Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, or ideas, or anything really. I hate writing these, it's depressing.
The midsummer air was sticky, and Bill was feeling restless. Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, he peered back over one of Gringott's dividing walls.
"And so?" He asked, voice strained with the effort of holding her gaze, "so what?"
"So, Beel, we go!" Pushing a ginger lock from his forehead with his palm, Bill Weasley could do nothing but stare incredulously.
"What? What ees it," demanded Fleur, meeting his stunned silence with a ferocious glare.
She was so beautiful. Even mostly obscured by the shoulder-high wall dividing their cubicles, cheeks flushed with heat and irritation, she was beautiful. Still, pouting childishly with her head cradled on her elbows, her eyebrows were getting dangerously close to forming that dreaded knot. Angry was as close to ugly as Fleur Delacour ever got.
"Beel, vraiment! I don't view- ("see, Fleur") what is the huge probleme. Ma tante has a wedding, and so, I weesh for you to come with me! Ees it so 'ard to do?" The champion of Beauxbatons, the most beautiful girl in the world, could really be a pain in the arse sometimes.
"Fleur, it's not as simple as… will you stop looking at me like that? I have no problem with meeting your family. I just think that it's impractical to- no, sausage brain, I know what you're thinking and I do not!" Bill, his face now matching his hair, rose abruptly to his feet. The silvery-blonde blinked up at him.
"I've said nothing," she admonished with a smirk, "all zat I ask ees you attend a wedding weez your girlfriend."
"We can't just up and go to- FLEUR!" She now jumped a little, and recovering quickly, straightened from her previous position leaning across the tops of their cubicles. "Don't you shake your head at me!"
"Beel Weasley, I do not ask you for a lot." At this, he quirked an eyebrow, but she ploughed on. "You do not 'ave to like eet. You do not 'ave to stay for more long than the day. I don't care zat you 'ate the-"
"I do not!"
"Bof. I don't care, but so 'elp me, you weel come wiz me!"
The redhead sighed- his father had been right, it was easier to do what a woman wanted than argue.
Although the smell of roses was too musky for his taste, and he found dessert wine rather cloying, Bill had to admit that so far, his time in France had not been too bad. Granted, they had only arrived about an hour ago, but thus far he hadn't been attacked by any baguette-wielding garden gnomes. It was going better than expected. Sinking into an overly plush chintz armchair, he called out to Fleur.
"Darling, are you going to be ready soon?" Her reply was muffled by the sound of giggling and the carpentry-esque noises from the dressing room, but he was sure he caught a "you," "outside" and "Gabrielle" in their somewhere. Bill was slightly miffed to know he hadn't been alerted to the little girl's presence sooner. Not one for small talk with strangers, it came as a great relief to hear that there was, indeed, more than one person he knew in this country. He did know, and would even go so far as to say that he liked, Gabrielle. On top of the fact that she spoke good English, she also – as much as they'd both hate to hear it – reminded him of his own little sister.
He found the wisp of a girl whom he guessed now to be nearing eleven perched atop a pile of clothes, braiding the hair of a tiny, dark-haired bridesmaid.
"Beel!" She cried, abandoning her post to fling her arms around him, "You came!" She then stepped back with a small gasp. "Mon dieu, you look 'orrible! 'Ave you not been sleeping?" Eyes widened with concern, she looked more than ever like a doll made in Fleur's image. He chuckled and she ducked her head, embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, I was rude, I mean to say, you, eugh... things must be very 'ard in England." She finished her sentence rather pathetically.
"It's not so bad. To tell you the truth, I'm more concerned about Fred and George than anything."
Gabrielle nodded, fingers twisting deftly through the cascade of hair in front of her again. "You look differently, but you sound ze same." Then, noticing the awkward angles at which Bill had folded his limbs in order to sit cross-legged in the narrow hall, she giggled.
"We can go, er.. (she gestured outwards) eef you would like."
Bill felt huge and gangly sitting next to Gabrielle, she had tucked her legs underneath her on their chosen bench. They sat in silence for a minute, before he pulled out a cigarette and asked if she minded. She shook her head, too unlike her sister to say so if she did.
"I 'ate this dress," she said simply. "Fleur 'as said that when she married, I weel choose my own. I theenk I'd like a pink one. C'est plus romantique."
He glanced down at the navy blue silk of her gown.
"Will Fleur be wearing the same?" She hadn't let him see her in her bridesmaid's outfit, claiming it would "curse the 'ole marriage!"
The doll-girl on his right turned to give him a sharp look.
" Do you not know her so well? She weel wear white." After a few moments of confusion, comprehension dawned. Explaining that he had meant at this wedding, Bill was met with the same wide eyes as before.
"But weel you marry 'er?" He was taken aback. Exhaling a long stream of smoke into the velvet night, he thought long and hard. When thirty seconds had passed without a reply, he heard a small, husky voice ask,
"May I try?"
The left of his mouth quirking upward, he told her "Yes." It was unusual to see a veela, full-blooded or otherwise, cough her lungs up. This, along with the flailing arm that hit him square in the jaw, was enough to make Bill's eyes wet with laughter.
Strangely, it made, practical, analytical Bill Weasley allow himself a moment of fantasy. He let his mind wander, struck by the stark contrast between his girlfriend and the child next to him. He remembered the first time he had met the two of them, how alike they had seemed. "The Champion for Beauxbatons, Miss Fleur Delacour!" The crowd had cheered in an octave so high it was almost painful, the squeals of her schoolmates mingled with wolf whistles from the boys of Hogwarts. The girl had blown a kiss to the crowd in the direction of her sister, who smiled the same smile, and waved the same wave. He had watched, all those years ago, as the glacial beauty was reduced to tears at the thought of not retrieving her petite soeur from the bottom of the Black Lake. It had seemed funny at the time- he couldn't imagine anyone like Fleur Delacour needing to be saved. Now, though, he saw the difference between the two of them. More than sisters, the pair reminded him of mother and child. He remembered the way Fleur had cried on his shoulder until it got too wet and he had to fetch her some tissues, when she left Gabrielle in France. She had been vulnerable then, but not for herself- for the porcelain girl that needed her. Something about the image of Fleur, face shining with tears and silver hair falling over the body of a small girl cradled in her arms, made his heart ache. She would be a good mother.
"You will marry 'er, won't you? Eet can not be someone 'oo I don't like!"
Turning back to the porcelain girl, he nodded. It felt as if they already had a child.
"Yes. Yeah. I guess I will. Do you think she'd marry me?"
Still holding his cigarette (between her thumb and forefinger, he noted with amusement), she smiled that radiant Delacour smile that he knew so well.
"Of course she weel. You are good to 'er, non? And you weel let me wear pink."
The chime of distant bells let them know that it was eight o'clock, almost time for the ceremony to begin. The pair of them made their way back to the Delacour's hotel, Gabrielle pausing to squash his cigarette beneath a slippered toe.
In the wee hours of the morning, silvery hair fanned out across the pillows to mingle with the ginger locks it shared a bed with. Side by side, the pair lay in the dark and listened to the sounds of Paris.
"Beel?" Her voice was unnaturally loud, and croaked a little, having been used up in the festivities.
"Yes?"
"Deed you zink zat I looked nice tonight?" A sleepy murmur wormed its way into her ear in reply.
"Of course. Why?"
"You deedn't say so." She sounded hurt, and even in the darkness he could feel her frown. Had Fleur ever needed to be told that she was beautiful?
He sat up. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. You know that."
"You said the bride looked nice, Beel. Did I not look nice too?" Almost amused by the fact that she was really, truly jealous that he had complimented the bride before her, he leaned down to kiss her once, then twice more for good measure.
"It's bad manners to outshine the bride. Did you know that? You shouldn't be allowed to weddings any more."
She giggled against his chest.
"In fact, you're not even invited to my wedding." He felt her go rigid, and her cold toes moved away from his calves.
"I'm not?"
"No. And it's not going to be in France, they undercook their meat. I'm not sure I'm allowed to know this, either, so don't tell her- but apparently Gabrielle will be wearing pink."
In that moment, Bill could have sworn the room grew a little lighter. She even sounded like she was smiling.
"We weel do it right, I am sure. I will wear white, comme la tradition. And all ze family are to be zere… even zough you 'ate-"
"For Christ sakes Fleur, I do not hate the French!"
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pushed her lips to his. "Bof. Yes you do. But so 'elp me, I will marry you, Beel Weasley."
Right. Well, i hadn't written anything in a very long time, but there you go. I really love this pairing, please tell me if you liked it. Or hated it. Either way, i want to know! xo