Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Round 4

Team: Chudley Cannons

Position: Chaser 3

Prompt: Hotel

Optional Prompts: 6. [character] Fleur Delacour; 12. [object] Clock; 14. [Word] Venture

AN: Thank you to my amazing captain Ashleigh for betaing!

Fleur realized that she probably should have known better than to say yes when Remy invited her to his family home. Then again, she didn't exactly make the best choices when she was in love—or at least when she thought she was. Most of her previous ventures hadn't ended well—something her mother had warned her was common for veela.

She and Remy had been seeing each other for nearly two years now, and Fleur knew he was itching to propose. Like most traditional French families, though, he had to wait until she'd met his family.

So here she was.

Before this very moment, she'd looked down at her left hand and smiled, imagining the twinkling ring that would soon adorn it.

After what she'd just heard, though, she forced the vision away, resigning herself to the fact that this venture, like the ones before, would crash and burn.

Fleur had only meant to offer Remy and his father a glass of champagne, but the conversation inside the study had almost made her drop the glasses.

"I know you love her, Remy," his father had said. She could see him leaning closer as she peered around the doorway.. He had patted Remy on the back, as if trying to prepare him for the so-called inevitable truth.

"Exactly! That's why I must propose to ma chérie soon."

A pained expression had shadowed the face of Remy's father, barely visible in the dim golden light that bathed the study. "Son," he had started, clearing his throat, "women like her are quite… beguiling."

Fleur had almost scoffed at that. She was much more than just beguiling. Yet the word itself had told her, somehow, where this conversation had been headed.

"Fleur's more than just beguiling," Remy had said indignantly.

Thank you, Fleur had thought, hope fluttering within her heart.

Remy's father had ignored his protest and continued. "Women like her come and leave, Remy. They are charming guests, sure, but that's all they are in the end—guests. She'll—"

Fleur had moved away from the door then, her eyes growing uncomfortably wet. She set the glasses down gently and blinked rapidly.

She should have known better.

She should have expected something like this. That they would only see her as a pretty guest, the door bell tinkling as she sailed through the doors at the hotel of love. That they were always waiting with bated breath for when she'd decide to pack up and leave.

It was alright, she tried to convince herself. The things that were meant to happen would happen.

Still, as she left the house, her feet a whisper against the floor—as she twisted to Apparate— it hurt that it seemed like love wasn't meant for her.

When she met Bill, it felt like for once, the world wasn't playing with her heart.

About eight months after they'd been dating, he looked over at her in bed, hair mussed from sleep, and whispered drowsily, "I love you more than I love my long hair, Fleur Delacour."

She turned away, wondering if she should let herself believe him. "Let's not say things we don't mean," she whispered in response, her mind back in France, standing outside the study with two glasses of champagne in her hands.

She felt Bill press a kiss to her bare shoulder before he tugged her to face him again. They were so close, their noses brushed against each other, and Fleur turned red under the heat of his gaze. His eyes were fully open now. "I've never meant anything more."

The words of Remy's father appeared on the tip of her tongue until she couldn't hold her silence any longer. "You don't think I'm just some… guest?"

Bill frowned, a crinkle appearing between his brows. "Why would you ever think that?"

Fleur hesitated.

"Fleur?" He sat up now.

She eased herself up beside him, clutching the sheets to her chest as if they would protect her. Then she told him about Remy, about what she'd heard that day, about how she had left who she had thought to be the love of her life.

Bill's face grew darker with every sentence. "His father's a right bastard for saying that," he said when she had finished.

Fleur didn't say anything.

He leaned forward and tipped her chin up with his fingers. "Fleur, you were never just a guest." He said the word with revulsion. "You're meant to stay. Always."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Surer than I've ever been. In fact," Bill said, tossing the sheets off as he got up, "I'm going to prove it to you. Right now."

She blinked as she watched him get dressed quickly, running his fingers through his shock of red hair, grabbing his wand from on top of the dresser and shoving it in his pocket. "Bill, what are you doing?"

"I'll be back in a few minutes," he said, ignoring her. He glanced in the mirror quickly, straightened his collar, then twisted on the spot with a pop. Fleur stared at the place where he'd been, brows furrowed.

He's not going to come back, she thought as the clock ticked on. Despite all of Bill's promises, she couldn't bring herself to surrender yet. The seconds seemed to drag out, each accompanied by a new scenario.

He'll say that I was right. He'll say that he expects me to leave.

Then another pop jolted her out of her thoughts. Bill appeared again, cradling a worn clock in his arms. He set it down on the bed and beckoned her closer as he drew out his wand from his pocket.

Fleur shuffled closer. Studying the clock, she realized that each of the hands was inscripted with a faintly glimmering silver name. Fred, George, Arthur, Bill… the names of his family.

"This clock has belonged to my family ever since Mum and Dad got married," said Bill. He gestured at the markings on the border of the clock. "These show us how everyone in our family is. Whether they're safe."

Brows drawn together, as they always were when he was intensely focused, Bill waved his wand. A new hand materialized on the clock, standing out from the others with its shine. He pointed his wand again, and as it moved down the hand, letters began to appear in the same flourish as the other names. F, l, e, u, r.

"There," he said, with a sort of smugness in his voice as he finally looked up at her. "Once you're added to the clock, you're there to stay. None of this guest business. Do you believe me now?

Fleur could only gape at him before she launched herself at him, circling her arms around his neck. Bill pulled her closer with one arm, his breath warm on the shell of her ear, steady and reassuring.

Yes, Fleur didn't make the best choices when she was in love, but she knew she'd never made a better choice than Bill Weasley.

As she sank into Bill's embrace, she felt warm with the thought that perhaps love was meant for her after all.