Lost to the annals of history lies the origins of a Veela's allure. The allure is not a magic designed to attract males attention nor is it a sign of their promiscuousness. In fact, a Veela's allure is designed specifically to attract their mate. It happens to be that for centuries, the best means of attracting Veela's mates has been through finding those with the highest resistance to an attraction based magic.
But a Veela's allure can be any attribute.
Fleur Delacour has spent the entirety of her 18 years of life searching. For what, she has no clue. But there exists a fire, an all consuming need within her that only ever feels quelled by painting.
How do you focus on Gamp's Law when it feels like your going to burst with explosive energy at any moment? Needless to say, Beauxbaton's School of Magic was not an experience she enjoyed. But she's done with it and, as promised, her father Sebastien promised to purchase her a modest art gallery upon graduating.
It's the closest she's ever felt to relaxed. It's her space and no one else's. An amalgam of every moment where her fire has overtaken everything else. What a passerby sees as a beautiful sunset with beautiful shades of crimson and orange is so much more.
That was a tantrum unlike any other. It was Gabrielle's fourth birthday. Her friends came over for a backyard meal. But, of course, Fleur couldn't be there. She needed to paint. The screaming match with her mother was painful even in the moment. Fleur did not want to yell at her mother; wanted to be able to just enjoy Gabrielle's birthday, but the desperation to paint was overwhelming.
"WHY? Maman-Maman why?" Tears poured from her face.
"I want to-but-but-I need" Fleur sobbed, nearly tearing her hair in anguish.
All of Fleur's mother Appolline's, anguish disappeared in a flash.
"Oh, ma Fleur, mon petite, come here." Appolline gathered Fleur in her arms holding her until the tears ran out.
Those crimson hues are not a sunset she witnessed. No, they are the tumult of conflicting desires; family, love, happiness all tarnished by her flame's all consuming attention.
There's nothing Fleur wouldn't do for her family.
Peeking through a unassuming door in the back lies her studio. Already, paint flecks every surface. Bottles of paint are neatly organized in one corner contrasting the canvases lay across the floor, hanging on easels, and across tables. This is the greatest external reflection of Fleur's self. A horrible, paint-filled mess lost in a sea of chaos in search of meaning. A constant strive for answers through the words she cannot say, expelled through her brush.
Immersed in another painting, this time of a hyper-realistic Diagon Alley, Fleur does not notice the man who walks into her space.
"Hello? Is anyone there?"
Fleur looks up to meet the green eyes of the stranger. And that flame, the one that never allows her to rest flares higher than ever before quelling to dull embers.
She must paint him.
"You."
The green-eyed stranger a bit confused replied.
"Me? Hello. I'd like to buy a couple of your paint-"
"Non." Fleur replied immediately.
"What? But aren't you selling them?" The man even more confused responded.
"Oui. Ah-" Fleur, frustrated to explain how her flame needs her to paint this man, took a deep breath.
"You can 'ave ze paintings. But, you will not pay. I would like to paint you in exchange."
"Oh." The taught lines beneath his clothes relaxed in surprise.
"Right now? Because I have-"
"Non. I will need to know you. Your happiest and saddest moments. Watch you live your life for a week or so."
Harry, skeptical of Hermione's suggestion to purchase paintings for 12 Grimmauld Place was having one of the most bizarre moments of his life.
First he walks into a gallery and there is no one inside. Going into a closed door in the back, he finds a paint splattered room and a woman with blonde hair tucked into a bun covering herself from the paint with overalls.
She spins to look at him.
"You."
Harry's struck. He wonders how he was unable to notice how incredibly beautiful the woman was when he entered the room. Paint of a dozen hues speckles her arms, face, and overalls. But no amount of paint could ever possibly hide the bust straining against her overalls. Nor could it hide the azure gems focused on Harry with an intensity usually reserved for his scar.
Perhaps he needs his glasses checked.
"You can 'ave ze paintings. But, you will not pay. I would like to paint you in exchange."
Is this because I'm Harry Potter? There was no recognition in her eyes during their conversation. Neither did her eyes drift upwards towards the remnants of his scar. She did, however, look at the rest of his body.
In the end, his curiosity won out.
"Right now? Because I have-"
"Non. I will need to know you. Your happiest and saddest moments. Watch you live your life for a week or so."
Extending a hand, Harry stated, "I'm Harry."
"Fleur" when their hands joined she was lost in the budding connection she now felt to this man. If she was paying attention she would have noticed her all consuming fire wane to dying embers.
The first couple days were quite awkward. Fleur had joined Harry in Grimmauld Place. To "fully immerse herself." Two strangers filling a dark space with simplest of conversation.
"Coffee or Tea"
"What's your favorite color?"
"Music?"
But there was a mutual desire to find more. There was a spark of something to come, tangible in those small interactions.
"Why do you like to paint?"
"It eez not about like or dislike. I need to. Zere is zis feeling inside me, an endless pit of fire that will only ever cool when I paint."
That wasn't exactly true. Sitting in Harry's home, watching him, learning about him she'd felt nary a spark from inside. It was delightful.
"Oh. That's-That's. I'm sorry you have to go through that"
She grabbed his arm. "Zank you. But it eez not so bad anymore. I 'ave learned to live with it. And the outcome, my art, is worth the craziness."
He looked at her differently now. Like a piece of the puzzle that made up Fleur Delacour had slotted into place.
She was stubborn, an immovable force in the face of obstacles external and internal. She was kind and loyal and not all that good with people.
But above all she was real, tangible in a way Harry stopped experiencing since he'd defeated Voldemort. Sure, Ron and Hermione treated him the same but with them focused in their relationship he didn't see them as much. This woman was pursuing him for her art, possibly for something more, and Harry was caught up in the chase.
The next day, abruptly whilst eating breakfast Harry asked,
"You said you were following me everywhere yes?"
"Oui." Fleur finished chewing and replied, a tad confused.
"Ok. We'll be leaving in 20 minutes then."
Fleur, curious but sensing that Harry wouldn't say anymore, just nodded.
When Harry side along apparated her, she was incredibly surprised to discover they were at St. Mungo's. Specifically the children's ward.
Wordlessly, Harry separated from her.
"Harry! Harry! Harry's here."
A stampede of children appeared running to Harry hugging and laughing, smiles abound.
Laughing, "Hello!"
"I've brought a new friend today. This is Miss Fleur. Can everyone say 'Good Morning, Miss Fleur'"
A chorus of "Good Morning, Miss Fleur"'s replied.
She waved, distractedly.
There was a child, no more than 6, tugging on Harry's pants trying to tell him a story. This. This was it. Harry looking down at this child was the moment she needed to have forever.
A combination of joy, sorrow, regret, love, and so much more that Fleur couldn't even begin to identify. The creases in his forehead shown with pain but the crows feet surrounding his eyes spoke of happiness. The pursing of his lips shimmering with the beginnings of a pout spoke of something else entirely.
And all the sudden her flame was near overflowing. As if her blood was boiling, brimming with the paint yet to wet her canvas. But she didn't want to leave. Three days spending time with Harry and already enduring the pain of her flame was worth it to watch him happy. So she sat against a wall in the hallway St. Mungo's foot tapping dangerously quick; charcoal against paper desperate to capture an eighth of that moment. Hopefully, when she got to her canvas she'd be able to do it justice.
Finally, when breath came to her once more; when the world was a tender fire, Harry returned.
"Ready to go?"
"Oui." She grabbed his hand and immediately felt the quelling of the flame once more.
Back in Grimmauld Place, Fleur wasted little time.
"I need to go paint." Frantically, she started collecting her stuff. Forgetting even that magic could make it a moment's work.
"If-if you wanted, you could setup your studio in one of the rooms here."
Fleur paused. Shocked.
"You would let me do that? Even if paint gets everywhere?"
"Yeah."
The lack of hesitation in his response bloomed a blush across her face.
"Bon. Ok. I will get my things from ze gallery."
For 3 days after that, Harry saw little of Fleur. She'd pop in to his study, bags under her eyes, paint everywhere, bun holding few strands, and Harry would forget to breathe every time. The passion radiating off of the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen struck his ability to speak for many moments. He'd recover and worry over when she'd last eaten or how much sleep she'd gotten. But in the end, she'd continue on.
On the third night, he'd finally worked up the nerve to check in the room she'd taken over. It was a sight. Like her studio, paint was everywhere. There was a single, massive canvas, covering nearly a third of the floor. It must have been at least 2 meters wide and 1 meter tall. But it was covered, so Harry's focus was primarily on the woman asleep next to it.
The curiosity slipped to care in the curve of Harry's eyes. Gently and incredibly carefully, he lifted her into his arms.
She's so light.
He carried her to the bed, tucking her in, and before he could even think about it placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. Jerking back, Harry regretted immediately giving in to an action he'd not even thought of doing. His lips burned. Fleur had tensed, but soon relaxed and, fully asleep, smiled broadly.
Harry left soon after, but the blush remained long afterwards.
The next morning Harry awoke to the repeated process of someone blowing on his face and then giggling.
Groaning, he rubbed the vestiges of grogginess out of his eyes and felt whomever was blowing on him hand him his glasses.
Fleur came into view, radiant as ever. She was no longer in overalls, a first in all the time they'd spent together. Her hair was down and the remnants of her giggling held in the lines of her face.
"Come on sleepy head. It eez done. I need your opinion."
Excited now, Harry jumped out of bed, forgetting that beneath the sheets, he wore naught but his boxers. In what could only be slow motion, they both caught on to this predicament. Fleur's eyes, once playful, were now rich with desire and arousal. Harry's entire being, on the other hand, was struck stiff with shock and a blush spread deep from the back of his neck threatening to cover his entire body.
Getting up from the bed Fleur, showcasing an elegance he had no idea she was capable of, came over to him until his bare chest was touching her cloth covered breasts. Her hands, now clear of paint, rose to capture his face and with infinite patience captured Harry's lips in a chaste kiss.
Harry could feel it. Her flame. That intangible, something, she'd struggled to describe over the past week was beating in time with their racing hearts. He felt it as if it were his own. And, oh, how he felt Fleur. His arms came to wrap around her and though their lips never spread, there was a closeness to the moment that felt like a beginning.
"Get dressed, 'Arry. I hope you enjoy your portrait."
She left, dress swishing in the displacement of her turning, leaving Harry to touch his lips awed by the strength of emotion he experienced from a simple kiss. Regardless of the portrait, he couldn't let her go. He needed to see what became of him and Fleur.
Descending the stairs, Harry's smile was immediate. It was impossible not to, not when this brilliant, beautiful woman is bouncing in place, excited to show him a painting she crafted of him.
Fleur turned and pulled off the covering to reveal the canvas beneath.
The background of the painting was dark, depressing hues of blue and black and gray. Sprinklings of purple hues provided contrast within the shadows. The deep maroon of the couch was intense in it's similarity to the background. The colors guided the eye to the man sat upon the couch, eyes staring directly into the viewer. In contrast, the man was made of creams, whites, oranges, and hints of light blues. Where the background was depressing and dark the man was, by contrast, light itself. The couch near the man crept into lighter rouges as if his presence provided light in the darkness.
At the center of it all was the man's face. It spoke so deeply of conflicting emotions. Sparks of joy and happiness tempered by anger and sorrow combined to give the man a piercing stare as if he understood what you'd been through. As if there was no pain you'd endured he would not shoulder.
Looking over to Fleur, all of the excited energy, so excited she kissed him even, was gone. Her hands were wrung together, constantly shifting in obvious worry that Harry wouldn't like it.
"You-You see all this in me?" The awe in Harry's voice could never be mistaken.
"Oui. When you are ze best you." Now feeling awkward, Fleur just wanted to leave.
"So-I can clean up and zen you can come by to my studio and collect ze paintings you want."
Abruptly and with little tact Harry blurted,
"Will you go on a date with me?"
Pausing.
"This can't be it."
Fleur's smile was radiant.
As always, join the Flowerpot Discord! discord . flowerpotprompts . com
Huge thanks to ArmsofAtlas for the support, interest, and betaing. Likewise to Honorversefan for betaing.
Thanks DavidTheAthenai for coming up with the title.