"Mrs. Delacour," a Mediwitch said, "Mr. Weasley would like to see you."
Was he okay? Did they hurt him badly? Could he walk? What could she say? What
could she do?
Her insides were coiled and her body was tense.
Fleur stood and followed the mediwich.
There, he was.
She took a step forward. He shook his head and scooted back into his bed, his
eyes turning to gaze listlessly into the window.
Why won't you let me get closer to you? Every part of his body acted as a
siren, begging her to drown into him.
Oh how the mighty have fallen, a snarky part of her whispered. She was used
to acting as a siren, as the Veela. She was used to boys, playing them like
dolls with her Veela aurora. But, this red-headed male withstood her allure and instead
demanded to have heart, body, and soul.
How could anyone refuse such a declaration? How could anyone have denied him then? So, she hadn't and there had never been a day that she regretted that decision.
His hand were clenched into fists, tightening their grips as if she would rip
the sheets off and make him bare all of his scars.
His reaction hurt her because although there was never a part of him that she did not want, she would never ever force him to expose all that he was to her. Well, except for his face. She could never gracefully handle when he would bare his face to others and hide his face from her behind the curtain of his long, thick hair. Then again, she had never been good at sharing her loved ones with others even she was but a small child.
She had fallen in love with this man slowly and carefully, not realizing when her game of seduction had shifted into a hunt to win his heart as he had hers. It had taken her almost too long to realize what was already there between them: love.
He was walking her to her dorm. She wanted to smile, to laugh, or even cry because
it was sort of funny. The one guy she likes is the one guy who could withstand her
allure. It is the same guy that was escorting her out of duty rather than wanting her
company. He never craved her presence the way that she craves his.
She had never had her self-esteem take such a hit.
Then, something distracted her.
Fleur smiled, plucking the peach from the bush, "Me and my sister have a
garden of these and plant them every summer with my mum."
"Well, that explains why you always smell like peaches," Bill said, smiling.
It's the first one he has given her since this evening had begun. She cherished it, heart skipping lightly in her chest. "No wonder you do well in herbology."
"It was easy," she said dismissively, honest and prideful in a way that spoke of her personality rather than her pretty face, "It was just an interestingexperience
to clear up the misconceptions."
His raised an eyebrow at her contempt, a smile tugging at his lips, teasing,
"I'm a little loss. The dark reaction only occurs at night, right?"
"No!" She sounded horrified, "Obviously, the dark reaction is a misnomer. It
occurs all the time as long as the organism has sufficient nutrients and ATP.
That's why you should use the terminology Calvin Cycle."
"I see," he hummed a little, "Give me a complex fact, but use a metaphor to
help me get it."
"The first law of thermodynamics makes me think of energy as true love."
"Love?" he said quietly, eyes darkening.
"The first law of thermodynamics states that energy cannot be created nor
destroyed, only changed in its form," she explained, pausing in her chewing,
"So, I think of energy as like love. Love can't be created nor destroyed, at
least not the true kind that lasts. But love can be transformed. Friendship
between a boy and a girl can gradually transform into romantic love.
"The love is always there," Bill continued her train of thought, "It just
takes people a while to realize it."
Fleur smiled, eyes delighted, before closing them to savor the taste of her
fresh catch, "Exactly."
Her eyes opened, as she felt fruit juice squirt her cheek and reached to lick
it off. "Want some of my peaches?" Fleur offered coyly, looking at him from
between her eyelashes.
She saw his breathe hitch. She wanted to purr in feminine satisfaction, but
felt her stomach sink as he clenched his hands into fists. She lowered her
catch into the bushes.
"Why do you do that, Bill?" she said, frowning. She reached for his fist, and
breathed a cool breathe into them. They were so cold on this chilly night.
"If you are cold, I will warm you," she promised.
Her eyes closed, and she pressed her lips together to give a tender kiss to each finger
until they loosened into a flat palm and she felt him shiver.
Her dark blue eyes shot up in concern, and he laughed shakily, his fingers
ensnaring hers and making her his willing prisoner.
"You tempt me, Ms. Delacour," he answered her earlier question, tucking a
loose strand of blonde behind her ear, making her shiver this time, "I cannot
kiss you, and I want to. I cannot touch what's not mine to touch."
Then, his body, his gaze, and most importantly his touch was gone as he walked
two steps in front of her, his hands clenched into fists once again.
Heart hammering in her chest, she prayed for courage. She cared about this man
so much. He wasn't like the other boys. He was so much more and these feelings
that threatened to consume her made her want to run away, teasingly laugh off
his remarks, or ignore them. Fleur knew that once she tasted the fruit that
was Bill Weasley, then all bets were off and she'd give him the power over her
Her arm tucked into his, but she looked forward, avoiding those piercing blue
eyes. "Well, what a coincidence." She couldn't help the way her voice dropped to a
husky and barely audible voice, "I cannot touch what's not mine to touch
He forced them to a halt, and stepped in front of her, capturing her other arm and wounding it around his neck and his arm lowered to the small of her back.
The movement was so quick and sudden that she took an automatic step back, but he stepped with her.
To any others, it would look as if they were two lovers dancing.
He was staring intensely, eyes searching hers, "Is that right?" he asks quietly.
She didn't look away, answering his inquiry with equal intensity, "That's right."
He leaned down and kissed her, soft and sweet and reverently in a way that made her feel treasured.
It was not her first kiss.
However, it was the first kiss that has ever meant anything to her.
The love is always there, Fleur knew. It just takes people a while to
He wasn't looking at her.
He was still looking into that damn window.
His ponytail was loose, his red strands still straight and fair as ever. It
looked as if he was using it as a curtain, to hide from her.
She wanted to bare her fangs like a real Veela.
You are mine.
She wanted to act like on her possessive tendencies.
You are mine.
She wanted to lunge across the distance between them, to yank on those red
locks, and force him to look at her.
You are mine.
"It is bad taste to keep a fiancé waiting," She sniffles a little, dabbing her
eyes with the handkerchief delicately. She can't help but run her fingers
across the 'BW' stitched on it. "You are failing, fiancé of mine."
His earing with a fang dangled back and forth, gleaming from the moonlight
from the window. However, that wasn't her focus.
He turned to face her fully for the first time since she entered the room, and
she couldn't help but gasp.
The right side of his face was scarred from hairline to the chin by three thick,
red lines, vivid in color though they were somewhat healed. One line pulled
down the corner of his left eye, another twisted the left side of his mouth
into a permanent grimace.
Werewolf, she realized, her mind numb with shock.
He smiled bitterly, pulling her into a deep abyss of blue sadness as he
clearly read the word she couldn't say out loud, "Then, perhaps you should
obtain a new one."
"I love you, Bill," Fleur promised.
"It's not that easy," Bill said.
His reply stung her, "So, you have a furry little problem once a year. I am
the descendant of creatures whom dawned beautiful forms to lure men into dark alleys
and devour these men with glee as they returned to their ugly, original forms.
Bill, I love you. The rest doesn't matter."
"But, it does, Fleur. It does matter! What about the Veela community that you
belong to? Regardless of your ancestry, they're still tolerated a lot more by
the ministry than fucking werewolves. Will the Veela community be willing to
support a union between a deadbeat monster and the most wonderful and most
spectacular girl in the world?"
"If they love me, then they'll accept who I love," she said confidently, knowing this to be true. To those that would not, she would tear them apart and ruin them.
"Love isn't enough," Bill said, shaking his head, "What if we have a child? Can you safely raise a fucking
"If it was yours Bill, I'd cherish the child no matter what creature it was
classified under," she said sincerely.
His eyes narrowed, making the scarred man look a touch more menacing. She didn't even flinch. She didn't back down as he hissed, "Is this before or after he claws your face off during his first transformation? Huh? Also, what about jobs, Fleur? Lupin can't hold a job in the magical world because of the fucking ministry and their laws that institutionalize discrimination."
"Bill," Fleur snapped, fed up, "I don't need gold and riches. Those are
tangible things that I can't carry into the next world. I don't need money. I
"And I need to be the man you deserve!" Bill snapped.
"Oh Bill," Fleur sighed. It echoed across the room as a ghostly sigh. In a
second, she was at his side and he flinched back violently into the bed, voice a
heavy growling command, "Step back."
She did so at once, heart sinking in his chest. She was not afraid of him. She trusted him, but he did not trust himself.
"Fleur," Bill said, "Never doubt that I love you more than I have loved anyone in
my entire life."
"You mean so much to me."
"But, I can't do this anymore."
"No!" Fleur growled, her blond curls flying in her face as she leaned over
him, her fingers holding his chin, forcing him to look at her.
"You. Are. Mine." Fleur enunciated clearly, voice possessive, almost in-human.
His eyes flashed an unnatural yellow as he flipped them over.
His body covered hers. His hands covered hers, trapping them like hand-cuffs
to the bed. His lips skipped up her neck slowly, his mouth growling in her
ear, "Don't. Move."
She froze, unable to breathe, unable to think. He was always surprising her, always making his next move one that would send her hear racing.
"Merlin, Fleur. How can I be the man you want?" His nose skimmed her neck,
breathing in her scent, "You keep tempting me. I dream of peaches. I smell it
all over my clothes. Even this room, it's filled with those damn peaches. How
can I be the man you want?"
She shivered underneath him, as he asked, beseechingly, "How can I be the man
She pressed her palm to his cheek and he leaned into it, leaned into her.
"Stay with me and we'll spend the rest of our lives trying to figure it out.
She leaned forward, but he spoke before she closed the distance, "I don't know
if I control myself right now, Fleur. I cannot kiss you, and I want to."
She shook her head, blond curls bouncing, "I'm still yours to love. I'm still yours to touch."
He was staring intensely, eyes searching hers, "Is that right?" he asked quietly.
She didn't look away, answering his inquiry with equal intensity, "That's right."
He leaned down and kissed her, roughly in a way that made her feel as if he was so scared of his mind to loose her that he needs to claim her now before she changes her mind.
She rests a hand on his neck, and he softens at her touch.
Just as he gentles the kiss, she flips them over until she's on top of him and starts skimming his neck with her soft lips.
He looks ready to stop her, to take over in way that he does during his insecure moments to make her so wild with pleasure that she forgets about his.
It never works.
Soon, she bites down hard on that spot in his neck and tugs at his hair harshly, making his eyes fly open, dark and wild and positively feline. He tries shift his eyes to normal, tries to close them, but she only bites him again and her eyes are just as wild and fierce as his in a way that makes him realize what this is. He understands now that she's claiming him and his werewolf side.
He whimpers, torn between what he wants and whats best for her.
She bites down a third time.
Mine, she is saying, challenging him.
He makes a noise, sounding almost wrecked beyond coherency when she swirls her tongue and soothes her marks because gods, he loves this women to death. She wants to soothe him, to care for him. She wants to claim him and he can't stop himself from gasping, "I love you." And he means it.
"Is that right?" she asks, low and teasing, halting her fingers from toying with him. The question is still serious, still sincere.
"I guess that makes you mine then."
"I'm yours to love. I'm yours to touch." he promises, and he means that too.