Manrann's Flowerpot Fluffball @manrann
Manrann's Flowerpot Fluffball This collection was written as a part of the first community one-shot collection, put together on the H/F discord server over the past few weeks. Link: https://discord.gg Np2zjAH If you’re looking for a compelling narrative, developed characters, and a gripping read, this is not what you’re looking for. What it is, is a collection of Fluff and other stuff, depicting small, fluffy scenes in the lives of Harry and Fleur. A massive thank you to all the amazing beta readers on H/F discord who took the time to look over the stories, as well as everyone who helped brainstorm or add to these scenes. Special thanks in particular to HonorverseFan (Michal Drápalík), Abel Lecoq, DavidtheAthenai, Nauze, x102reddragon, and Hannibal1234!

Higher and Higher, Part 1:

Harry’s fingers dug into the crack in the rock face, his fingertips pressing into the limestone as he paused for a moment, climbing shoes gripping the cliff face as he breathed slowly, deeply.

He leaned back, feet still planted firmly on the rock as he glanced over his shoulder at the water.

The Irish sea stretched away into the distance all around him, the waters churning against the rock at the base of the cliff, nearly a hundred feet below.

The sun was setting, casting a warm, orange glow on the cliff face, the reflection off the water playing on the rock to which he clung. He let his left hand fall limp, hanging at his side as he stared out over the scenic, panoramic view, his right hand and feet holding him in place.

“‘Arry!”, He heard a voice call out from below him, startling him from his reverie. He glanced down, to where, just a dozen or so feet below him, his girlfriend was climbing her way up to him. Fingers, delicate, perfect, gripped the limestone with a strength not many would expect from hands as dainty as those, moved from handhold to handhold, her feet shifting smoothly from foothold to foothold as she made her way up the cliff face, moving carefully, yet with a grace that would impress even the most experienced of rock climbers.

Even Harry was often caught off guard by it. And he lived with the woman.

“Yes Fleur?”, He called out as he watched her approach. Fleur huffed as she glanced up at him, still holding on with one hand, body leaning out from the rock, eyeing her every motion. He knew she was more than capable of making the climb; hell, they’d done harder climbs than this just fine. That didn't stop him from sneaking glances at her every few minutes. If only to reassure himself that she was safe. Well, as safe as someone halfway up an imposing cliff face could be.

“Stop doing zat! You’ll slip!”, She called back up to him, her cerulean eyes trained on his emerald ones. He couldn't help the soft smile that crept onto his face at the sight of the gorgeous blonde, her silvery golden hair shimmering in a near ethereal way in the light of the setting sun, accentuating her beauty in a way that it did for no one else, light and shade playing on her perfect features in a way that made him just want to kiss her right then and there, consequences be damned.

Well, maybe not entirely. Kissing someone while hanging from a limestone cliff face, over a hundred feet above a churning, rocky ocean was risky, even for him.

Death doesn't like him that much.

Does it?

His soft smile stretched into a grin, one that had her narrowing her gorgeous eyes at the sight. He turned back to the rock, his left hand coming up once again to grip the limestone as he looked up.

Halfway to the top.

He started to climb once more, fingers digging as hard they could into every handhold as he moved, a pace that most climbers would have called swift, and reckless, yet to him was near leisurely.

The war had left its mark on him, just as it had for nearly everyone it had touched. The rush of the speed, the thrill of the adrenaline running through his veins. It was what he lived for, what drove him to get up every day.

It was probably also what had determined his career choices. Professional dueling wasn't for the faint of heart, that was for sure. His hobbies also spoke of his need for the rush. Rock climbing, snowboarding, Quidditch.

The war had left its mark, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

“‘ARRY POTTER!”, He froze at the sound of Fleur’s voice, fainter than he had expected. He glanced down. She was nearly two dozen feet below him.

Huh. When had that happened?

He glanced back up. Only a few dozen more feet till the top.

When he looked down again, she was closer, eyes trained on him, a feathery down slowly creeping up her arms as she climbed. Her eyes were narrowed, face stretching, nose beginning to resemble a beak, facial features pronouncedly more avian. He gulped.

She was not happy.

“Yes love?”

“Slow. down.” She growled as she approached, gracefully climbing the limestone, in stark contrast with Harry’s more aggressive technique, “You’re going too fast! Trop imprudemment! I will not be ze one to tell our child zat ‘er father never got to see ‘er because ‘e fell off a cliff from fifty meters up and hit his head on a rock!”

He laughed, a hearty, joyous sound that rang out across the expanse of sea behind them. He shook his head, and glanced back up. She was just worrying. That he could deal with.

He had ascended nearly eight more feet when what she said truly sunk in, causing him to nearly miss the handhold he had aimed for, forcing him to scramble for hold as he looked back down at his girlfriend, emerald eyes wide, “Fleur…. What do you mean our child?”

She glanced up at him, her transformation having receded, leaving her features mostly human, apart from her near unearthly beauty, once more, her expression at once mischievous and innocent.

She quirked an eyebrow, cocking her head, before she replied in a quizzical tone, “Oui. Didn’t I tell you? I’m pregnant!”

Harry’s jaw dropped, and his brain froze.

“WHAT?!”

Fleur winced at the volume, grinning anyway as she replied, “Yep.”

Harry spluttered, “Wha…. Wh… bu… since when?”

Her expression was thoughtful, one finger tapping at her lip as the other hand gripped the rock harder, holding her in place as she paused for a few moments before answering, “Two weeks or so? Andromeda confirmed it for me last week.”

He gaped at her, “Why didn't you tell me?!”

“Didn’t really have much opportunity to.”

He hmmed in acquiescence, nodding. That was accurate. The last few days had been quite hectic for them, with Harry attending the Spanish dueling finals (Those bastards were very, very inventive with transfiguration. It was really cool) and Fleur having a large project from Gringotts, leading to them not having a lot of time for them.

He suddenly started as a thought occurred to him. He looked back down at his girlfriend, “Wait, why are you climbing then? You shouldn’t be-”

“If you finish that sentence Harry, I will make you hurt”, Fleur interjected, her tone sugary sweet, “I am not suddenly fragile, and you will not treat me so, is that clear?”

Harry gulped, nodding furiously. No matter how good of a duelist you were, it didn't help a lot when your girlfriend could literally grow wings and throw fireballs from her hands.

He turned back to the cliff. His arms had begun to burn from being in one place for so long, and he was nearly at the top. He inhaled deeply and reached for the next foothold, continuing his climb, albeit at a more sedate (for him) pace. Only one thought running through his head.

‘I’m going to be a dad!

******

It was about half an hour later, as they sat on the grass atop the cliff, watching the sun disappear below the horizon, sitting back, knees bent, Fleur sitting between his legs, his arms wrapped around her, both still sweaty from the climb, that Fleur spoke up.

“‘Arry?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

He blinked, before glancing at his… girlfriend? Fiance? Wife?

Well, she wasn't the last one. Yet. But he had no illusions that she would be.

He just had to propose.

A few years ago, he would have done it right then and there, his arms wrapped around her as they sat on the grass, watching the sun go down.

But he wasn't the same Harry from a few years ago. And he knew his Fleur better now. She deserved better. And that was what she would get.

“What?”

“I… I shouldn't have dropped such a big bombshell while we were climbing. You nearly fell. And I would have been the reason, and you could have gotten hurt, and it would -”

He stared at her. She was worrying her bottom lip in that adorably cute way of hers, face guilt ridden as the last vestiges of the setting sun’s light played across her face, falling on her hair, lighting it up in a beautiful, fiery silver display as she babbled on, tears pricking at the corner of her eyes. She looked so adorable, so beautiful, so perfect in that moment that he just wanted to kiss her.

So that's exactly what he did.

Higher and Higher, Part 2:

“Fleur?”

“Hm?”

“Would you go out on a date with me this Sunday?”

Fleur blinked in surprise, raising her head from its comfortable place on Harry’s chest as they lounged on the couch of their flat to stare at her boyfriend.

He turned to meet her gaze, cocking an eyebrow as he mumbled, confused, “What?”

She shook her head, silvery blond tresses flowing softly as she replied, “Nothing. Eets just… You’re asking me out?”

“So?”

She moved from where she had been sitting, curled up in his side, one leg lifting over his, as she settled in a position straddling him as he leaned back on the sofa.

“It's just… ‘ow come you’re asking me so early? It's still Wednesday!”

He cocked an eyebrow, “Oh? So you prefer it if I do it like you?”

She blushed and slapped his chest lightly, recalling the numerous times she had barged into the flat or his room, grabbed him by the arm, declared that they were going on a date that instant, and dragged him out the front door. “Ass.”

His arms came up around her, pulling her back into his embrace, her breasts mashing against his chest as he kissed the top of her head.

“Your ass… is a wonderful thing”, He finished, cheekily copping a feel.

She started, trying to worm out of his grip, before relaxing, “I walked straight into zat, didn't I?”

“Yes, yes you did.”

She giggled lightly, her arms wrapping around his torso as she basked in the sense of comfort that pervaded the moment.

“So?”

“Hm?”

“Why did you ask me so early?”

He chuckled, and she nearly purred at the feeling, a soft down of white feathers popping up along her arms.

“Lets just say its… a special occasion.”

Fleur twirled in front of the mirror

She was wearing a silver gown, reminiscent of her dress at the Yule Ball, so long ago.

The gown was strapless, made of a silvery fabric that seemed to bend in just the right way with the light, giving it an ethereal feel.

It clung to her body, accentuating every aspect of it, from the curve of her back to the swell of her breasts. The front was adorned with a floral design, done in a dark blue fabric, that tapered from its widest point over her right breast, to its end on her waist.

Her face had just the barest hint of makeup, that focused merely on accentuating her features.

She looked, and felt, beautiful.

Harry would love it.

She stepped out into the living room of their flat just as Harry emerged from his study, sharply dressed in a grey suit over a white shirt, a black tie hanging from his neck, and jeans.

He spotted her.

His jaw dropped.

She couldn't help the smug smile that forced its way onto her face.

So what if he was unaffected by her Allure? She didnt need magic to strike him dumb.

He growled, a deep, throaty sound, as he closed the distance between them in moments, stopping just shy of her.

Even with her heels, she was still shorter than him by a few inches.

His hand came up to caress her face, before stopping under her chin as he slowly tilted her face up to meet his own, eyes darkened with pure lust.

“How… Do you manage to get more beautiful every time I see you?”, he muttered, before he leaned down, claiming her lips with his own, tongue worming its way into her mouth, one hand wrapping around her waist to pull her closer.

Fleur moaned into the kiss, her hands coming up to thread themselves into his messy hair, soft white feathers once again growing up her arms, and onto her bare shoulders.

When they split apart, nearly a whole minute later, they were both panting, faces millimeters from each other as they just… stood there. Revelling in the other’s presence.

“I… take eet you like?”, she panted out.

“Oh yes”, he replied, his breath ghosting out over her lips, causing her to shiver, “I like very much.”

They appeared in the alleyway with a soft crack of displaced air.

As they stepped out of the alley and onto the main road, Fleur glanced around, taking in the buildings, the road, the horizon, before turning to Harry.

“‘Arry Potter! Are we in Italy?”

“Yes we are. Rome to be exact”, he replied, that infuriating smug smirk of his adorning those lips she knew so well.

She was unsure whether to slap him or kiss him.

“So”, She asked, “Where are we going for this date of ours?”

He grinned, “Turn around.”

She did.

Behind her, just across the road, a sign hanging over a simple, glass and wood door proclaimed ‘Il Giardini dell'Eden’ .

She gaped at the sight.

He had brought her to Il Giardini dell’Eden?

Fleur turned back to him, face filled with hope.

He nodded, “I got us a reservation.”

Then, he grunted, staggering back a step as she slammed into his chest, arms wrapping around him as she hugged him tightly.

Il Giardini dell’Eden, or the Garden of Eden was a Michelin star restaurant that had opened scarcely six months ago, yet had already received high praise and rave reviews. It was a well known fact that reservations were backed up all the way to next year, a fact Gabrielle had been lamenting every time she’d talked with her sister.

“How?”, Fleur asked as they made their way across the street, stopping just in front of the door.

Her boyfriend winked at her, “Helps to be one of the main investors, doesn't it?”

For the second time that night, her jaw slackened as Harry pushed open the door.

As soon as they stepped into the restaurant, a mouthwatering amalgamation of aromas assaulted Fleur’s sense of smell, accented by the tasteful decor that was at once airy yet cozy, giving across a vibe of class, while simultaneously feeling down to earth.

White tablecloths were draped over the small tables that were arranged across the restaurant, adorned with vases holding gorgeous flowers.

A myriad of works of art decorated the walls, all seemingly selected to be visually pleasing, but not too eye catching.

They were at once approached by the maitre d, a handsome young man dressed in a white shirt, black pants, a black waistcoat and a tie, who bowed when he reached them.

“Do you have a reservation?”, He asked, speaking in clear english, with only the barest hint of an accent discernable.

She turned to her boyfriend, who nodded, “A reservation for Harry Potter.”

The man’s eyes widened, “Mister Potter! An honour sir, an absolute honour.”

Harry flashed the man a friendly smile, “It is always good to see you again, Angelo. How many times do I have to remind you to call me Harry? Friends shouldn't be so formal!”

Angelo’s eyes went wide as he answered enthusiastically, “Always one more time, Mr. Potter. Now, if you and your lovely date would follow me, I'll show you to your table.”

Harry inclined his head, before turning back to Fleur, who’d been watching the interaction with a measure of confusion. At the sight of her cocked eyebrow, he mouthed “Later.”

As they followed Angelo through the restaurant, Fleur could feel numerous gazes on her.

All around them, men were turning from their tables to stare at her as she walked past, arm in arm with Harry. Alongside the stares of lust, were looks of jealousy, expressions of hate.

It reminded her of Beauxbatons. And not in a good way.

Harry’s arm slipped from her grasp, before making its way to her waist, holding her close with a possessive growl.

She smiled, subtly shifting closer into his embrace.

They could stare. She had Harry, and he was all she needed.

Their table was a secluded one, tucked away in one of the spacious, exclusive booths in a corner of the restaurant. A heavy curtain, adorned with art, could be pulled to partition the booth off from the rest of the area for a semblance of privacy.

The table itself was a smaller one, ornately carved and flanked by two comfortable looking chairs. Plain silver cutlery was laid out in the two places that had been set, and a small crystal statue, depicting a man and a woman in a close embrace, dominated the centre of the table.

Harry drew back a chair for her, and Fleur daintily took a seat, as her date slid into the seat across from her.

Angelo, who had apparently stepped away for a moment, returned with two menus in hand. He offered the menu to Harry, who declined it with a wave.

“We’ll be having the chef’s special, I believe”, he explained, quickly shooting her a glance to see if she was on board with it. She merely nodded.

Angelo smiled, “Of course, Mister Potter. Today’s special is the chef’s twist on Risotto ai frutti di mare. Will you be having anything to drink with it.?”

Harry nodded, “I believe we will. However, exactly what we’ll be having is probably a decision Fleur should make. God knows my taste in wine is terrible.”

Angelo chuckled at that, before turning slightly and offering the wine menu to Fleur. She accepted it with a smile, perusing it for a mere moment before making her decision.

“We’ll be having the Vernaccia di San Gimignano.”

Angelo bowed, “Of course. Your meal will take a while, but the wine will be brought momentarily. If anything is needed, please do not hesitate to ask.”

Concluding, he turned crisply on his heel before existing the booth, drawing the curtain to give them some privacy.

Fleur eyed her boyfriend as they waited. The wine soon arrived, delivered by another waiter and poured into two wine glasses, of which they both claimed one each.

For a few minutes they sat there, sipping their drinks, Fleur eying Harry, while he seemed at ease, content to wait.

Finally, she could take it no more.

“Ok. Out with eet.”

He blinked in confusion, “Out with what?”

“Why is today so special? Why are we in Rome, at the Il Giardini dell’Eden no less, today of all days?”

He smiled at her, “Fleur, what’s today’s date?”

“Today? Eet is the thirtieth of.. October…..”

He grinned at her, “Exactly. The thirtieth of october, 2004. Ten years ago, to this day, was the day I first laid eyes on this wonderful, amazing woman who is sitting across from me.”

Fleur’s gaped, leaning back into her seat. Her mind was swimming.

Ten years ago? It was today?

How had she forgotten?

As she watched the green eyed, raven haired young man across from her sip his wine, she couldn't help but smile, her mind travelling back to all the time they had spent together, the experiences they’d shared, the love they’d found.

Harry cocked an eyebrow, “What’s on your mind, love?”

She smirked cheekily, replying, “Nothing. Just wondering ‘ow I ended up with this handsome, talented, insane, adrenaline junkie of a man sitting across the table from me.”

“Hey!”, Harry protested indignantly, “I’ll have you know that I'm only half insane, thank you very much.”

Fleur couldn't help it. She burst into giggles at the exclamation, Harry’s smile turning fond as he took in her happiness, as she was suddenly reminded of why she loved this man.

How could she not, when he seemed to live to bring her joy, cheer her up when she was down, and share the wonders of the journey that they called life.

Oh, and the sex. The sex was amazing.

There they sat, in their secluded booth, through the meal and the dessert, reminiscing of times gone past, happy and content in their love.

“Harry?”, Fleur asked, snuggling into his arms as they sat on a bench at the Orange Tree garden, atop Aventine hill, watching the lights of the city.

Evening had descended, the sky a dark bluish hue, contrasting wonderfully with the warm lights of Rome.

“Hm?”

“What eez on your mind love?”

He sighed, shaking his head, “Am I truly that obvious?”

She turned to face him, “Oui. To me, at least.”

He smiled fondly, before his gaze returned back to the city below, “Well…. I have something I need to do, something I should have done long ago.”

“And what, pray tell, eez zis thing?”, She asked, confusion playing across her beautiful features. She couldn't even think of one thing Harry may have put off. He’d always been the one to get things done as soon as they came up.

A side effect of being an adrenaline junkie, he called it.

She liked to think of it as his sense of duty.

He smiled, “This.”

Saying so, he pulled her off the bench, to her feet, before dropping onto one knee in front of her.

Fleur blinked, eyes widening in shock.

Was he going to…

Oh. Oh god. He was.

In front of her eyes, Harry took out a small, black jewelry box out of his suit.

He snapped it open, revealing a slim, masterfully crafted platinum band, inlaid with small sapphires and inscribed with words that were too small for her to read.

He took a deep breath, before speaking,

“Fleur Isabelle Delacour. I’ve loved you ever since you stumbled into my flat drunk that night nearly six years ago, and I’ll love you for the rest of my life.

I know I'm not the best boyfriend. I’m busy, too addicted to the high, and my tastes in the finer things in life are as non-existent as my hopes of having a normal existence.

You’re an amazing, gorgeous, witty, and wickedly smart woman, and I can't imagine my life without you in it.

Fleur Delacour, Love of my life, Firebird of mine, Will you Marry Me?”

Fleur’s hand came up to her mouth, blinking away tears that had sprung up at some point during Harry's short speech, as she struggled to put the emotions threatening to overwhelm her into words.

In the end, she decided not to.

“Oui. Yes! A hundred times yes!”

He slipped the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly.

She grabbed him by the collar, hauling him to his feet.

He was smiling, emerald eyes teary, filled with the love that she was sure was reflected in her own.

Around them, people were clapping, having seen the question and the corresponding answer.

She didn't care.

At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to kiss him.

So she did.

A Quiet Child: Teaser Scene:

The reception of the therapist’s practice was a warm, welcoming place.

The room itself wasn't very large, but it managed to look perfect for its purpose.

Comfortable leather couches adorned one of the walls, clustered around a large fireplace, small coffee tables placed alongside, stacked with magazines and books, both French and English. On the opposite wall hung numerous works of art, spaced close together, creating a collage of works across the length of the wall.

Opposite to the entrance was a desk, at which a young, brown haired woman, the therapist’s receptionist, sat. On the wall beside her was a door with a plaque on it.

Appoline Delacour, Therapist.

As Carlisle Delaine stood in the doorway, an immediate sense of safety and comfort washed over him. It was uncanny, how quickly the sensation took root in him. He glanced down at the young boy of six years that stood at his side, taking in the room in front of them.

“You ready, Harry?”

Harry Potter glanced up at his adoptive father, his emerald eyes wide as he nibbled on his lower lip, looking unsure.

He crouched down to his adoptive son’s level, putting a hand on the young boy’s shoulder.

Was it weird that he took intense pride in the fact that his son didn’t flinch away from his touch?

Probably.

Instead, he smiled softly at the boy as he spoke, “Harry. There’s no problem if you’re not up to it. We can always come back later. It's your choice, in the end.”

Harry’s sharp gaze bore into his own, green eyes staring into brown.

The boy nodded. When he replied, his voice was soft, almost silent, “I’m up to it.”

Carlisle's smile widened, and he wrapped the young child in a hug.

“I’m proud of you Harry. Now, let's go meet the receptionist.”

He let his arms unwrap, and got back to his feet, brushing himself off. As he stepped forward, he felt Harry’s hand slip into his own, and his smile got a little bit wider.

As they approached the desk, the young brunette behind the desk put down the rather thick coursebook she had been perusing, instead choosing to smile at the raven haired boy, who looked distinctly uncomfortable at the attention, shuffling a bit closer to his smiling blond guardian’s leg.

The woman had to hold back a squeal at the adorable sight.

Instead, she looked up at Carlisle, her cheeks tinting slightly as she spoke in bubbly French, “Good Afternoon! What can I help you with today?”

“Good afternoon”, Carlisle replied, “I have an appointment with Doctor Delacour?”

She glanced at a sheet of paper, “Monsieur Delaine, I assume?”

He nodded, holding his hand out, as if for a handshake. As the young brunette placed her hand into his, he turned it slightly, bowing as he brought her knuckles to his lips, “Carlisle Delaine, madame. A pleasure to make your acquaintance..”

She blushed, a light giggle escaping her lips, “Esme Berne, Monsieur. Unfortunately, Madame Delacour is in the middle of a session, so it’ll be some time before she is free.”

He frowned slightly, but nodded, “Thank you.”

He looked down at the raven haired boy, “We’re going to have to wait a bit, Harry. Where do you want to sit?”

Harry nodded, before turning, his eyes scanning the room. They settled on a spot, and he pointed at the two seater couch next to the fireplace.

As Carlisle took his seat next to his charge, he felt Harry lean into him, the young boy’s head leaning against the older man’s body as he opened the book he’d picked up from one of the coffee tables.

Carlisle’s smile returned as he leaned back slightly into the soft cushion of the couch.

Other people may not have understood exactly why he was being so happy about his son simply leaning against him, but to Carlisle these small actions were the realisation that Harry, his charge, his son, was moving on, albeit slowly, from the shadow of his past.

When Carlisle Delaine had first laid eyes on Harry Potter, it was as he walked into his first class at [Harry’s Elementary] in Surrey, England.

The young French teacher had decided to teach there that year, both for experience and so that he could get away from his homeland for a bit. He’d barely been there four days, and the gossip had already begun.

It amazed him how willing these British were to stick their noses in other people’s lives.

As he had gazed over the class, his eyes had settled on a skinny, raven haired boy, sitting in the back of the class. The other teachers had told him of the child, one Harry Potter, who was widely known in the local area as a troublemaker, a ruffian.

Looking at the child now, he couldn't help but boggle at how they could believe that. The young boy was skinny, and was dressed in clothes way too large for him. His dirty shirt hung off his thin frame, and the glasses on his face seemed to have more tape than actual glass.

And the boy was quiet. Even as the rest of his classmates talked and laughed with their friends, Harry sat alone, surrounded but isolated, his eyes locked on the wood of his desk, barely moving.

He’d walked up to the teachers desk, picked up the attendance register, and looked back at the students.

He smiled, “Good Morning, everyone. I am Carlisle Delaine, and I will be your teacher for the year. Now, let’s go through the attendance before the class actually begins, shall we?”

He looked down at the register.

“Adam Smith?”

“Present!”

“Anna Peters?”

“Present!”

.

.

.

“Harry Potter?”

There was no reply.

He looked up. The boy’s face was scrunched up in confusion, glancing around the class as though he was looking for someone.

“Harry Potter?”

His brown eyes found the raven-haired boy’s green ones, which promptly widened in shock and… was that a hint of fear?

It was at that moment that Carlisle realised that something was very, very wrong.

Over the next few weeks, his fears only deepened.

He’d thought the boy was quiet. He was. Nearly unnaturally so. He never laughed. Hell, Carlisle had never seen him smile.

He had no friends. None of the other children even seemed remotely interested in talking to the boy, much less involving him in anything they did.

Harry always seemed scared of the teachers. One time, when Carlisle had walked up to him and laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder, he’d flinched. Violently. When he glanced up at the young Frenchman, his eyes had been so full of fear that Carlisle had frozen in shock at the sight.

What had the boy undergone to be so scared of someone touching him?

The first test that the class had had, Harry had done amazingly well, nearly coming out at the front of the class.

His cousin, a fat, blusterous child, who’d done pathetically bad in the test, had torn Harry’s sheet out of his hands, glanced at the score, and immediately called him a cheat and a liar.

The raven haired boy had been trembling at the insinuation. At first, Carlisle thought it was anger. Then he’d seen the boy’s expression.

Pure. Fear.

The next day, the raven haired child had come to the school with a slight limp, and a more pronounced flinch at any close contact.

On the next test, the day after, his marks had dropped. Nearly at the bottom of the class, below even his cousin.

Of course, his sudden drop hadn't helped the other teachers' views of him. They’d already seemingly subscribed to the views of him going around the community, and this had only made it worse.

Now, on top of everything else, Harry Potter was a liar and a cheat as well.

Even through these signs, the one that had terrified him the most was the boy’s response to his name. Or rather, the lack of it.

Through the first week, the boy had been confused and lost whenever his name was called. It was almost as if he hadn't known it belonged to him.

The thought was disturbing.

Even now, a few weeks into the school year, he still seemed unused to the name.

It was a Friday, four weeks after the school year had begun, that Harry had walked into school with a black eye and a limp.

And Carlisle had decided enough was enough.

He was happy that he had.

A loud grumbling shocked Carlisle out of his ruminations. He glanced down at Harry, who’d straightened up from where he had been leaning against his adoptive father, hands holding his stomach, pale cheeks tinted red.

“Harry”, Carlisle asked, grinning, “Are you hungry?”

Another grumbling, same as the first, sounded out from the young boy’s stomach, causing his blush to deepen.

“Well, that answers that”, Carlisle laughed. A giggle prompted him to glance over at the receptionist, Emse, who blushed at his gaze.

He peeked at his watch.

13:30

“Well, it is past lunchtime”, he said, before looking back down at his son, “I’ll go grab something for us to eat. Anything in particular you want, Harry?”

Harry glanced down at his lap, mumbling something.

“What was that?”

“Rolls”

Carlisle smiled, patting his son on the head, “Rolls it is then. Will you be fine here if I go out to get some?”

Harry glanced at the receptionist, then back to his father, before taking a deep breath. The raven haired boy nodded, green eyes filled with determination.

Carlisle couldn't stop the sense of pride, and honestly, he had no wish to. He hugged the boy one last time.

“Be careful, you hear. And be good to Esme.”

Harry nodded against Carlisle’s shoulder.

The blond man reluctantly pulled away, before walking out the door of the practice.

He had rolls to get.

Harry watched as his guardian stepped out the door.

Already, he felt alone.

Ever since Carlisle had rescued him from his relatives, he’d found himself getting closer and closer to the man, more than he had ever felt with anyone else.

Then again, that wasn't a very high bar, considering how his life had been before the young frenchman had entered it.

It wasn't long before he had begun opening up, in his own way, whenever he was with his adoptive father.

He enjoyed the comfort of the man’s presence more than most would realise. It was his anchor, the thing that kept him sure that his freedom was real, not another cruel dream he would wake up from to find nothing had changed.

He glanced at the desk where the pretty brown haired lady was sitting. She was engrossed in a thick book, a pencil in hand, lightly nibbling the end.

Harry blinked. Carlisle did much the same when he was concentrating or doing something important.

So whatever she was reading was probably important.

He decided not to disturb the pretty lady.

Instead, his gaze moved over to the paintings adorning the opposite wall from where he was sitting. They were all exquisite works, a myriad of colours and subjects, depicting scenes from fruit on a table, to a man walking into the sunset.

His eyes, however, lingered on one in particular. It was one of the smaller works, yet was set dead center on the wall.

He got off the couch, and approached the painting.

It depicted a black haired man and a silvery blond woman, standing in the middle of a corridor of white marble and glass. They stood close to one another, foreheads touching, one of their hands intertwined with the other’s. The man’s other hand was holding the woman’s waist, while her other hand was threaded through his messy locks.

Both their eyes were closed, and peaceful, happy smiles were set on their faces. Combined with the light, airy background, the image gave off a sense of perfection and serenity.

To Harry, it felt like a scene he had seen before, or dreamt of, the shadow of a memory yet to come.

For a second, he could have sworn the man’s eyes opened, startlingly green, a lightning bolt scar much like Harry’s own on his forehead.

Harry blinked, and it was gone.

He didn't know how long he gazed at the image, eyes drinking in every facet of the scene, every curve, every stroke of the brush.

He was sure he could have kept staring at the work forever.

At least, until someone slammed into him from the side, sending them both tumbling to the floor.

Harry let out a soft groan as he struggled to lift himself up on his elbows, glasses askew as he glanced around. In front of him, the someone who had hit him was doing much the same.

It was a girl. Young, older than him but not by much, nine or ten years at the most if he had to guess. Her silvery blond hair, which had apparently been put up in a ponytail, was now in disarray. She was rubbing her head, wincing as she got to her feet unsteadily, piercing blue eyes blinking at a rapid pace.

“Aie”, She muttered softly as she took to her feet.

She spotted him as he got to his feet, beautiful eyes going wide as she started speaking in rapid-fire French, her hands coming out to touch him.

He unconsciously flinched away from her touch.

She froze at that, before speaking again, still in French, albeit in a softer, more cautious tone.

He couldn't help it. He blinked, head cocking to one side as he stared at her in confusion.

The squeal she let out at the sight made him start in shock.

“I… don't understand”, he said, softly.

Her eyes widened, before she asked uncertainly, “Eengish?”

Harry nodded.

She blinked, and spoke again, halting and uncertain, her words laden with a heavy French accent, “Zorry. Mon nom est Fleur Delacour. What eez yours?”

“Harry Potter”, he answered.

“Nize to meet you. Are you beezy?”

He shook his head.

She smiled, nodding triumphantly, “Good! I em bored! You’re my new friend! Come, Let uz play!”

Harry’s eyes widened in confusion before the hyperactive girl grabbed his wrist and dragged him off to play with her.

Veela on The High Seas: Teaser:

Yes! Good! Hold her back!”, The merchant ship’s wizard shouted as Fleur crossed blades with the green-eyed young man.

Over his shoulder, she spotted the wizard, a gangly, sleazy-looking individual, sneaking away from the clash, towards the remaining dinghy on the ship, the one her crew had not been able to cut loose, the remains of his broken wand cradled in his hands.

She turned her attention back to her raven-haired opponent, gritting her teeth in frustration. The young man was a challenging, yet infuriating fight. No matter how she stepped, no matter how she attacked, no matter what she did, he was there, his blade knocking her cutlass away, leaving her unable to land a proper hit on him. Yet, at the same time, he refused to retaliate, never moving to attack, defending with seemingly no intention of ending the fight.

Nothing she did seemed to faze him. Any spell she cast, he would dodge by bare millimeters. Even after she put away her wand and summoned a fireball in the palm of her hand, he merely glanced at the roiling orb of flame, before knocking away another one of her thrusts.

Not even her Allure, the most famous ability of her bloodline, of her heritage, which ensnared men and women, left them mindless and drooling, the ability that had earned her the title of the Call of the Sea, seemed to affect him

.

She growled in exasperation as she released the full brunt of her allure.

Around them, the sound of battle dimmed, both the crew of the merchant ship, as well as her own, slowly stopped their struggle to turn and stare at her.

She smirked. She had him now.

Her opponent’s mesmerizing eyes merely went glassy for a second, before snapping back into focus, in time to parry another of her slashes.

Her smirk twisted into a scowl.

“Y-Yes! Hold her off while I escape, you worthless freak!”, The gangly wizard shouted, his voice fainter, far enough away that her Allure had no effect, still moving towards the other end of the ship, dodging and weaving around the outskirts of the melee.

The green-eyed young man flinched as if physically struck.

He stiffened, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the running wizard. His eyes went blank.

He stepped back, out of reach of her sword and to one side, before dropping into a bow, one hand flourishing, indicating the retreating ship-wizard’s back.

Fleur froze, staring at him in confusion, before her eyes spotted something on the back of his neck.

A slave brand.

“Oh.”

She understood now. Her dainty fingers played with the handle of the flintlock pistol at her waist, still loaded, unfired, as she glanced once more at the escaping figure.

Mind made up, she tugged it out of her belt, before holding out in front of her still bowing opponent, grip first.

He looked up at the motion, jaw slackening in shock at the sight of the proffered weapon.

Those fascinating green eyes met hers, searching for any sign of deceit, the question in them remaining unspoken.

She nodded.

“‘E’s all yours.”

A maniacal grin split his face for a split second as he straightened up, before it relapsed to that bored, tired expression of his.

He accepted the pistol from her hands, holding it loosely at first as if to gauge its weight, before lifting it to aim in one hand, training it on the wizard, who had nearly reached the dinghy.

His head swivelled back to face her, eyes locking with hers once more.

“Bang”, he whispered.

With a burst of gunpowder and smoke, the flintlock fired, kicking back in his grip as the back of the ship wizard’s head exploded in a shower of blood.

He didn't even spare the collapsing body a glance, spinning the pistol around in his grip and offering it back to her, the same way she had offered it to him.

Fleur took it with a predatory smile, her other hand coming up to stroke the side of his handsome face as she gave him a once over.

She licked her lips.

“What eez your name?”

Those mesmerising green eyes stayed trained on hers, surprise shifting into confusion shifting into a tired resignation.

Her smile widened slightly. Those eyes truly were beautiful.

“Harry Potter.”

Around them, the battle drew to a close. Her crew had triumphed, the remaining living members of the merchant vessel’s crew being taken into custody as they consolidated their victory, another ship claimed in the name of La Flamme d’Argent.

“Well met, ‘Arry Potter. My name is Fleur Delacour, Captain of the Seeker’s Lament. You may know me as La Flamme d’Argent. How would you like a job?”

Purrfect:

Fleur sighed in frustration, rubbing her eyes as she stared at the pages of the thick tomes laid out in front of her, seeing, but not reading.

Behind her, the dying fire crackled in the hearth of the library of her ancestral home. Stacks of books, some nearly half as tall as her, lay scattered around the small part of the warm, carpeted floor she had claimed for her research.

She glanced out of the window near her chosen spot, the moon visible through the lightly tinted panes, hanging over the beautiful forest that bordered the grounds of the Delacour mansion. It was late. Her eyes flickered over to the nearby clock. 3:36 AM. Fleur blinked in surprise. Had she truly entered the library the past morning? Surely not…

She stifled a yawn, her weariness abruptly making itself known. She glanced down at her appearance. Dressed in a pair of comfortable shorts, warm socks, and an oversized sweater, one of his. Her hair was pulled into a comfortable ponytail, messy and unkempt, a stark contrast to her usual style. She was sure that she didn't look too bad, her unearthly beauty, a feature of her blood she had despised before she had met him, keeping her… presentable.

She glanced at the thick tome she had been going through. She was barely halfway in. Cursing under her breath, she wondered if she could just… call it a night. Close the book, go back to her warm bed, to his loving embrace, where she could just… rest, safe in his arms.

She snorted, shaking her head at the thought. It would be so easy, so tempting, but she was doing her research for his sake. She would not fail him again.

Sighing again, Fleur turned her tired blue eyes back to the pages of the heavy book, her eyes taking in diagrams, theories, explanations, treatises.

*Meow*

The sound jerked her from her reverie, and her head whipped around, to catch the sight of a cat approaching her.

The feline’s fur was all black, aside from a lightning shaped white patch on its forehead. Its eyes, a startling green, pupils slitted, stared into her own, and her shock slumped away, as she smiled warmly, opening her arms invitingly.

The cat wasted no time, leaping into her embrace, snuggling into her touch as she held it close.

“‘Ello, mon amour. Staying up late, are we?”

The cat locked gazes with her once more, and she could feel, more than see, the cocked eyebrow.

She giggled, holding it close once more, “Don’t look at me like zat! You know why I am doing zis.”

The cat laid its head into her chest, and they sat there for a moment, woman and feline, just exulting in the other’s touch.

The cat abruptly squirmed out of her grip, landing on the carpeted floor beside her. Fleur smiled fondly, crouching down to its face level, their foreheads coming together as she closed her eyes, whispering, “I love you...”

She felt the fur touching her skin morph and pull away, leaving unblemished skin in its wake as she straightened back up into a comfortable sitting position.

She opened her eyes, looking once more into those striking green ones, now set in a human face, a male face, his face.

The young man surged forward, claiming her lips with his own, kissing her gently, lovingly, and Fleur couldn't stop the soft smile that played at her lips, or the soft whine that came from her throat as he pulled away.

His hands found hers, fingers intertwining with her own as he smiled, his voice coming out in a soft whisper, “I love you too, Fleur Delacour.”

His lips met hers again.

“Harry”, she muttered, when they broke again.

She glanced at her closest friend, her lover, her mate. He kneeled beside her, dressed in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, which hung off his frame, hiding defined musculature that she loved to run her hands all over. His mesmerising eyes were set in his handsome face, a face that had burned off the last vestiges of the baby fat he had had when she had first met him, so long ago, topped off by a head of soft, perpetually messy hair that she loved to thread her fingers through.

His arms came around her, pulling her into his embrace, as he glanced at the open book in front of her.

“Why are you still up, love? You need to sleep.”

Unconsciously, she snuggled deeper into his warmth, before what he said hit her.

She started, feebly trying to pull away, “N- Non! I… cannot rest. Not now...”

His hand came up, threading through her messy hair in a way that was so utterly relaxing, so perfect. Her eyelids started to droop.

“Nonsense. You need to rest. You’re doing no one any favours by working yourself into the ground.”

His voice was so soft, so soothing. Fleur felt herself begin to drift.

She attempted one last protest, “B...But.. I cannot stop. I… I won't fail you again.”

He chuckled, his chest rumbling in such a wonderful way as he replied, his hand never stopping his ministrations, “You will never fail me Fleur. No matter what happens. Now, rest. I’m not going anywhere, love.”

The sound of soft snores made him blink. He glanced down. She was asleep, her arms wrapped around him, his fingers still threading through her hair. Her gorgeous eyes closed, nose twitching occasionally, mouth slightly open, as she snored cutely, looking so peaceful in that moment that he couldn't resist, bending down slightly and planting a soft kiss on her forehead.

She smiled, mumbling incoherently, and snuggled closer.

He smiled, adjusting his grip so that she was comfortable. One of his hands pulled away slightly, his wand appearing in it, as he flicked his wrist, conjuring a warm blanket over them both, before returning to its place on her waist.

He glanced out the window as Fleur slept, watching the moon slowly make its way across the night sky.

Stay There!:

“Goddamn eet, ‘Arry!”, Fleur Delacour's voice rang out across the hallway of Grimmauld Place, her exasperation seeping into her tone, as she glared at the raven-haired young man standing in front of her.

“How fucking ‘ard eez eet to just stay in Ze Room?”

The boy sighed, moving to lean against the faded wallpaper adorning the walls. His emerald green met her cerulean blue as he locked eyes with her, as she fell into his languid gaze.

Tonks had always said that those eyes should have been illegal.

She took him in once again. Gone was that little boy she had met, nearly a decade ago, in that antechamber where she had been told that he was to be the fourth champion in a tournament for three. In the place of that scared, confused boy stood a collected, confident young man. His lean frame leaned against the wall, his simple red T-shirt and jeans stretching over those (in her opinion) drool worthy muscles, piercing eyes shimmering in a face that had transitioned from cute child to handsome man incredibly well.

His lips curved in a smirk as he answered, “It’s too boring in there.”

Fleur’s eyes narrowed as she let out a grunt of frustration. One thing had not changed, and apparently never would at the rate things were going. Harry Potter was very good at getting into trouble. And he got into it a lot.

She spotted something behind him, and her lips curled upward in a smirk, “So, Harry, you’re not going back into The Room?”

“Nope.”

She shook her head daintily, her silvery blond hair flowing with the movement, “What a pity.”

“Stupefy”

The word rang out from behind the raven haired man, who’s eyes widened… a split second before the flash of red light impacted him in the back, and he crumpled, slipping into oblivion.

Fleur’s smirk dropped at the sight of the head of, slightly bushy, brown hair.

“Why did you wait so long?”, She demanded.

“Sorry”, Hermione Granger replied, rubbing the back of her head sheepishly in a distinctly ‘Harry like’ manner, “You looked like you were having a moment.”

The blond rolled her eyes, “uh huh. Ok, lets go.”

Her wand slipped into her hand, the wood familiar to her fingertips, the thrum of magic through the core reminding the girl of the grandmother it had come from. She flicked it, and Harry’s crumpled body rose into the air.

She followed Hermione down the hallway, turning the corner to see the doorway of ‘The Room’, as well as the sight of a pink headed Auror standing just ahead of it.

Nymphadora Tonks sighed as she took in the floating body of the boy she had come to see as a brother, “Was he being difficult again?”

Fleur rolled her eyes, “Yep. Like a petulant child. It’s honestly getting boring having to stun him every time we want to put him back into The Room.”

Tonks shrugged, “Maybe we shouldn't put him in there then.”

Fleur and Hermione both froze mid step, eyes widening comically and jaw dropping as they stared at the metamorphmagus, a look said metamorphmagus realised as an ‘Are you out of your bloody mind?’

Tonk’s hair flashed red in embarrassment as she brought her hands up defensively, “Just a thought. Just a thought.”

“What are you saying, Tonks?”, Hermione hissed, eyes narrowed, “We can barely keep him in check by putting him in The Room! Imagine what he could do if he wasn’t in there?!”

Tonks’ head dropped as she stared at the floor, “You’re right...”

“Of course she is”, Fleur huffed, “Now, what’s new this time?”

The bubbly auror brightened up considerably, “Ooh, ok I added a bunch of new stuff. The chains are made out of adamantium this time, with an added mithril layer, charmed to repress magic, which was bloody expensive by the way. There are eighteen overlapping alert wards in case he moves, about ten wards that freeze him in place and three automated stunning wards. I couldn't add any more, cause that would screw up… something about matrixes? Matrices? Whatever. On top of that, I’ll cast a couple new Immobility charms and exhaustion hexes as soon as we put him in. Add a Draught of Living death to top it off, and he’s never going to get out of there!”

Hermione sighed, “I sure hope so, because that’s what you said the last fifteen times.”

Tonks looked distinctly affronted by that.

After fifteen minutes of chaining Harry down, casting the charms and powering the wards, the three witches stepped outside the only exit of The Room, panting in exhaustion as Hermione activated the locking wards on the door.

The Room was an idea that the three of them had come up with after a night of heavy drinking. They had decided that since Harry was such an important person in their lives (Brother figure for Hermione and Tonks, and Fleur’s boyfriend), they had a serious stake in his well-being. However, the raven haired teen was seemingly hell bent on making them lose their minds with worry.

So what had three of the sharpest minds of their generation come up with? They had decided to lock him in a room. A blank room, with no windows and only one door. For his sake.

It had taken him all of fifteen minutes to break out. They found him five weeks later in a dragon’s cave off the coast of California.

It just escalated from there. Every time they would add more and more things to keep him inside, and every single time he would break out, and lead them on a wild goose chase to bring him back.

It had gone from locking charms, to chains, to multi layer wards. He had broken out of them all.

In all honesty, they were getting tired of this.

Hermione wiped the sweat off her forehead as she leaned against the wall of the hallway, her shirt sticking to her form from the exertion of bringing up the various defenses against Harry’s escape, “This should hold him for a good while at least.”

Fleur snorted, a distinctly unladylike sound that most would have found weird coming from her, “That’s what the last set of preparations should have done Hermione. It took us three weeks to find him. In a cave. Under Mt. Fuji. In Japan.”

Hermione sighed, “I hope so too. Merlin, it's been so long since I’ve had time to relax.”

Fleur laughed bitterly, “You think you have it bad? I haven’t been able to spend time with my boyfriend in months, because I’ve spent those months trying to keep him safe.”

Hermione frowned for a moment, adopting an expression that Harry had coined as her ‘Massive-Breakthrough-look’. She turned to Fleur, her expression puzzled, “Fleur, Harry is your boyfriend right?”

Fleur raised an eyebrow, unable to see where she was going with this, “Yes.”

“So why don't you distract him from these kinds of… adventures?”

“And how, pray tell, would I do that?”

Hermione locked eyes with the silvery blond haired girl, “You’re a part Veela, aren’t you? Can't you just… otherwise occupy him? In the bedroom, that is?”

Fleur blinked. And blinked again. That…. Why the hell hadn't she thought of that?

“Um, guys?" Tonks’ voice suddenly broke Fleur out of her reverie.

She turned to see the pink haired Auror holding the door to The Room open, her eyes wide as she faced them, finger pointed inside the room, which displayed a distinct lack of its prisoner.

“He’s gone.”

Fleur blinked.

“Son of a -”

And that is that! I hope you enjoyed this collection of scenes. Fair warning, the teaser scenes are from stories I intend to write at some point in the future. Not soon, by any means, but they will be done. One again, thank you to the amazing people at the Harry/Fleur Discord for making this collaboration come to life. Be sure to check out the rest of the stories in the collection over on Fanfiction.net and Archive of our own.
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