CHAPTER – 20 OBLIGATIONS AND GOODWILL

With a resounding pop, Fleur Delacour materialized within her cozy living room, Harry Potter in tow, his weariness evident. Without concerning herself with decorum, she gently laid him on the bed, allowing his body to slowly envelop the mattress. Her gaze shifted to the blood seeping from his abdominal wound, leading her to deftly banish his shirt and employ a quick Episkey charm in an attempt to mend the injury.

To her perplexity, the spell had no discernible effect. A puzzled expression crossed her face, and she muttered, "That's peculiar. The wound should've closed— 'Arry!" She firmly gripped his face, lightly tapping his cheeks to rouse him. Harry's eyes flickered open, revealing an exhaustion that bordered on extreme sleep deprivation. "'Arry, you must stay awake. 'Arry?"

Harry emitted a grumble but did his utmost to comply.

"Merde!" Fleur promptly summoned a vial of pepper-up potion from her satchel. She kept it on hand for long hours of financial work. Gently tilting Harry's head back, she administered the pepper-up, ensuring his lips were sealed tightly to prevent regurgitation. Harry coughed in response but ultimately swallowed it, accompanied by a less-than-pleased expression.

"Pepper-up," she explained as an afterthought.

"Doesn't seem to be working," he grunted, attempting to push himself upright, only to be restrained by her. "No, wait, lie down. I need to examine what happened to you."

"Nothing happened to me. I'm fine, just terribly exhausted," he insisted.

"I'll be the one to determine that!" She snapped, casting another detection charm on the injury. The failure of the Episkey was evident, as a rough scar was forming just above his waistline. It wasn't the result of the healing spell but his own magic, accelerating his natural rejuvenation.

"It must be a dark hex," she mused, her mind swiftly running through the standard forensic detection spells. Her aspirations as a wardmaster made her well-versed in curse detection. She couldn't fathom why Harry thought the pepper-up wouldn't work, but at least he was awake and functioning, and that was what truly mattered. With her rosewood wand moving in intricate patterns, she methodically cast a sequence of revealing spells. Forensic detection was both an art and a science, and the key was not just to identify the specific curse but to uncover the associated arithmantic equations that could be used to trace its composition and—

Her jaw dropped.

No, this couldn't be. This absolutely couldn't be.

She dispelled the chain of spells and recast them, yet the results remained the same.

"This... this is impossible! Merde! I can't believe it," Fleur looked at him in shock, "this— this has to be a mistake!"

"What is it?" Harry inquired, his expression a mix of curiosity and dread. "Is something wrong?"

Fleur gaped at him, then at the wound, and then back at him. Wrong? Wrong? This was—this was—

"This indicates you've been struck with the Transmogrifian Torture Curse, 'Arry," she whispered, "but— but I don't understand!"

"The Trans—what curse?"

"Transmogrifian Torture," Fleur blurted, "it was infamous during the Great War, created by Vinda Rosier, Grindelwald's Left Hand. It's designed to transfigure your blood into poison. A horrible way to die. This spell is considered Unforgivable in France."

"And not here?"

"The counter-curse must be applied within seconds, or the victim... Merde! 'Arry, how on earth are you still alive?"

A glimmer of recognition flickered across his face, leaving Fleur to wonder what Harry knew that she didn't. Was this another instance of the Boy-Who-Lived phenomenon? Surviving the Killing Curse twice and now this? Could it be that Harry Potter was somehow immune to dark curses?

"Just my luck," he muttered.

Fleur furrowed her brow and cast another assessment spell. It was indeed true. The wound was healing, the bruises were mending, and every trace of the curse was rapidly fading. In a matter of minutes, she suspected the curse would be entirely undetectable. Between his resistance to her Veela allure, his swift reactions in combat, and now this, Fleur was piecing together a very different image of Harry Potter. It was a far cry from the 'leetle boy' who had found himself as the Fourth Champion of the Triwizard Tournament.

"What was..." Fleur rephrased her question, "What was the motive behind those attackers?"

His expression shifted into a deep frown. "The hazards of being associated with me. They're furious about my survival at the cemetery and the loss of their family members. But I didn't anticipate a broad daylight attack."

"You should— you need to report this to the DMLE," she advised.

"For what?" Harry challenged her. "I'm already facing a trial for something similar, remember? Fudge will probably spin this as yet another example of me seeking attention by engaging in public altercations." He paused for a moment, his expression conflicted. "I... I'd understand if you don't want to continue as the Potter Account Manager after all this."

Fleur was so taken aback by his words that she momentarily froze, her thoughts swirling. Harry may have continued speaking, but he realized she wasn't listening.

"Fleur?"

In an instant, she closed the gap and stood before him, her Veela aura emanating with anger.

"What did you say to me?" She hissed.

Most men would be terrified when confronted by an enraged Veela or even be overwhelmed by their allure. Harry, however, remained unfazed.

"I said that if you choose not to remain my Account Manager, I won't hold it against you," he repeated.

Fleur's eyes twitched, and she was almost tempted to give him a good slap. It was true that she had initially despised the idea of working for Harry. Her nightmares of being tortured, the realization that the 'leetle boy' had saved her and won the Triwizard Tournament, and the subsequent troubles with her mother had all fueled her disdain for him. It was irrational, she knew, but she couldn't help but hold him indirectly responsible for her hardships. That was, until the day she had met him at Florean's parlor.

Setting aside his resistance to her Veela allure, which had caught her attention from the start, Harry had initially been a somewhat chivalrous stranger who seemed just as uncomfortable with their unexpected situation as she was. He had been easy to converse with, and Fleur could admit that she had come to appreciate their conversations. It could have been her stress and foul mood at the time, or maybe it was just that he wasn't another obnoxious pureblood, but something about him had been genuinely likable. Beyond his wealth and celebrity status, it was evident that he was extraordinarily competent, brave, and mature for his age. In their subsequent meetings, his manners had been commendable, and Fleur had found his attempts at being a gentleman, something almost archaic in a nation tainted by bigotry, to be charming enough to overlook any minor missteps. And then there was his power.

It was overwhelming. Fleur had initially thought her perception of his Patronus's effects might have been exaggerated due to the recent Cruciatius curse, but witnessing his combat skills had erased all doubts. The last spell he had used— a protective shield cast like an offensive curse, carrying enough power to send four trained and notably senior wizards flying and out of the battle. Even when she unleashed her fire, her spells could barely reach the higher seventies in terms of effectiveness. But him?

And he wasn't bad on the eyes either. Years of Quidditch had sculpted him into an athlete. For a fleeting moment, Fleur wondered how his lips would feel up close. Her inner allure predator stirred and reveled in the thought.

"And why would you think I'd step down?" She asked.

The troublesome boy flashed a charming smile, which for the first time since their summer meeting, Fleur couldn't help but notice appeared a bit forced.

"They attacked you because you were with me. Most people would consider that a reason to distance themselves," he pointed out.

"I'm not most people, Monsieur Potter," she replied with a frosty tone.

A subtle twitch at the corner of his lips caused Fleur's initial anger to dissipate.

As the conversation continued, Fleur felt her body growing warmer, and her voice took on a husky tone.

"If anything," she said, her allure growing more potent, "you protected me. I can't speak for most people, but many women find that an attractive trait."

"Hardly attractive when I was the one who put you in danger in the first place," Harry mumbled.

"True," she conceded, "but you did warn me about your baggage, and I willingly took this job and everything that came with it. You shielded me from a curse that would have been fatal. This is the second time you've saved me from a terrible fate." Her allure heightened as she softly touched his arm. "Some might say that deserves a reward, non?"

"People say foolish things all the time," Harry responded.

She inched closer. "Nevertheless, I believe I owe you twice now. Perhaps there's some way I can repay you?"

"Uh," Harry looked distinctly uncomfortable. "You don't have to... I mean, not like that. I mean... well..." he continued to fumble, "if that's what you were suggesting..."

He wasn't wrong. Fleur had made a similar proposition to him before. If she had been more sober, she might have acted differently. But with the recent events, the adrenaline rush from their life-or-death encounter, and Harry's actions, she found herself considering things from a different perspective.

Fleur's Veela allure stirred with the prolonged skin contact, and her inner desires danced with dark anticipation. As it happened, Harry shivered, his heart racing, and his pupils dilating. The allure revealed what it often did about her prey: He appeared strong, gentle, and kind, yet hidden beneath the surface were repressed desires, darker longings that could make him an easy target. Fleur's fingers tightened around his arm, her body pressed closer to his—this was what he yearned for, as all prey did. And Fleur could provide it. She would fulfill his desires, taking what she needed. She would leave her mark etched into his mind and soul, and he would willingly, eagerly return to her, craving to be taken again and again. She could almost picture herself smiling at him as he gradually gave himself over, until it was too late. That look of profound betrayal, that frigid, bone-chilling shiver of pure terror echoing through his very soul as she devoured his life... it would be exquisite...

The allure, the potent force she had always relied upon, vanished with a jolt, leaving Fleur in stunned disbelief. Her Allure had simply dissipated the moment it brushed against his magic. It wasn't a matter of resistance or some kind of spell or enchantment; it was something entirely different.

Not only had he resisted her active allure, he had effectively shut it down, forcing it back into the dark recesses from which it had emerged. Fleur had never witnessed anything like this before. Her primal instincts urged her to claim this wizard as her own in the most primal and intimate way, but her rational mind demanded an analysis of the situation.

Harry had recently survived both the Killing Curse and the Transmogrifian Torture Curse, and now he had caused her Allure to retreat. Was this related to his unique brand of magic? The Peverell bloodline? Could that be the source of his resistance, or rather, his invincibility against Veela allure? It was both fascinating and frustrating, as she had finally found someone worth her attention, and he happened to be the one who made her allure vanish into thin air.

But what was the next step? Resistance to her allure was often a desirable trait among Veela, but invincibility to her allure? What were the odds? And he had just fallen into her lap, someone she could be with, someone who held her in high regard, and someone she wouldn't accidentally kill during their encounters—something that had always been a lingering fear.

Fleur shut her eyes, lost in her own thoughts.

"Fleur?"

She ignored his voice, her mind a swirling labyrinth of contemplation. The Veela within her had already selected her prey, while the witch in her was captivated by the equally impossible scenario. How ironic that after initially dismissing him as a 'leetle boy' just over a year ago, she was now not only working for him but also considering the possibility of claiming him as her mate. Her lover and her sustenance. Hers.

"Well," she purred with a throaty tone, "if you decide to collect this debt later, I wouldn't object."

Harry swallowed hard. "I, uh—"

Fleur was quite eager to hear his response when something began vibrating, and rather loudly at that. She looked around and realized the noise was emanating from Harry's robes. It appeared Harry had just noticed it too, as he hastily fumbled through his robe and retrieved a rather shabby-looking mirror with intricately designed edges, half of which had turned black due to a failed permanence charm.

She blinked in surprise. Why did Harry carry a mirror with him?

"Sirius Black," Harry muttered, and the enchanted mirror flashed to life, revealing Monsieur Black's face on the other side. Enchanted mirrors! So that's what they were. Fleur was skilled in enchanting, but this was a level beyond her expertise. She could create a Protean-charm based messaging system without much effort, but direct audio-visual transmission across a pair of mirrors, even at this distance? This was Enchanting with a capital "E."

"HARRY!" Fleur winced at the man's loud tone. "WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?"

Harry cringed, shooting Fleur an apologetic look. "Sorry, um, I'm with Fleur."

"I just heard about what happened at Diagon Alley. How are you? Did anything happen? Where are you two? Gringotts?"

"No," he replied, appearing uncomfortable. Fleur wondered what was bothering him. "I'm at Fleur's place. I, um, got a little injured, so she was treating me."

"Injured?" Sirius's voice grew sharper. "Harry, just come through right now. Apparate back immediately. Or better yet, send me the address, and I'll come over right—"

"Sirius—"

"Now, damn it."

"Erm, Monsieur Black?" Fleur interjected, hoping to get the man's attention. "Harry was injured, and I've already healed him. There's no need to worry."

"I'll be the one to decide that," Fleur noted as Harry's words reached her ears. She winced, feeling the sharp edge in his tone.

"Harry," Sirius interjected, his voice heated and tinged with concern. "You can't downplay what just happened. You were attacked in broad daylight. Pull yourself together, and start paying more attention to your surroundings, or you're putting yourself at risk." Sirius trailed off momentarily, his anxiety palpable. "Please, just return immediately."

It dawned on Fleur that Sirius Black was acting out of fear for Harry. This was a stark contrast to the suave and casual man she had initially met at the bank. However, she hesitated to interrupt again, choosing to listen.

With remarkable composure, Harry responded to Sirius, "Sirius, don't worry. I'm perfectly fine. But Fleur is facing a difficult situation, and I intend to resolve it before returning."

Sirius's patience wore thin, and his voice rose urgently, "I couldn't care less about anything else right now! Just come back immediately! HARRY—"

"Sirius, please," Harry implored.

The plea succeeded in silencing the anxious man. After a tense moment of silence, Sirius finally relented, his tone begrudging, "Fine. But we're going to have a serious talk."

"Thanks," Harry replied with a lopsided grin. "Sorry for causing you so much worry, Padfoot."

A growl rumbled from Sirius, who retorted, "You can make it up by apparating back right now."

Harry chuckled as the magical mirror's image vanished. He then returned it to his pocket.

Fleur inquired, "What was all that about?"

Harry shrugged and explained, "That? That was just Sirius being his usual paranoid self. He tends to get on edge whenever I'm in any kind of danger. The last time he left me alone, I found myself facing a wraith and a swarm of doxies, even though it was entirely my fault for venturing into that corridor in the first place. And now, once more…" He sighed, a touch of exasperation in his voice. "Maybe Professor McGonagall is onto something. It seems like I'm always drawn into the messiest situations."

"Are you planning to disclose everything to him?" She inquired. At the sight of his raised eyebrow, she clarified, "I mean, about your past and everything that's been going on."

Harry's expression grew somber, and he stared at the floor. "Yes, I will," he replied.

"Good," she said, her tone filled with approval.

Harry offered a genuine smile this time, then exhaled wearily and collapsed onto the couch.

"Is there anything you'd like?" Fleur asked. "I think there's some butterbeer left in the fridge."

Harry glanced around the cozy space. "Uh, no thanks," he replied. "This is your place, isn't it?"

"It's a bit small," Fleur admitted, "but it's all I have for now."

Harry's response surprised her. "I've spent eleven years living in a cupboard. Compared to that, this is fantastic."

Fleur recalled her earlier deduction – the Boy-Who-Lived had indeed been mistreated by his Muggle relatives. It seemed like the more she learned about this country, the more she despised it. But she saw no reason to dwell on that feeling at the moment.

Fleur couldn't help but chuckle. "Of course, I'm delighted my home's an improvement over a boot cupboard."

Harry winced at her deadpan response. "Oh, sorry, that wasn't what I meant."

Fleur's laughter continued. It was remarkable how easy it was to fluster him, and yet, he possessed the ability to dispel her Veela allure with ease and wield enough power to make even seasoned wizards wary. Harry Potter was, without a doubt, a perplexing amalgamation of contradictions.

"It's not exactly a luxurious place," Harry remarked. "I'm well aware of that."

"But it's a shithole you're planning to abandon for my house," Fleur asserted.

Harry countered with a grin, "Nope. You did say you owe me a thing or two, right?"

Fleur squinted at him, sensing a shift in the conversation. There was something about that lopsided grin that made her uneasy. And then there was that cryptic comment he made during the call, something about her being in a bind. It suddenly dawned on her, but before she could respond, it was too late.

He'd better not—

"—so I want this. You'll be leaving this place and residing at the Black manor."

"What? Absolutely not!"

Harry quickly added, "At least until we can find a more suitable arrangement for you."

Fleur growled inwardly. Merde! This boy had some nerve. How dare he flip the script like this, making her the one feeling embarrassed? He had turned the tables on her. She had acknowledged the debt as a clever ploy to orchestrate a situation that would lead to an intimate encounter with him. It was supposed to serve as a convenient excuse for them to be together. But now, he had twisted it to manipulate her into something he wanted.

Fine! She was Fleur Delacour, a master of allure and wit. She'd see how long he'd last against her charms.

"Oh, I understand now!" she replied with a saccharine tone, infusing her words with sweetness. "Yes, yes, indeed! Why squander a debt on a fleeting moment of passion when we can have me, your loyal employee, residing in close proximity? I'm sure the Black Manor offers much better amenities for such a passionate... climax, whenever it takes place. It's all so clear to me now! I had no idea Harry Potter was such a cunning strategist, exploiting poor little me in this way!"

Harry rolled his eyes, unable to contain a grin.

Step into the world of PEVERELL_MAGIC on P.a.t.r.e.o.n! Experience where tales unfold, magic ignites, and the future takes shape.

For exclusive support and early access to upcoming chapters, join us at PEVERELL_MAGIC on P.a.t.r.e.o.n.

Note: Get the scoop a day before anyone else! Updates release on P.a.t.r.e.o.n before they hit FanFiction. Join us for free to read ahead!