“Fascinating. Flopsi Flisk.”

“Floppy disk,” Bill corrected with a grin. “And it’s alright, Dad. About stopping by, I mean. Thanks again for helping with the Portkey.”

“No problem, Bill.” Arthur looked toward the sitting room. “She’s a beautiful young lady. Strikingly so, really.”

He paused for a second, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Should we tell your mother about... this?”

Bill scratched his chin. He wasn’t hiding anything, but his mother could be very... opinionated.

“Better not,” he said after a pause.

Arthur gave a knowing chuckle.

“It’s not like that,” Bill added quickly. “You know how Mum is. She still thinks I’m fifteen. She’ll ask a million questions.”

“It’s alright. I’ll keep it between us.”

Arthur looked at him for a moment, fondness flickering in his expression.

“Just promise you’ll tell her when the time’s right. Your mother and I, we just want you to be happy. We’re glad to have you near again.”

He didn’t say much. Just held his father’s gaze and gave a quiet, “Alright.”

“Right then. I should get something to eat before tonight’s patrol.”

“Who are you paired with?”

Arthur grinned.

“Your mother, can you believe it? It’ll be like our old midnight strolls at Hogwarts. Slipping past portraits, ducking into alcoves, trying not to wake anyone... ”

His voice softened, lightly teasing. “And I see you’ve got a romantic evening planned yourself.”

Then, with a more serious look, Arthur added:

“She’s a lovely girl, Bill. Just make sure you’re thinking with the right part of you.”

“Dad,” Bill muttered, half groaning.

Arthur smiled, but finished anyway. “Be a gentleman.”

He gave his son’s shoulder a firm pat.

Arthur Weasley rarely gave lectures. But when he did, quiet and steady, you listened.

Their mother used words like weapons. She could talk you into guilt or out of sense before you'd even sat down. She always had something to say, and she said it with full force.

Dad was different. He was wise, but quieter. He had his silly hobbies and that strange obsession with Muggles, and he usually stayed out of the drama unless Mum pulled him into it. When she did, it could go either way. He was a sharp judge of character, but he had a soft spot too. Some things his kids did, especially the mischief, he found funny. That always ended in a row with Mum. But when something really crossed a line, it wasn’t her yelling that got to you.

It was him. Calm. Disappointed. No shouting. Just the truth, and you’d feel it settle in your chest like a stone.

A quiet talk from Dad was always worse than an hour of Mum’s fury.

Bill watched him for a moment, then grinned.

“Were you a gentleman, Dad? On those midnight strolls with Mum…”

— • —

By Tuesday, things at Gringotts had settled.

Bill had been given a new assignment from the goblins: testing the security on selected vaults, searching for flaws and weak points in the wards. It was more exciting than the usual paperwork, but the downside was less time with Fleur. He often stayed late, the more stubborn wards pulling him in until he lost track of time.

Fleur had been busy too, packing and organizing for her upcoming trip to France.

On Friday evening, just as he Apparated back to his apartment, an unexpected message found him.

“Order meeting. Now. Surveillance team only.”

Alastor’s voice growled from the incorporeal flicker of magical light.

Bill didn’t have much choice. He grabbed his coat and Flooed straight to Grimmauld Place.

Sirius barely looked up when he arrived. He was unshaven, firewhisky in hand, slouched in the armchair like he’d melted into it.

“Hey, Sirius. Moody called a meeting,” Bill offered.

“‘Lo,” Sirius muttered, barely acknowledging him.

Bill didn’t have time to press further. One by one, the others arrived: Mad-Eye first, then Tonks, Remus, and Emmeline Vance. Bill hadn’t worked with the serious-looking woman before, but he’d heard the stories. A legendary Hit Witch, famously one of the toughest.

“We’re all here. Let’s begin,” Moody said, claiming the chair at the head of the table.

“I’m not part of this,” Sirius muttered, eyes fixed on his drink. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt the special chosen ones, Merlin forbid.”

He stood up and added, “Drinks are in the usual cabinet. Help yourselves.”

Then he left, footsteps uneven, glass in hand, a half-drunk bottle floating after him.

Bill glanced around. Something felt off.

It wasn’t like Sirius to skip out on a meeting. He always wanted to be involved, or at least know what was happening. And there were others missing. His parents, for one. This wasn’t the usual crowd. He also hadn’t seen Emmeline since his very first meeting.

Moody’s magical eye tracked Sirius out the door, the other fixed squarely on Bill.

“Weasley,” Mad-Eye said.

“Alastor. What is this? Shouldn’t we wait for more members?”

“Not this time. Kingsley’s tied up, and this isn’t the usual business. It’s a closed-circle briefing.”

Bill looked around again. What made this group different?

“As you know,” Moody began, “Tonks and Lupin have been trailing the more obvious anti-Muggle sympathizers. Emmeline’s been watching Yaxley.”

He tilted his head toward the witch in the emerald green shawl.

“I didn’t know that,” Bill admitted.

“Well, maybe try listening at meetings. It was in the last report.”

Bill flinched. Fair enough. He had been… distracted.

“Dumbledore and I agreed: this time around, we only assign fieldwork to trained operatives. Preferably Aurors. But we’re short on those. Emmeline’s training is close to Auror level…”

“Close?” Emmeline cut in sharply. “I’ve got more combat certifications than most of you. That’s why I work alone.”

“Fine,” Moody snapped. “Your choice.”

Bill was starting to piece it together.

“Bill,” Remus took over, calm and steady, “I was paired with Dora, but there’s been more movement in the werewolf colonies. Greyback’s growing bolder. Organizing.”

Bill glanced at Tonks. Her hair was natural brown, flat and ordinary, so unlike her usual bright tones. She didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Her fingers fidgeted in her lap.

“I need to focus on that mission. Spend more time inside,” Remus continued. “It’s becoming harder to split my attention. Harder to be the kind of partner Dora deserves.”

“You are the right partner for me,” Tonks said sharply, looking up. Her voice wasn’t playful, but fierce.

Remus held her gaze. “You know no one else can do what I do for the Order. It has to be like this.”

Silence.

They stared at each other, frustration and defiance thick between them.

Moody cleared his throat with a growl, cutting through the tension.

“So, Weasley,” he said. “We’re short on Aurors. Out of Hit Wizards. And frankly, you’re next in line. You’re well-trained, experienced, and the goblins wouldn’t keep you if you weren’t effective. They trust you, even if they aren’t exactly talking much around you lately.”

Bill winced. It wasn’t wrong. He hadn’t brought in much intel recently.

“You’ve got spare time. And we need bodies.”

Bill straightened. “Alright. What do you need me to do?”

“You’ll partner with Tonks,” Remus said quietly.

Tonks added, “I said I could work alone. They insisted I shouldn't.”

“You’ve been going nonstop,” Remus said. “You need backup.”

“I don’t mind,” Bill said quickly. “Honestly, things at Gringotts are quiet. Goblins aren’t talking. The last excitement was a couple of Nifflers loose near the vaults.”

Moody raised an eyebrow. “Someone releasing Nifflers in the bank and you didn’t report it?”

“It’s not Death Eater business,” Bill said quickly. “It happens every year. A prank, probably. Kids or some bored employees.”

“Still,” Moody muttered. “Could be planted. Keep an eye on it.”

Bill nodded. “I want to be more useful to the Order. Really.”

A crooked smile twisted across Moody’s face, his scar splitting in half. “Good. Let’s see if you’re up for the task.”

He turned toward Emmeline. “Vance. Duel etiquette applies.”

Without another word, he flicked his wand. The table vanished.

The others stepped back, forming a wide ring around the room. Shielding charms shimmered to life.

Emmeline rolled her shoulders and smirked. “Don’t worry, Bill. I’ll go easy on you.”

“Don’t,” Bill said, grinning as he bowed.

He stepped back, faced her squarely, and raised his wand.

Their spells cut the air at the same time.

— • —

Bill was splitting his time between two demanding jobs. Days were spent deep underground, working through wards and rune traps, with goblins breathing down his neck. Nights were spent on rooftops, in alleyways, trailing wizards who might be more than they seemed.

Like the case in Elephant and Castle.

“Tell me again,” Bill muttered, crouched beside Tonks, “what we’re doing out here at half one in the morning watching the public loos?”

Tonks didn’t take her eyes off the target. “Got an insight. From your dad, actually. Three incidents in two weeks. Toilets. Reversing.”

Bill choked on a laugh. “You dragged me across London to stake out exploding lavatories?”

“Not exploding. Regurgitating.”

He grinned. “Literal crap work. And here I thought the Order’s inner circle handled serious business. Did I really duel Emmeline Vance for this privilege?”

“It is serious.”

She finally looked at him, face sombre beneath the fringe of her hair.

“Think about it, Bill. You want to know who ends up wearing the Mark? The ones who already think they’re better. The ones who laugh at Muggles getting soaked in their own... you know. It starts with superiority. With disgust. Then someone comes along and tells them they’re right.”

Bill’s smile faded. He looked back toward the loos.

“You think whoever’s doing this is a Death Eater?”

“No. I think he’s the kind of wizard they’re watching. Which means we should be too.”

Silence settled in. Cold crept through his boots. A low wind moved the litter on the pavement. No one came in or out.

Bill shifted his weight and sighed. “Still not as bad as testing the wards on Crabb’s vault today. Bloody hinkypunk infestation,” he said.

Tonks snorted. “I think you need a nap.”

“I need a life,” he grumbled.

“Same,” she said, yawning. “Young, underpaid, over-trained, and knackered. Bloody perfect hero material.”

Bill let out a snort. “How you didn’t get sorted into Gryffindor, I’ll never know.”

“Please.” Tonks’s hair turned bright yellow with bold black stripes. The effect was overwhelming. “I’m a Puff through and through.”

Bill chuckled. The colors in Tonks’s hair held for a beat, then slowly faded back to brown. He didn’t comment. She’d seemed a bit down lately. He suspected it had something to do with Remus and the werewolf colonies.

His gaze drifted toward the entrance to the public toilets. He understood the seriousness. He kept trying to focus, but nothing was happening. And when nothing happened, his mind wandered straight to her.

He missed Fleur.

They’d seen each other at the bank. Grabbed lunch once, coffee twice. She’d been watching him lately. He could tell. She was too observant for her own good. He didn’t blame her. She must’ve noticed the dark circles under his eyes, how he’d stopped walking her home after work, how he’d broken their routine with excuses that didn’t quite land.

But she hadn’t asked questions, and he was glad.

There was no version of the truth he was allowed to give her.

— • —

It was late. Too late. The street outside Fleur’s flat was slick with frost, empty under the pale glow of the gas lamps. Bill stood across from her window, scarf half-untied, the cold sunk deep into his bones. His coat was damp, gloves stiff, breath fogging in quick bursts.

He shouldn’t be here.

It hadn’t really been a decision. He’d Apparated in front of his own flat, but his feet had brought him here instead. Like a need he couldn’t explain. Like he’d been pulled by something else. An unknown kind of force. A promise of warmth.

They’d just finished a six-hour surveillance shift with Tonks, wrapped under the Disillusionment Charm. Both tired. Both silent. Nothing had happened. That was the worst part. His wand hand still shook a little from holding still for too long. His legs ached from crouching. His mind wouldn’t stop spinning.

He knew Fleur would be asleep.

But still.

The thought of returning to that apartment, dark and empty, was too much to bear at the moment.

He bent down, picked up a loose pebble from the edge of the curb, and lifted it with a murmured Wingardium Leviosa. The rock floated across the street, tapped gently against her window.

For a second, nothing.

Then the curtains shifted.

A few moments later, the front door creaked open.

Fleur stood there barefoot, Bill’s stolen shirt over her nightgown, hair loose around her shoulders. Mesmerising, as always, in the hush of the streetlight glow.

She didn’t ask why he’d come. Just stepped back to let him in.

They walked up to her flat. Bill toed off his boots by the door. The warmth of her apartment wrapped around him. A single lamp still glowed on the kitchen counter, casting the room in soft gold.

“Sorry to wake you.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” she said gently, as she moved to the stove. He watched her fill the kettle, set it down. She took out the cups and placed the tea inside.

When she was done, she crossed the room and stopped in front of him. Her fingers reached for the collar of his coat, brushing away a bit of soot he hadn’t noticed.

“You look tired,” she said.

“I am.”

Her hand lingered on his elbow, just for a second. And in that small touch, he felt it. He understood why he’d come.

“Stay, then.”

He followed her to the sofa. Neither of them turned on another light. She dropped onto the cushions and pulled a blanket over her lap. He sat beside her, shoulder to shoulder. Close, but not quite touching.

After a minute, she leaned into him, gently. He let his head rest against hers.

No words.

Only the soft tick of the old wall clock. The hush of her breathing. The faint sting of cold still clinging to his fingers, slowly fading.

She reached down, found his hand beneath the blanket, and traced her thumb along the rough of his palm.

He exhaled. Closed his eyes.

Let his mind drift. Let go of focus, of duty, of upcoming war. Just for a second.

Just long enough to remember what warmth felt like.

— • —

It was the eighteenth.

Bill barely remembered falling asleep. When he opened his eyes, the flat was dark again, the blanket half-slipped to the floor.

He washed his face, changed his shirt, then Flooed into the Ministry. He found his father in his office, reading The Muggle Telegraph.

“Dad.”

Arthur looked up. “Ah. There you are. Got your message.”

“Thanks for meeting me.”

Arthur folded the paper. “Everything alright?”

Bill hesitated. He hadn’t slept much. Surveillance. Vault work. His brain was running on barely-conscious magic and reheated coffee. Fleur was leaving tomorrow morning, and he didn’t want their last evening to blur into some rushed goodbye in the dark. He wanted to offer her more than that.

“I was wondering,” he said, “if you’d mind switching patrols. Just this once. I know it’s short notice…”

Arthur held up a hand. “Already sorted.”

Bill blinked. “What?”

“For you and for Tonks too,” Arthur said. “I spoke to Dung this morning. He owes me one. I told him I’d take his Sunday shift next week if he covers with me tonight.”

“You didn’t have to…”

Arthur gave a soft huff of amusement. “Bill, you and Tonks have been on your feet every night this week. You’ve done your share and then some.”

He paused, studying his son’s face.

“Fleur’s heading home tomorrow, isn’t she?”

Bill nodded.

Arthur set down his tea, voice quiet now.

“Then don’t waste your evening stuck here with your old man.”

He gave a small smile. “Go on. See her.”

A beat passed.

“And don’t forget to eat something. You’re getting as thin as Ron.”

Bill exhaled slowly, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “Thanks, Dad.”

Arthur gave his shoulder a firm pat.

“Go on. Merlin knows this situation takes enough from everyone. We don’t have to give it more than it asks.”

— • —

The fire had burned low, casting soft amber light across the floor. Their dinner plates sat forgotten on the counter, and the wine bottle was nearly empty. Fleur had curled up in her favorite spot by the fire, legs tucked beneath her, hair in a loose plait over one shoulder, tied with a soft ribbon at the end. She was telling him about Gabrielle’s holiday theatrics, the upcoming dance show, and how last year she insisted on playing every single part in the family Nativity play, including the donkey.

She was laughing, half-buried in the blanket she’d dragged over from his bedroom. Her eyes shimmered when she spoke about her sister, soft with affection.

He watched her, listening closely, each word wrapping around him like something warm and soothing. His elbow rested on the sofa behind him, his back leaned against it, fingertips close to her shoulder but not quite touching.

Without thinking, he reached out and gently ran his fingers along the soft ribbon tied at the end of her plait. He’d thought about doing that since the moment they met.

She didn’t pause. She kept speaking as if nothing had changed. But he caught the small curve of a smile tug at her lips, saw the faint flush rise in her cheeks. Was it the wine? The fire? Or maybe something else.

This was it.

This was what he needed. All he really wanted now. Her voice, filling his flat like it had always belonged there.

He wanted to reach for her. Let his hand rest on her knee. Pull her closer. All the way.

But he hesitated.

He wasn’t sure how far he was allowed to go. He had to keep his mind clear. Make sure no lines were crossed. She was younger than him, after all. He didn’t know how much experience she had, and the last thing he wanted was to hurt her or make her uncomfortable. He didn’t know what she was ready for. What she expected. What she wanted.

Suddenly, he realized there was silence. Fleur’s eyes were locked on the fire, and she seemed lost for words.

“That’s… that’s…” she tried.

Bill jumped to his feet.

“Sirius, what is it?” he said, rushing over to the fireplace.

“Mate, it’s your dad. There’s been an attack.”

Bill heard a ringing in his ears. No. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t…

“He’s alive. For now. They found him in time, he’s being transported to St Mungo’s as we speak” Sirius continued in an urgent hush. “Your siblings are all coming to mine from the school. Dumbledore sent word. You should come too.”

Bill blinked hard, trying to catch up. “Wait, wasn’t Dung on duty with him?”

Sirius gave him a sharp look, like he was being naive. “Mate. Come on.”

Bill felt something sink in his chest. He didn’t press further.

“I’m going to the hospital,” he said, already standing, ready to Apparate.

“Mate, listen. I know how you feel. But you can’t. Not yet.” Sirius’s voice dropped. “I can’t explain everything now, but Harry’s involved.”

“I don’t care. I’m going.”

“But we do care. Dumbledore does. The whole Order. Protecting him is the mission. You need to wait for your mum’s message. Come to mine.”

“I’m going to the hospital,” Bill repeated, firm.

Sirius gave up with a sigh. Then both of them heard a sharp exhale behind them.

Bill had forgotten all about Fleur.

She’d seen everything. Heard it all.

Sirius looked past Bill and smirked. “Hello, Miss Delacour. Heard a lot about you.” He winked. “Probably should confund you now, but that’s Bill’s territory. I’ll let him handle it.”

Then he was gone.

Fleur spoke, voice shaky. “Sirius Black. You… you’re hiding a criminal. A murderer. They looked for him everywhere. In London. In France…”

“He’s not. He’s innocent,” Bill said quickly. “I can’t explain now. My dad, he’s in St Mungo’s. I have to go.”

“If he’s innocent, why is he hiding? This, this is not alright. You’re working with him, aligning with him. It’s not good.”

“Fleur, it doesn’t matter,” he said, grabbing his coat. “My dad’s been attacked, and it’s all my fault. I really have to go. Right now.”

“No.” Her voice cut across the room. Commanding. It made Bill stop in his tracks.

He turned. Looked at her.

There was something around her. You couldn’t see it, but it pressed against the room. Like the air before a storm. Her face was still. Eyes dark.

“I’ve been patient, William,” she said, low. He couldn’t move, hypnotized. “I gave you time. I didn’t ask questions: at the office, in Diagon Alley, in my house last week.”

She was beautiful. Breathtaking, more than ever. He felt something pull in his mind, like he was on the edge of spilling everything. About the Order. About the missions. All of it, really.

She was worth it, wasn’t she?

“I never pushed you,” she went on, stepping closer. Her presence nearly shimmered. “But this time, it is too much. You need to explain.”

She lifted her hand, reaching for his chest, his heart. Blue light flickered on her skin.

That was enough.

Bill moved fast, wand flicking up. A shield sprang between them.

“Fleur, stop this,” he shot back. “This isn’t right. Whatever you’re doing, it’s not fair. And I don’t have time for it.”

“You need to explain,” she said again, her voice tight. Her eyes were still dark. The shield was shimmering between them.

“My dad’s been attacked. That’s all you need to know. I’m leaving.” He turned.

“You’re working for the Order of the Phoenix.”

The rest of the color drained from his face. She couldn’t possibly…

“I can’t talk about it,” he said, fury rising. “I can’t.”

The air shifted again. Whatever had pressed against him, the heat or the pull, had vanished.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Her face changed. The darkness in her eyes faded. “I don’t know what just happened. I’m sorry.”

Silence.

He dropped the shield and stepped toward her, too fast. His hand closed around her elbow, not rough, but not gentle either.

“I don’t know where you heard it, or what you think you know about the Order,” he said, voice tight. “But it’s not something we will be discussing.”

He was still angry. Tired. Fear curling in his chest. He needed to get to Dad. To find out what happened. To apologize.

“You of all people should understand why secrets are important.”

“Me?” She looked up, sharp.

“You weren’t exactly hiding it from me. The Veela stuff. I know you claim publicly you inherited more human than her. There’s a reason for it, isn’t there?”

He didn’t give her time to answer.

“Because what was that you just tried on me? What’s with the blue flames? The pull? The way you affect men?”

“That’s not the same,” she said, arms crossed tight across her chest.

“Your secrets are dangerous,” he snapped. “And so are mine.”

He let go of her arm.

“I’m going to see my dad.”

“I’m leaving for France tomorrow.” Her voice wavered. “And I don’t know if I’ll be back.”

He stared at her, jaw tight, pulse still thudding in his ears.

“Fleur,” he said, strained. “I need to know if my dad is alive.”

He vanished on the spot, not even noticing the pain where his landing went wrong. One thought beat through his head:

It’s all my fault.

— • —

Fleur couldn’t sleep.

Lightning split the sky, and moments later thunder rolled in with the sound of waves hitting the rocks just beyond the cliffs.

She had been all fury since returning to France. It was an uncontrollable force, twisting deep in her chest, and she didn’t know how to stop it.

The strange part was, no one at home seemed to notice. She had shattered a teacup, holding it too tightly, but they brushed it off as travel fatigue. The fire had flared wildly as her mum spoke of careers and prospects, but they blamed it on dry wood placed there hours before. She wanted to scream at them. Wanted them to look at her and see that she was unraveling. But they smiled and ignored it, as if she were still the Fleur they expected to see.

Was she?

She sat on the edge of her childhood bed, still unpacked, her wand lying untouched beneath her pillow. Ever since that night in London, the 18th of December, she hadn’t trusted herself with magic at all.

Something had truly snapped inside her. All the silence, all the feelings she had pushed down, the questions she hadn’t dared ask, had surged forward, wild and unstoppable.

Fleur exhaled sharply. She felt the sting of the memory in her chest.

Bill had secrets. She had known that. She had seen the way he became busier, more tired, distracted. The way his answers got shorter, his excuses vaguer.

What he didn’t know was that she had already suspected. That she had pieced together enough to guess where he disappeared to, and why he came back with shadows under his eyes and tension in his wand hand.

She had known and chosen to protect the truth, to keep it safe until he was ready to tell her.

As it turned out, he never planned to tell her anything.

He had been perfectly comfortable with her silence. It was a convenience for him, really. He hadn’t felt bad about offering her half-truths or small lies. He wanted her to be there for him. To offer comfort, a kiss, and unspoken space.

That hurt. It made her feel small.

She felt like maybe he didn’t see her as someone trustworthy. Even after everything. After the Tournament. After she’d made it clear where she stood. Against the Ministry. With Dumbledore. With Harry.

She could have helped. She would have helped.

And still, somewhere beneath the burn of betrayal, beneath the fact that he left her behind without a single explanation, there was something else. A smaller voice, harder to bear.

She hadn’t even asked.

She had seen him slipping and said nothing. And now, she wasn’t sure who she was angrier with: Bill, for keeping her out, or herself, for making it so easy.

She pressed her hands into the mattress, trying to still the shaking in her arms.

There was another thing. Something she couldn’t even fully remember...

Seeing Sirius Black had been too much. One moment she was asking, no, pleading for Bill to explain. The next, her voice turned sharp, her skin crackling blue like a live wire. She barely recognized herself. Magic surged through her, violent and unstoppable, and...

Fleur pressed a trembling hand to her chest. Her heartbeat thundered wildly.

He had to use magic to tame her.

To shield himself.

Not from an enemy. Not from Voldemort. From her.

Across the room, the mirror caught her reflection in the moonlight. Her face looked unfamiliar, her eyes dark underneath and distant. She turned away quickly, disgusted by what she saw. Her wand let out a few electric sparks under the pillow. Thunder growled outside, almost as if reacting to it all too.

For a split second, she wondered if she had caused the storm. The waves pounded furiously outside her window. Surely she could not possess such power, controlled or not. She couldn’t.

Could she?

A quiet knock interrupted her thoughts.

“Fleur, can I come in?” Gabrielle asked softly. Her white nightgown was full of smudges. She must have been painting before. “I can’t sleep. The waves are too loud.”

“Come in.” Fleur shifted in her bed, making space for her sister.

“Tell me the Boggart story again,” Gabrielle whispered. “The one where you made foam bubbles come out of its mouth.”

Fleur let out a quiet laugh. “I’ve told you that story four times already. There’s nothing new to add.”

“Please,” Gabrielle said, pleading.

Fleur ran her hand through Gabrielle’s hair as she began to tell the vault tale again, leaving out the part about what the Boggart had really said, about her sister and about their mum. She only told the funny part, the way she had charmed it. Gabrielle’s eyes were wide between sleepy yawns.

“Fleur, you’re just like the hero from the books you read to me,” Gabrielle said in awe.

Fleur snorted. She was so far from a hero.

“I think you really are,” Gabrielle said again. “And this William from your story, it sounds like he sees it too. He suggested you apply for Curse-Breaker, non?”

Maybe she would. It wasn’t diplomacy, but the way runes and curses twisted together had a kind of logic and an edge of adventure. Something that might keep her sharp, alert. Something she could maybe even enjoy.

Fleur pressed a kiss to Gabrielle’s forehead and lay back down, listening to the waves crash against the cliffs. She drifted off eventually, her sister curled against her.

— • —

Fleur jerked awake, her heart hammering. The dream was already slipping away, but the panic clung to her skin like cold sweat.

She lay still for a moment, trying to breathe through it. It was Christmas Eve. She didn’t have time for nightmares. There were cousins arriving, gifts to wrap, food to help prepare. She was supposed to be present, cheerful, helpful. She needed to move.

She took a quick shower, pulled on her Christmas daytime pajamas, and walked to the kitchen. She poured herself a mug of freshly brewed coffee and moved to sit alone at the kitchen table.

She hadn’t slept much. Every time she drifted off, she dreamed of drowning. The old nightmares had returned, stronger and sharper than ever, dragging her under whenever she closed her eyes.

Her father walked in with a couple of papers in hand, sat on a stool by the island, and flipped through the business section, muttering something about the Galleon stocks.

Fleur picked up the latest copy of the Daily Prophet from the stack, quickly scanning the pages, searching desperately for news about Bill’s dad. She had subscribed to the paper, the only thing she made sure to do before leaving for France, thinking there would be some report about Ministry men like Arthur Weasley, something about his condition. The words blurred, frustration building with every headline. Again, there was nothing about the attack. Just endless nonsense about Harry Potter’s madness, Dumbledore’s supposed frailty, and other Ministry propaganda.

Her fingers tightened, crumpling the edges of the paper before she tossed it aside with a sharp huff.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, closing her eyes. She felt her father’s eyes on her, but she ignored him.

She shifted in her chair. The coffee tasted wrong. It was too bitter in her mouth. Her mother had started buying new beans, insisting they were better, but Fleur missed the smooth blend she was used to from Anne’s bakery in London. She took another sip. The liquid was still bitter, leaving an aftertaste that she did not like.

She reached for the sugar tin, then changed her mind mid-movement. Her hand knocked the cup instead. A splash of coffee hit the table.

With a quiet huff of frustration, Fleur grabbed her wand and thought, “Tergeo.”

She felt the spell surge through her veins, but something about it was all wrong. Her magic overreacted. Instead of vanishing just the spilled coffee, the entire cup disappeared, along with the sugar tin and her spoon. For a heartbeat, the table was perfectly clear. Then a few droplets reappeared, sliding toward the edge and dropping onto the floor, as if mocking her.

She blinked at the outcome and let out a shaky breath. She hadn’t even used a vanishing charm.

Behind his paper, her father gave a little cough. She ignored him again.

“That happens to your maman, too,” he said softly. “Usually when she’s holding too much in.”

Heat crept up Fleur’s neck. She stared at the empty space on the table.

“I just wanted to… it was just a spill.”

Her wand still trembled faintly in her grip. She stared at it. It felt unsteady in her hand, like something alive and restless.

“Veela magic doesn’t like being boxed in.”

She glanced at him finally, startled. He rarely said the word. No one in the family really did.

He continued gently. “Your grandmother’s hair is in that wand, isn’t it? It can be temperamental, especially when you’re not connected with it fully.”

Fleur swallowed.

“Well, I think I need a new wand, Papa. I don’t think I can control this one anymore.”

“You just need to take a deep breath and connect with it again.”

She looked at her wand again.

“I just don’t trust it anymore,” she whispered.

He stepped closer and gently offered his wand. “Try this. Just to feel the difference.”

She hesitated, but took it. His wand was heavier. Older. It didn’t hum in her hand. When she cast Tergeo, the spell came out small and neat, cleaning the coffee drops on the floor with a gentle puff.

It was manageable, but distant. It didn’t feel right.

Fleur handed it back. For a moment, she wished the manageable could be enough. Why couldn’t she be satisfied with easy, reliable magic?

“I didn’t think so,” her father said with a small, knowing smile.

“I hope it’s only your wand you doubt, not yourself,” he said, squeezing her arm, as he set a fresh cup of coffee in front of her.

Fleur looked at the paper she had tossed on the floor, then back at her dad.

Gérard Delacour was the wisest, kindest, most generous person she knew. He had weathered years of his wife’s storms and his daughters’ tempers with patience, never once raising his voice. He always had a calm word and a quiet answer, as if he understood the problem before anyone else had even noticed it.

She swallowed as the realization settled in.

She would have done anything for her dad. Her mum. Gabrielle.

If it had been any of them in a hospital bed, if someone had told her they were in danger, she wouldn’t have explained either. She wouldn’t have wasted time on apologies or answers. She would have gone straight to them.

The thought twisted in her gut. Shame stirred low in her chest. Guilt wasn’t far behind.

She had been right to ask Bill for the truth…but maybe her timing could have been better.

— • —

Fleur lingered in the corner of the sitting room, champagne flute in hand. Her cousins were clustered by the fireplace, surrounded by a group of young wizards and well-dressed uncles, laughter sparkling like the bubbles in their glasses. Each cousin seemed to have a suitor or two orbiting her, eager to refill a glass or offer a compliment.

Her cousin Margot tossed her hair in an elegant movement, eyes glimmering. “Oh, honestly, Louis, I couldn’t possibly eat another piece of bûche de Noël, but you’re so sweet to offer,” she purred, and the boy turned pink, beaming under her gaze.

Gabrielle sat nearby, her hair curled for the occasion, long and shining. She tried to mimic Margot’s practiced toss of her hair, then gave up, giggling.

Aunt Sylvie winked at Fleur. “Gabrielle will enchant them all one day, just like my Margot.”

Fleur forced a smile. She had never learned to turn charm into power the way her cousins could. Every time she tried to use it on purpose, the effect was never what she expected or wanted.

As her cousins laughed and glowed under admiring eyes, Fleur’s stomach twisted. She remembered being a little girl, her Veela magic flaring at a family party. The same uncles who used to ruffle her hair had suddenly treated her like a prize, all wide smiles and syrupy compliments. She had felt small, exposed, and more than a little frightened, overwhelmed by the noise, the stares, and the attention she had never wanted.

Now, watching Gabrielle trying to mimic their cousins, Fleur’s heart ached with protectiveness and worry. It had taken her years to understand that being adored wasn’t the same as being seen. She wanted something better for her sister than a life built on performance.

— • —

Fleur sat in her mother’s office, feeling the heavy weight of expectation. The dark walls, covered in hand-painted silk wallpaper, were lined with framed prints of her mother’s most celebrated articles: on Charms theory, wandwork, and the precise control of magic.

Her mother was one of the top Charms specialists in France, famous for expanding Fleur’s grandfather’s wandlore research and turning it into practical improvements in wand movement and magical focus. She’d once taught at Beauxbatons but resigned when Fleur was born, devoting herself to independent research and writing, her name attached to theories and essays Fleur had grown up hearing spoken with respect.

Across from her, an elegant witch in her mid-sixties adjusted the cuffs of her fitted plum silk pantsuit. Madame Brigitte Berlier had been speaking for some time, but Fleur’s focus kept slipping. Her gaze flickered across the office, skimming the familiar headlines on the wall: “Harmony: Integrating Nonhuman Magic in Human Spellwork”, “Charms Without Borders: International Trends in Spellcraft”, “Breaking the Mold: New Approaches to Magical Discipline”.

She wondered if any of them held the answer to what her father had said. An instruction on how to reconnect with her magic. Fleur knew every article and every technique by heart, but none seemed to hold a theory that could help in her current case.

Madame Berlier’s voice droned on, blurred by the soft tick of the clock and the distant, rhythmic tap of Fleur’s wand against her knee.

“And fulfilling all of those requirements can land you a beautiful assistant job. Maybe not in diplomacy, not in one of the more prominent departments at first. Your cousins in the past were able to secure positions based on personal charm, but times have changed. Now, it’s one of the most sought-after departments. It might simply not be enough, but I encourage you to try and use all of your... resources.”

“I was offered the job,” Fleur said fiercely, thinking of what exactly Madame Berlier meant by “resources.” “I did not take it. I did not like what they asked of me.”

“I see.” She looked at Fleur, surprised. “I was under the impression that was the position you wanted. May I ask what it was they asked of you?”

“To lie.”

“Well, the job is obviously dealing with sensitive truths. Sometimes it requires a bit of a change in perspective, for the greater good on international grounds. Perhaps another department would be more fitting,” she went on, her voice pleasant and practiced. “I usually suggest applying to, well, in your case, the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. It is a good start. But, well, that seems like a bit of a conflict of interest in your case. The Pest Advisory Bureau, on the other hand, might turn a blind eye to your…”

“Conflict of interest? Whatever do you mean by this?” Fleur looked up sharply, her wand letting out a few dangerous sparks.

“Well, it’s no secret that your grandfather, fantastic man and all, his achievements in wandlore are unmatched,” she said, glancing toward the framed photograph of Fleur’s grandfather. “But he did something that he maybe shouldn’t have. I don't know if it was in the name of research, or… yet, it can be frowned upon.”

A quiet sound interrupted them. Fleur heard someone clear their throat behind her. Her mother entered the room, a plate of cookies and a teapot floating beside her. She set the tray down on the desk with precise wand movement, her gaze fixed on the tea rather than either woman.

“I think this is a good stopping point,” Apolline said, her tone unreadable.

Madame Berlier shifted in her seat, looking to Apolline for approval, maybe even rescue.

“I do apologize, Madame Delacour. I only meant, well, I hope you understand, these are sensitive matters, of course.”

Apolline met her eyes briefly. “Yes, they are.”

The silence that followed was brief but sharp. Madame Berlier cleared her throat, awkwardly stacking her papers.

“If I may continue. I do have other suggestions.”

“Like what?” Fleur asked, her voice clipped.

“The Ludicrous Patent Office…”

“Silly inventions? I am more serious than this.”

“The Department of Magical Games and Sports might be a long shot, but with your experience from the Tournament, it might be possible if you…”

“My daughter applied. She’s been rejected. Twice.” Her mother said, not disappointed, just stating a fact. It still stung.

There was a long pause.

“Perhaps the bank is the best for the time being.”

“Thanks. This has been really... enlightening,” Fleur snorted.

“Flo, that’s enough. Madame Berlier, thank you for finding the time, especially around Christmas. We truly appreciate it.”

With a polite nod, the woman gathered her papers and pamphlets, turned toward the fireplace, and stepped into the green flames, vanishing from sight.

“Glad I wasted my afternoon for this,” Fleur said, not bothering to hide her annoyance.

“Flo,” Apolline said firmly. “You know I’m pushing for this only for your own good. News about London reaches us here in France too. I worry about you.”

Fleur snorted. “Like France is any better, Maman. You heard her. I don’t have any prospects here right now, other than Pest Division.”

“That might be a start…”

Fleur shook her head. “I’d take the goblins, thanks.”

“You heard what she said about me. About Grandpa. How can you be so calm?”

Her mother sighed. “I’ve heard worse. And she isn’t all wrong.”

A sharp crack cut through the room as one of the frames shattered, glass spilling across a pile of magazines. Fleur stared, heart pounding. She looked at her wand. She hadn’t meant to…She had not even thought of any spell. She settle it down on the desk, frowning. It felt like it had a mind of its own.

Her mother watched her for a long moment. “It’s not that I agree with her, Fleur. But there’s no point in breaking yourself over every small mind in the world. I learned that a long time ago.”

Before Fleur could reply, Gabrielle poked her head in. “Maman? Fleur, there’s a letter for you. From London!”

Fleur blinked, her sister’s excited voice pulling her back. She reached for the envelope, hands trembling a little. Could it be…? But then she recognized the handwriting. Dalia.

“Is this from a boy? That William you keep mentioning?” Apolline asked quietly. Gabrielle’s mouth formed a big “O”.

“It’s not, Mum.” Fleur turned away, trying to hide the small rush of disappointment that it wasn’t, in fact, from Bill.

Her mother followed. “Then from whom?”

“It’s from my friend Dalia.” Fleur skimmed the letter, a reminder that she was expected back for New Year’s Eve, that she’d promised to help Dalia run the event. There were friends, and apparently new outfits, waiting for her. Fleur faintly smiled at Dalia’s typical dramatics.

Her mother watched her quietly.

“You know how boys are with us. It might not be real, just an illusion. You mustn’t make any decisions based on…”

“Based on what?” Fleur’s voice was sharp.

“You know what.”

Fleur was tired, confused. She watched her cousins use their magic openly, shamelessly, to their advantage over Christmas. For a moment, she wondered why the standards and expectations for her were always higher. Frustration rose in her chest, then deflated all at once.

“It’s just an invitation from a friend,” she said quietly, resigned.

Her mother opened her mouth, ready to launch into another lecture. Fleur ignored her and turned to Gabrielle, who hovered in the doorway, chewing on the end of her neat plait, eyes darting between her mother, her sister, and the envelope. A flicker of excitement was visible on her face, intrigued by the idea of foreign friends and London letters, even with the air in the room so tense.

Fleur smiled and offered her the parchment to inspect. Gabrielle hugged her quickly, then jumped onto the armchair to study it. For a moment, both Fleur and her mother watched her in silence.

Fleur thought of what Bill had said: Live our own life. Take what we want. Set an example.

The words ached a little in her chest. She missed him. He understood the weight of the expectations, and the pressure to live up to someone else’s idea of who you should be.

Live her own life. Take what she wants. Set an example.

Maybe it wasn’t what Apolline Delacour had in mind. But for now, it was enough. It was her plan.

She didn’t want to file paperwork or smile at ambassadors. She wanted something she hadn’t even named yet. Maybe to make something beautiful. Or to break something dangerous. Or both.

— • —

A gentle knock broke the silence, followed by her father’s voice.

“Fleur? Can I come in?”

She took a breath, smoothing her expression. “Of course, Papa.”

He stepped into the room cautiously, eyes curious and kind.

“Maman is expecting you downstairs. Your aunt has arrived.”

She didn’t move right away. Her fingers toyed with a loose thread on the bedspread.

“Papa... when did I start saying I wanted a Ministry position?”

He tilted his head, surprised. “You don’t remember, Flo?”

“Not really.”

Lately, she couldn’t recall why it had mattered so much. Was it truly her dream, or just something that had sounded impressive?

He sat beside her.

“I think it started when your cousin Margot got that job in International Magical Cooperation. You were ten, maybe eleven. Margot said your gifts were perfect for that kind of work. After that, you wouldn’t stop talking about joining the department.”

Fleur’s brow furrowed. She remembered Margot, radiant, spinning stories of diplomatic missions and Ministry balls lit by enchanted lanterns.

“I forgot,” Fleur murmured. “I forgot Margot used to work.”

Her father chuckled. “Well, yes. Though she only worked there a week. Then she met her husband.”

Fleur smiled faintly. That part, she remembered. The wedding. The way Margot glided down the aisle beside a handsome foreign man she barely knew.

“Papa,” she said, voice low. “I don’t think I like that plan anymore. The Ministry one.”

“I know, dearest,” he said. “It’s quite obvious, really.”

She looked down. “But I feel like I’m disappointing you. And especially Maman.”

“You could never,” he said gently. “Your maman just misses you, that’s all. You know how she is, an academic through and through. She likes clear paths. She wants you to have one. But it’s alright to take your time. To figure things out.”

He gave a little smile. “I’ve spoken with her. Asked her to ease up on you.”

Fleur hesitated. “What if I like the work at the bank? Maybe there’s an opening at the French branch. Maybe I could transfer…”

“To be honest with you...” he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Appolline asked me to check. And I did. There are more jobs here for humans. Our branch is mostly run by wizards. Goblins handle the authentications, but not much else. The London office is different.”

Fleur didn’t reply, but her shoulders tensed.

He continued, “But the internship in London is a commitment. As far as I can tell, there’s no way to transfer before it ends.”

Fleur nodded slowly. It wasn’t what she’d hoped. Or maybe it was.

She looked at her father. “Will you tell her I’m going back?”

He smiled. “I’ll help her understand.”

— • —

Fleur turned over again, the sheets twisting around her legs. Another sleepless night.

She had kept up her daily ritual of scanning the Daily Prophet for news about Arthur Weasley, but there was still nothing. Eventually, she had written to Dalia to ask if she’d heard anything, but two days had passed, and there was still no reply.

Fleur tossed and turned until she couldn’t take it anymore. She slipped quietly out of her room, her bare feet carrying her through the silent house to the front door.

The storm still raged. Rain stung her cheeks, wind whipped her hair across her face. She hugged her arms around herself and walked toward the cliffs.

She stood for a long time, watching the waves crash against the rocks, trying to slow her breathing to their rhythm. Standing there in her nightgown, soaked through, she felt so small.

But with every breath, with every drop of rain sliding down her skin, something stirred inside her, something she couldn’t quite name. As if, standing there, she was one with the water, one with the night, one with herself.

She drew her wand, pulse quickening.

She picked up a pebble, focused on its weight in her palm, and flicked her wand. Wingardium Leviosa, she thought. The stone lifted, arced out toward the sea, and dropped neatly into the foaming water.

No sparks. Nothing exploded. No magical overreaction.

The clouds began to break. The wind softened, the waves eased. The moon peeked through, silver and new.

Fleur exhaled and felt some of the tightness inside her begin to loosen.

Maybe all she needed was to face her fears. To face the water.

The wind shifted. For a moment, she thought she saw movement at the edge where the sea met the rocks. Then, from the shadows, a flicker of silvery light appeared: an oryx, as she had learned one night when she asked him what it was. Its antlers caught the moonlight, silent and unmistakable. Fleur stood perfectly still, afraid that any movement might send it away.

But it did not. The Patronus lingered, then Bill’s voice reached her, clear across the night.

“Dad’s okay. I’m—”

The rest was swallowed by the sound of waves and distance.

— • —