smile through the fall
Gabrielle was a pretty little thing. Fleur was beautiful, statuesque, a vision, but Gabrielle was just a pretty little thing. People talked vaguely about how one day she'd be as beautiful as her sister.
Gabrielle didn't want to be as anything as her sister. She didn't want to be a spoilt, self-centred, vain bitch like every other woman in her family. She wanted to be different and embrace her heritage in a different way.
Her mother's face the morning she tumbled down the stairs and informed them she was moving to Britain left her fighting to restrain a laugh.
"Why must you do zis to me, mon enfant?" she asked in the melodramatic way of part-Veelas. "Your sister 'as already moved to Eengland and does not veeseet her maman et papa often enough. I see leetle enough of you as eet ees."
"Maman, zis is something I must do," Gabrielle insisted. "I've finished my exams, zere ees nothing keeping me 'ere. I want to photograph places in Eengland."
"Ah, Gabrielle, you are so brave," her mother said, smiling sadly down at her. "Vairy well, go to Eengland wiz my blessing." Gabrielle kissed her mother's cheek and ran upstairs to gather her belongings.
A month later, Gabrielle was shivering in a biting autumn wind as her guide, a charming young man by the name of Dennis, argued with her sister over where she would stay.
"Fleur, you 'ave your 'ands full 'ere," she said. "I weell stay wiz Dennis. We weell 'ave a good time together." Dennis blushed and the silly smile didn't leave his face for long after a disgruntled Fleur had seen them into a taxi.
"This is my flat," Dennis said. "It's not much, but it's home."
It certainly wasn't much. It was old and smelt faintly of mothballs and everything was an inch thick in dust. Used to the sparkling disinfectant smell of her family home and the sweet flowery smell of Beauxbatons, Gabrielle gagged a little.
"I need to clean up," Dennis murmured, grabbing a bottle of disinfectant from a cupboard and spraying it in every direction. "I work every week day from nine until six, writing my column for the Daily Prophet. I took today off but I have to go back tomorrow."
"Would you like me to cook and clean tonight?" Gabrielle asked in hesitant, stumbling English. "I know lots of charms and my muzzer taught me to cook well."
"You're a guest, I couldn't ask you to cook!" Dennis exclaimed, steering her in the direction of the spare bedroom. "Maybe some other time, but I'm cooking tonight."
An hour later, they sat down to burnt toast and tinned baked beans in front of Dennis' tiny, blurry television. Not wanting to hurt him after he'd slaved over a hot oven, Gabrielle forced herself to eat everything on her plate. Dennis hardly appeared to notice what he was eating, absorbed in whatever he was watching.
"Night, Gabrielle!" Dennis called through the thin wall between their bedrooms. Gabrielle just nodded as if he could see her and curled up on the lumpy mattress. Despite moving to England and becoming a photographer being her dream, she hated living with Dennis. She pulled the itchy woollen blanket over her head and cried herself to sleep.
When she awoke the next morning, she found that Dennis had already left. He'd left a note telling her where everything in the house was and wishing her a good day. Despite the lumpy conditions of the mattress and Dennis' snoring, she'd slept like a log and resolved to look at the positives. Sure, Dennis' flat was cold and smelt funny and her mattress was lumpy, but it could have been a lot worse. A flat for one woman just out of school in Paris would probably have been a lot less ideal and at least she had company.
After eating a good breakfast and taking a long hot shower, she felt even happier and decided to do Dennis a favour. He was awfully sweet to take her in when his flat was clearly only made for a bachelor living alone. With her wet hair tied back in a ponytail and an apron covering her dress, she set to work with her army of cleaning products and housekeeping spells.
When Dennis returned after a rather upsetting day at work - Rita Skeeter was so gratuitously insensitive about those who had lost family and friend in the war - he found his flat cleaned. The surfaces were free of dust, the carpet had been vacuumed so crumbs and pieces of paper no longer clung to the fibres and the whole place had a general air of freshness.
"I wasn't doing anything, so I decided to clean your 'ouse," Gabrielle told him, stirring a pot of soup. "I made soup and toast for deenner, I 'ope you like eet."
"You're an angel," Dennis said faintly as she set down his food in front of him and poured out pumpkin juice.
Life in the flat was easy. With Gabrielle's spells, soon the blankets were transfigured from scratchy wool to soft cotton, the mattresses no longer lumpy and the rooms far warmer and soundproofed. Dennis worked harder than ever and started secretly putting out feelers to his friends in the photography area of the paper, trying to find work for Gabrielle.
One weekend in early December, Gabrielle braved the icy streets and Christmas crowds to visit the Quidditch supplies shop in hopes of finding a means of contacting some famous Quidditch player Dennis wanted to interview for his column. The place was full of people, mostly loud teenage boys, drooling over brooms and loudly proclaiming, "I want that one!"
She caught sight of a poster pinned to the wall behind the counter and caught her breath. She'd had many crushes on musicians and Quidditch players before, but the man in the poster, his navy blue robes swirling around him, was one of the most attractive she'd ever seen.
"Can I help you, madam?"
Gabrielle blushed and cleared her throat loudly, embarrassed at having been caught in the act of gazing at a poster. She pulled the piece of paper Dennis had given her from her bag and squinted at the messy, spidery writing.
"Oui, I mean, yes. I was wondering if you could know of a way to contact-" she finally deciphered Dennis' handwriting "-Oliver Wood."
"I'm not authorised to let the public contact any players," the man she was speaking to said in a bored voice. "Please leave, madam."
"No, it's for my friend, Dennis Creevey!" she exclaimed. "He wants to interview this man for his column."
"I'm sorry, madam, but I truly cannot let you…"
Gabrielle turned as the man's voice trailed off to see what he was staring at and felt her stomach turn over. The man striding into the building had the crowds parting respectfully to allow him through and exactly matched the appearance of the man she'd been gazing at on the poster. She blushed furiously and attempted to shrink behind a shelf of gloves and boots for playing Quidditch.
"Oliver, this little lady here wants to talk to you!" the man shouted, pulling Gabrielle away from her hiding place and shoving her in front of Oliver Wood.
"How can I help you?" Oliver asked politely. He was so much taller, she had to crane her neck to look him in the (irresistible caramel pools) eyes.
"My friend, Dennis Creevey, wants to interview you for his column," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper of embarrassment.
"Ah, I've heard of him. Very honest bloke. Come on, let's discuss it over lunch." Gabrielle was acutely conscious of shocked and envious glances as Oliver bore her out of the building and towards the Leaky Cauldron.
"Oliver!" A blonde woman swooped down on them as they entered and hugged Oliver before giving her a considering look.
"Hannah, this is…what did you say your name was?"
"Gabrielle Delacour."
"Hannah, this is Gabrielle. This is Hannah Abbott, the owner of this place and an old friend."
"Soon to be Hannah Longbottom," Hannah said with a smile, just as Gabrielle caught sight of the ring glittering on her left hand. "Any relation to Fleur Delacour, Gabrielle?"
"Yes, I'm 'er leetle seester," Gabrielle said. Hannah's eyes sparked with something like recognition.
"Of course! Neville and I are rather close to the Weasley family. Your sister is very beautiful and her daughter is an angel." Gabrielle just nodded and followed Oliver to a table hidden away at the back of the room.
"Bring us some soup and coffee, Hannah," Oliver called back to the blonde. "So, Gabrielle…tell me about yourself."
That was the start of a close, if odd, friendship. After getting his interview from the Puddlemere United Keeper, Dennis wandered around in a star-struck haze for weeks, which wasn't helped by Oliver dropping in on the flat to take Gabrielle out, for a meal or to the theatre or shopping. Gabrielle suppressed her Veela powers around him and never revealed her crush on him that only grew with every little thing she found out about him.
Quidditch matches and training dictated when they could see each other. Oliver realised that Gabrielle was beginning to get frustrated with Quidditch taking over his life as the season began and invited her and Dennis to the Puddlemere United vs. Chudley Cannons match that the entire team was convinced they'd easily win.
"These were brilliant seats Oliver got us!" Dennis yelled over the roar of excitement as the referee released the balls. Gabrielle just nodded, her eyes glued to her Omnioculars. The lenses remained trained on Oliver, floating by the goal hoops and observing the game, despite the exciting fights between the Chaser and Beaters of both teams.
"He needs to move! Move, Oliver!" Dennis shouted as a badly-aimed Bludger soared towards the goal posts and a frozen Oliver. "Too late." With a horrible thwack that echoed around the silent stadium the heavy iron ball struck Oliver in the stomach and he was knocked backwards, off his broom. There was a horrified scream that Gabrielle realised was coming from her own mouth as he plummeted to the ground.
"'Urry up, Dennis, we must go to 'im!" she shrieked, pushing frantically past people as the mediwizards ran out onto the pitch. Dennis sighed heavily and muttered something lost in the roar of outrage from Puddlemere supporters as he followed Gabrielle down the stairs towards the building that housed changing rooms, showers and the medical room.
"I'm sorry, you can't go in there," a burly guard told them as they reached the building.
"We're friends of Oliver Wood," Dennis gasped, clutching a stitch in his side that had developed as they'd run across the stadium. "Dennis Creevey and Gabrielle Delacour."
"He has been asking for a Gabrielle," the guard said, looking slowly over the pair of them.
"Please let us een!" Gabrielle screamed, tears streaking her face. "Ees 'e alright?" The guard looked at them for a long moment.
"Alright, but don't be nuisances or it's my head," he finally said, stepping aside. Gabrielle ran in, Dennis following a little more hesitantly.
"Are you alright? I was worried you were badly 'urt!" Gabrielle cried as they walked into the medical room. Her English always went to pieces when she was upset and before long she relapsed into incomprehensible gabbling, in-between kissing Oliver's forehead over and over.
"Calm down, Gab, I'm fine," Oliver said, placing a strong, comforting hand on her shoulder. "I'm touched you came running though."
"J'étais tellement inquiet, je pensais que je n'avais jamais te revoir, Je t'aime!" Gabrielle exclaimed in expert French. Dennis didn't understand a word of it, but from the look on Oliver's face, he did.
"You're sure?" he asked, his hand cupping Gabrielle's tear-stained face. She nodded and Dennis looked on completely confused. "Me too," Oliver said, and he kissed her.
Dennis stumbled out of the room in utter confusion.
"I don't understand that girl!" he proclaimed loudly and stomped off to watch the rest of the match.
For the 2011 Mew & Mor's Weird Pairings Challenge! Credit for the wacky pairing goes to Mew and Mor. :)
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