Author's Note and Acknowledgement
This is a work of fan fiction, written and posted solely for the enjoyment of readers of fan fiction. The characters derive from the work of JK Rowling. The author thanks Ms. Rowling for allowing readers and writers this opportunity to further enjoy her work. The author neither seeks nor receives remuneration in any form.
This began as an exercise to get Gabrielle and Daphne to meet in the street in Paris. It didn't seem to have enough of an idea behind it to get to a publishable length. Then it turned out they were so cute together. And what about Harry Potter? Didn't Harry and Gabrielle have some kind of mysterious, magical connection going back to Harry's rescue of the little Veela from beneath the lake? Could the three of them have a future? Dare we say, together?
Further Sorting
A Post-Hogwarts Short Story
by
Bfd1235813
The woman would not have drawn any attention from most of the people on the street. She was on her lunch break, like them. Her clothes were indistinguishable from the local fashion. The Navy linen suit with white piping was a perennial favorite. Her stockings were a perfect match for her complexion and her legs benefited from the illusory elongation effected by the lift of her Navy pumps. Her sunglasses were big. Big and opaque, her means of distancing from unwelcome eyeballing.
There was a bit of that. Just a bit. As long as it didn't become aggressive, or intrusive, the woman saw it as one of those components of the engine that made the world go 'round. If an occasional boulevardier crossed the line, so what? Her lack of reaction and big, opaque sunglasses usually caused instantaneous deflation in the poor, poor fellow.
Her hair was pulled back into a French twist, a retro look from around 1957. If asked why she liked it she would have said she had no idea, other than she did. She curated a number of little ambiguities in her public facade. More than one acquaintance observed she could be, '…somewhat enigmatic.' When word filtered back to her, she tilted her head, slightly, allowed one corner of her mouth to curl upwards, then silently went about her business.
She stood, looking in a large street-side window, analyzing the ready-to-wear offerings of a legendary Paris fashion establishment. The woman made a decision. She would put off the purchase she had in mind until after her next payday. It was part of an effort to live on her salary, even though she could draw on family money for truly necessary maintenance. It was an exercise in self-discipline. Something she wanted to do, to prove to herself that she could do it. Because, to be honest about it, she had an audience of one.
"Daphne? Aren't you Daphne Zabini?"
The woman turned, looking through her big, black, opaque sunglasses for the source of the voice. Finding it, she knew the face and that she should also know the name of the owner. The woman found it annoying that she couldn't put a name with the face and the French-accented diction.
"I'm Gabrielle! Gabi! Delacour!" said the newcomer, tapping her breastbone with two fingers. "I was at your wedding!"
"Ohhhh…of course. Gabrielle Delacour—now I'm embarrassed. I just saw Fleur when she was over here a couple of months ago. She and Bill invited me to Dominique's birthday party but I couldn't get the time off. I'm on lunch. Want to walk? I'm breaking up my day."
"Is it still…Zabini?" asked Gabrielle, linking arms with Daphne as they dived back into the human river of the boulevard. "Tell me if I'm prying. I heard conflicting…"
"We separated, yes," said Daphne. "Now we're divorced, so I've taken my old name back. Greengrass. There is a new Mrs. Zabini, so this is simpler. For everyone."
"Oh. I'm so sorry. Well, I think I am. Would I have just stepped on my own tongue?" asked Gabrielle.
Daphne started to laugh.
"No. I've gotten over all the…the sense of failure, I guess," she said. "There's no hurt, maybe a bit of disappointment, in myself. Blaise and I weren't a good fit, as a couple. We are in total agreement on that. Hindsight is 20/20, isn't it?"
"What's that saying, in English? 'F**kin' A!' I learned my lesson," laughed Gabrielle.
"Oh. I guess I didn't hear about that," said Daphne. "Divorce?"
"No! We came very close to getting married, then some personality traits showed that I hadn't seen before. Marcel became more and more controlling. I went to counseling. That didn't sit well. He delivered an ultimatum. Which did not sit well with me."
"So you know your own mind," said Daphne. "Brilliant. Listen, I'm glad you came along. I work here, in Paris. Can we get together, for a coffee, or lunch, maybe? My assignment won't last forever, so I like to hit the Paris must-do's on the weekend. Interested?"
"Absolutely!" said Gabrielle. "Do you have a card?"
Both did have cards as a matter of fact, which they swapped, before leaning in for a quick cheek-bump on parting. Each strode away quickly, giving any curious onlookers the impression they were career women walking with purpose.
Which they were. They were also witches. Both of them had a designated apparation point in mind whence they would return to their post-lunch obligations. When back in their respective offices, each sat at her desk and studied the other's card.
"Oh," they said, together.
Had they been in the same place it would have been the world's shortest, most miniscule choral reading.
"Daphne Greengrass—Representative—British Delegation to the ICW," read Gabrielle. "That makes her a diplomat. I guess."
Daphne looked at Gabrielle's card, comprising a line with her name, a line below that said, simply, 'Couture,' and a graphic below that, a black line drawing of a substantial feather on a gold background.
"Huh," said Daphne. "Pretty snazzy card."
As she looked, the feather acquired a sharpened point, tilted at an angle and wrote: "Owl me. Gabi Del." Then the script faded. The feather took a moment, then wrote the message again, again and again.
Daphne turned the card face down and tucked it under her desk blotter, on the theory that there might be a limited number of messages, after which the card tired and quit. While she was thinking of it, Daphne dipped her pen into the inkwell that sat on her desk and copied the message onto the back of Gabrielle's card, just in case the magical one faded out over time.
Owl her she did. The fair weather held long enough for them to arrange to meet, two Saturdays after their accidental encounter. Gabrielle tried several times to provide directions to her flat, finally resorting to the time-honored meetup spot known to all, muggle or magical, in front of the American Express office near l'Opera.
"You got here," she said as Daphne walked up.
"Yeah. It took longer to figure out Gabi Del was your actual owl mail address. I thought it was a professional name. Ingenious," said Daphne.
"Well, now we're here, so that's that. Let's duck through…"
Gabrielle led the way through a gap between buildings, zigzagged through some spaces between buildings and a derelict arcade into a jewel of an urban pocket park with boxwood hedges, a fountain and beds of every kind of flowering annual.
"Wow," said Daphne. "Magical?"
She extended a finger and drew circles, vaguely encompassing the park.
"It is," answered Gabrielle. "Why should our apparation points smell like a pissoir?"
Daphne was still laughing when they came out of Gabrielle's side-along.
"Isn't this Montmartre?" asked Daphne.
"Very good," said Gabrielle. "Flea markets, Sacre-Coeur, views. Also, for the truly adventurous, a bit of magic. Like in here."
Only by seeing the narrow alleyway at a certain angle could the passer-by perceive the opening created by the offset facades. Gabrielle led the way, stopping to wait for Daphne a few feet into the new street.
"Wow," said Daphne, looking around. "This must be your Diagon Alley."
"Same function," said Gabrielle. "Paris' magical high street. We like to think it is a bit more…attentive to the aesthetics?"
"Got to give you that," agreed Daphne. "And no one has shown it to me, before now. Guess I have some revenge to plot."
The street was wide, although there were no motorized conveyances. The median was a riot of color from all of the different kinds of flowers. An owl post station occupied one storefront, the aviary that was the top story adding thirty or forty feet in height. Owls looked down on the pedestrians, clearly passing judgement in addition to their preening, ruffling of feathers and napping as they awaited assignments. Wizarding dress was as fanciful as it was in Britain, Daphne noticed. Magical street sweepers moved about, using wands to charm litter into enchanted dust pans that vanished their burden as soon as it landed.
Witches and wizards sat at countless sidewalk tables, sipping from little white cups, from little glass bottles and short glasses of red liquid. Gabrielle led the way up one side of the street. She stopped now and then, to point something out in a show window or deliver a short bit of background about some point of interest. Daphne's workaday, office language was French so it was a minor adjustment to read the commercial signs and placards as opposed to the governmentese on the official papers on which she spent her days.
"Check the name," said Gabrielle.
She pointed at a small sign over a doorway into a very non-descript business front.
"A and G?" Daphne read.
"Uh-huh," said Gabrielle, opening the door and standing back.
The scent of coffee washed over Daphne as she walked inside. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dim light.
"Aha!" she said, eying a gorgeous espresso machine.
"What do you like?" asked Gabrielle.
"Double espresso, glass of water. Can they do that?" Daphne answered.
"Daphne, it's Paris, which is in Europe. Proper, I mean. The Continent."
"Two, Alex," Gabrielle told the witch behind the bar.
She turned, gesturing toward a group of three booths along the wall.
"Cozy," said Daphne after they'd taken their seats.
It sounded like the house was playing old-fashioned, vinyl LPs on a turntable. Daphne didn't see the equipment. The sound system had overtones that suggested terms like mellowed, vintage and classic.
'I should know that voice,' thought Daphne.
Both of the witches were slim, so they had elbow room right and left. Daphne didn't think a second witch her size would fit, so the booths had to have been designed to accommodate two people. Looking around the room, Daphne saw larger configurations, presumably for groups of four and six, along with some tables of varying sizes.
"They cram a lot in here, in the little space they have," Daphne observed.
A waitress arrived. Daphne noted the black slacks, protected by a white apron, the white blouse and matching stock beneath a black vest. The waitress put down two cups and saucers and two short glasses of ice water, leaving behind a small tray with a cash register tape.
"Enjoy," said the waitress, bobbing her head slightly before turning back toward the bar.
Gabrielle used a pair of tongs to take two sugar cubes from a cup next to the napkin holder.
"Want some?" she asked.
"Rarely," said Daphne. "Only when I'm turning my coffee into a meal."
Gabrielle thought that funny enough to merit a laugh.
Daphne looked around the walls, studying the pictures and other artifacts. A theme began to emerge while she was on the first wall, confirmed and reinforced by quick surveys of the other walls, customers and the life-size portrait of the couple in the elaborate gilt frame, dominating the space behind the bar.
"A and G," sighed Daphne, as she finally cracked the code. "Alice and Gertrude? How have I never found this place?"
"Matron saints of all the most accomplished Parisian women," purred Gabrielle. "Look at your face. Have I ruined your Saturday? It's not a requirement. This is a great coffee house, along with the other stuff."
It was Daphne's turn to laugh.
"Gabrielle, please," she said. "I lived in a witch's dorm at boarding school-for eight years! I saw it all and I'm beyond shock. Every year, in our dorm in Slytherin House, two or three real couples would emerge and set up housekeeping. They'd invite people and serve tea! The showers were openly Sapphic after ten at night. That was the source of my enlightenment. Your sister-in-law was there, in Gryffindor. Sources informed me she has some skills."
"Really? That red-headed holdout. She has never so much as devoured me with her eyes," snorted Gabrielle. "She was very negative toward my sister, you know, for marrying Bill. Maybe it's spillover. So, change of subject. According to your card, you're with the British Delegation to the ICW? What do you do?"
"It's like the muggles' foreign service, with some adjustments for our magical system. Wherever British witches and wizards are, there is going to be magical consular work. Some commercial relations, support for magical business types buying or selling on the local economy. Political and economic relations. Liaison offices, mainly magical law enforcement."
"So you are a diplomat?" asked Gabrielle.
"Closest thing, although it isn't an exact match," Daphne answered. "There's no ICW in the muggle world. They're very nationalistic, and their international organizations aren't delegated any real power."
Gabrielle nodded.
"Can I ask you something very personal? You can tell me to back off, if I'm out of line," asked Gabrielle.
"Sure," said Daphne. "And I will, if you are."
"Was your attitude toward wizards the cause of your divorce?"
"Yes and no," Daphne said. "I liked my job but I resigned from the service to get married. Blaise' mother made it very much worth my while to marry her son, get pregnant and give the Zabinis a little Zabini. Let me say, not for further circulation, understand, that the physical side of marriage was not an issue between Blaise and me. Unless you just retch at the thought. I know some do, but I don't. That was never me. Blaise and I did as his mother asked. We have a daughter, same age as your niece Dominique. If Bill and Fleur send Dom to Hogwarts they'll be in the same year. It was after that. I married him to do that one thing. He sensed it. I knew he did. Afterwards, I gave it a try, but once our obligation to Madame was satisfied, there just wasn't any desire on my part to stick together."
"Even with your daughter?"
"Contrary to stereotype, we work extremely well together where Morgana is concerned," said Daphne. "I use all my leave to do things with her. We spent a week together last spring, here in Paris, running around, shopping, a day at Versailles. Blaise is happily remarried and he hasn't made anything happen, baby-wise, with the second Mrs. Z., so our Morgana may be it. They appreciate the breaks, when she's visiting me. Madame Zabini has always been very generous, as well."
Daphne smiled at that.
"Guess you love your job," said Gabrielle.
"I do," Daphne said. "I must have been good at it because I applied and they brought me right back in. So, you have a business? Couture, I think?"
It was Gabrielle's turn to smirk a little.
"Did you know, before this, that Fleur and I are Veela? Yes, well, we're witches, and we're Veela. Veela have little physical differences from humans. We keep those out of sight when we're not with our own kind or a trusted partner. It makes tailoring our clothes difficult. I've built a business based on that. A Veela can feel comfortable at a fitting, standing on a box in her underwear, if she's in front of another Veela. I don't freak out at the sight of a stray feather."
"Doesn't that beat all? Just when I think I've heard everything," Daphne observed. "Another espresso? I'd like to get a round."
"Don't worry about it, I've got an arrangement with Alex," answered Gabrielle as she waved for the waitress. "It's for the business. You might need a gown for some ICW ball, or something. Cultivating relations with my client is key to closing the deal."
"I wonder what kind of deal that would be?" Daphne asked.
They were still giggling when the espresso arrived.
"We'll need to either stop after this one or change into shorts and running shoes," said Daphne. "Now, Marcel?"
"Oh. Well, like I said. I thought we were ready to go forward. You've a look on your face. I sense you are wondering how I reconcile desire for women with willingness to marry one of THOSE. Quite simple. Most Veela have more than a mating drive. It's a mating compulsion. When we cycle, we must have a male. Our philosophers think it derives from Veela being an all-female phenomenon. If we just went to the beach and took baths and rolled around naked together, we wouldn't replace ourselves, so Nature took a hand and built in a need for that kind of physical relationship. It comes around regularly, for our convenience. Some Veela don't have to juggle. My Maman et Papa, they've been married since forever. I think all her girlfriends are strictly platonic."
"So Marcel was this wizard and I thought we were really good friends and he had an open mind and I tried to ease him around to the idea that I'd be his wife. At the same time, I needed something that he couldn't give me. It wasn't a threat to him or what he and I would have. He couldn't adjust and became territorial. It didn't end well."
Daphne looked across at Gabrielle. Something about the Veela's face said Daphne really didn't want to know more.
"Merlin. I had no idea," said Daphne. "I thought we had a good magical creatures curriculum at Hogwarts."
Gabrielle burst into laughter.
"We aren't grindylows, Daphne," she said. "We're just not humans, exactly. It's a different line of ascent from the primordial slime."
"Maybe. It certainly worked for you. Oh. That's not…I swear I'm not perving on you," said Daphne.
"Yet."
"Sorry?" said Daphne.
"You were going to finish with 'Yet.' I just put it back for you," Gabrielle replied, looking over the rim of the little white cup.
Neither spoke. Dusty Springfield was coming out of some hidden speakers. Someone didn't have to say they loved her.
Daphne considered Gabrielle's very suggestive comment.
"…be close at hand,"
"Just so," mumbled Daphne.
She stretched one arm across the table and rested her fingertips, slowly stroking Gabrielle's knuckles. Gabrielle didn't pull her hand back.
"We should…finish, and…go look for bargains," Daphne muttered. "It's Saturday. In Montmartre. We should shop, stroll around."
"Perhaps," Gabrielle nodded. "Yes, let's. Nothing like a little bargain-hunting."
HJPHJPHJP
She was the only one who called him 'Arry.'
When they first met, formally, he had already pulled her out of Hogwarts' lake. They were wrapped in towels, blue-complexioned and shivering. Her big sister gave Harry a kiss, in gratitude. That helped with the chills. Considerably.
They saw one another at Bill and Fleur's wedding. She hadn't quite reached her teens. Ginny Weasley was already possessive. Harry Potter resolved that he would never. There was a five or six year age difference. She'd hate his bands, as he would hers. Totally unacceptable. Besides, he liked contact sports, she liked ballet and gymnastics.
Were that not complicated enough, he had this quest, kind of hanging over his head. It could never, ever work.
When the wizards stopped fighting, Potter set about rebuilding relationships. He saw Bill and Fleur Weasley often, at the Burrow or Shell Cottage. Potter and Ginny didn't feel the old heat, although neither did they feel it with anyone else. Now and then, Gabrielle Delacour would be visiting her sister and they'd both show up at a Weasley table. Potter embarrassed himself when he realized he was doing mental math during those encounters.
No, it was permanently impossible. Best not to even think about it.
After he joined the Aurors, Potter discovered he enjoyed boxing. Go figure. His body had been through every kind of physical insult so, of course, he'd volunteer for some more. The upside was it not only made for good workouts, he finally had a shared interest with his first cousin, Dudley Dursley. There was an additional bonus. Vernon and Petunia Dursley were upset for days afterwards, whenever Harry and Dudley got together and went out to the fights. Potter thought that hilarious.
Potter was in the ring at a muggle gym, geared up, with head protection and a vast padded belt girding his middle and groin, when he heard it: 'Arry!'
He begged off at the next bell, trotted into the locker room, skipped a shower, changed and went out to the closest apparation point.
"Hullo! Bill? Fleur? Anyone home?" Potter called.
Bill Weasley opened the door of Shell Cottage and looked out.
"Harry! What's happening? Something must be or you wouldn't just pop in," said Bill.
"Can't put anything over on a curse breaker," said Potter. "Always one step ahead. Something's come up and I need to talk to one of you."
Fleur Delacour joined her husband in the doorway.
"Is something wrong? Is it Ginny?" asked Fleur.
"No, I saw her two days ago and she was fine," said Potter. "It's…"
He saw Victoire, Bill and Fleur's daughter, peeking around Bill's leg.
"Maybe, without the little…"
"Oh, of course," said Bill. "Let's walk."
It took less than two minutes for Bill Weasley to demur and walk Potter back to Shell Cottage and swap places with Fleur.
"The only one who says 'Arry' like that is Gabrielle," he said, tapping his temple with his finger. "I heard her, in here, clear as a bell. It sounded like she was in some distress."
"Ooo-la-la, Harry, this is going to get complicated," said Fleur, before proceeding to tell him about Veela.
"She has always seen you as something of a hero, of course, which you are," Fleur began. "I think so, too, but it is more personal with Gabi because you fought merpeople for her, rescued her and, sorry, put your hands on her when you swam her up to the surface. She was very frightened, after she regained consciousness. It sounds like her impressionable mind has latched onto you."
"I'm six years older…"
"Yes, and she is a woman, physically, subject to all the rules our Veela nature writes for us," said Fleur.
"I…can see…" Potter began, then ended.
"You need a course in Veela," Fleur finished. "Don't worry, unless you're born into a family with Veela members, or are a scholar who studies us, you won't know. Let's go back and I'll make some floo calls."
It was a lovely day for a walk on the broad, sandy beach before Shell Cottage. Fleur made good use of the time it took to get back, briefing Potter about some of the differences between Veela and magical humans.
"Birds are ferociously monogamous?" Potter asked.
"No, that's not it," said Fleur. "Sorry, I clearly gave you a poor explanation. Something in the Veela nature, perhaps from the avian line of ascent, perhaps not, causes Veela to bond with benefactors, such as yourself, who do us a great favor. You offered up your life to save Gabrielle. Her Veela nature must be reciprocating."
"But I'm here," Potter protested.
"By staying behind and making sure Gabrielle got to safety, you demonstrated your willingness, if the worst had to happen," said Fleur. "Complete selflessness on your part. Remember the saying: No greater love…?"
"We don't even know one another, really," Potter protested. "We've seen one another, face to face, five or six times, if that?"
"You hadn't formally met her when you were willing to trade your life, if it meant she got to live hers," answered Fleur.
Potter was silent, thinking. It was true, he hadn't been introduced to Gabrielle when he got her out of the lake. He didn't know the hostages would be released if the champions didn't rescue them. He had felt the loss of his temporary gills and the pressure that nearly pushed water into his lungs. The memories came back. A little kid, Fleur's sister, looked doomed. Potter felt the fury building inside him. Walking on the wet sand, he heard his own words, what he'd heard in his head, back there beneath the lake. He'd cursed the Ministry, Hogwarts, the Tri-Wizard Tournament. The little kid who had grown up getting demeaned, taken for granted and treated like indentured labor had taken enough of their bullshit and was not going to let Fleur's little sister go down the same path. Harry Potter remembered. Clearly.
"So Gabrielle feels gratitude so strongly it enables long-distance brain-to-brain communications?" asked Potter.
He found he was making a conscious effort not to sound like he was an auror conducting an interrogation.
Fleur's face had an odd expression.
"Not exactly," she said.
Potter got the impression Fleur didn't want to continue just then. It was just as well as they had arrived back at Shell Cottage. Victoire Weasley, standing half in and half out of the door, held onto the door handles while she picked up her feet and swung back and forth.
"Allo, Harry," called Victoire.
"Teddy Lupin asked me to say hello, Victoire," said Potter.
"Eaaaggghhhhhh!" screamed Victoire as she dashed into the house.
"Floo calls, then we'll proceed," Fleur informed Potter.
Whether by design, to exercise Victoire or simply to enjoy Potter's company outdoors, at the beach, Bill Weasley came out as Fleur went in. They didn't talk about anything in particular, both simply catching up on the news from the other's orbit. Victoire sprinted ahead, pounding through the shallow water where the waves died before returning to Bill. The length of her strides and her stick figure torso combined in paying joyous tribute to life as lived by the Veela.
"Okay!" said Fleur as Bill, Victoire and Potter returned to the dooryard. "I talked to Maman. Would you be agreeable to a short visit with the family? In France? Dinner and a conversation, and you'll be back in London tonight."
"Yeah, I guess so," said Potter. "I came straight from a workout. No shower. I'd need to go home…"
"Not necessary, Harry," said Fleur. "Timing is important. The sooner we get there, the better."
"We?" asked Potter.
"Definitely," Fleur assured him.
"Well, we'd better leave," said Potter.
They used a family port key, good for up to three people. Fleur's method had them on the threshold of the Delacour family home in no time. Appoline Delacour, Fleur's mother, was standing on the doorstep.
"Appoline," said Potter, inclining his head.
"Harry Potter, thank-you so much for coming!" said Appoline as she stepped aside from the door. "Go right on in. Fleur?"
"Maman!" said Fleur as she embraced her mother.
Potter waited for the Delacours to rejoin him. The family came and went via the kitchen door, so Potter's eyes took in the room. He saw, at a glance, that someone had been filling little potion bottles on the counter next to the range, leaving them uncorked as they cooled. Potter fell in behind Appoline and Fleur. It looked like the party was moving to the salon.
"Arry!"
Gabrielle Delacour jumped up from the sofa, all but flying across the room to wrap her arms around Potter, pressing her torso into his, one knee bumping the outside of his thigh. Potter retained the presence of mind to put his hands on the upper arms of the young woman standing before him so he could step back an arm's length.
"Gabrielle, is there something wrong?" he asked.
"No, Arry! You came! Everything is perfect!" Gabrielle bubbled in reply.
Potter must have looked puzzled. Gabrielle was wearing a bathrobe and not a lot more. She looked like she was getting over something that puts a person in the dumps, physically and mentally. Something like the flu, or perhaps a bad head cold that refused to go away. She didn't look perfect to him.
"Let's sit," said Appoline. "Take the chair, Harry. No, Gabrielle, Harry's lap won't do."
"Maman!"
"No protesting, Gabrielle, face it like woman," said Fleur, in English.
Later on, Potter would realize Fleur was doing a little foreshadowing of the conversation to come.
Over the next half-hour, Harry Potter learned more about Veela than he had in his life up to that point. Since their encounter in Hogwarts' Lake, Gabrielle had grown and matured. Throughout that time, Harry Potter had always occupied a special place in both her heart and psyche. The mental distress message Potter had received confirmed what Gabrielle had wished for all of those years—she and Potter shared a bond.
"Have you heard of the phenomenon with hatchlings?" asked Appoline. "They attach themselves to the first thing they see when they hatch. You call it imprinting, in English."
Veela, he discovered, are subject to some strong feelings when their mating seasons come around. They can actually summon a bond-mate if the hormones are flowing well. That was what happened between Potter and Gabrielle.
"So you just called me up?" Potter asked.
"Oui," muttered Gabrielle, looking very pleased with herself.
"She always insisted, Harry," said Appoline. "We hoped it was childish, wishful thinking, celebrity-worship. Normal girl experiences. We were wrong. Your hearing her cry out, as clearly as you did, and being concerned about her welfare enough to consult with Fleur are pretty definitive. If it fades, it fades, but I don't think it will."
"What am I expected to do?" asked Potter, the look on his face telling everyone he might not want to know, depending.
"Not what you're afraid of, Harry," Fleur assured him.
Appoline Delacour let loose a huge laugh, while Gabrielle stuck her lower lip out.
"Oooh," she moaned.
"Gabrielle!" cautioned Appoline.
"There are suppressing potions," she went on. "Gabrielle will be taking hers, as she has been today. It's not dangerous. Our feelings, during the cycle, are just very strong. It's distressing if no one reciprocates. Seeing our bond-mate helps. Especially if he shows some concern for our condition."
Potter thought that over. He couldn't look over at Gabrielle just then. Each time she moved, her bathrobe crept a little higher up her leg. Gabrielle didn't do anything about that and Potter feared that, very soon, she would be showing him a great deal more than it would be proper for him to see. He thought it might be time to demonstrate some of the concern Appoline mentioned.
"Gabrielle, your distress seems to be going away, perhaps you'd be more comfortable in some different clothes?" Potter suggested, being careful to keep his own eyes on hers, and nothing more.
"Oooh—" Gabrielle tried once more.
"It is Mr. Potter's wish, dear," said Appoline.
Gabrielle's attitude changed immediately. She popped up from the sofa, arranged the bathrobe for maximum modesty and left the room.
"Perfect," said Fleur, addressing Appoline. "I think he gets it."
"I think so, too," said her mother. "Well done, Mr. Potter."
"Thanks. This isn't going to go on every month, is it? Because we're impossible, Gabrielle and me. Agreed?" Potter asked, with a bit of pleading in his tone.
"We are," said Appoline. "The people in this room. As for Gabrielle, time will tell. No, it's not every month. The Veela drive isn't connected to that. It's more akin to the species that can breed once or twice a year."
Potter blew his breath out between pursed lips.
"So I come see her, show some concern, bring her chocolates? That's it?" asked Potter.
"We hope so," said Fleur.
"She'll summon me, if she needs me?"
"I will work with Gabrielle and her Healer," said Appoline. "The suppressing potions are very effective, once one finds the proper dose."
Gabrielle returned, wearing a white polo shirt and a pair of blue jeans. Potter noticed Fleur caught Gabrielle's attention, then pointed to her own neck. Gabrielle pulled her shirt's collar up, then buttoned two of its buttons. Potter just managed to see what caught Fleur's attention. Gabrielle Delacour had the most beautiful, iridescent, pearl-gray feathers growing tight against her neck.
HJPHJPHJP
"That was fun!"
The parcels were sorted, Yours and Mine, sitting on the little table in the living room/dining room of Daphne Greengrass' tiny flat. Living the modest life expected of civil servants was not as restrictive for the magical sort when compared to the muggles. When she had to entertain, a little wand work and an expansion charm were all that was required. Most of the time, the compact apartment was everything she needed, or wanted.
"It was," said Gabrielle. "Who'd have thought…Anyway, I'm glad we found one another. We'll do this again."
Everything she'd bought fit into one modest-sized shopping bag, which Gabrielle had hanging from her wrist when Daphne stepped closer.
"I'd love to," Daphne whispered as she raised her arm.
"You…" smirked Gabrielle, stepping into the space Daphne'd made for her.
Her own free arm wrapped around Daphne, Gabrielle pressed her nose and lips into Daphne's neck, nuzzling, savoring the trace of perfume in the hollow behind her ear, moving on to the earlobe. Daphne gasped. Gabrielle giggled. Pressed tight, each felt physiology taking over, the heat, the moisture. Those personal, musky scents.
'Oh, yes, that's her,' thought Gabrielle, breathing in through her nose.
"Daphne?" Gabrielle asked.
"Hah?"
It was a breath, not a word, not anything articulate, for when an actual word could be intrusive. Daphne turned her head, her open mouth finding Gabrielle's, insisting she be admitted.
"…mmmm…" Gabrielle answered as her lips parted just enough to let the tip of Daphne's tongue reach out, only to be sucked inside.
It was warm, wet and very responsive. Much as it grieved her, Gabrielle had to let Daphne go free, just to finish her question. She could hope they'd get back there another time.
"Oh, my," said Daphne, blinking, her cheeks flushed.
"And, um, could we wait a bit, before, that?" asked the Veela. "Today was fun and I'm flattered, honestly, but we might want to get to know one another. Better. I think."
"You're right, you're right," sighed Daphne, dropping her arm and stepping back. "A bit forward, wasn't I? You're a wonderful kisser, by the way. Must I apologize?"
Gabrielle snorted.
"No, of course not. All part of getting to know one another. Now, before we get truly distracted…Bye?"
"Bye," Daphne sighed, opening the door.
She returned to her table and looked over her finds from their shopping expedition. Some black and white post cards from the 1920's, a flawless cut glass bud vase and a wrist cuff in silver and some material she couldn't identify, probably one of the early plastics. Whatever. It fit her wrist, looked interesting and could be paired with a number of outfits.
But first she'd have to shower. She tried to think about something other than Gabrielle until she'd stepped out of the spray, toweled off, then went straight to her bed, where she lay down on her back. Four and one-half minutes later, she stood back up, took another shower and proceeded to get dressed.
She looked at her kitchen clock. It was getting close to five. If she wanted anything more complicated than a peanut butter sandwich, Daphne decided, it was time to start cooking. An omelet. With diced green pepper and cheese. While she was making the omelet, Daphne was thinking.
"I just met her, really."
"We don't know anything about one another."
"She's much too young for me."
"Forget about it."
"Merlin, the way she pushed, I thought…"
She didn't have any natural flowers for her bud vase so she conjured five miniature sunflowers and placed the arrangement in the center of her table. Dressed for dinner, with her new cuff on her left wrist, Daphne Greengrass tried to unscramble thoughts about her life until today, then today and the last few minutes of her time with Gabrielle Delacour.
Greengrass loved her job.
When she resigned to marry, she'd had no plans to come back to work. If Blaise Zabini wasn't everything she wanted, in a physical sense, she truly believed he'd be adequate. The West Indian-Italian was a housemate from her year at Hogwarts. He was a worldly and sophisticated wizard. They might be able to communicate about those things. The money was certainly attractive. Madame Zabini had, basically, endowed the rest of Daphne Greengrass' life, just for marrying her son and having a baby.
"Which makes you a whore and a brood sow."
That thought had intruded one night while she and Blaise were in the early stages of making love. It didn't ruin things for Blaise. Daphne worked extra-hard at making sure of that, so much so that her husband actually complimented her afterwards. She didn't leave her marriage as a result of a stray moment of self-doubt. Neither did she ever succeed in forgetting it. Over time, the doubts accumulated. They began to dominate her thoughts. She felt the distance between them growing. She tried harder. Blaise noticed.
"I can tell, Daphne. You're right," he said. "You shouldn't have to force yourself, nor do I want you to do that."
"I'm sorry, Blaise, I really am."
She sounded convincing, to herself. Madame Zabini's largesse meant the only thing they had to work through was Morgana's visitation schedule. She went back to work, in a plum assignment. Once a year she took Morgana home for a week at Greengrass Manor. Her parents pretended that they didn't know her preferred intimate company was female. They accepted her explanation, that she and Blaise had divergent life goals they couldn't overcome. They'd grown apart.
A bit of self-deception was a small price to pay for the privilege of spending time with a granddaughter like Morgana Zabini.
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After the initial shock of learning his Veela bond-mate Gabrielle would be in telepathic communication, one or two times a year, Harry Potter viewed his own situation with some detached amusement. Of the many things that called attention to him, Potter's connection with Gabrielle was the only one he assessed as cool. None of his friends and acquaintances were participants in such a phenomenon. Considering they were mostly witches and wizards, that was saying something.
The duties weren't onerous. Gabrielle used a potion, brewed and monitored by Appoline, her mother, that lowered the intensity of her feelings while she was affected by her mating drive. All Potter needed to do was go to Gabrielle and stay nearby for three or four days. Bringing chocolates thrilled her, as did little courtesies such as offering to fetch a cup of tea or a glass of water if he got up for some other reason. Potter remembered Fleur Weasley's advice to never let Gabrielle catch him alone as those moments were thought to aggravate the Veela compulsion to claim a mate.
Potter was close to six years older than Gabrielle Delacour. She was fourteen and a few months when she summoned him the first time. By the time the Veela turned twenty-one, Potter had become comfortable with a self-told myth that he was a family friend of the Delacours whom Fate had handed a gift. He could do the family, and the delightful Gabrielle, a favor now and then. The duties weren't onerous. He showed up when needed, bringing some sweets or a gourmet box of dried fruit. Young Gabi was thrilled. She always greeted her bond-mate with a full-body-contact hug. Potter accepted the initial formalities. After that, he observed, strictly, Fleur's advice to never let Gabi catch him alone while she was in her 'condition.'
Gabi knew how to hug and make it mean something. On the surface, observers would see a lively youth greeting an older friend, dispensing the briefest of hugs. At first, he dismissed the momentary placement of a knee behind his leg and the definite bump of something hard against the front of his thigh. Silently, he loathed himself for two or three days afterwards. He couldn't reciprocate, but he could feel. More accurately, he couldn't help but feel.
It was still impossible.
Potter liked the Delacour family. He liked France. Being bond-mate with the Veela he'd pulled from Hogwarts' lake seemed, mostly, to be one of those fun, entertaining flukes that made magical life interesting.
They had a quiet conversation over tea when Gabi was nineteen. Mr. and Mrs. Delacour were in the next room watching muggle television.
"There's something I need to tell you, 'Arry," she'd said.
"Oh. Are you going to tell me you've outgrown this…meetup?" asked Potter.
"NO! Whatever gave you…but, no. 'Arry, please listen to the end, okay? You keep me sane. Since I started to mature and called out to you that first time, you've always come. I understand that is a real sacrifice for you, taking leave to help me out. Being connected this way, to me, it wasn't anything you asked for, or wanted."
"Don't fret, please," said Potter. "I wouldn't have come if…"
"IF?"
"IF—it was unpleasant," Potter finished, wondering immediately if he had been careless and planted a seed.
The return smile from his Veela friend was modest with an air of, 'Yes, I AM quite pleased with myself.'
Their self-discipline lasted until Gabrielle's first cycle after her twenty-first birthday.
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"So you're Morgana? I'm Gabrielle. Gabi, if you like. Did you pick out a place for lunch?"
The little party left Daphne's apartment and went down to the street. They walked, three abreast, conversing about fashion, the latest colors and quidditch. Gabi's in-laws, the Weasleys, obsessed about quidditch. Morgana's father, Blaise, stayed informed, although he wasn't a fan of any particular team. He needed to be able to answer intelligently when business associates used a quidditch reference. Morgana, not quite old enough to go away to school, knew her Uncle Draco had played at Hogwarts. She had vague preconceptions about school, and quidditch, gleaned mainly from listening to adult conversations.
Morgana's magical choice for a lunch venue featured eye-catching graphics and characters wearing improbable clothing choices, the same as its muggle counterparts. The difference was one of degree. Bats and owls, dragons and huge spiders, a humanoid with a reptile-like face who was always getting beaten by a little kid in a cape, his bowl haircut not quite covering a scar on his forehead.
When Morgana first asked her dad who the kid was, Blaise replied he had been very famous ten or fifteen years before, back when Blaise was in school, and she would no doubt be reading about him one day. Blaise noted the character kid's hair color was wrong, he hadn't worn his hair that long in the back and the wand was too big for the character.
"That's all showbiz," Blaise confided.
"What's his name?" asked Morgana.
"Ahh…I'll think of it," answered Blaise.
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"Fleur thinks perhaps this will fix things," Gabrielle said. "Why don't we both talk to her? She knows a lot more than I do. I am a simple seamstress. I can barely write my name."
"We can talk to Fleur," said Potter. "If that is what you want, tell me where and when. I have a lot more control of my schedule these days. Although, it would be much easier, as you know."
"As we discussed, this is actually a lot closer to the old Veela way, Arry," said Gabrielle. "I know myself well enough to know I will have to stray."
The look passed between them. She finished with a giggle, as always.
They had returned to Potter's London townhouse after he had traveled to France in response to her distress call. She was twenty-one, an adult in everyone's eyes and every jurisdiction with a civil code. Three days later she confided how pent-up she'd been feeling, as if her body was itself a fuse burning down to the promised explosion. They'd laughed.
Potter asked, first, if she was taking anything? To, you know, prevent…?
He had a supply of very practical muggle alternatives on hand. When he explained, he thought she was going to slap him, or worse. Taking his time and showing some backbone, Potter prevailed.
They met again, a little over six months later. Gabrielle had discussed their situation with Fleur, who advised her to do as Potter asked. She had enough to do, with her growing business, without the complications of pregnancy, a newborn, then, before she knew it, a toddler and all those demands.
"You have watched Victoire, non?" Fleur asked.
Something got through. Gabrielle complied. Potter thought they had settled into an agreeable arrangement. He'd rather they married but that wasn't what Gabrielle wanted so they would be bi-national lovers. Potter worked in London, Gabrielle in Paris. He had to admit it was very agreeable, helping out with her Veela problem.
A few months later, the owl appeared.
"Harry," Gabrielle's note began.
'Odd,' he thought, 'Why's she using an owl?'
She didn't say, simply asking him to meet in Paris. On a whim, Potter traveled by muggle conveyances, mainly to see what the Chunnel was all about. When he got to Paris, Potter checked into a magical boutique hotel with a view of Notre Dame, sidewalk booksellers and boats going up and down the Seine.
"What can I do for you?" Potter asked.
It was the first substantive words he'd spoken, if one didn't count, "Umm…You're looking great! Italian okay? We have a table at that place you took me to…"
"I needed to see you," said Gabrielle. "And talk. About…things."
"Things? Not like, about the future? Whether to buy or rent? Here or there?"
Potter wound spaghetti around the tines of his fork. Gabrielle laughed.
"No, not exactly," she said. "Besides, aren't you a rising star among London aurors? I won't be responsible for snatching you away from that. I would second-guess myself for the rest of my life and you might resent me forever."
"Doubt if anything could make me resent you," mumbled Potter. "Look, you're trying to find the nerve to tell me something. Don't object, you're quite readable, Gabi. We'll talk, whenever you're ready. Don't fret, though, that never helps anything."
Gabrielle took a piece of the garlic bread and broke it. She kept the small piece for herself, dropping the larger on Potter's dinner plate.
"You're right," she said with a smirk. Gabrielle turned her attention to eating.
Potter awoke from a sound sleep. He located his watch on the nightstand on his side of Gabi's bed. 'What did we do?' he asked himself. Gabi was already out of bed an gone from the bedroom. The door was closed so Potter threw the sheet aside and stood up. He picked up his underwear from the floor and grabbed the trousers hanging on the back of the chair. Bits of last night came back as he crossed to the en suite. Potter started to smile.
He remembered Gabi saying she wasn't exercising her Veela prerogatives, which Potter had so generously granted. She wasn't at that point in her cycle. On the contrary, she wanted them to get together purely for fun.
"It's always fun," he'd assured her. She liked that.
Potter was alone in the shower, a rare experience at Gabi's. She'd taught him how to stand out of the way of the spray and use his hands to smooth the little patches of feathers. He thought of her stepping out of the shower, shaking all over before her feathers stood up, then lay back down against her skin. Potter forced himself to stop the reverie before he needed to find Gabi and start last night all over again. She might, after all, have some constructive demands on her time today.
He used his towel to wipe up the water he'd splashed here and there before hanging it over a towel bar to dry. Grabbing his shirt, Potter walked out into the hall to look for Gabi.
"'Arry!'"
She stood at the range, wand in hand, scrambling eggs. Potter walked over, standing close.
"I was just thinking of you," he said.
Potter spoke softly, close enough to smell her perfume. She'd put a little on that morning.
"Do I need to get dressed?" he asked, noting Gabi was in blue jeans and a white dress shirt. She could walk out to the street with just a pair of shoes.
"Mmm…maybe button up your shirt and put your socks on," she said as she used her wand to transfer the eggs to an oval platter. Potter went back to the bedroom.
While he was down the hallway, Potter heard the flat's door open and the sounds of an arrival. He didn't make any noise walking back in his stocking feet, which gave him the advantage of identifying the visitor before she turned around and saw him.
"Greengrass," he said, more of a question than a greeting.
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"Potter."
Daphne Greengrass looked at Potter first, then turned back to Gabrielle, who looked between the other two.
"What is this?"
"Well, I thought we could have breakfast and talk. About. Things," said Gabi.
'Hasn't given her opening remarks a lot of thought,' Potter said to himself as he tried to get prepared for what he suspected was coming next. He resolved to let Gabi lead the way through what seemed to be a formidable thicket because he knew, in an instant, that there would be no profit for his taking on the responsibility. Fine. If Gabi was treating them to breakfast, they ought not let it go to waste.
"Gabi?" he said when he had her attention, then tilting his head toward the table.
"Of course! Sit down, sit down, Daphne," said Gabi. "You know Harry?"
"Yes," they said together.
'So SHE's the one,' thought Potter. 'I knew there had to be someone.'
'So HE's the one,' thought Greengrass. 'I knew there had to be someone.'
Potter noticed Gabi hadn't thought of ketchup. He liked ketchup on scrambled eggs. Potter went to the fridge and opened the door.
"Will anyone be wanting toast?" he asked.
Greengrass looked at Gabi.
"I would," she said, not turning to look at Potter.
Potter put the ketchup on the table, along with a pair of salt and pepper shakers that he picked up from the counter. The introduction to the morning's topic probably could not have been so well organized as to wholly avoid confusion.
"So," he said, removing the loaf of bread from the still-open fridge. "Gabrielle?"