A/N: Hey Guys! Been a while since my last update.
This is a story I've been working on for a while that emerged from Keeping Pace, which I have left to collect dust for numerous reasons. That said, this piece has a better outline, so I'm more confident about finishing it. I should clarify that this is a non-magical AU, so if you want that sweet, sweet magic and wizardry, you'll have to look elsewhere.
Betas: I would also like to thank both OfficeSloth and Tahsky for their beta work. Without them, this jungle of text would have been much wilder than it currently is. If you find anything that still seems out of place, blame me.
Disclaimer: As in previous works, Harry Potter and all that comes with it belong to JKRowling. The brands and manufacturers that are mentioned in this story don't belong to me either. Frankly, since this story features F1 in detail, I'm not even sure if I need to explain how much Formula 1 does not belong to me either.
Chapter 1 - Souvenir
May 19th, 2004
Wednesday Morning
The young man sighed as he walked on the pristine, clean pedestrian sidewalk, hurrying from block to block along the buildings to his left. On his right, if the track barrier weren't there, he would spy the Azur of the mediterranean sea. He could taste the salt in the air, feel the humidity on his arms, and the gentle wind tousling his errant hair. He took a deep breath once more and his nose burned slightly and his tongue moistened in response.
The people around him all went through the very same thing. Only they were on holiday and could quickly buy cold, refreshing and very exotic fruity drinks. He imagined a nice chilled can of beer coming to his lips.
However, the enticing daydream was short-lived. Harry Potter wasn't here on holiday like the rest of the couples and families around him. He was here for work. And contrary to his casual appearance, dressed in shorts and a loose shirt, he wasn't taking a lazy stroll through the town for anything other than to quickly finish up a task he had set out for himself before he was soon expected back at the paddock.
His musings were interrupted by the sound of a ship's horn, announcing its presence to the people of the marina. It was the fourth time since his arrival that he was greeted by it. He wasn't a fan of the noise, but then again, it was the price of living in a city situated at the sea. He imagined that those living here couldn't even hear it anymore, having gotten used to it to the point the sound had dropped into the city's everyday noises.
On the other hand, the Monégasque would soon be welcoming far more exciting sounds in the coming days, when people from all over the world made their way to Monaco, for the event which made this place a highlight on the calendar.
Thinking about the excitement to come, he felt envy. He hadn't had the opportunity to travel much in his youth, remaining mostly in the UK during his school trips. At the time he hadn't thought about what lay beyond the Isles. He had been like the frog living in a deep well, unaware of the world beyond and thus unaware of what he had missed out on. But things changed once he had left school and taken up an apprenticeship instead of applying for university, much to his mother's chagrin.
Regardless of how his friends and family felt about his career choice, he hadn't regretted it for a moment. His job had taken him across the world, to exciting places and exciting cultures. What he found to be the most joyful aspect of his travels was the food. To be dragged from your comfort zone of Shepherd's Pie, and Yorkshire Pudding, to a hot Moqueca stew in SãoSao Paulo, or a fresh serving of Sushi on a cool Japanese night close to Suzuka.
On that note, he wished he could have taken some time off so that he could properly take in the natural beauty of France's Côte d'Azur.
Though he certainly found his work fulfilling, his free time was relatively limited. Between travelling, packing, moving, and then actually working, he didn't get many chances to slip away and do a bit of gastronomical exploration.
Luckily, a small window of opportunity to get away arose and he didn't hesitate for a moment to go for it. It was still a few days ahead of free practice and early enough in the preparations that he wasn't absolutely needed yet. His teammates were busy setting things up at the garage before he was expected to show up later and join them for their regular briefing.
For now, he had free reign to run some personal errands before the monster that were his obligations caught up with him. He had to get his hands on some souvenirs for his friends, Ron and Hermione. 'Original, it has to be original,' she had told him. Demanded even.
To be fair, he had no clue what an original souvenir even looked like. He was a tourist like anybody else, hoping to score a genuine gift to take home for his loved ones.
Hermione had never really instructed him on what exactly he was meant to bring. It was safe to assume she'd appreciate a book about the places he's been visiting, or if inspiration hit, an item that was somehow representative of a place's history or culture.
Ron on the other hand was perhaps the easiest to please. Harry would buy him a toy or something the man could use with his hands. His best mate wasn't one for decorations on a shelf that would undoubtedly collect dust. He figured a handy gimmick would please the red-headed fellow far more than anything.
In regards to being closer to home, his parents didn't need anything. At least that's what his father had told him when Harry had broached the topic on the phone. 'No bother, we've seen it all. Just have fun and make memories that'll last. Those are the best souvenirs,' his father had said. Wise words really and Harry had done his best to live by them.
Lily, his mother, was one to turn the joke on him. Instead of looking for souvenirs for her, she would send him postcards that she had collected on her own trips abroad from years ago.
'Trust your mum to turn the tables on you when you least expect it,' he mused with a smile.
The mail always managed to arrive just in time to make his day when he'd read them. Believe it or not, his mother always sent him picture postcards from her travels with his father, and they always featured the places Harry was visiting at the moment when he received them.
Lily Potter was many things. Primarily an amazing mother to him. But foremost, she was unbelievably clever, and so was her sense of humour. He had never known her not to see an opportunity to pull the rug from under him and laugh at his astonishment. If anything, he missed that the most when he was away from home.
The cards he'd been receiving since he'd begun travelling had come regularly and frighteningly punctual. He had once assumed that they'd cease coming once she ran out of them, but so far, she'd continued to surprise him. He had first suspected her of purchasing new cards to keep them coming but upon his receiving of them, he'd take note of the day they were printed – they were old.
"Harry," a male voice at his side called out to him. "You even listening, mate?"
Jerked awake from his bubble of introspection, he swallowed to clear his throat. "Sorry, Louis. I was just lost in thought."
Feeling guilty, he gave his friend and co-worker a wry smile before turning to look toward where he was going, noting that people had been moving around him in his stupor.
"Looked like more than just deep thought, that," the dark-haired man countered, his shirt with the team logo shifting when he placed a hand on hip. "You still up for that souvenir thing you needed?"
Harry quickly nodded at the question. "Yeah, yeah. Need those for back home. Don't want a repeat of the last time I forgot to bring anything…"
"Same here. Mum would flip if I didn't bring something from this place," Louis said, gesturing at the buildings around him. "My folks never really left the isles. The souvenirs are their way of living vicariously through me, I think."
"I can relate," Harry replied with a knowing grin. "My parents probably not so much but certainly my schoolmates back home."
"Right, what did they do again? Your folks, I mean. Somethin' historians, right? You told me they been travelling a lot back in the day."
Harry began nodding slowly before changing his mind. "Almost, but no," he shook his head finally. "They're archaeologists. They mostly worked at dig sites and such. Opening tombs filled with stale, musty air, on rare occasions they'd find a bit more than old broken pottery."
The man pulled a face at the reply. "Tombs? Like, mummies and stuff? Aren't those cursed or something?"
"Only in the movies, mate," Harry noted with a short chuckle. "No curses, no magic, nothing of the sort. The only thing they have to watch out for is mould, and maybe germs and such. Though, very rarely, there's a chance for toxic fumes that could kill. It used to get mistaken for a curse. Gave ancient Egypt a bad rep. Did help keep looters away, I reckon."
Louis eyed him with a frown that didn't let up despite his attempt to relate to his parents' job description. "Yeaaaah. Miss me with that. You won't be finding me in some mouldy ditch or cave, looking for creepy trinkets."
"It's certainly not for everyone, I guess," Harry replied with a knowing shrug.
His friend, who was the picture-perfect specimen of a typical Brit, albeit with tanned arms and shins, and wore his hair in a buzz cut, was by all accounts similar in age to Harry, didn't make any further comments on the matter. Perhaps that was for the best, Harry didn't like talking about his family too much. It was because his parents were academics and if one knew what their son did for a living, most people would take note of the difference in life paths. Draw conclusions that he didn't appreciate and that his mother would take unkindly.
"What time is it?" Louis asked out of the blue as they walked another pedestrian crossing. "I don't have my watch with me and I don't see a single clock in this town."
Harry quickly wiggled his wrist to move his watch into position. It was a gift from his best friend's family and even if he had better. He loved the old timekeeper.
"It's barely nine. They want us in the garage by noon. We're good on time."
"Ok, so we've got time to eat before we head back? Up for it?"
Harry thought about it but shook his head. "Nah, don't think I can make it."
Louis eyed him incredulously. "Say what now? We've got three whole hours. What, you planning on having a ten-course menu?"
"It's not like that. Just didn't do research for a place," Harry reasoned quickly. "I'm not good with spontaneous ideas. I like to know ahead of time where to go."
"Mate, some street food won't kill, will it?"
"Doesn't matter, I'm not even hungry," he reasoned with his friend. "I planned on eating in the evening. Thought I'd get a better chance to appreciate the food if I didn't have to be in a hurry."
"In a hurry?" Louis repeated, his face screwed up in confusion as it eyed Harry's wristwatch. "You do eat breakfast before work, right?"
Resignation crossed Harry's face at the comment. "Yes, same as everyone else, except I'm not too big on it. I hardly ever really know what I'm eating."
Louis shook his head at Harry before wordlessly dropping the topic. Instead, the man placed his hands on his hips again and gazed around the two of them without saying anything.
"Where exactly do we get proper souvenirs?" Harry voiced for him, his eyes scanning the area, equally curious about their surroundings.
"No clue but I see a shop over there." The man pointed at a small but inviting store at a corner that wasn't too far away from them. It featured a few picture books, swimwear, and sandals in the window. A blue sunshade offered a cool shadowy welcome above a glass door.
Agreeing to go and see what the shop had to offer, Harry didn't realise that as soon they both walked past the final corner of the long row of buildings, the well-known Sainte Dévote would come into view. The single-towered church of white beige stood proudly in the centre of the open space. Its entrance was crowded with giddy tourists and if he had any plans of going in to see the church for himself, he'd have had to make other plans by now.
He made a mental note to come and visit if he found the time. For now, his task was to buy the souvenirs first.
Unperturbed by the sheer number of tourists absorbed with the viewfinder of their cameras, Harry and Louis made their way into the shop and began perusing the various knickknacks.
Harry flipped through several of the cultural books, the insides were full of beautifully illustrated photos and neatly organised descriptions. He stopped at one particularly stunning image, an image of a tall cliffside, whose great stone walls oversaw the pearl-white sands of a beach which seemed to carry on forever. The only bit of the modern world was a long windy road which hugged the stone face which seemed to exist for the sole purpose of bringing travellers to a little restaurant which stood like an island in the picturesque scene.
He just knew then and there. Regardless of whether the food served there was even palatable, he needed to at least see the place with his own two eyes. Be that as it may, the first question was whether or not the place still existed. The book was already pretty dated, the time stamp on the photo's caption was over a decade past.
"Excusez-Moi," he began but realised with a cold shock that he didn't know how to articulate the question in French. Regardless, the young woman behind the counter smiled with practised grace and quickly replied in English, albeit accented.
"Yes? What can I êlp you whiz?"
Gladdened by her forthcoming, Harry pointed at the page, particularly at the establishment in question. "This place. Does it still exist?"
He was hopeful that it still was and eyed her accordingly. He also unknowingly held his breath.
"Oui," the woman nodded quickly. "It iz, uh, about âlf and ôur from êre. You drive- you âve a car, monsieur?"
Harry simply nodded, even if he didn't tell the truth. A car wouldn't exactly be a problem.
"Zhen you must drive up zhe Avenue d'Ostende and zhen go through zhe tunnel Larvotto. After zhat you stay on Larvotto until it becomes a thinner road. Stay on zhat road- it iz zhe coastline road. If you stay whiz it, you will soon find zhat restaurant."
Her explanation then went on to smaller details. Elaborating on some city dwellers' knowledge, new construction sites and diversions. Harry asked her about other places he could visit on that particular trip and she offered him a brochure that outlined a collection of places he could visit without too much difficulty. The brochure also came with a discount for public transport, which he didn't exactly require but he took it nonetheless.
"Thank you so much, Miss," he said with dear appreciation, to which she smiled brilliantly.
"De rien," she replied.
The smile looked good on the woman and he was almost inclined to continue talking to her about maybe spending some time together, unshackled by working hours, before Louis brought that thought to a sudden and unexpected end.
"Mate, you're done choosing or what?"
"Uh," Harry offered dumbly before eyeing the shop lady questioningly. He appeared to have anchored his hopes on her since she'd begun giving him advice on anything he's brought forward until now.
Aware that she was being silently asked for help, she simply let a smile grace her lips and nodded at the book in his hands. "Will zhis be all, monsieur?"
Looking down at the book in his hands, he couldn't fault her for engaging in clever salesmanship and mentally thanked her for her quick and unvoiced suggestion.
"Uh, Yes– thank you."
He handed her the book delicately and took care not to drop it too suddenly in her hand. While he completed his purchase, Louis placed down a calendar along with a small figurine of the Monaco street track. It was rather on the nose but he couldn't fault his friend for going with what he thought was adequate. Though he personally couldn't be near as lackadaisical with his souvenir shopping. If he brought home anything remotely as clichéd as a figurine, or Heaven forbid, a fridge magnet, Harry would suffer words of indignation from Hermione until he grew grey hair. Ron might have been fine with it but then again, he couldn't really do anything with a clay souvenir.
Just as they were done paying for their shopping, the chime of the doorbell rang again to announce a new customer. Harry thanked the kind shop owner again and mentioned that he may come to see her again if he was lost or in need of advice. She then offered him her welcome and wished him well on his day.
When he retrieved his new shopping bag and turned, he noticed how Louis' gaze was transfixed on the new person who entered the shop, the eyes dancing between curiosity, shock, and then back to curiosity. It was as odd-looking as it sounded.
Harry then moved his sight to take a look at the object of his colleague's attention, to try and decipher the mystery of this situation.
The new customer, despite her apparent efforts to remain inconspicuous, with her big sunglasses, and a cap to block her face, drew their attention like metal to a magnet. Even if the cap was bright red with the signature prancing horse of Ferrari etched into it, the hat did little to hide her bright platinum-blonde hair, which almost seemed to glow in the light that shone through the store's large windows.
A few more observations and the case was solved. Harry knew exactly who had just walked into the shop and determined it was high time to leave. She'd soon be recognized by the other store-goers and the resulting commotion would likely see them trapped inside. Eager to avoid such an annoying situation, he hurried toward his friend and began prodding him to move.
Louis wouldn't budge, though. Harry raised his gaze to see him staring after the woman who had just walked past them wordlessly and who was now speaking to the nice woman behind the counter. Neither noticed them standing by the door, staring.
Shaking himself out of his stupor, Harry prodded Louis harder, effectively jerking the man awake.
"Move," he ordered him. "Now."
Louis eyed him sharply but followed suit and they finally left the shop after what felt like aeons, and much to Harry's elation, nobody had yet seemed to take note of just who had entered the small store.
"You know who that was, right?" Louis asked him with surprise and slight agitation.
"Of course, I bloody know who that was," Harry hissed, not nearly as interested in the subject as the other person was. "I'm not blind."
"Then what gives?" Louis demanded, giving Harry a displeased glance. "We could have talked to her. This was our chance. She was on her own, without her whole… what's it called, entourage? Court?"
Louis had a point, it certainly wasn't a normal occurrence to see her without the PR staff, protection detail, and the rest of the crew that usually followed her around.
"I just wanted to leave," Harry muttered in reply, aware that he was not going to get out of this conversation without some explanation. "Didn't want to be bogged down by these guys." He pointed vaguely at the groups of tourists walking around the open space by the church.
"How long do you think it would have taken them to notice her and then trap us inside the store?" He posited in question, his brow raised in emphasis.
"I don't know," Louis offered with an honest huff. "Long enough for us to speak a few words and then get the hell out of there?"
"Hardly, but it doesn't matter," Harry sighed instead. "I just wanted to get going."
"Fleur-Bloody-Delacour," Louis pronounced clearly, letting her name and expletive roll off his tongue like he was tasting the name. "Like, how often does one get the chance to talk to her, one-on-one?"
Harry understood where Louis was coming from, but in all honesty, he couldn't care less about it. Fleur Delacour was just another celebrity in their world. They were all celebrities, the drivers that is. His team had them too.
Granted, she was beautiful beyond compare and an outstanding racing driver to boot. Her achievements on the track spoke for themselves and her success didn't seem to slow down in any form. The French Formula One team, Renault, were keen on keeping her skills and as such provided her with all the luxuries they could think of.
He had never spoken to her and when she spoke on live television, she wasn't one for many words. He found her arrogant, self-absorbed, and as aloof as one could be.
"Let's just get back," Harry stated plainly, already walking along the old road."There'll be plenty of time for you to chat up some girls before we leave."
"But they're not her!" Louis insisted, the man now having caught up and keeping pace with him.
Harry eyed him sharply from the side before speaking. "Look around you," he gestured. "We're in Monaco and there are plenty of women to choose from, like the shop owner back there. She was cute."
"Yeah," Louis agreed before disappointment drew a blank face. "But still, she's not Delacour."
The raven-haired man slumped his shoulders as they crossed the Albert Premiere, reaching the pit exit of the paddock.
"Mate," he huffed with resignation and at his end of patience with the fool. "Maybe that's a good thing."
Earlier in a hotel room
Fleur Delacour sat in a corner of her hotel room, fumbling through the song list on her iPod, hoping to find a song that would push back against the silence she was sitting in and the many thoughts that circled her mind. She needed just one song that would give her a quantum of peace. Just a moment to stop thinking about her duties and responsibilities and just relax.
She hadn't had a moment to herself since she arrived in Monaco. The flashing of cameras and the incessant, often unadulterated, questions of journalists robbed her of any calm. She would try to stay quiet, force her way through them with the help of her security staff, only to let one lowballed comment draw her ire that would break her self-control and force her to react rather indelicately.
Usually, her outbursts would be a swift curse, an insult, a microreaction. Nothing of major consequence. This time however she had truly lost her grip and broken a reporter's nose, with the victim subsequently claiming she had struck without provocation. Bystanders would clearly agree with her but a story was still a story, even if it was skewed toward outright sensationalization.
No, the moment Fleur's control slipped she had lost. Mercy was reserved for the people with normal, uninteresting lives that had no impact, except on themself. People in the public eye, such as Fleur, didn't have that luxury. The irony wasn't lost on her but it was the truth.
Fleur didn't belong to herself. She hadn't since she was seventeen and had just won the Formula 3000. Renault's F1 team had already been apparently observing her when she had barely finished winning everything there was to win in Karting and other junior categories.
At first, it was great. Everybody began recognizing her, wanting her autograph, wanting a photo with her, begging she give them a moment of her time, and to her the attention was exciting. Who wouldn't want to be famous and be idolised?
But then things changed. Fleur was slowly but surely changing as well. While her successes behind the wheel were awe-inspiring, her appearance attracted far more attention than she would have liked. Where before she would receive sponsorship requests that were innocent and focused on racing performances, the demands grew increasingly back-handed.
Photoshoots, posing for magazines, and attending social events dressed in the newest most sought-after haute couture were increasing exponentially each year. And that was before she fully grew into her womanhood and her femininity became incontestable.
She didn't hate being beautiful. She knew that good looks helped sponsorship negotiations far more often than race performances did. As the only woman in Formula One, and at the young age of 22, she was in her prime in all aspects. On track contending for the world championship and awe-ing the world of fashion on the side.
The thoughts circled again and threatened to aggravate her even further. Her thumb worked the music player harder to find the perfect song to ease her mind but it was not meant to be as a clear and hard pair of knocks battered against the thick wooden door of the room that had a small balcony overlooking the marina.
She didn't respond right away and instead began to mentally count the seconds after the first pair of knocks. When she reached the double digits, a more aggressive set of heavier knocks banged against the door.
She sighed and dropped the iPod to her side on the bed, accepting the fact that today was just not going to go her way. Licking her lip and dislodging the earphones, she slowly slid off the bed and got to her feet. With a few short but slow steps, she unlocked the door and swung it open.
"Why aren't you answering your phone, Fleur?"
The question was thrown at there with as much care as a sledgehammer would when bound for a solid brick wall – None at all.
Fleur opened her eyes to study the face of the person throwing figurative daggers in her direction. Usually a pair of delicate glasses framed the petite, cute face that looked at her, but had the warm weather of Monaco not been so intolerable this week, then perhaps the person in front of her would have not looked like a flustered hen.
"Je suis désolé, Marie," Fleur admitted ruefully. "I must have lost it somewhere."
It was a blatant lie but she wasn't going to admit she threw the phone away sometime after she had escaped the media frenzy the night before. She'd apologise for that particular blunder another time.
"Well, if you hadn't," the young woman complained, "then you would know that you are way behind schedule. The people from Vogue are waiting for you on their yacht. You were supposed to go there for the swimsuit shoot."
"I don't feel like going today," Fleur said, moving back inside the room and allowing her personal assistant whom she actually had no control over – she was assigned by the team – to follow.
"Can we postpone it?"
"Pos-" Marie gasped. "No, no, you're going. You. Are. Going. No discussion. We're not doing this now. I can't just cancel on Vogue while we're already late."
"Well, I'm sorry," Fleur tried again, this time more honestly. "I just don't feel like I'll be able to do it today. They'll understand if we give them a good reason."
She was hopeful, even if it was false hope. There was no pleasing Marie when she was looking the way she did. Red and on the verge of combusting. If she thought about it, that would actually help. They'd both go up in smoke.
"What are you smiling for?" Marie threw at her. "This is serious. They'll never agree to another meeting. What's gotten into you?"
Her jaw tensed at the question and narrowed her eyes at Marie. The petite woman with the frantic grip on her notebook and her phone strapped to her belt flinched.
"Fleur, I know this morning was rough but you'll only make it worse if you seem like they got to you."
Fleur relented her narrow stare and moved to get some space between them. "They did get to me. I believe smashing someone's face in is the definition of getting to somebody."
"Everybody there knows he was being an ass. His comment about your mother's pregnancy was uncalled for and anybody there would have done the same."
"So what's the problem if I need a day to myself?" Fleur demanded hotly, throwing her hands at the wall and dropping herself on the bed again.
"You're not 'anybody'," Marie repeated, as she had many times before. "You're Fleur Delacour."
"And what has that gotten me so far?"
Marie squared off opposite of her knowingly, crossing her arms with the notebook locked to her chest. "Everything that you've ever wanted."
"Funding," she began counting with her fingers. "Exposure, fame, success, and the backing of a Formula One Works team. With all your talent, you're still a woman. Can you imagine how much flack they've gotten from pundits and other teams for hiring you as their first driver? Your own Teammate hates your guts but would sell his left testicle to fu–"
"Would, what?"
The tension in the assistant's jaw was visible. The muscles were pulled taut but soon gave way to relaxation.
"It doesn't matter," she offered instead of clarifying her words. "What matters is that you stick to your schedule and show goodwill to your sponsors and those who only serve to further your career. The shoot and interview with Vogue would do that. It would squash the things from yesterday as anything but scandalised garbage."
It was true. At least it sounded that way when Marie said it.
"D'accord," the icy platinum-blonde woman said from where she sat on the bed. "Do I need to change here or will they let me change on the boat?"
An audible sigh of relief escaped her assistant. "On the yacht. I'll help you."
Getting up from the soft queen-size bed again, Fleur moved to put on a pair of sandals but realised she had forgotten to pack them at her last hotel.
"Have you-" she started to ask but stopped herself. But then an idea occurred to her.
"Have I what?" Marie asked.
"Nothing. Never mind," Fleur waved off. "I just need to quickly get something from one of the stores outside."
With panic crossing the woman's face anew, she moved to block her way. "No, no, no. I'll get anything you need. You're going to the boat– yacht."
Fleur didn't really listen anymore and pushed past her. "I'll just go get something and I'll meet you at the thing," she called as she quickly slid barefoot into her sneakers and rushed out through the door.
"Fleur!" Marie shouted but soon stopped when people were beginning to turn to look.
Fleur felt terrible for the young woman who had suffered with her through all the instances of drama and made it out alive but she simply couldn't not have those sandals. They were the cheap, synthetic see-through sort that you could find at most seaside destinations. They were cheap but usually well-made and very comfortable.
She figured one of the shops by Saint Devoté would sell them. Overpriced but they'd surely sell them.
Monaco F1 Pitlane/ Paddock Area
As she was making her way through the paddock, she had to snake through piles of tires and front wings, busy mechanics, and one or other pundit making odd predictions about how the race weekend at Monte Carlo would go.
She didn't really listen to the speculative predictions but she knew by experience that they were often far-fetched and almost always harsh. Just reminding herself of what had been said about her in the past could make her blood boil but now wasn't the time to lose her composure – she was being sneaky for a reason.
Planning her route in her head, she realised that despite wearing a casual outfit, people would still take note of her. Her face and hair would be instant attention magnets and would doom her plans to get out unnoticed.
Who was she kidding, it was merely a matter of time before someone recognized her out in the public. Yet she could prolong the period it took until that came to pass.
Taking that into account, she slowed her steps and let her gaze travel across the pitlane and the garages of other teams. At first, she was disappointed. She couldn't very well go and steal a mechanic's team overall but they should at least have some spare hats and a pair of sunglasses lying somewhere.
Not long after she thought that she spied a forgotten Ferrari cap and if she wasn't mistaken, a pair of Aviators. She wasn't generally one for such large, over-the-top sunshades but their size was perhaps the perfect tool for what she needed to do.
Nobody would expect her to wear anything remotely ill-fitting – it was ideal.
So she quietly grabbed them and put them on once she was well hidden behind a stack of Michelin tires. She also made a mental note to return the borrowed items later.
Once satisfied that the hat and shades were situated on her properly, she quickly meddled with her hair, tying it into a low ribbon she had wrapped around her wrist and fixing it so that it would come to rest on her chest.
Nobody would notice her now. At least, not right away.
Finally able to exit her hiding place, she peeked around the pitlane before moving into a light jog out and through the pit exit. After she crossed the road, she came to a stop and waited for any reaction coming from the people walking past her on the sidewalk.
Nothing came of it, though, and gratefully, she sighed a breath of relief.
Satisfied with her makeshift camouflage outfit, she began to move and focus on finding her way to Saint Dévoté church at the end of the straight, leading into Turn 1 of the Monte Carlo Grand Prix. But instead of making a right turn, she took a left.
The people around her were talking excitedly about the upcoming race and what they were hoping to see happen. Some were hoping for exciting clashes and others were hoping for some bent steel.
'Who were they kidding? Monaco may be a popular race destination but a race track in the modern sense it was not. Close racing? Yeah, that wouldn't be happening so easily. Not with how narrow the street circuit is. Possible but very risky.'
Shaking her head at the comments that she overheard, Fleur quickened her pace but tried to look at every part of the innocent but excited tourist. One could argue that she'd fail miserably but she had to make do.
Finally reaching the final corner of the row of buildings, Fleur could spy the cream-coloured church. Her destination stood amongst the numerous smaller shops adorning the vast open court of the church. Taking her time to study each shop, she discounted the shops that sold souvenirs of the church and looked for a shop that sold beach goodies.
However, with growing frustration, she noted that almost none featured any such products on their storefront and feared she'd have to actually go inside to look for what she needed. The thought irked her.
'I just hope they're empty.' Her silent prayer went up and with resignation, she moved toward the closest shop to her.
She could spy a pair of men through the glass and a lump of horror lodged itself in her throat.
One of them wore a McLaren F1 team shirt while the other had his back to her. He was clothed in casual wear and didn't look like he'd belonged with any race team. However, that thought was short-lived as the McLaren team member approached the younger man at the cashier and they spoke with each other in a manner that was indicative of their knowing one another.
Almost inclined to go to another store, she made to move but then spied the sandals hanging on a rotating display right beside the cashier and sighed in resignation.
'Just my luck,' she thought with a wry line to her lips.
She closed her eyes and squared her shoulders. So far nobody outside had recognized her and just maybe the men inside would be equally obtuse to her.
'Guess I'll find out soon enough.'
Moving her legs forward, she went and pushed the door into the small shop open and as if she just dropped from the sand into the ocean, the cool climatised air washed over her.
Her skin formed goosebumps and the ripple of a chill travelled down her spine. The bell that rang overhead didn't even register with her but the man wearing the Mclaren shirt noticed her and instantly looked awestruck. The other man standing by at the cashier hadn't turned to look at her but noticed the dazed look on his acquaintance instead before finally taking note of her and suddenly moving forward and toward her.
She remained nonchalant and swiftly moved forward toward the cashier as well, praying that they would not engage her. And they didn't.
They seemed to have completed their purchases and were on their way out and while the man that arguably recognised her was making moves to speak to her, the other individual, and indeed a younger man – he was younger than her at least – with pitch-black hair and a pair rustic glasses and–
'Green eyes,' she finished silently.
That was all she could think of before the younger of the two men pushed the other out through the door and they disappeared into the bright sun behind her.
She turned her head slightly to see their shrinking silhouettes but the bright sun outside blinded her even behind her shades. The beige, marbled floor didn't help her vision even a little.
Turning away from the bright reflections of sunlight, Fleur shook her head slightly and reminded herself that she was on a schedule and that any further minute she spent would undoubtedly send Marie into another mental breakdown.
It was pity that made her move toward the stacks of sandals quickly.
"Shit," Fleur heard the woman utter at the cash register. "Pardon my language," she apologised to her once she realised she wasn't alone in the shop.
"It's fine," Fleur responded in French and waved her off quickly before seeing the distressed face on the woman, her eyes moving from a few coins in her hands to something outside of the shop. "What's wrong?"
The woman who relaxed slightly as she could return to conversing in her home language, bit her lip and slowly but surely her shoulder sagged in defeat. "Uhm…the two gentlemen that were just here. I miscalculated the change and I let them walk out with too little."
Fleur turned to look outside and could just see the pair cross the Albert Premiere and disappear into the pit exit of the paddock.
"You mean the men from earlier? One of them wore an F1 shirt," Fleur enquired, hoping the extra bit of information would jar the memory of the shop owner.
"I think one of them wore a McLaren shirt," the woman agreed with a single nod. "But I'm not sure if they're just fans or even belong anywhere to the teams."
Fleur thought back to when she was merely inches away from the pair of men and could recall a team badge peeking out of the breast pocket.
"I can check, if you like," Fleur offered.
The woman jerked at the comment and turned to study her more clearly now.
'Merde.' She had slipped up and given the wrong bit of information.
Recognition did seem to cross the woman's face but then also a spark of realisation calmed the look of shock on her features. The eyes of the woman behind the cash register travelled around Fleur's get-up and ended on her loose grey shirt and blue short-shorts.
"I know who you are," the woman stated without much of a rise in her voice. "So…could I ask you for a favour?"
Fleur's mouth twisted uncomfortably.
The woman placed a ten Euro paper bill on the desk between them and pushed it toward Fleur meaningfully. "Could you give this to the man with the black hair? I would hate for him to remember my shop this way."
Fleur nodded with absent-mindedness, the request had not been what she expected. Before she realised that the woman had knowingly ignored her and instead used the opportunity to ask Fleur to return a few mere coins.
"That's the favour?" Feur muttered, almost disappointed. "You want me to give him the money he forgot?"
"Yes," she agreed. "It would help me out a lot. I can't leave the store unattended and it would be too late if I went after I closed."
"So, would you?" The woman's pleading gaze unnerved her a bit but she nodded with a sigh all the same.
"Sure."
A wide smile crossed the shop owner's lips and she suddenly moved to where the sandals were. She quickly studied Fleur's sneakers and with a few trained glances returned to the cash register with a seemingly befitting pair of see-through sandals.
"I noticed you were looking at these, so I'll give you a discount as a return favour. Half price?"
Eying the woman with a look of surprise, Fleur quickly pulled a five Euro bill from her pocket and paid the woman.
"Clever," she noted with an accusing glance, feigning a lack of amusement.
The shop owner grinned unashamedly. "I'm a businesswoman through and through, I'd apologise to you if I felt guilty, Miss Delacour."
The woman calling her name drove the true meaning of the trade home for her, and if Fleur had any time to dwell on the fact, she'd perhaps stay for a longer conversation but time was running out and she had a place to be.
"Thank you for your business," the woman announced before Fleur turned to leave.
"And please, don't forget the favour."
Fleur turned back again and nodded knowingly. "I won't, I promise."
Satisfied, the woman bade her farewell and Fleur opened the door to exit the shop and leave the forgiving chill for the unrelenting heat of summer.
Later that day at the Mclaren garage
Harry was busy helping the others set the garage up for next day's practice sessions. It was a Wednesday and usually, practice sessions didn't start until Friday morning but in Monaco, things worked a little differently. The day marked the celebration of the patron Saint Devota's Feast Day, a sacred tradition in the principality that first began in 1874. Therefore, here the practice sessions, the first two, that is, took place on Thursday with Friday being a day off.
One would think a day off before qualifying would be more welcomed among the teams but in truth, it made things much harder on the logistical side of things.
Right now, Harry was rushing to get things set up and the humid weather made the job more tiresome than it usually was. But then again, if he thought about it in between his breaths of frustration, he loved the job, so in the end it was all part of his enjoyment of the sport.
"I still think we should have at least said 'Hi'."
Harry rolled his eyes and sighed at his colleague's comment. He'd been repeating that sentiment since they left the small shop by the church and no matter what Harry offered in response, Louis wouldn't relent.
"And what if you had? Then what?"
"Well, I won't know that now, will I?" Louis threw back at him as they both lifted a box of tools together and carried it inside the small and rather tight garage.
Placing it down with as much care as they could, the box fit neatly in between the other small containers of car parts and hydraulic lines. The smell of oil was abound and despite the best efforts of cleaners every year following races, the dark stains on the floors and the walls still remained, like cave paintings of times long past.
"We didn't go there to talk to her and she surely didn't come all that way to talk to us," Harry offered once more, his patience wearing thin and his pool of ideas running dry.
"You don't know that. That's why you talk to people. To get to know them," Louis shrugged with a lift of his hands.
"Mate," Harry huffed again. "She was bloody incognito."
"What?" Louis frowned.
"Right," the black-haired man nodded. "The Ferrari cap, the big glasses? She was clearly not in the mood for small talk with a bunch of strangers."
Louis raised his hand in submission and turned with Harry to walk back outside to the trucks. "You saw that and instantly decided we're not gonna even greet her?"
"It was enough to tell she wasn't being social," he clarified. "Wasn't interested in stopping to talk with someone who was not in the mood. Much less do so after we drew everyone's attention. She'd have been livid if I hazard a guess."
Louis snickered notably as they huffed with another heavy lift of a small but heavy wood container of air-pressure hoses. "You spent so much time thinking about her feelings? Gee, and here I thought I was the interested party."
"Shut up."
"Hey," Louis grinned. "If you're into her–"
Harry gave him a sharp stare that belied no humour. "Zip it."
Louis grinned and dropped the matter, but Harry knew his friend, he'd wait for the right moment and bring it up again.
It was about two hours later and both Harry and Louis were discussing engine tuning with the crew.
"The engine is still idling badly, and we can't make heads or tails of the problem. We checked for leaks, cleaned the injectors, replaced the spark plugs and already looked at the timing but the problem persists, sir."
Mr Hornsby, a man of short stature but refined features with a pair of wooden framed spectacles and the chief engineer of their team, listened patiently and wrote down the newest attempts at fixing the problem.
"Lines? Filter?"
Harry thought about it but already knew the answer to the question. "Renewed."
"Ignition?"
"Within spec."
"Wiring?"
"Replaced, twice."
"And the alternator?"
"Charge is good, sir," Harry shrugged with disappointment. "We've checked it all out and yet the engine is running rough."
His boss nodded again and continued to write down his answers. "And it had to happen now, of all times. Very well, try to find the problem. If the problem persists in an hour, transplant power unit twelve."
"Transplant? Today?" Louis asked wide-eyed before controlling himself.
"Yes. Is that a problem, Mr Stanton?" Mr Hornsby enquired calmly but the sharp gaze spoke volumes of the man's disapproval. "If you're not up for it, I'm sure Mr Potter and the others will do your part as well."
"It's hot," Harry tried to reason. "Louis didn't mean anything by it, sir."
"Humidity's been getting to all of us. Trust me, I'm from Leeds. I'd give anything for a cold one right now," Mr Hornsby said and nailed Louis with another steely-eyed glance. "It doesn't give permission to lose grasp of our faculties."
"We'll figure out the issue, Mr Hornsby," Louis replied instead of an apology. "We'll have that engine out and replaced, if we can't figure this out."
"Splendid," the man offered instead of another strict rebuttal. "We need this car ready to go before Bill goes out tomorrow. Am I understood?"
Harry nodded quickly before sharing a look with his team mates. "We're on top of it."
"Good," the man finally relaxed. "Don't forget to keep hydrated, can't have you keel over with heatstroke on race weekend. I'll come check with you later."
"Copy," they both replied at the same time and turned to the task at hand.
Once their superior was out of earshot, Harry and Louis moved to work on the engine from the top.
"Mad, that idea is," Louis muttered barely over a whisper as he wheezed using the torque wrench. "Transplant today?"
"Needs to be done," Harry reminded the man. "Ours is not to reason why."
"Yeah, yeah, I know, 'Ours is but to do or die'," Louis muttered again, pulling bolts off the engine valve covers. "I just thought I'd get an easy ride into the weekend. Put my feet up and stroll through town."
Harry didn't reply to the comment and focused on helping drain the oil from below the engine and wiping the camshafts and checking the valve lifters.
"No oil leaks here."
Louis nodded and began removing the screws that held the timing chain cover that effectively held the engine in sync with all other components required for the four-stroke combustion process.
When they were about to remove the chain lodged tightly onto the cogwheels, another member of the pit crew busy working on the front suspension called out Harry's name.
"What is it now?" Harry replied with no small measure of annoyance, tossing a ring wrench on the workbench next to the car and grabbing a rag to clean his greasy hands.
Upon looking up, he noticed one of his colleagues standing next to a woman that struck him as eerily familiar. The sun was standing rather awkwardly in his line of sight and effectively blinded him.
"Yes, m'am," he stated, still busy wiping his hands, albeit more quickly now. "What can I do for you?"
When she spoke, the lightning of realisation struck him and he had to look up again only this time, he didn't care that his hands were dirty and that he might dirty his face trying to hide the sun from his eyes.
"Good Afternoon," she greeted, seemingly taking care to watch her pronunciation. She spoke slowly and well-enunciated but still retained a few telling vowels in French. "I'm glad I found you. I believe we were in the same shop earlier in the day, yes?"
"Shop?" Harry repeated slowly as if his intelligence had abandoned him, trying and failing to remember what she was talking about.
A micro reaction of confusion blazed across her face but it disappeared before anyone really noticed. "You were with your friend," she elaborated, nodding toward where Louis would be standing.
"Right," he parroted with a hitch of his voice. 'Be cool. Be cool. You're not starstruck.'
"Yes," the platinum-blonde woman confirmed, pleased, the worry on her face gone for good. "For a second I sought I may have mistaken you for someone else."
He shook his head, struggling to piece things together about how his earlier visit to that particular souvenir shop was related to her visiting him here now. And talking to him.
"You look confused," she said with a grin, her perfect white teeth showing beautiful pink lips.
"Uhm," he uttered flustered. "Just trying to figure out why you're here– no offence. But I'm sure, if Renault had an issue with me, they'd not send you."
She chuckled at the comment and he could feel himself charge up with spontaneous energy. 'What an electrifying experience, her smile.'
"No, that is not why I am here," she agreed, keeping a small smile on her lips.
Their eyes broke contact and she looked down and inside her bag, fiddling with things that he could not see. While she was doing that, Harry took a moment to look around himself and finally noticed the silence that befell the garage.
All the mechanics, engineers, and the rest of the staff stopped what they were doing and instead stared at the scene unfolding before their eyes. Harry rarely gave credence to supernatural events, but the way they looked to him, it appeared as if time itself had stopped.
He wouldn't have even been surprised if the birds in the sky stopped mid-flight to stare down at the two of them.
"Here," he heard her say and turned to look back at her. "I was asked by the cashier in the shop to return this to you."
He was still confused. "I'm sorry?"
Fleur clucked her tongue. "She said she made a mistake with the change. She asked me to return the money to you."
He finally looked down and noticed a clean ten Euro bill in her soft, beautiful hand. He moved to take them but stopped before he touched her hand.
Dark greasy stains profoundly featured on his palm and he looked around to find something to wipe it clean with. But before he could do anything, he felt his hand being firmly grasped and pulled toward her, the smooth feel of her fingers felt like silk flowing over his rough calluses.
"Please," she huffed. "It's just oil."
With that, she placed the bill in his shirt's breast pocket. When she withdrew the hand that had held his wrist, it was smudged with oil and grime.
"Sorry," he apologised, still. "If I'd known–"
"No, no," she stopped him with a wave of her hand. "It's fine. My father was a mechanic when he was young. And I too get my hands dirty every now and again."
The thought of Fleur Delacour in a mechanic's overalls and smudged hands and face looked as off as it felt natural. What a strange paradox.
"Thank you," he replied instead. "For the change," he clarified.
"De rien," she smiled but then looked distraught when she realised something. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name."
Harry quickly wiped his hands with the rag from earlier. "I'm Harry. Harry Potter. But everyone just calls me Harry."
"Then you're welcome, Harry," she mimicked with amusement, her white teeth showing themselves again. His heart thumped at the sight.
When they both remained quiet and the pause seemed to grow awkward, she bade him goodbye and good luck and left the garage.
Harry seemed to have lost the sense of time before someone grabbed him by the shoulder.
When he turned, he could only see Louis' very pleased and rather annoying smirk.
"So," the man said while turning Harry back toward the inside the garage where the engine still lay half taken apart. "What was that about not talking to her, again? I feel like there's a punchline waiting to drop. Care to fill me in here?"
The bespectacled man was still quite confused as to what had just happened. He had no idea how in a span of ten minutes, his entire day had fallen on its head, and because of Fleur Delacour, no less.
But despite the odd turn of events, Harry was in no mood to give Louis any credit and determined he ought to put the man in his place.
"I remember that I said we shouldn't talk to her," he recalled aloud.
"Yeah," Louis agreed, with a smirk pointing to the obvious.
Harry grinned in return as well. "But I didn't say, she couldn't talk to me."
End of Chapter