SaintDionysus is my lovely alpha/beta.

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"No!" She slapped his hand. "You are using too much willow extract."

"Is that bad?" Krum asked, covertly rubbing his hand where the Frenchwoman's nails grazed him.

"Of course not. Plenty of people who come to me asking for something to make their fever go down would much rather shit themselves to death." She rolled her eyes and started to chop a small bouquet of snowdrops, not minding a bit that she had greatly exaggerated the potential side effects.

"Is that for headaches?"

Her knife slowed. "Yes."

"My mother used to brew a wonderful potion from snowdrops to cure headaches."

Fleur continued in her steady chopping. She wondered if his mother had anything to get rid of the burly, six-foot pain in her ass standing to her left.

"I remember how she brewed it. I could help, if you wish."

One final, loud chop. "That will not be necessary. I have my own recipe, which I believe has a bit more finesse than the type Bulgarian mountain people make." Perhaps the mild racism was a bit low, but she needed to indulge in something to keep herself from sinking her knife into his chest.

"You will be helping me today with a very important task."

"Wonderful." His face lit up, and Fleur relished in how much harder this brief bout of happiness would make his fall.

"You will be giving Mundungus a prostate exam."

As predicted, his face fell at an almost comic speed. "I do not know how to do this."

"You have never stuck your finger up a man's arse before?"

"No, I have not."

She chuckled. "Just remember to be gentle."

Viktor gaped at her. "Surely you are not serious, Fleur."

"Your English is very good, Viktor. Much better than I remember. But I must say, your memory is shit if you think I am not serious. Am I a funny person, Viktor?"

"Well, you—"

"The correct answer is no, Viktor. I am not funny. I am a serious fucking person, and I would appreciate it if you would give Mundungus a fucking prostate exam. You are here to help me, no?"

"I am here to help in any way I can, Fleur."

"Then stick your bloody finger up Mundungus Fletcher's arse and tell him to fucking cough. Do you think you can fucking do that?"

Viktor regarded her with something of wonder. "You are very different than I remember Fleur."

"Everything is different, Viktor. You should know that by now."

"Mummy!" Victoire ran towards her mother with Teddy Lupin on her heels. "Mummy! Are you going to see Sunny?"

"Yes, I am, and before you ask, you can't go."

Her lovely face fell. "Aw, come on! You never let me go."

"It is not safe for children to leave the camp." She kissed her daughter on the forehead. "But do not worry. I'm sure that Sunny will send the two of you a pondful of sweets."

"You never let me leave the camp." Victoire's award-winning pout would have brought any other adult to their knees. But Fleur was immune.

She squatted down to look her daughter in the eyes on her level. "Hey. Look at me. It sounds to me like you are complaining. Is that what you are doing?"

"No, mummy."

"Good, because we do not do that. We are very lucky."

"I know."

She kissed her daughter one last time on the cheek and ruffled Teddy's hair. As she left the camp, she pushed down a little bubble of guilt. It was evident that Victoire was restless, but one day, she would understand.

Victoire was born at a time when Fleur was still hopeful; still optimistic that one day there would be victory on the horizon for all.

Since then, Fleur had become a realist. Even if they came out the other side of this war alive, there would certainly not be victory for all. Was there victory for Ron? For Remus Lupin and

Nymphadora Tonks? For Bill?

Victoire may well be Fleur's one victory, her one joy. She'd be damned if she didn't protect that with her very soul.

"Fleur?" Sunny smiled at her, his namesake painfully suitable. "You're back already?"

I needed to get away. "I forgot these things," she said, handing him a list. "We are running low." I couldn't be there anymore. "We can't afford to run low on things when we have a new guest."

He smiled sadly. "I heard. I'm sorry about that."

"It is not your fault. It was that idiot Malfoy's idea, if I understand correctly."

"Is that what Harry told you? Malfoy's alright. Cut him some slack."

She shrugged. "Whatever." A moment of tense silence passed between them. "So, can you help me with this list?"

His smile was utterly refreshing. "I believe I can. Would you like something? Some coffee? Cake?"

"I am fine, thank you."

"A glass of wine?"

Okay, now that was sorely tempting. She couldn't remember the last time she had wine; something that, like any good Frenchwoman, had been one of her favorite things before the war. "I shouldn't."

"When was the last time you took a moment for yourself?"

"I…I do not know what you mean."

"I believe you do. You deserve this. You deserve…well, a lot of things, but right now, just indulge me this. Sit down, relax, and have a glass of wine with me."

She tried not to smile. "It's the middle of the afternoon."

"Are you French or aren't you?"

She laughed. The sound bounced off Sunny's heart and landed somewhere in between them. "You are a bastard."

"Does that mean yes?"

A sound of mild protest escaped the roof of her mouth, but something kept Fleur from putting up more of a fight. Perhaps it was the fact that she was out of viable excuses. "If you get me drunk, I will bring hell down on your arse."

With twinkling, kind eyes, he said, "I look forward to it."

Two glasses of wine later, Fleur was not drunk, but she was feeling lighter than she had in a long time. "What do you mean, I am uptight? I am not uptight. Hermione Granger is uptight. I am just blunt."

"Wicked Witch is alright."

"Is that what you call her? What do you call me?"

"You don't want me to answer that." He laughed, and it sounded so bright and deep, Fleur couldn't help but laugh too. "What were you like before all this happened?"

"Do you mean before this country…what is that stupid thing you English say…went to hell in a bin?"

"Hell in a handbasket, and you're adorable."

"I will not answer your question if you continue to make fun of me."

Sunny sat up straighter and laced his hands together under his chin, his posture indicating that she had his full attention.

She took another sip of her wine. It tasted wonderful to her, even though she was aware that a long time ago, she probably would have sneered at it, despite its French origin. She used to insist that Chablis was trash, although she couldn't have articulated why. "I was a raging snob."

He laughed at her. "I doubt that."

"It is true. The first time I came to this country, I was seventeen, and I was horrible. I could not even open my mouth without criticizing England and comparing it to France. You would not have liked me."

"Probably not. I love England."

"You are not from here, either?"

"No, I am. I was born here, but my parents are from Calcutta."

She took another sip of her cold, refreshing wine to hide her embarrassment over her ignorance. "I am ashamed to admit that I do not know where that is."

His smile was kind, forgiving, and unsurprised. "It's in India. Don't worry. White people are terrible at geography."

She laughed. "I always wondered what kind of a name was Sunny."

"A nickname. My real name is Sutosh."

"Sutosh," Fleur repeated slowly. "It's lovely. What does it mean?"

He smiled. "It means, 'One Who Becomes Happy Easily.'"

Another laugh from Fleur. "It does not."

"Would I lie to you?"

"Well, it fits you perfectly. Why wouldn't you just use your real name?"

He shrugged. "I prefer to only say my name once when introducing myself. In addition to being pants at geography, white people aren't very good with funny names."

It seemed that Fleur could not stop laughing. She suddenly became aware of this fact. "I should probably not have any more wine."

"Well, your French accent is a lot stronger than it was when that glass was full."

She laughed. "It is not." Eet eez not.

His bright Sunny smile warmed her already hot cheeks. "Would you like some water?"

"I suppose I should. I still have to feed my child later. I should probably be sober for that."

In addition to a glass of water, Fleur allowed herself to be talked into a slice of carrot cake and a cup of espresso. "You are spoiling me."

He laughed under his breath as he cut her a slice of cake. "Oh, Fleur. I could only be so lucky to spoil a woman like you."

She laughed at this despite the edge on his voice, indicating that he was absolutely serious. "My daughter will be jealous of me."

"Which reminds me, I don't have any of those lavender biscuits she likes, but I made a fresh batch of chocolate chip this morning. Do you think she'll mind?"

Fleur rolled her eyes. "She will eat the entire tin and then run around the camp for days. So, allow me to thank you ahead of time." She took a bite of her carrot cake, and an inadvertent little moan escaped her throat. "This is supposed to be the worst type of cake. Why is this so good?"

"Carrot cake is underappreciated," Sunny said, taking a bite of his own slice. "I add a bit of curry powder and mango juice to give it a kick, and instead of cream cheese frosting, I made a coconut lime buttercream."

"It's lovely," she said, taking another bite.

"Carrot cake doesn't get the credit it deserves. It's warm, nostalgic, and complex. By all rights, it should be the cake everyone reaches for, but people are turned off by the fact that it has vegetables in it. Personally, I'd rather have spice than sweetness any day." He took a bite of his cake, oblivious to Fleur's stare.

"You are a very strange man."

"Maybe. But you like me a little, don't you?"

Hiding a smile behind an eye roll, she took another bite of her cake. "I like your cake."

"You know what?" He leaned in to whisper. "My cake likes you too. A lot."

She smiled all the way home.

Harry frowned as Emmeline Vance sputtered wrathfully at him regarding the proximity of Krum's tent to hers. She, much like the rest of the camp, had no desire to share the Earth with him, much less sleep next to him.

"Look, I understand. I really do."

"Then what are you going to do about it?"

He ran his hands through his hair. "What can I do, Emmeline? He has to sleep somewhere."

He wasn't entirely certain how he had escaped the remainder of the conversation. It was possible that he simply floated away, leaving the older woman with her jaw clenched in mid-rant. Frankly, he wasn't too concerned about it.

His entire day had been exhausting, like a never-ending fever dream. Everyone had concerns about Krum. Everyone brought those concerns to Harry, and they did not do so tactfully. As it was out of the question for them to direct their frustrations to the actual target of their ire, Harry was tagged It.

"Hermione?"

No answer. She must have been training.

He threw his arms behind his back and relished the little pops his shoulders made, verbally announcing his tension. One thing that could be said for stressful days is that they tended to reap the most luxurious nights of sleep; something that Harry was very much looking forward to. As he made his way to the cot, his half-asleep limbs swayed, knocking over Hermione's copy of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

In an instant, he was awake. A mild, sharp throb from the edge of the book, coupled with the worry that Hermione would now lose her place shot through his body. "Shit!" He caught the Galleon that had been marking her spot, smashing his hand down as it tried to roll away. Just as a mild bead of self-satisfaction trickled down his spine, a sudden and uncomfortable warmth beat against his palm.

"What the…?" He examined the Galleon.

Just met Monsieur Devereux. I've never met a Frenchman with less of a sense of humour. And that's saying something.

Harry blinked at the message as he read it two more times, trying to decipher what the words meant. Who was "Monsieur Devereux"? Who was this person who just met him? And furthermore, why should Hermione care?

He scoffed in disbelief before the harsh reality settled in and the answers to questions he hadn't even asked came flooding in upon him.

Malfoy wrote this. It had to be Malfoy. Who else did they know who had the freedom to travel internationally? Who else possessed the cutting, sarcastic sense of humor this message represented? The fact that it was Malfoy didn't bother Harry so much as the inference he couldn't help but make in response.

Malfoy wrote this...presumably in response to something Hermione had written to him. Another scoff left him like a breath, and suddenly, he was unable to keep from absorbing the next flood of inferences this bit of knowledge bestowed upon him.

Hermione had a secret coin she used to talk to Malfoy, and Harry wasn't supposed to know about it. How long had she had this? The congenial tone of the message suggested that this wasn't the first message Draco had sent her. Which, of course, meant that Hermione had likely sent more than one message to him in turn. None of this was welcome news, even if the messages had been strictly professional in tone. But the message carried with it a casual flirtation that Harry could only assume was common between them.

He laughed in disbelief as he squeezed the coin in his hand. "Un-fucking-believable." He wasn't even certain he was angry. It was too ridiculous.

The whole day had felt so surreal, like his mind wasn't present for the ugliness his body witnessed. Which is why his wand seemed to point of its own accord at the Galleon as a spell unwittingly fell from his lips. Suddenly, the past day's history of the coin was spread open for him to read, and his previous exhaustion melted away.

For the first time in years, Harry stayed up all night reading.

Fleur had just tucked Victoire into bed, dodging a dozen questions about why she couldn't go to Maldon with her next time, how did Sunny make such delicious things and by the way, could she please have another chocolate chip biscuit and truly, Mummy, you look so pretty today.

It wasn't just flattery, Fleur knew. Sometimes Victoire seemed a little in awe of the veela deep within her mother. It amused Fleur because it's something she tried to hide most of the time.

Fleur didn't need people to tell her she was pretty. She knew she was pretty. Looking back, she wasn't completely certain Bill ever even told her she was beautiful. Not once.

It's one of the things she always loved about him. He never spoke the obvious. He preferred to let silence and actions speak for themselves.

Fleur had never needed a man to make her feel beautiful. She didn't want to be adored.

She wanted to be respected.

Bill had respected her. His self-absorption with his work was what first attracted her to him. When all the other men at Gringotts fell over themselves to get her attention, Bill would hardly even look at her.

"Mr. Weasley?" The subtle purr in her voice and several extra minutes she had taken on her hair prior to coming here would have caused any other man to leap out of his seat. Bill Weasley just sat there, not even looking up from his paperwork.

"Delacour? You have something for me?" There was no humor or suggestive slant in the way he said it.

"I merely wanted to bring you up to date on the Travers vault." She kept touching her hair, as though that simple act could divert his attention to her where it belonged. "We are working very hard to determine the nature of the dark magic on many of the objects. But there are a few we cannot…um…" Her English wasn't as good back then. "…um…we do not know what is wrong."

He sighed. "What's giving you trouble?"

"Well, there is a locket which puts a person to sleep just by being in its presence. You see how this is difficult?" Look at me, she thought. I am much more interesting than whatever is on that paper.

"No. Not really. You can cast a Shield on yourself, can't you?"

"We…we could. But, the locket works very quickly."

Finally, he looked up at her. "Something you'll learn in this job is that flashy magic like that tends to be the easiest to break."

"What do you mean?"

"It's mostly showmanship. The spells that seem the most impressive might not be easy to perform, but they're easy to break. It's the magic you can't see under the surface, the details …that's usually the most dangerous, complicated type of magic. It's sturdier. That's what you should watch out for."

Fleur blinked. Suddenly, she understood exactly why Bill Weasley had no interest in her silky blonde hair, fine bone structure, and bright eyes. He thought she was just a bit of flashy magic.

And she knew she had to prove him wrong.

After that day, Fleur and Bill truly noticed one another. And because she now knew what kind of man he was, Fleur stopped trying to get his attention. As a result, Bill started to look at her. And he never stopped.

After Bill, all other men seemed like children. He had been the only true, grown-up man she had ever known.

Well…she wasn't sure she could say that now.

Sunny was a real man. Like her late husband, he too seemed to respect her. Granted, he was so different from Bill in many ways. He was shorter, smaller in frame, physically different in almost every way. He wore his heart on his sleeve. He laughed with abandon. And she laughed with him.

What would her mother say if she had seen the way Fleur had giggled today? Where would she even start? Would it piss her off more, she wondered, that Sunny was a Muggle, or that Fleur wore her emotions so brightly?

The thought of disappointing her mother made her smile even more.

There were similarities too between Bill and Sunny; these two grown-up men who were oblivious to Fleur's veela charms and actually seemed interested in her as a person. They were both unfailingly kind. They both walked the world free of fear. They carried with them a disarming honesty and sense of honor. It had been Bill's downfall. She hoped it wouldn't be Sunny's.

Neither one of them made her feel pretty. She liked that.

Her reverie was interrupted by the disturbance of her tent flap. A wild-eyed, possibly drunk Harry came stumbling in.

"Harry? What are you doing? Do you know what time it is?"

"Late, I guess." No slurring. He wasn't drunk, then. Just…something else.

"Muffliato." She wasn't sure what had Harry in such a state, but he seemed pissed, and she wasn't going to chance Victoire waking up and asking more questions. "What is wrong with you?"

"I…" He laughed darkly. "Hermione's having an emotional affair with Malfoy."

Fleur blinked. "And…we are surprised at this news?"

"Yes, Fleur! We're very surprised at this news because I explicitly told Hermione not to keep me in the dark about this sort of thing. She was supposed to be honest."

"Okay." Fleur narrowed her eyes as she computed this information. "And that is…normal? For women to just tell their boyfriends about their other lovers."

That was apparently the wrong thing to say. A sick expression crawled across Harry's face. "Don't call him her lover. He's not that yet. At least…I don't think he is."

"So, what is the problem?"

A deceptively light laugh left him. "The problem, Fleur, is that she tells him things she can't tell me. Her anxieties, her fears. You should have fucking seen those messages."

"You went through her messages?"

"What choice did I have?"

It wasn't the right time to give him a dressing down. Right now, Hermione was the one at fault. Harry violating her privacy was a different sin for a different time. "I am sorry, Harry." She had absolutely no idea what else to say.

"Yeah. Me too."

She put a hand on his shoulder because that was what people did. His body shook underneath her palm, hinting at the broken heart raging beneath.

"It's supposed to be me. She's supposed to come to me. I can help her. I know her. I love…" He broke off.

"You should talk to her."

He squinted his eyes closed. "I can't do that right now, Fleur, because if I do, I'm pretty sure I'm going to break up with her." His hand covered hers on his shoulder. "I'm sorry I'm such a mess."

"It is alright. You are my friend, and I am here to listen to you."

"Thank you." His hand squeezed hers. "You're always there for me Fleur." He leaned forward to hug her.

Fleur was not usually one for too much physical contact, but she understood people well enough to know when it was time to get over one's self and give them a hug. This was that time. "It will be alright."

"You don't know that."

"You are wrong. I know you will be alright even if you and Hermione cannot work this out."

He nuzzled his head into her shoulder. "Thank you, Fleur." He moved his head to kiss her cheek. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you." His lips found hers.

Fleur backed away instinctively as if on fire. "What are you doing?"

"I…" He looked punch-drunk, like he had suddenly just woken up from a nap. "I'm sorry, I just—"

"Do you think you can just do whatever you want?"

"Of course not." His voice was hoarse; almost begging.

"You are supposed to be my friend. That does not mean you can use me whenever and however you feel like."

"I wasn't—"

"Yes, you fucking were, so do not even try to say otherwise." She took a deep breath. "Look, I am sorry about Hermione. But I think you should go."

"Fleur—"

"Please. I will not ask you again. We talk about this in the morning, but right now I need you to leave."

He stood up gingerly. "I'm so sorry, Fleur." Then he left.

Fleur massaged her temple, tempering the headache that was threatening to bloom. Today had been the perfect day until two minutes ago.

A little boy. That is what she had called Harry once, long ago when she first met him. She remembered being so angry that the old fool Dumbledore would allow an underage student to compete in the Triwizard Tournament just because he was his favorite. She had been even more livid that he had won.

Fleur had been underestimated her entire life. It had baffled her for the longest time, why this was. Eventually, she learned that it was some unholy combination of her sex, youth, and beauty. These reasons infuriated her even more than the underestimation itself. Never mind that she had proven herself time and again to be better with a wand than most people; braver than most people; more capable and industrious than most people.

Maybe she should just get fat. That would teach them.

She had believed there to be an understanding between Harry and herself. They were comrades, occasional friends. They worked well together because they respected one another. Apparently, she was wrong. Harry didn't respect her, at least not the way she thought he had. Underneath, she was just a veela to him, a fuck girl, and he was just another guy with a dick for a brain.

Through her fury, she knew this wasn't the case. Harry was only human. He was upset, vulnerable, and needed a sympathetic ear. He came to her looking for a shoulder to cry on, not a body to forget in. In his moment of weakness, she might have been anyone. Deep down, she knew this.

But right now, Fleur was pissed off.

If he could be a human, so could she. "Fuck you, Harry Potter." She flipped off the air in the direction of the little boy's tent and went to sleep.

I apologize for the Dramione-shaped hole in this chapter, for those of you who are particularly intent upon that aspect of this fic (I'm guessing most of you), you'll certainly see more of Draco and Hermione next chapter. In the meantime, treat yourself to just enjoying the magic of secondary characters. For those of you who have read Hot for Teacher, and An Indefinite Amount of Forever, you'll know that I LOVES me some secondary characters (think Albus).