Bill Wealsey closed the door behind himself as he entered, instantly encompassed by the rich perfume of roses that flourished themselves in quaint vases throughout the flat and brought about a sense, as was their nature, of overwhelming beauty and delicate romance, or some summertime liaison in which two lovers would rest themselves by the bank of a river, or in the exquisite hovel of the prickled rosebush, as the sun scattered in warm patches the golden glow of daytime, diminishing any commendation to the grey sheet that lay on the other side of the glass, spitting upon the city. It seemed that over the passing weeks Fleur had become ever more accustomed to the subtle influence of flowers, of simple romantic gestures, as if there were some prevailing point to prove or ideal to strife for, and he had found that she would often emerge to greet him with a smile on her face and the faint, forceful glow of the Veela within her.

"Bill, eez zat you?" came her voice, waltzing down the corridor. "Where 'ave you been? I 'ave been waiting."

"I told you earlier – I've been at my flying lessons," he called in return, tossing his jacket on a chair and making for the letters on the table.

"Yes, I know, you go a lot recently. But eet eez a bit late, no? I was 'oping zat we could maybe 'ave a romantic night before I veeseet my family," she beamed, skipping from the bedroom toward him. "Maybe a meal, or a feelm."

The Curse-Breaker adorned his face with a soft smile and wrapped his arms around the waist of his fiancée, leaning to peck her parting, "Anything you want, darling, anything at all."

X

"So, the girl's gone for two weeks, eh?" Charlie hummed between two short sips of firewhiskey, reclining against the bar and giving his brother a sceptical look. "What you gonna do in the mean time?"

For a moment, the twenty-six year old stared into his glass, listening to the voices that crawled about the pub, clamouring over one another for some resounding dominance but achieving no more than an irritating buzz. "The usual, I suppose: work, rest, rest some more, maybe drink a couple of butterbeers and chuck out all those dying flowers before she crushes them up and turns them into a set of revolting bath oils."

"You, William, are a terrible liar and a disgusting human being."

He furrowed his eyebrows, "I'm not sure what part of that statement makes me either of those things..."

"Don't even try to play dumb with me," the younger sighed, taking another swig from his glass. "I've known you since the dawn of time and I think I would notice when you're bullshitting me."

"I honestly have no-"

"Private flying lessons, Bill," he snapped, slamming the cup down on the side and motioning for a refill, "any of this ringing a bell?"

"Oh," the Curse-Breaker heaved, "so you didn't come all the way here to be a good brother, but to spy on me for Fleur. Thank you very much."

"Stop acting like the victim here," Charlie growled, folding into his head into his hands and glaring down to the swirling grain of the wood beneath his elbows. "Don't you find it curious that, within the month and a half I tell Oliver Wood you're back in Britain, you start taking 'private flying lessons' and neglecting your fiancée?"

"I don't find it curious at all, Charles," he said, languidly scratching his chin. "In fact, I'll assure you it's exactly what you think it is: Ollie is teaching me Quidditch. What – a – scandal! I can hardly contain the repulsion I feel for myself!"

"...You're taking the piss..."

"Well done!"

The Dragonologist cast his sibling a look of pure repugnance and savoured another mouthful of the glittering, brown liquid that swilled in his glass; contemplating the human species and it's many, many faults. If the truth be known, he would have rather spent the rest of his life in solitary with a raving band of dragons than the frivols of humanity; indeed, the chance of being scorched to death was a terrifying concept, but he found it considerably more appealing than a woman ever could be and besides, as of late, he was quite lacking in the faith in human nature to ever adopt one of his own.

"I don't see what's wrong with her," he muttered, picking over the nuts in the bowl and slipping the cleaner looking ones into his mouth. "She's perfect."

Bill sighed and gazed into the fire, watching as it licked about the stone that surrounded it and spat long, elegant sparks into the air. "I know... she's just – how do I put this?... too perfect."

"How can anybody be 'too perfect'? There's perfect and then there's imperfect. That's it."

"Yes, but," he glided a finger across his forehead and rubbed at his temple, as if attempting to will some lost sentiment from the back of his mind and onto the tabletop, "well... she's just not my kind of perfect."

"What, and Oliver is?"

The Curse-Breaker glowered at the younger man and shook his head, "Why do you keep on assuming it's Ollie? The are millions of other people in London alone – he's not the only one."

"Ah, but you see," Charlie smirked, "I didn't make a surprise visit to your flat in Egypt five years ago to find the entire population of London sitting stark naked in your cupboard while you made coffee. Now, are you going to tell me what you're actually doing with your free time?"

William gave a faint shrug and pulled his hair from it's ponytail. "Sleeping, working, eating and shagging."

"How can you say that so casually?" His brother groused, a tangled expression playing across his face. "I knew you were an arsehole but Merlin, Bill! If you're not happy with her, why don't you just leave?"

"I am happy with her, it's just..." he clasped a hand around his face and clawed at his eyes, lost in the pounding thoughts that crowded his head, trying to push two puzzle pieces together that clearly didn't fit. "I don't know... Sometimes it just feels more fun with two, more of a challenge, more of an adventure. Anyway, I suppose... it's a sort of backup plan – if she ever left me, I'm sure she could find a new man within thirty seconds and me, well, that might take while."

"So, you're a coward," Charlie uttered, leaning back into his stool and languishing in the construct. "You know, one day, one of them is going to find out. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or this year even, but it's going to happen and when it does, you won't have the choice any more – you'll have lost one of the people you love the most, maybe even both, and when they're gone and you realise you've been wrong all along, you're going to have to wade through seven shades of shit to get them back and you might not even be so lucky – neither of them are the sorts of people who will very kindly to being second best."

The elder Weasley played his fingers through the strings of his hair and did not reply, feeling every breath that entered and vacated his body, the faint pump of the heart that lay beneath his chest, so full of emotion that he thought it might burst. The Dragonologist had spoken of choices, but he was certain that the man could not comprehend the sensation or understand anything more than he had, by chance, read in books or heard in subtle conversation, for he, himself, had only come to learn that there was no choice, or rather, the only choice that remained was to keep them both, as he would surely miss either if he left one behind.

X

William leant into his lover's chest, listening to the rain as it pattered against the pavement and tapped it's icy fingers upon the glass in the windows. He had always loved the feeling of a storm; the budding thrill of the thunder as it rippled across the sky and echoed street by street through the city; the sharp, silvery accents lightening would cast over his surroundings; the comforting hiss of the water as it cascaded from the rooftops and coursed in soft streams the side of the road – a sweet lament to the winter passed.

"Are we getting up any time today?" Oliver whispered, looking down to him and pressing his nose to the top of his head. "It's already five in the afternoon."

A quiet breath slipped the Curse-Breaker's mouth and he nested himself further into the boy, closing his eyes. "Just a while longer. I want to be able to forget myself for a moment; I don't want to think about work, or the world, or Charlie, or my mother. I just want to be with you and the rain."

Wood let a huff of laughter slip from within himself, "I told you it was fate."

"Nothing's fate," he sighed, gazing upward, "love is an inevitable part of living – much like death I suppose."

The Quidditch player bore a toothy grin and tilted his head to the side. "I much prefer the idea of fate – it's predetermined, though no one can predict it. It also means," he mused through a slight smirk, "that you are my fate, that you're mine."

"And what if I don't want to be anybody's anything?"

"Then you must lead a very lonely existence."

The Weasley contemplated the notion for a moment, tearing from the embrace to pace toward the window and peer into the pouring rain, as he often did when his mind was troubled, watching as the street lamps flickered into life, one by one. Perhaps, indeed, he was lonely, or at best some kind of recluse – he scared to think how often he actually caroused with his colleagues outside of work, or any of his old friends for that matter – he had been too long gone and he had left any friends he had made in the meantime back in Egypt.

"Sorry, Bill," the twenty-one year old muttered, crawling over the mattress and wrapping himself around the red head. "I didn't mean it."

William turned his face to him, curling his lips into a faint smile and breathing solemn breaths against the boys cheeks.

"Come on," he grinned, snatching the Curse-Breaker's hands and pulling him from his sombre perch upon the window sill. "Smile for me."

"No."

Oliver drew his wand from the bedside table and gave the radio a quick tap. "I'll have to sing for you."

"You wouldn't," he smirked, "you don't sing, you just mumble words – it's mortifying."

"There you go," the Quidditch player beamed. "Aren't you beautiful when you smile?"

A fair flush graced Bill's cheeks and he simpered, averting his gaze. He had quite forgotten the sensation of being wooed, of being inadvertently and unconditionally in love with another human being, or at least in the presence of one with such panache that the prospect of being charmed to the point of no return was nothing less than a certainty, for Oliver Wood was, by any other name, a prince, a king, a knight in shining armour - the sort of creation that would play in countless fairytales and appear in bitter-sweet romance novels aimed at forlorn, middle-aged women for whom the pinnacle of their day was reposing with said story as they stagnated in baby sick and washing-up liquid.

The man was perfect and William Weasley was not prepared to throw away his chance at ultimate happiness for the sake of his younger brother.


Thank you for reading the second part of the story.

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