Author's Note: This is a continuation of my "Love & Botany" series, in the same universe as my fic "Mutualism". The pairing of Bill and Fleur was suggested by MistressLynn, so this is gifted to her. Thanks for the inspiration!
Thank you to my beta, dreamsofdramione, for existing. More specifically, for taking this on while prepping for NaNo, providing insightful comments, and reworking my prose more beautifully than I could on my own. All remaining mistakes are my own.
For the sake of the story, we're going to pretend that Victoire Weasley's birthday is in 1999 instead of the early 2000s. Additionally, note that 1 Galleon = $6.64 USD = €5.58 EUR = £4.93 GBP.
Ornamentals
Her husband rose with the dawn.
The shifting mattress lifted Fleur from her dream. In it, she'd been revisiting a two week holiday her family had taken in the French Alps. It had been a quiet time, untroubled by death or war or Triwizard Tournaments, and she'd been a quiet girl, shouldering no greater expectations than to be beautiful and smile at strangers.
Fleur dreamt of the snow. Of bright sunlight, scudding clouds, and a cerulean sky. Her parents had pawned her and Grabielle off onto the resort's ski instructors. They'd spent more time tossing their hair and giggling at the increasingly difficult tricks their instructors attempted than actually skiing.
But their instructors' faces, so alluring as a teen, had blurred with age. And in her dream, Fleur remembered not the flirtations, but the freedom.
The bite of the wind against the thin strip of skin that showed between her fuschia ski goggles and her matching balaclava. The rush of the trees around her as she sped down the mountain, hell on two thin, wooden slats. The bend and flex of her legs as she navigated moguls and hazards. The skip of her heart as she cut away from an unflagged ravine. The jump in her throat as she looked back for Gabrielle. The sweep of relief as her sister followed safely in the path Fleur had forged.
A noise from the loo pulled Fleur into consciousness, but she kept her eyes closed. When their old water pipes knocked, she knew Bill had just opened the shower's stubborn taps.
She still had a few minutes to drift and enjoy the gentle morning, nestled warm in her marriage bed while her thoughts returned to the cold mountaintop.
The feeling of freedom lingered. The easy nostalgia of simpler times was alluring.
But that feeling was a lie.
That was the nature of dreams: one detail was exaggerated at the expense of the full picture.
Her family hadn't holidayed for the full two weeks as scheduled. Near the end of the first week, there had been an evening of atypical quiet. A tense dinner punctuated by nothing more than cutlery scraping across porcelain.
Her mother Apolline's red eyes. Her father Gerard's sweaty brow.
They'd taken an early Floo the next day. Apolline had stood between Fleur and Gabrielle, hands held tight, while their slump-shouldered father watched them go.
It was only later, when grief and worry had chased childhood's innocence from her eyes, that Fleur fully appreciated what she'd seen. That had been the first of her father's affairs: a string of emotional and physical indiscretions fueled by mounting financial insecurities and a lifetime of attention paid to his wife.
Her father's jealousy had been unfounded. It was not in her mother to stray. Genetically so: Veela blood, even diluted, exerted controls that were impossible to ignore.
Loyalty, at least for Veela, was a biological imperative.
So far, it seemed the same for Weasleys.
Fleur extended her palm and soaked in the fading heat from Bill's body. The musk of their sheets was strong; the pleasure of last night's lovemaking lingered into the morning, mingling pleasantly with the ocean air.
Brine and Bill: the scent of home.
The water closet door opened, and sage-scented humidity followed him into their shared closet. Hangers rattled as he selected trousers, an Oxford, and a robe.
Fleur slit her eyes open to watch.
Bill Weasley was the one person on this planet more beautiful than she. He was backlit by the closet light and, even though Fleur had witnessed this same routine over countless mornings, had seen every inch of him in every possible contortion, there was always something new to admire.
His long legs, furred with curly auburn hair. The firm globes of his rear. The heavy hang of his penis and sack. His lean torso, his broad chest, his strong shoulders. Piercings in his ears. Tattoos on his biceps, chest, and calves. Empty space on his back and ribs where more art—perhaps even a piece or two of her own design—would soon be.
And his scars.
Thick furrows of gnarled, pink tissue cut through the pale skin of Bill's chest, shoulders, and face. One runnel pulled at the corner of his mouth, dragging his lips into a semi-permanent frown. Another lopped off the tip of his ear and gouged across his scalp, creating a thick strip where hair would not grow. He grew the rest long to hide the empty patch and wore it down most days to cover the worst of the mauling: a chewed patch on his neck, just below the angle of his jaw, where several full-moon sets of human dentition overlapped.
Anger spread like wings within her at the sight of it. Even after two years, the truth of how close she'd come to losing him threatened to turn her feral. Fleur could feel the burn in her shoulders and the command of fire in her fingertips. She wished she had been there. Greyback would not still be a fugitive from justice if Fleur had had her way.
Bill looked over at her, triggered by the instinct of an animal being observed. He smiled. "Sorry for waking you."
She stretched, slow and luxurious. "I woke to a sight I love."
Bill looked down at himself and raised an eyebrow as his cock twitched. He held his pants in one hand and cupped himself briefly with the other. "Should I join you?"
The offer was only half in jest, and certainly tempting.
"I can admire without indulging. Besides, I am still tender from last night."
His brow furrowed. "I didn't hurt you, did I? I didn't hurt… Her?"
Fleur curved a hand around her belly, swollen with their first child.
"No. We are not made of porcelain, mon coeur."
He knelt next to the bed, bare chested, and pressed a kiss to her lips. The sweet mint on his breath overrode the sour taste of hers.
"Maybe not," he said, "but I'll treat you gently all the same."
She spread her fingers over his jaw, brushing her thumb against the scar at his lips. "Do you have a hard day ahead?"
Bill nodded. "I have a meeting with the goblins regarding Gringotts' vault security procedures. Harry, Ron, and Hermione exposed some gaps." He finished with a wry smile, but Fleur saw tension in his blue eyes.
A fondness for rare steaks was not the only side effect Bill had suffered as a result of Greyback's savaging. Body aches, a short temper, and migraines were all de rigueur, particularly around the full moon.
This month's full moon was two days hence.
No one else knew of Bill's symptoms; no one else needed to. But Fleur felt the pain of them, as if the violence had been done to her as well. She kept her hurt a secret. He needed her strength, and she would give it selflessly.
"I am confident you will succeed."
He turned to kiss her palm. "That makes one of us."
Bill withdrew and finished dressing, moving stiffly as he donned his undershirt and Oxford, shoulders rigid as he straightened his robe.
"May I make you breakfast?"
"No, thank you. I am not sure she'll let me eat today."
Bill bent over the bed and placed a hand on her belly. Pride overrode the pain in his eyes.
"Our little troublemaker."
Their child shifted against his palm. A look of wonder stole across Bill's face.
The reality of Fleur's pregnancy landed in phases. First, when her period was one month late, then when the at home test potion turned a confirmatory green. Her first bout of morning sickness, followed by subtle changes in her body: aching hips, swelling breasts, distending belly. Finally, movement. Incontrovertible proof of the life she carried, and the future she and Bill had made together.
Their eyes met.
"I love you."
Many men had told her as much: romantics, skeptics, and self-proclaimed poets. But Fleur had only ever believed it from her father and her husband.
"I love you, too. Safe travels today."
"Always."
One final kiss, and then he departed. Fleur rolled onto her back and listened. Sound carried easily through Shell Cottage's thin wood and plaster walls. She knew where Bill was, and could visualize how he moved through his morning routine.
The refrigerator opened: the lunch she had prepared for him last night was ready in its reusable pail. The creak of the bread basket and the rustle of parchment paper: he took a croissant she'd made on Sunday and kept fresh under a stasis charm learned from Molly. The jangle of loose change: intended for the canteen, where he acquired tea and the latest workplace gossip in a single transaction. The crackle of Floo Powder: briefcase in one hand, pastry in the other, he stepped into the hearth.
And with an efficient whoosh, Bill was gone.
After a shower and some initial nausea, Fleur's unborn child decided that breakfast was acceptable.
She sat at the small, wrought iron outdoor set she and Bill had bought last year. It had been one of their first independent purchases, and Fleur had taken care to weatherproof its cloth cushions against salt, wind, rain, and sand. Despite a season of elemental exposure, the floral pattern still looked like new. Comfortable, she sat against the chair back, enjoying her croissant and cocoa as she watched the water from her cliffside home.
It was a gray spring day, windy and cool, and the waves washed ashore in a mild chop. It looked calm enough for a swim at first glance, though Fleur knew better. Much like her husband, the ocean hid its moods, but she'd lived with both long enough to intuit turmoil beneath the surface.
A channel of calm water cut through the parallel lines of waves. It was a deadly invitation, hiding a rip current that would drag unsuspecting swimmers out into deep water. The local paper ran at least two such stories every year, cautionary tales of tourists caught in the undertow and swept away, drowning from exhaustion or exposure, depending on the season. Lives ruined in less time than it took to call for help.
The stories always ended with advice. Surviving a rip current was not a matter of power; it was a matter of patience. The trick was to keep one's head afloat long enough for the current to weaken. Like a spoiled child, the ocean would grow bored of its prize and set its victim free. Making it to shore was the final test of endurance, requiring strength of body and will that many thought they possessed, but few actually did.
Fleur rested an arm upon her belly. She had such strength. Bill did, too. They'd been dragged out from comfortable, safe lives into war's cold, bloody waters. They'd kept afloat, navigated the tide, and made it to shore, exhausted but alive.
Fleur doubted she would have made it alone. During the worst of the war, Bill had pulled her forward, shouldering her worries when the stress and grief were too great to bear alone. And the endless possibilities of their future together gave her something to fight for, a determined grit that had made her faster and fiercer. He'd supported her when she chose to quit Gringotts and pursue her passion. He continued to encourage her artistry, even though they would soon have another mouth to feed.
All for her. All while he endured his own hurts and losses.
Fleur frowned. Bill had done so much for her, yet what had she provided him in return?
Her enduring love. A pleasant home. Soon—very soon—a child.
Was that enough?
The question plagued her as she cleared her dishes and tidied their galley kitchen. Almost without thinking, she wound through the cottage's narrow halls until she reached her workshop.
Fleur claimed to have joined Gringotts to improve her English. In truth, she had joined for Bill, the only man she'd ever needed to pursue. For almost two years, she had tried to convince herself of an interest in the industry. If it kept her close to Bill, then surely it was worthy of her attention. She'd worked in almost all of the bank's functional areas: currency control, portfolio management, public relations, even Curse-Breaking. But no amount of seminars or demonstrations had made her feel that Gringotts was where she was meant to stay.
When she'd finally admitted it, both to herself and to Bill, he hadn't been surprised. Rather, he'd been curious, wondering when she would act on what he'd known since they'd first met. And when he'd asked about her interests—because he'd cared about the answer more than charming his way into her bed—she'd told him the truth.
Creation.
Fleur wanted to create, and they'd purchased Shell Cottage with that goal in mind. They'd spent their first year in the creaky seaside domicile—when they weren't housing war criminals or burying friends—renovating a space dedicated for that passion.
Her workshop was an addition, built at the cottage's rear by the previous owner. It used to be a greenhouse. Reinforced glass panels comprised three of its four walls as well as the peaked roof. Several wood support beams spanned the workshop's length and width. Hooks formerly used to train vining plants were now laden with drying herbs and flowers.
A hardy linen apron hung on a peg beside the door. Fleur donned it, tied it off at her back, and scanned the space. She and Bill had managed to fit two butcher block tables down the room's length and, around its circumference, an eclectic collection of storage options. Bureaus and wardrobes and end tables and buffets, scavenged from the Burrow or purchased from yard sales or plucked from the kerb on bulk rubbish day and cleaned enough for their needs. Her only requirement for these storage units was a low profile: she wanted to see the ocean, the beach, and the dunes; the waving sea lavender, the diving kestrels, the blowing storms. She wanted to be in nature as much as she could, while maintaining the controlled climate required for her crafts.
Fleur trailed her fingers over wreaths she'd woven from local flora. Next to those hung hand painted signs: a Welcome sign within a frame of intricate scrollwork; Home Is Where the Heart Is beside a painted garden. Generic examples of her style, though, of course, she could do more. On the first low shelf, gold and silver wire were strung around sea glass and hung onto thin, matching chains. Next to those sat several wicker baskets of soaps, lotions, balms, and bath salts. In a wardrobe, separated by parchment paper and protected from light, were a collection of painted seascapes. In the room's far corner, overlooking the ocean, was her palette and easel, stretched with empty canvas and awaiting inspiration. Finally, in the corner opposite her easel, her throwing wheel and a shelf of practice pots, vases, kettles, and pipes, all awaiting the construction of an outdoor kiln, tentatively scheduled for later this summer.
Fleur's workshop housed a fortune of both materials and time.
And she'd yet to sell a single item.
Granted, she hadn't tried. Fleur gave them as gifts, usually. Friends and family all seemed appreciative, but they were obliged to be complimentary. Many had suggested she start her own business, without prompting from her or Bill, but Fleur had always changed the subject.
She was a formidable witch, an excellent wife, and a talented artist.
But she was not a businesswoman.
As though having read her mind, Fleur's child gave a firm kick. She gasped and rubbed her belly.
"I am not."
Another pair of kicks. As if to say: not yet.
Fleur assessed her workshop with fresh eyes. The wreaths were pretty, and she could make them seasonal or themed for universal appeal. The signs were customizable, increasing their desirability without necessarily adding to the time, effort, or materials required to create them. Ginny Weasley, one of Fleur's harshest critics, raved about her exfoliating scrub. Molly Weasley had a seascape hanging in her home. Even Hermione Granger had deigned to wear one of her sea glass necklaces.
These items had more than artistic value; they had monetary value.
And just that quickly, Fleur's question of what else she could provide her husband was answered.
She spent far too long selecting her outfit.
The little town of Tinworth was two miles away. In nice weather, Fleur walked the distance. Typically, the effort left her energized, but her pace had fallen off as of late, and her feet ached upon returning to Shell Cottage. Although today's weather was far from ideal, Fleur chose to walk regardless. It might be one of her last opportunities to do so, before the physical strain of her pregnancy left her too drained to manage the round trip.
The temperature had warmed only slightly from breakfast: trousers and a long-sleeved top were necessary, perhaps with a stylish Mackintosh to protect her from the wind. A thick braid to contain her hair would also be wise. But she had to consider fashion as well as function. Fleur was new to business, but she wasn't completely ignorant. If first impressions mattered to everyone, then all impressions mattered in sales.
And as her brand's first and only ambassador, she had to look the part.
But what was her brand?
Feminine, certainly. Molly would often accuse her of being very French. Fleur did not know exactly what that meant, but being from France, she supposed the descriptor fit. But French and feminine weren't enough to distinguish one brand from any other.
There had to be more.
She considered her creations, her designs. None had come together quickly. Each completed bath soap was the product of iterative experimentation, a painstaking process of trial and error as she perfected the ratios of herbs, scents, oils. Her landscapes were photorealistic, her meticulous brushstrokes rendering the world around her just like she saw it: in exquisite detail. She used delicate metals for her jewelry and would hunch for hours over a piece, using a pair of fine pliers to bend the wire just so.
Created with care. Delicate. Detailed. Graceful.
Seaside elegance. Sophistication on the shore.
She chose a dusky, blue-grey silk blouse over plain black trousers. The top reminded her of the Beauxbatons uniform—cool, comfortable, and classically stylish. The silk clung in ways it hadn't before, flowing over the fuller curves of her breasts and the swell of her stomach. Different from what she was used to, but beautiful still. It was fitting for the moment, true to her brand and herself.
Which, she supposed, were now one and the same.
She tried not to dwell too long on the items she packed to sell. Each had a story behind it, and the emotional connection she felt to her crafts would not make it easier to part with them. Into a case charmed to be Featherlight went several bath items, a handful of necklaces chosen at random, and one of the smaller generic signs.
When she came to the paintings, Fleur paused. The case had room for two. But which?
Not the portrait she'd done of Shell Cottage. She'd painted it shortly after they'd moved in. They hadn't even unpacked everything before Fleur had taken her palette and easel and set herself up on a nearby dune. She'd wanted to capture the cottage in its current state, before she and Bill had the chance to make it their own. She wanted a record of its flaws—the uneven foundation, the leaking roof, the leaning chimney, the overgrown garden. She had painted her connection to the place despite these things. Or, perhaps, because of them. Picture proof that charm was found in imperfections.
A perfect, storybook exterior was not a prerequisite for love.
The garden study was likewise not an option. She'd painted it at sunrise the morning of May 3rd, the day after the Battle of Hogwarts. The focus: a homemade gravestone, inscribed with words carved in grief's shaking hand. Flowers that had been buds the previous day had erupted overnight into riotous blooms. Low patches of Autumn lady's-tresses, the conical, white flowers spiralling up a thin, six-inch stalk. Two patches of Hound's-tongue growing on either side of the stone, displaying petals the color of dried blood. Sea lavender, an ocean of it, the tight purple clusters rolling over the stoney dunes, swaying in the breeze like waves.
She'd meant to give it to Harry, but had yet to find the right moment. Soon, perhaps. Fleur had heard through Molly that he and Ginny had split. She wondered how he was coping, and if the Weasleys—who, for all their virtues, Fleur nevertheless found to be temperamental, changeable folk—still considered him family.
She did, at least.
Setting the painting aside as a reminder, Fleur selected two of the remaining four: one of her many attempts to accurately capture an ocean sunset and another depicting sunrise chasing a storm across the horizon.
As much at peace with her selections as she could be, Fleur closed the case and slung it across her back. Wand in her hip holster and eyes set toward the road, she walked to Tinworth.
Established in the early 17th century, Tinworth had done its best to adapt to the changing times. Fleur credited the town's progressive leanings to the proximity of Muggles. Though the Tinworth town council had done its best to shield their little hamlet from the Muggle world's influence, repelling wards had a maximum effective range of six miles. Muggle towns were founded, had grown, and eventually pressed against Tinworth's borders.
Instead of fighting the encroachment, Tinworth took a different tack: they drew a town charter and engaged in local government.
Yes, its residents were considered odd. More than once tourists had noted the strange manner of dress, the confusing prices of goods and services, and how objects seemed to appear, move, and disappear on their own. According to Ron, the Ministry of Magic had its own department devoted to Tinworth's near-breaches of the Statute of Secrecy. But as long as the seasonal revenue remained steady, no one in town seemed bothered by the presence of Muggles.
And if Fleur had ever been bothered by such a thing before, the high concentration of independently owned boutique shops would have quelled any lingering doubts.
The town's streets, quiet to begin with, were almost empty. Tinworth's Muggle tourists skewed older, and the town boasted little in terms of nightlife. Its few pubs kept reasonable hours, and most of its restaurants were priced for established couples rather than growing families. Fleur's belly had received more than one wary look on the rare occasions she and Bill enjoyed an evening out. A squalling baby would certainly ruin the quiet, relaxed ambiance.
Fleur felt a curl of doubt enter her heart. She and Bill would raise their child here. They would, by necessity, take her to the corner market and the boutique shops, to the grocer and the local hospital. The town had few other children, and Fleur had already decided to homeschool their daughter until Hogwarts. Discussed over dinner, their quiet future had few faults.
But was it too quiet?
Perhaps Shell Cottage was too removed from wizarding society. Fleur loved their little cliffside home. She didn't want to leave it, and neither did Bill. But what did their wants matter against the needs of their child?
How would their daughter fare in this place?
Fleur relished their life's simplicity. Would their daughter find it dull?
Fleur enjoyed the isolation. Would their daughter find it lonely?
Tears threatened. Fleur dashed them away with impatient fingers, cursing her hormones. She had enough worries; there was no need to borrow more. Besides, nothing was permanent. Their daughter would find her place in this world, whether in Tinworth or Godric's Hollow or across an ocean.
Fleur would make sure of it.
She walked down the footway into town. The wind was less fierce away from the sea, and the temperature was a degree or two warmer, but the tourist season had yet to start in earnest. The early April weather was too variable for holidayers and beachcombers. Fleur's heart sank again. The season's timing would surely impact demand. She cursed again, feeling foolish. She should have considered that before making the trip.
But it was too late. She was here, and she wouldn't leave until she made at least one sale.
The first shop Fleur came upon was called Visible World. She'd been in once as part of her and Bill's initial exploration of the town. Fleur paused outside the shop door, set her shoulders, took a breath, and entered.
An older woman stood behind the counter, using a thoroughly defeathered quill to scratch answers into a book of Muggle word puzzles. Her eyes, rimmed with sagging skin but colored a bright, keen blue, flicked from Fleur's face to the case on her back. She set her quill in the margin of her book and straightened.
"What can I do for you, dearie?"
"Hello." Fleur approached with her hand outstretched to shake. "My name is Fleur Weasley, née Delacour. My husband and I recently moved into Shell Cottage."
"Over on the cliff," the woman said, nodding. "Yes, I know it. Brigid McBride, pleased to meet you." She dropped Fleur's hand and looked again at the pack on her back. "Let me guess, creative type?"
Fleur lifted her chin. "I am an artiste, yes."
"And you would like me to carry your work?"
Was it always this easy? Fleur fought the urge to narrow her eyes; suspicion was not a good look. "Yes, I would."
Brigid sighed. "You and every other housewife. My clientele tend to be particular about the goods they buy." She gestured to the art on the walls, the pottery and local travel guides, hand-sewn clothes and hand-knit shawls. Many looked comparable to Fleur's own work. Very few pieces exceeded her skill.
"This is why I came to you first." Fleur set her case onto the floor, leaning it against her leg. She withdrew the two landscapes and propped them up for Brigid's perusal.
The old woman was silent. After about a minute, she withdrew a pair of glasses from her front apron pocket and leaned close to each painting.
"The detail in these is stunning," she muttered. Her eyes once again flicked to Fleur's, holding not patent dismissal, but something like respect. "You painted these?"
"Yes."
"You have more?"
"A few."
"Do you take commissions? Done any portraits?"
Fleur tilted her head. "Yes and yes, if the price is right."
Brigid smiled. "These two I'll take. Leave me your Floo address. When they sell, I'll call, and you'll bring me two more."
From there, it was only a matter of negotiation.
Fleur left the store with her wallet heavier, her pack and spirit lighter. She could do this. And wouldn't Bill be surprised when he came home to find them thirty Galleons richer? Though she'd met her self-imposed goal of a single sale, the prospect of continued success had her venturing further into town.
One block down Main Street was The Fair Pair. Behind the counter was an older man with thinning hair. A woman of similar age, who Fleur assumed was the man's wife, puttered around the shop rearranging merchandise.
Their conversation followed a similar vein. Mr. Jacob Bevan and his wife, Lola, had owned their shop for several years. They did not compete directly with Visible World; in fact, Brigid and the Bevans had been friends since they had moved to Tinworth. But while Visible World sold items to a very select crowd, The Fair Pair catered to a much broader market. They purchased all of Fleur's necklaces and the generic Welcome sign. They also requested a design book for custom orders, which Fleur committed to deliver before the end of the month.
When she left The Fair Pair, all she had left were her soaps, lotions, and bath items.
Suddenly, the idea of returning to Shell Cottage with any merchandise at all felt like failure.
Fleur headed east, popping into likely shops as she went. Two told her no outright. The third, Green-Fired, did not sell bath products, but was interested in seeing her pottery once she installed her kiln. Fleur made a mental note to design business cards; there was more of a market for her goods than she had ever anticipated.
When she reached the town's edge, she turned around and headed west, walking Main Street's opposite side. A shop called Piquaint purchased about half of her remaining inventory, with further business contingent upon how the products sold. A fair bargain, in Fleur's estimation: a hedge against risk, which she was confident would be overcome once the season started.
Keen was Fleur's last stop, her final chance to sell her few remaining bath items. This shop was unlike any others she had visited. It was located just off Main Street, with simple black lettering on its sign post and a chic, sophisticated air, much different from the relaxed, cottage atmospheres of Tinworth's other boutiques. It did look on-brand: sleek, elegant, and upscale, though in the way of a shark, with something sharp and dangerous lurking behind the simplicity.
The feeling of threat intensified as she greeted the man behind the counter. He was small and pale, with dark hair and cold eyes that roamed Fleur's pregnant body. A chill worked its way up her back; she suppressed a shiver.
This was not a place she wanted to sell.
Yet the appeal of an empty case kept her in place.
The shop owner bared his teeth in a smile.
Fleur attempted to mirror the expression. It felt like a grimace.
"Hello," she started. "My name is—"
"I know your name." He strode from behind the counter, hand extended. His skin was clammy against Fleur's palm. Her daughter twisted, adding nausea to Fleur's increasing discomfort. "I'm Russ Pesk. You're a Veela."
Russ was not the first man to have needlessly informed Fleur of her heritage. Nor was he the most off-putting person to have done so.
But he was the rudest.
Fleur tilted her chin and allowed a wide smile to part her lips. Only other Veela would see danger in the expression: the white of her teeth against the pink of her gums, the incisors that had become just a bit too long and sharp to pass for innocent. But Russ was a human. His jaw hung slack as Fleur drew from the dark power of her heritage.
"Pleased to meet you." She let her voice drop an octave, becoming throaty with interest.
Russ leaned closer; Fleur's nostrils flared. He hadn't showered this morning. She could smell the musk beneath his arms and at his groin, inoffensive enough to mask with cologne, but potent enough for her to catch with minimal effort. He was interested, of course. She heard the hard thumps of his heart, the rushing of blood into his penis.
Fleur dropped her eyes, conscious of the ill-contained hunger he might see within.
Humans did not understand Veela. Those attracted to women saw them as lovely prizes to be fought over and won. Those attracted to men saw them as competition to be overcome and destroyed. In fact, neither assessment was correct.
Veela were parasites.
In many ways, they were similar to vampires: human enough to blend in, different enough to be categorized and tracked by the Ministry. But where vampires required blood for sustenance, full-blooded Veela required energy. They needed constant attention from their mates, who were kept in a state of thrall until death. For a Muggle, that may mean one to five years. For a wizard, it was closer to a decade.
Though feeding was required, how much energy was taken remained a choice. Fleur's grandmother, Aphrodite Delacour, had kept her mate, Antoni, alive for nearly three decades. Her attachment to him had been true, and she had allowed herself to weaken so that he might live to see his daughter—Fleur's mother, Apolline—grow and marry. It had not been easy. Her grandmother had been a husk at the end, weak of body, magic, and spirit. She'd passed away soon after Antoni's death.
The compulsion to feed weakened as Veela blood diluted. Fleur barely felt the need at all, sated instead by sips of public adoration. She'd never once fed from Bill; she would die before she stole even one second from his life.
But this shop owner, with his obvious interest and weak will?
Fleur could grow fat off his attention.
A slow inhale tamed the worst of her instincts. When she next raised her eyes, they had lost their predatory sheen. She knew exactly what to do.
"I need your help," Fleur said.
Russ was enthralled enough to do her bidding without the damsel in distress act, but nothing made a weak man feel stronger than lording power over a woman.
She opened her case. "Please, will you buy these?"
Russ' glazed eyes barely registered her merchandise. She could have been carrying fish entrails, and he would have thanked her for it.
He nodded. "Name your price."
So she did.
It was reasonable. A little higher than was fair, compensation for her trouble, but not outright robbery. She would never return to this store, anyway. Not unless she and Bill became desperate.
With her empty case slung across her back, Fleur left the store. She strode quickly up the footpath when she caught her reflection in the shop glass.
The sight stopped her cold.
Wisps of hair had pulled themselves from her braid. They floated around her face, heedless of the wind's direction, and shone like starlight despite the clouds. Her cheeks, fuller from pregnancy, carried a pretty blush high on the apples. Her lips had become plumper, pinker. Her blue eyes sparkled, round and wide.
The best of her, and the worst of her.
She had gotten what she'd wanted, but at a price.
Fleur ducked her head and hurried home. She felt the eyes of Tinworth on her as she passed, the stunned silence of admirers and rivals. She stopped for no one, spoke to no one, saw no one.
As a child, Fleur had known what she was. As a teen, Apolline had taught her how to use it. And she had. Preferential treatment from her school masters and school mates. Dates with boys who gave her anything she wanted. Useless favors from simpletons she could manipulate and control. It had amused her at first. Who, in her position, would not enjoy this power?
Then she was chosen for the Triwizard Tournament.
There was no denying that Fleur had lived a blessed life, won largely through the use of her Veela blood. Yes, she was a good student and a strong spellcaster, but she also understood how the world worked.
Fleur took what she wanted; she had never earned anything. She saw how hard those around her had to strive for just a taste of what she could earn with the lift of an eyebrow and the curl of her lips. They had to network, and toil, and fail, and endure the pain and frustration of denial. They'd developed resilience and determination where Fleur had not, because Fleur had never had to try.
She had tossed her name into the Goblet of Fire with no real hope of being selected. She had followed expectations, joining the rest of the entrants in the pursuit of an unlikely dream. She tossed her hair and acted indifferent around her friends. Or the people around her who she thought were friends—she could never be sure. The sincerity of their affections had never mattered. People were drawn to power like flies to rotting meat, and Fleur had worn her power like a fresh wolf pelt.
For that reason, and so many other reasons, Fleur was ill-suited for the role of Beauxbatons Champion. She knew it. All of her classmates were more qualified by the mere fact that they had had to try. And, understanding how the Champion was chosen, she had made peace with watching from the sidelines. There was no charming an inanimate object. Whoever the Goblet selected would have earned the honor not because they were beautiful or powerful. It was not because a faillable, gullible human found them worthy.
It was because they were.
The Triwizard Champions, at their core, beyond the subjective biases of human perception, were worthy of representing their schools. They were the best that the wizarding world had to offer.
Then Fleur's name was called.
She swiped tears from her eyes at the memory.
Her classmates had cheered. She'd floated from the Beauxbatons' table as if on wings, a smile plastered across her lips. Only Madame Maxine had felt her shaking. The giantess had gripped her shoulder tight, grounding her, letting Fleur focus on the pain instead of the panic.
The Goblet had recognized a value deeper than the power that ran through her veins. Something innate, intangible, good for more than petty manipulations.
All she had to do was try.
Fleur had stopped using her Veela heritage that day.
Being one quarter Veela made her more beautiful than most, anyway. And she'd discovered that putting in the effort—working for what she wanted—was far more fulfilling than taking it.
A lesson she had apparently forgotten today.
Pesk was a pig of a man, but he had not been worth breaking the promise she'd made to herself. She probably could have sold him her last few items without using any of her power. Now, she would never know.
Fleur's heart felt as heavy as her feet as Shell Cottage came into view. She brushed the hair from her face as she surveyed her home. The dune grasses, destined to grow tall and sharp, which would soon rustle in the wind like violin bows, were only tender shoots. But the sea lavender was already in full bloom. It grew from frost to frost, clumps of light and dark purple, depending on the variety. A royal carpet that ringed their home like a halo.
Most people thought sea lavender was purely ornamental.
Most people were wrong.
The value of sea lavender rested not in how it looked, but in what it could do when applied properly. Hidden value ignored by those who could not—or would not—see beyond the surface.
Fleur conjured a basket, removed her shoes, and walked into a patch. She began her harvest, working slowly, bending at the knees instead of the waist, practicing balance in a body eight months pregnant and foreignly clumsy.
Traditional lavender had several uses. When its oils were mixed with Lethe River Water, it created a non-addictive sleep aid. When combined with castor oil, it could be worked into lotions and soaps that treated skin blemishes and lessened inflammation. Sea lavender's effect as a sleep aid or blemish treatment was decreased in comparison.
Where sea lavender excelled was in the treatment of muscle and joint pain.
The use was not well known, nor was it easy to accomplish. Fleur had tried once before and had set her workshop on fire in the process. The flagstone floor had chipped where she'd dropped the mortar. Next to that was a black patch, stubborn despite her repeated attempts to scrub the burn away.
She stood in the same spot now and let her mind drift. Fleur moved through the workshop on instinct, gathering what she needed out of habit, experience, and internalized Herbology expertise.
A mortar and pestle. Bee balm. A pinch of poppy. Willow. Essence of comfrey. The volatile Fire Seed.
She started with small quantities. Her first three batches were scrap, the ratios incorrect. Too much Fire Seed threatened a second combustion. Over-extracted bee balm stung her eyes. A heavy poppy dose made her limbs heavy and slow.
Her fourth attempt, however…
Time slipped by. Minutes turned to hours. Lunch was considered, delayed, then forgotten. The workshop's charmed candles lit automatically as the light waned.
The roar of the Floo pulled Fleur from her work. She rose from the bench, shoulders sore, forearms tired, but satisfied with her efforts. Before her were five stoppered vials of light purple oil. The concoction was clear, extracted and strained through sieves, cheesecloth, and a Potions-grade filter. She tilted one vial, watching as the oil shimmered in the candlelight, leaving a rainbow trail like petrol as it dripped down the glass vial.
She slipped it into her apron pocket and went to greet her husband.
Dark bags circled Bill's eyes. His body seemed to slope forward, exhaustion perched like twin vultures on his shoulder blades. Fleur breezed into the space between his arms and kissed him. She took her time, enjoying the feel of him, letting him enjoy the feel of her.
"Supper, or a bath?"
"Bath," he answered.
She took his hand and led him upstairs. Bill set down his case and let her undress him: cloak, tie, shirt, trousers. She sank to her knees as she pulled his pants down.
"Fleur, you don't have to—"
But the rest of his protest was swallowed by a gasp as she pressed a kiss into the smooth skin of his hip.
"For your heart's pain," she murmured before taking him into her mouth.
She worked him slowly, tasting the day as lived by his body. The sweat, the stress, the sadness. He wound his fingers through her silken hair.
"Fleur…"
With a flick of her tongue, Bill shuddered and came. She took all he had, swallowing, and licking him clean.
Bill helped her stand, lifting the bulk of her weight as she laughed at her own helplessness. Once her feet were planted, he caught her cheeks and pulled her into a kiss. She let him, resting a hand over his heart. His scars were warm beneath her fingers; she could almost feel them throb.
She broke their kiss and took his hand, leading him into the water closet. Their standalone, clawfoot tub sat, already full and steaming. Drawing the vial from her pocket, she drizzled some of the oil across the water and charmed a slow, churning current.
"For your body's pain."
Bill's blue eyes shone with tears. "How did you know?"
She smiled up at him. "The same way I know what herbs I need for my balms, or what colors I need when I paint. I just do."
Bill pressed his forehead to hers. "How did I get so lucky?"
"We both did."
Bill sank into the water. Fleur folded a towel behind his head and made herself comfortable in a low wicker chair behind him, working the tension from his shoulders with her strong, capable hands.
And as she worked the tension from her husband's shoulders, some of her own began to fade.
Today, Fleur had given in to the darker side of her nature. She'd taken advantage of a stranger for her own gain. In a matter of moments, she'd fallen back on old habits, patterns of action that perhaps were not as broken as she'd thought. The reversion was joyless. The thrill of power was there, yes, but it had not lasted. The guilt she felt overwhelmed any lingering traces of happiness.
She had to tell him.
"I went into town today."
"Oh?" Bill shifted in the bath. "How did that go?"
"I sold two paintings."
His eyes flicked open, found hers. "You did?"
"And more," she admitted. "Two signs, some jewelry—"
His brow furrowed. Bill had always been able to read her expressions, no matter how closely she tried to guard them.
"But?" he prompted.
Tears slipped from her eyes. "I fed from a man."
"Are you okay?"
"I am, I just—" Before she could draw her hands away, Bill caught her wrists, holding her as she confessed. "He was rude, and it happened so quickly. I didn't even think about it."
"It's okay."
"No." Fleur shook her head. "I promised myself I would never—"
Water crested over the tub as Bill turned to face her.
"I know what you promised, and I know why you promised it." His voice was steady as his thumb brushed tears from her cheeks, trailing the calming scent of sea lavender and bee balm. "You made a mistake. You're human."
Human.
Fleur wielded more power than that within her blood. The power of her mind created oils to soothe her husband's aches and paintings that transported people. The power of her body held a life soon to be birthed. The power of her will had controlled her worst instincts for years without fail.
The human part of her was stronger than the Veela would ever be. And as with all creation, practice made—well, not perfect, but progress.
Fleur would keep practicing. Keep striving for a better life for herself, her husband, and her child. One error did not negate everything she had earned until now. As for what she had earned from her victim… Perhaps those Galleons were better spent on the War Orphans' Benefit fund, in Hermione Granger's principled hands. Fleur had done wrong, yes, but at least others could benefit from her error.
She chanced a watery smile. "How do you always know what to say?"
Bill whispered the answer against her lips. "I just do."
The End