Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.
A/N: This isn't properly British.
When she comes back, Harry moves to the kitchen, half eager and half sheepish.
On the one hand, he knows what to expect. And he's been looking forward to it since she left. He pulls out a chair with a hungry grin on his face, plate already out. On the other hand, he knows it isn't fair for her to be taking care of him like this—she's already done so much for him. She's risking her own safety by harbouring him, but still she lies when the Death Eaters knock—still she covers the trapdoor in the living room and comes to get him when it's safe. She provides him with food and lodging and never asks for anything in return. She answers all of his questions about the outside world and does all of his errands. Occasionally, she rubs his shoulders when the burden becomes too much, and she never complains when he wakes her up with his nightmares.
Harry's a useless houseguest. He tries to clean, but she always seems to do it first. He can't cook the kind of French delicacies she likes. The only thing he can really do is repair the things that break, and when he put together the fallen book cabinet in the study the other day, she grinned like he'd bought her fresh flowers.
She comes into the kitchen all smiles, undraping her scarf and shuffling off her robes. Harry feels guilty for not getting there in time to take them like the gentleman she deserves. She puts the bag on the table and pulls out the array of pastries, their fresh warmth wafting beautifully through the air.
"I am sorry I did not 'ave ze time to bake you a treat," Gabrielle tells him as she sweeps passed, bending to press a quick peck to his cheek—the same every time she comes or goes. Harry tries not to blush and take it for more than it means, and he helps himself to a croissant.
"Don't be silly, you've done more than enough," he replies—the same words he says every day.
She beams as she sits across from him. He's her hero, he knows. He's the whole world's hero, even if he doesn't feel like it. She used to retort with that every time, but now she just takes her own cinnamon roll, unraveling it with a fork and knife in that funny way she does. Harry tries not to stare as the rich, creamy pastry disappears inside her full, pink lips, shimmering prettily with gloss. He knows she's part Veela. It doesn't make things any easier.
Gabrielle Delacour is enchanting, and when Harry's hand lingers on the table too long, she slides hers out to land atop it. Harry glances down at her slender fingers—her skin so much softer than his. Her nails are a delicate shade of glistening midnight blue with moving, dancing stars. They match her eyes and the thin dress that drapes off her shoulders. Her silver-blond hair is swept back in an intricate braid over one shoulder. She looks like a vision.
Harry often feels awkward, in his still-oversized, plain clothes, and his messy hair and dirtied glasses. She never pesters him about it, but he knows he stands out in her home. She says he adds a 'man's touch,' and that she likes it.
He thinks she's too kind to him, and as he looks at her hands, she clears her throat quietly. He glances up at her eyes, and she's looking aside, shoulders hunched as though she's feeling shy. Except that she rarely is; she knows her own beauty. Glancing demurely up through her long lashes, Gabrielle muses, "Harry, I 'ave... I 'ave been zinking..."
Harry turns their hands over and holds hers tightly to show that he's listening. Or perhaps he just wants an excuse to touch her more deeply—he isn't sure. Either way, her grin twitches wider.
"When zees war ees over..." She looks up at him properly, gorgeous eyes wide open, "Won't you stay?"