FIC: A Bit of Adventure (Bill/Fleur, NC17)
Title A Bit of Adventure
Author/Artist Leni Jess (leni_jess)
Pairing Bill/Fleur
Rating NC17
Summary Bill isn't impressed by a Veela, or by Veela charm, but Fleur… that's another magical creature. She adds interest to the life a bored curse-breaker leads in a dull bank while waiting for a war to get under way.
Warning Apart from the rating? Vanilla, baby.
Word Count 6067
Disclaimer Characters and settings belong to JKR and various assignees; plot belongs to me.
Author's notesWritten February 2011 for karasu_hime in wizard_love; she asked "How exactly did Fleur land Bill?" Thanks to mod ragdoll for exemplary patience, and to my brother, my obliging beta-reader/cheerleader, for listening to me whine about not being able to write.
A Bit of Adventure
by Leni Jess
Bill's not that down-to-earth. He's a Curse-Breaker, isn't he, he likes a bit of adventure, a bit of glamour... I expect that's why he's gone for [Fleur]. Ginny in HBP chapter 5
Bill told her about it much later, when they knew each other. At the time, her new supervisor just said Gringotts London would provide her a wizard guide, to help her get settled. Before long this cheerful, friendly, quite good-looking English wizard had appeared and invited her out to have ice cream, so that he could start introducing her to whatever she didn't already know of wizarding Britain. She thought ice cream more suited to her little sister than to herself, but having confirmed that this was the anticipated guide, Fleur went with him willingly enough. It was a pleasant day for late winter, mild and sunny; and a little attention was always acceptable. This Bill Weasley neither leered nor panted nor salivated, so he was not simply adult, but also courteous and self-controlled.
The ice cream proved to be remarkable, so Fleur enjoyed it, and admitted that what she had mostly seen of wizarding Britain was Hogwarts.
She didn't say that she distrusted its headmaster (who had put Gabrielle in serious danger without a word to her parents or even her older sister less than a year ago), and despised the school's ability to protect any of its students (given what had happened to Harry, and worse to Cedric, and even to someone who was supposed to be an old friend of Dumbledore's, but whose impersonator had contrived to teach for most of a school year before he was discovered).
She had learned from her supervisor in Paris the uses of observing strangers before she confided anything to them. He had pointed out that he was sending her to London to improve her English and to learn more of the Gringotts organisation, not to embarrass herself or the Paris branch. Also, though she was certainly free to charm anyone willing to be charmed by Veela allure, she was not to tempt anyone who might be made uneasy or resentful. Her grandmother and aunts had drilled that into her years ago, adding (as her supervisor didn't), "Unless one wishes to irritate or to distract, naturally."
Fleur listened, and asked questions, and answered his (which were interested rather than intrusive). He told her a few stories about curse-breaking in Egypt, which sounded more exciting than catching French wizards trying to cheat the bank. However, she made the most of her couple of stories of misplaced ingenuity, and Bill seemed to find them amusing, so she was moderately pleased with both of them.
Before they returned to the bank Bill had asked her out to dinner on Friday night. She knew hardly anyone in London, so had more than one reason to accept with pleasure.
She learned later that their first meeting had seemed quite different, to Bill.
His supervisor had hopped up onto the desk where he was comparing two small Egyptian figurines, giving, as he so often did, the the unsettling impression of a spider Apparating to its prey, and said abruptly, "Leave that."
Since Telanik was crouched before him and staring into his face from a few inches' distance, Bill set both figurines down carefully, then sat back in his chair to give himself space. Telanik didn't follow him, so Bill knew he himself was not considered at fault.
Telanik, satisfied he had Bill's attention, went on, "We brought you to London to give you wider experience in management beyond an excavation site and its opportunities for analysis and efficiency. Now we have a trainee for you." Telanik's grimace was horrible, but Bill knew it was congratulatory rather than vindictive.
"French, female, very young (just out of Beauxbatons, of course), in the finance wing with six months in the Paris office, here to improve her English and her negotiation skills. Part-time. Start by making her comfortable here. Then get rid of that silly accent of hers. She is intelligent, and like most witches and wizards has a good ear; she does not need to sound like an idiot. She has learned Gobbledygook with no problems, and already has a pure accent; make her work on her English."
Telanik cocked his head. He added, "She is also part Veela, and of course very beautiful as wizards rate beauty. She may talk like that to reduce envy, or to distract attention from her sharp wits. Who knows. Train her out of it, at least when she speaks in the bank. If she wishes to be disregarded in the street, that is her affair, I suppose. But she is (or will be) a finance officer, not a spy, and our clients should respect both her and her skills."
"What else do you want me to concentrate on?"
Telanik grinned even more horribly. "I will leave that to you to decide."
So this was a test, as well as a learning opportunity. Surprise, surprise.
Bill had heard about Fleur Delacour from three of his younger brothers (though Ron had been fairly incoherent), so he went to find her (first speaking to her supervisor Nimchuk) with interest and considerable caution.
She was, indeed, a beauty. Bill found her stunning, but had no intention of letting her see that. She accepted his invitation politely, and shed some of her reserve on discovering that Fortescue's ice cream could please the tastes of an adult quite as well as a school child. She also sounded witless, but what she said was not just acceptable, but intelligent and witty. Nor was she vain, though she was pleased by his appreciative glances, carefully directed at her face rather than her form.
It was no hardship to invite her out to dinner. He wasn't surprised she accepted; he thought she was just beginning to feel lonely, isolated even from the small group of witches and wizards she would have had for company in the Paris office, and not yet having made friends in the comparable London group, most of whom would still be wary of her.
He could do with interesting company too. Though perhaps he had needed a rest, after curse-breaking in the shadow-shrouded tombs of Egypt, the bank was dull, and waiting for either Dumbledore or Voldemort to act made him want to curse both of them roundly.
FD+++BW
Fleur found Bill ready to help improve her English, though she thought he placed too much importance on getting rid of her French accent. She had always welcomed learning and using new words, and English grammar was not a problem - she had to admit it was convenient that one need not worry about the gender of any noun - but that was balanced by the strange choices English made of prepositions to follow verbs: nothing like as logical as French. She wished there was a list she could just learn off by heart, but no one offered that. Bill was ready to suggest some neat ways to ease remembering, however; and he organised two of her new workmates to help her practice speaking, though she thought Alizon spent too much energy thinking about the significance of Bill's long red hair and fang earring, and not enough on role playing different situations to expand her vocabulary.
By the time winter turned to spring, she was familiar enough with Bill to say irritably, "I wish you were not so obsessed about my accent! Some people think it very pretty, you know."
Bill said calmly, "You are very pretty." He sounded so placid it was hardly the compliment it might have been. "Have you ever noticed men paying much attention to the opinions of pretty girls in matters of business?"
That was a low blow. She had met far too many idiots who were convinced she must be an idiot too, just because of her looks. She had already learned the expression "blonde moment" for failures of intelligence.
Bill continued, "British people are very insular; they do not all trust foreigners, never mind like them." She had noticed that, too.
"If you mark yourself as a foreigner, you invite people to disregard what you say. You do not need the bank's clients reacting like that. If you talk like them, however, at least you will not have to overcome that prejudice. You'll have enough to face, being both female and attractive. Goblins are indifferent to your sex and appearance; they are only interested in the quality of your mind. Their customers are not like that."
Fleur hated to admit he was right, but she said, "Very well; no more 'zis French mees wis her strrrange way of spikking'." She got in one dig, however, saying tartly, "I notice on the Wizarding Wireless that many people have regional accents."
Blandly Bill replied, "We are not so provincial as the people of Paris, to think everyone should talk just like them."
Fleur was from the Auvergne, and knew that prejudice well; she gave up, and chuckled. She had noticed that Bill liked her laugh.
As April warmed into May, he suggested over their customary dinner on Friday night, "If it's fine tomorrow, would you like to come to Maiden Castle?"
"What is that, a refuge for young women?"
"No; a prehistoric hill fort in the south-west. It's enormous, about the size of fifty Quidditch pitches - we'll need our brooms, just to see it properly. Muggles have to walk. With brooms we can get above it, too, and see how the fortifications are laid out, far more easily."
"Yes, why not? I shall bring a picnic. Thank you."
Though Fleur lodged with a friendly woman whose house was not far from Diagon Alley, she had soon negotiated the right to use her kitchen: her patience with English cooking was limited. She had decided early that she had no objection to showing Bill that she was an excellent cook, as was any young woman brought up in a Veela nest: all their children were taught to value true independence and self-reliance.
Saturday was fine and sunny; and in Dorset, at least, the air was still, which made exploring so many acres of hilltop much more comfortable. Bill signalled them down to land some way from the long rolling ridge that rose far above them, its grass thick and succulent, the fresh green of spring. She could see the fortified banks on its heights, and could appreciate how large the hill and the fort were, and the incredible amount of work those early people had put into making themselves safer.
After she had looked her fill, they flew up, along the banks, tracing the fortifications, and the complex additional ramparts that shielded the entrance. Bill told her to ignore the unsightly holes and structures that Muggles had subsequently created in the secure area inside the walls, using the fortifications for their their own purposes.
They came to earth once more inside the vast space, at its highest point, and Bill spread out a blanket while Fleur enlarged and then unpacked her picnic basket. The fresh air, the sunny day, the isolated height, the marvellous view of miles of farmland and more distant villages and towns, all sharpened their appetites and enhanced their enjoyment.
After Fleur had repacked the basket she lay back on the blanket, as Bill did; then she turned on her side, propping her chin on a fist, to look at him, relaxed, at ease in himself and pleased, she thought, to be alone with her. As she was, to be with him. For some time Bill had taken her to admire places where they could be alone, though at first he had punctiliously made their expeditions in public, among other people, until she could be sure he was trustworthy. Fleur had smiled to herself, thinking he did not realise how strong were her defences; but she had liked his consideration.
"Would they have had witches and wizards, those who lived there?"
"I think they must have done," Bill replied, mirroring her position. "We used to live among Muggles, for thousands of years; it's only in the last three hundred that we've cut ourselves off."
That was an interesting way of putting it.
"You think the Statute of Secrecy unnecessary, then?"
Bill shrugged. "When it was introduced, times were hard for us. We needed to be more secure. But ever since, we've been in hiding, making ourselves more afraid of Muggles, not less. Who wants to live in an emergency for three hundred years and more? It's not as if there's no contact; there'll always be Muggleborn linking our worlds, our people. We claim to despise Muggles, or to find them interesting creatures to study, as Dad does - which is another way of pretending they can't affect us. Dumbledore thinks we should find a better way, so that neither they nor we need to live in fear."
Fleur scowled. "I have no great opinion of Dumbledore," she said flatly. "He is Headmaster of Hogwarts, in charge of the safety of all its children - yet he endangered my sister Gabrielle, snatching her away from Beauxbatons, for his Triwizard Tournament, making her a prisoner in that lake, risking that she would drown - or be drowned by the merfolk. I could not rescue her. What if Harry Potter had not done so? What would have happened to her?"
"She would have been safe." Bill spoke gently. He knew by now how much she loved little Gabrielle.
"How do I know? His champion Cedric was not safe."
"Not Dumbledore's doing, though. My brother was held under the lake too, Fleur. I didn't like it; Dumbledore didn't get our parents' permission, either. But I do believe Ron wasn't at risk - even if Harry thought so, just as he felt he had to save Gabrielle. But Harry was only fourteen, and knew very little about the wizarding world. If Voldemort hadn't had that elaborate plot to use Harry to resurrect himself, everyone would have been perfectly safe."
She was silent, not willing to say that she would trust his old Headmaster.
After a moment Bill added, "Now we know that Voldemort is back - and was trying to come back for years before - it's different; we need to take much greater care of all our vulnerable people." He reached for her hand. "There's going to be a war, Fleur. He wants it, though we don't. No one would suggest something as risky as another Triwizard Tournament now, I hope."
She gripped his hand hard. "That's why you came back to Britain from Egypt?"
He nodded.
"And Dumbledore will be your war leader. Your Ministry will do nothing until it's too late; that's plain. But Bill, he must have known, before, what Voldemort would do. The tournament wasn't held for so many years because it was dangerous in itself - shouldn't he have thought Voldemort might choose to exploit it?"
"Perhaps he should," Bill admitted. "I think he was more focussed on making an opportunity to build closer relationships with wizarding communities in Europe."
"He certainly got publicity for the dangers Voldemort brought - if anyone had believed that he had returned!"
"Yes," Bill said wryly. "I expect there'll be evidence no one, not even Minister Fudge, can ignore, when Voldemort's ready. Fleur, you may not trust Dumbledore with the safety of individuals, but I believe you can trust him to do his best for the wizarding world, to oppose Voldemort, to prevent him from taking over. He is a leader. He defeated Grindelwald, two generations ago. I came home to join his resistance - and to protect my family, especially the youngest ones. You, though - you don't have to live through a war."
Fleur had thought of this when her supervisor in Paris had suggested she should take a posting to London. She, more than most British or European witches, had seen what Voldemort could and might do, and had decided she would not let fear of him direct her whole life.
So now she said, "I'm not prepared to put my life on hold for a monster, or for fear of him. That would be a victory for him indeed."
She moved closer to Bill, looking intro his eyes, until her body lay gently pressed against his, so that she could feel his heightened breathing.
"I plan to live, Bill. As fully as I can, as long as I may."
Then she reached out and drew his head to hers, and took his mouth.
FD+++BW
Fleur's supervisor Nimchuk was pleased with her progress in sounding like a native-born British witch, and said so.
He began allowing her to interview the occasional client, though only for minor matters - which was fair enough, as she was working in the bank only eight days out of fifteen. He seemed satisfied with her dealings there, too, and began giving her documents to read from the bank's past - in Gobbledygook rather than English, which slowed her progress, since the alphabet was perversely complicated; she spoke the language much better than she read it. However, he also gave her a helpful translation charm developed nearly a hundred years ago by another wizard employed by Gringotts, one who was interested in tracing the development of certain important families' interactions with Gringotts. Fleur thought she would have liked to read that wizard's notes on that, but Nimchuk didn't offer her those.
She realised soon enough that Nimchuk was encouraging her to develop a sense of the bank's history, at least in London. She found interesting records which placed new light on certain classes in History of Magic at both Hogwarts and Beauxbatons, which was a demonstration of trust from a goblin, since they didn't invariably show either individual goblins or the bank itself in the most favourable light. They certainly showed offending clients in a poor light. If Fleur thought the goblins would be offended less often if they were less obsessively secretive, she didn't bother to say so.
Even more, Nimchuk showed her maps of the London bank's underground passages - maps which never stayed still, in their attempt to represent not only length and breadth, but depth, from different perspectives, and which revealed in the passages themselves an astonishing ability to react in a hostile manner to an intruder. Fleur studied them with interest, but Nimchuk never let her keep them overnight.
She was far too sensible to make any attempt to copy them, though she did redraw various small sections, in the attempt to represent all the changes possible, to see if she could detect any consistency. Arithmancy would have helped, but he forbade her to use that except by explicit direction. She showed him those drawings, and gave them into his hands when their discussions and his lectures were done. That she did so unprompted pleased him; she in turn was pleased that he did not destroy them, but filed them securely away. Either he thought them potentially useful, or he retained them as evidence of her skill, possibly for some future review of her status.
Nimchuk moved on to the bank's security provisions: the practical embodiment of that rhyming threat inlaid in the inner silver doors of the magnificent entrance hall:
"For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn."
She had heard the rumours of dragons in the highest security vaults, and other inimical creatures, such as basilisks, but thought that kind of security precaution impractical: none of those were domesticated creatures, willing to cooperate with or even to acknowledge an owner. Nimchuk said nothing to resolve her doubts, but talked of doors unable to be touched save by a goblin, vault keys linked to the identity not only of their owner, but temporarily to that of the goblin who escorted the owner to his vault. Naturally no client was ever allowed into the vaults alone. It seemed that even the crazy rail cars that transported guard and client to the depths could detect an unauthorised passenger - or wanderer in the passages - and that the rails themselves could attack an intruder. It all sounded very thorough, and typically dangerous for any but a goblin, with no allowance for innocent bystanders. Goblins didn't believe in innocent bystanders, of course.
Nimchuk didn't demonstrate any of these facilities, but he did give her a silver token which would allow her to explore by herself and, no doubt, to get into trouble by herself, too. It was both a test and a gesture of trust, such as one might expect from a goblin who believed one a trustworthy employee. When Fleur considered how junior and how new she was, she thought she should use her licence with extreme care.
Nonetheless, on her first free day, instead of staying at home with her textbooks and the mirror charmed to enunciate clearly, and then to show her how she formed words, Fleur left Nimchuk a note advising that she would be using the token he had given her - it seemed an appropriate security precaution of her own. Then she commandeered a rail car and instructed it to take her to that area she had spent so much time trying to diagram.
It was encouraging to find that she had managed to grasp the essentials of its structure, though she made mental notes of some refinements she had not noticed.
She decided not to test the ability of vault doors to repel the touch of anyone not a goblin; though Nimchuk hadn't warned her against doing so, that struck her as an act of recklessness. Nor did she plan to check how rails and rail cars might respond if she set her explorer's token aside.
It should, however, be possible to see if the deepest security vaults did have additional protections in the shape of guardian creatures.
Fleur spent longer than she realised finding and exploring a couple of those deeps, and only by chance discovered yet another, even deeper in the earth: a cavern of rock, which her Lumos showed to have a cathedral-high ceiling bristling with stalactites, and a floor littered with broken-off stalagmites, all in a pale crystal streaked with pink - from iron, she supposed.
She could see three vault doors at her left, and two at her right, evenly spaced. Why were there not doors running all around the cavern? Frowning slightly, she intensified the Lumos.
Several things happened at once. A whistling scream nearly split her head; something very large appeared in the cavern's centre, wings mantling, enormous head garnished with sharp teeth shooting forward on a long neck; and she found herself back at the entrance, shaking. She had never moved faster, short of Apparition.
"Merde, alors!" Fleur whispered, not even thinking of regretting she had not spoken in English as she was supposed to.
The scream sounded again. Her eyes abruptly focussed on that terrifying head reaching for her, so that she saw the nictitating membranes covering the pinkish eyes, the tears oozing from the eye corners, and then the head rearing back, trying to evade the light.
That scream was pain.
Shuddering, Fleur lowered the light level of her wand to something that let her see, but would not, she hoped, distress the dragon further.
The dragon continued hostile, unsurprisingly. Calmer now, Fleur examined it. There were heavy shackles on the hind legs that ensured the dragon could not reach her. It could come very close - what, after all, was the use of a guardian creature if it could not seize an interloper? Its head was viciously scarred, and its neck; there must be some cruel way of holding it back, when goblins entered the cavern with the owners of these vaults. Fleur felt ill. That poor creature - half blind, head and hind legs deeply scarred, scales a watery yellow, as if faded in the sun - but this dragon was faded by living in the dark: what kind was it? Goblins anywhere could most easily procure a local dragon: this was probably a Hebridean Black or a Welsh Green. She had not studied British dragons. It didn't matter. It had been here too long, suffered too much, been deprived of too much: no sun, no wind, no green earth, no free movement between earth and sky, no natural prey. It was probably mad.
The dragon was emitting steam from its nostrils, now, and a low hissing; it was more disturbed, not less. Perhaps she should leave it in peace, to settle down.
But maybe she could calm it. She was Veela, after all, however attenuated her blood.
She could speak to dragons. Fleur closed her eyes. She ought to be able to speak to dragons, who were distant kin, and be heard; but her heritage was compromised, and she had come late to it, unlike Gabrielle. Her father the wizard could not live within a Veela nest, and she had lacked training until her mother had surrendered, after Gabrielle was born, and had given her daughters to family to be taught, almost too late for her, though not for Gabrielle. Aunt Honorine and Uncle Louis had been loving parents and teachers to both of them, just as her grandmother, her other aunts, her great-aunts, had all showed her not only how to be human, but how to be Veela.
Fleur took a deep breath. She could do this. She could change to a form the dragon would not see as hostile; she could speak a language it would feel as sympathetic, even if it could understand few words - maybe none, but it would feel her kinship. She could soothe it, repair the harm she had done, if not the harm it had suffered over long years of imprisonment.
Fleur wasn't aware of Bill's arrival. He told her, afterwards, that he knew there was a dragon in this cavern; he had gone looking for her when Nimchuk complained she had not returned at the end of a long day; and he had found the cart she was using on the rails at the cavern entrance. Voila. So he had approached quietly, heart in his mouth. To find her talking and singing to a very relaxed dragon.
It had taken a long while - not surprising, considering how poorly the creature had been treated - but it had at last calmed, responding to a Veela's concern and affection, and had settled to the cave floor: haunches tucked up neatly, long neck and head laid out along the cavern floor, facing her, eyes half shuttered and jaws slightly agape, occasional steam and smoke coming from mouth or nostrils. Fleur tried not to think of it as looking like a particularly silly cat.
She had been telling her dragon about Maiden Castle: how it appeared, what a magnificent outlook it offered, how tender its grasses, how free the wind to blow over it, and how a dragon might rest easy in the shelter of its fortifications. She had reminded the dragon of clean air, open sky, clouds scudding, wind brushing over the grasses, sun to warm the scales and promote comfortable naps. All the things this prisoner had not experienced for too long.
Then Bill spoke, very quietly. "Fleur, can you back towards the entrance, please, and get out of reach."
She froze for a moment, aware of what he must be seeing, ashamed of her inability to keep the Veela form steady after holding so long for her dragon: witch - flicker - Veela - flicker - witch… For all his interest in her, he might not like to see her in the form she, as less than half-blood, found so difficult to maintain. Something like a bird, something like a large erect lizard, sharp claws, a beak meant for tearing, feathered crest, brilliant scales - impressive, perhaps, but hardly attractive to a wizard.
She summoned her pride, as well as her concern for the dragon: she had calmed it, she did not want it startled or angered because Bill had intruded on them. Nor could she revert entirely to her witch form; that too might disturb the lonely guardian of the dark and those cold heaps of gold in tiny cells.
Delicately she stepped back, not looking away from the great head whose half-lidded eyes were fixed on her.
"I must go now, Amaranth, sweetheart, but I'll come back to you. I'll try to find you a way out of here, so you can be in your own place, as you should be, instead of chained here to terrify thieves. Next time I can bring you gifts, just little things you might enjoy."
She reached the entrance, and Bill's hands clamped hard on her shoulders, telling her, despite his calm voice, how worried he had been.
"What gifts?" he asked, softly still.
"Dragon-nip. Fresh flowers and herbs to give this place the scent of open air. Salve for those terrible scars on his hind legs." She shrugged. "Things to let him know he is valued."
"He?"
Fleur turned, and Bill's grip eased so that she could do so, and look at him. She moved closer to him, and his hands slid down her back. She smiled. "He."
"Yet you call him Amaranth - a flower name for such a great beast?"
"He would have been handsome, once. Should he not have a name to reflect that? He deserves a name."
"Yes," Bill agreed. Soberly he said, "Goblins are not kind, Fleur. Can you live with that?"
"I can try to find an alternative they will accept, so their victim might go free, at last. Is he the only one?"
Bill hesitated, then said, "No. There's at least one other here in London."
"There are other dragons imprisoned in other caverns, elsewhere, then, to ward off intruders?"
"I haven't seen any, but yes, I believe so."
Fleur sighed. "I wonder how long they have been doing this, not to think that their own curse-breakers could put up better defences, at less cost, and be no danger at all to the goblins themselves."
"Illusions, and trap-wards, reveal and restraint spells, and if necessary real curses."
"Yes. You'll help me, Bill, to make a proposal they might listen to?"
"If you're serious; if you'll work at it too."
"Naturally I shall," she said crisply.
The relief she felt, however, made her lean against him, put her head on his shoulder, close her eyes, and breathe in the sense of safety and support.
"Thank you, my friend."
"You know I want to be more than a friend."
"Do you, Bill? I am Veela - you have seen me. Can you want that in your home, in your bed?"
"In my arms, in my life, for now and for always," he answered promptly. "A good friend is a reliable partner, Fleur; we shall both need that, before long." Softly, "I should value that."
"Oh, while that monster threatens this country, yes, and others too, perhaps, if he's let alone. It will not be forever. Peace is a truer state than war, even for witches and wizards."
"Partners, then, as well as friends?"
"Partners, friends, lovers," she agreed, and slid her arms around him, gripping him close.
She leaned up to kiss him, and his mouth opened to hers.
They had kissed before, embraced before, but this was new, this commitment, this confidence, this unity.
When Fleur sighed and eased back Bill too was flushed and heavy-eyed, his lips swollen and reddened and tender, like hers, with kissing. She could feel the hard pressure of him against her belly, and her own moist readiness to receive him, and the longing they shared to ratify their promises of words and feelings with their bodies, to come together in every way.
But not in a cavern deep beneath Gringotts, even if there were not an easily-disturbed dragon just out of sight; not where Nimchuk, or the watch wizards, might appear at any moment, seeking Bill now as well as Fleur.
She said only, "Not here, Bill. Come home with me?"
"Come to my place, rather. It's completely private. If you're ready now -"
She laughed ruefully, a little breathless with eagerness and the pleasure still running in her blood.
"Ready, indeed. But first we must take this cart back, and I must return Nimchuk's token -"
"Just as I must report you found."
With pleasing reluctance, Bill let go of her, then took her hand to lead her to the little mine cart on its narrow rails, as if touch was essential. She only released his hand when they came to the exit above, and observers.
When they reached the haven of his flat Bill offered her his bathroom. She accepted. It had been a long day, she had been active, and he at least had been worried (she had been too busy worrying about the dragon to be frightened of it). A warm bath or shower would relax them both, and make going to bed together easier.
"Come with me," she invited, holding out her hand.
Bill relaxed and smiled at her, before he reached to unfasten her robes. She returned the favour, not lingering, but anxious to strip him, to see him as he was and would be to her, naked in every way, willing, and hers, as she was his.
Their hands slid over each other, exploring, caressing, experimenting. They held back from kissing, more interested now in seeing what pleased and what excited, and in how many ways they could use hands and mouths on each others' bodies. A delicious voyage of discovery.
Bill drew Fleur down onto his couch, big enough to be comfortable for a tall man, then turned onto his back and beckoned her to straddle his hips. She did so eagerly, though she lowered herself onto his thighs rather than onto the erection quivering for her, wanting to touch it, to become more closely acquainted. Bill gasped, and sighed, then took her hands and pushed them away.
"No more!"
He released her hands, setting them on his body, suggesting she explore less sensitive parts. Fleur was very willing, stroking the fine hair over his chest and the arch of his ribs, fingering his tight brown nipples, following the line of his muscles with her fingernails. His own hands were moving as boldly, first on her breasts, but soon going between her thighs, spread open over him, fingering her lower lips, tracing between them, seeking out and spreading her moisture, then tickling her clit, and pressing into her, ever more deeply, until she too was gasping.
Soon she felt that her patience could last no longer. She was eager to move on, to finish, if she must, but in any case to join their bodies, to feel him stroking within her, to clasp him close, to climb the last of the beckoning heights and fling both of them off, reckless, fulfilled, completed.
"Now!" she demanded, moving up his body, lifting, then taking him in a firm hold and leading him home, sinking down upon him, relishing his long gasp and her own whimper of, not satisfaction, not yet, but its promise. She paused for a moment when he was fully home, then lifted up, and slid down. Bill grasped her hips and led her into a pattern of advance and retreat, until she was moving confidently in tune with him, each driving the other closer to that highest, brightest point, until eagerness become joy, and she cried out her pleasure, feeling herself gripping him more tightly than ever, feeling him thrusting and then spasming within her, as he followed her into the light and the warmth.
As the last of his climax shook him she couldn't hold herself up any longer. She let herself slide down on him, and lie along his body, feeling his hands clasping her to him, lightly, but warmly. She nuzzled into his throat, and licked delicately once at the sweat pooled in its hollow before she subsided into peace, letting her own hands caress and claim him in turn.
"Together," she said, after a while.
"No matter what comes," he agreed.
He turned his head so that he could kiss her cheek, gently, affectionately rather than with passion, and she said softly, but with determination, even as she brushed her fingers over his lips, "Against the world, if we must." She laughed softly. "Joy is part of enjoyment. We shall have it all."
"Together."
They eventually showered together, then ate, feeding each other, nibbling each other's fingers, and made their way into Bill's bedroom, to what would be their bed, to share their whole new world once more.
The End
End Note Maiden Castle. Choose the first pic: an excellent view.
As far as I know, the concept of dragon-nip (a parellel to catnip) belongs to Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle (see their novel The Burning City, from where I nicked it).
Author/Artist Leni Jess (leni_jess)
Pairing Bill/Fleur
Rating NC17
Summary Bill isn't impressed by a Veela, or by Veela charm, but Fleur… that's another magical creature. She adds interest to the life a bored curse-breaker leads in a dull bank while waiting for a war to get under way.
Warning Apart from the rating? Vanilla, baby.
Word Count 6067
Disclaimer Characters and settings belong to JKR and various assignees; plot belongs to me.
Author's notesWritten February 2011 for karasu_hime in wizard_love; she asked "How exactly did Fleur land Bill?" Thanks to mod ragdoll for exemplary patience, and to my brother, my obliging beta-reader/cheerleader, for listening to me whine about not being able to write.
A Bit of Adventure
by Leni Jess
Bill's not that down-to-earth. He's a Curse-Breaker, isn't he, he likes a bit of adventure, a bit of glamour... I expect that's why he's gone for [Fleur]. Ginny in HBP chapter 5
Bill told her about it much later, when they knew each other. At the time, her new supervisor just said Gringotts London would provide her a wizard guide, to help her get settled. Before long this cheerful, friendly, quite good-looking English wizard had appeared and invited her out to have ice cream, so that he could start introducing her to whatever she didn't already know of wizarding Britain. She thought ice cream more suited to her little sister than to herself, but having confirmed that this was the anticipated guide, Fleur went with him willingly enough. It was a pleasant day for late winter, mild and sunny; and a little attention was always acceptable. This Bill Weasley neither leered nor panted nor salivated, so he was not simply adult, but also courteous and self-controlled.
The ice cream proved to be remarkable, so Fleur enjoyed it, and admitted that what she had mostly seen of wizarding Britain was Hogwarts.
She didn't say that she distrusted its headmaster (who had put Gabrielle in serious danger without a word to her parents or even her older sister less than a year ago), and despised the school's ability to protect any of its students (given what had happened to Harry, and worse to Cedric, and even to someone who was supposed to be an old friend of Dumbledore's, but whose impersonator had contrived to teach for most of a school year before he was discovered).
She had learned from her supervisor in Paris the uses of observing strangers before she confided anything to them. He had pointed out that he was sending her to London to improve her English and to learn more of the Gringotts organisation, not to embarrass herself or the Paris branch. Also, though she was certainly free to charm anyone willing to be charmed by Veela allure, she was not to tempt anyone who might be made uneasy or resentful. Her grandmother and aunts had drilled that into her years ago, adding (as her supervisor didn't), "Unless one wishes to irritate or to distract, naturally."
Fleur listened, and asked questions, and answered his (which were interested rather than intrusive). He told her a few stories about curse-breaking in Egypt, which sounded more exciting than catching French wizards trying to cheat the bank. However, she made the most of her couple of stories of misplaced ingenuity, and Bill seemed to find them amusing, so she was moderately pleased with both of them.
Before they returned to the bank Bill had asked her out to dinner on Friday night. She knew hardly anyone in London, so had more than one reason to accept with pleasure.
She learned later that their first meeting had seemed quite different, to Bill.
His supervisor had hopped up onto the desk where he was comparing two small Egyptian figurines, giving, as he so often did, the the unsettling impression of a spider Apparating to its prey, and said abruptly, "Leave that."
Since Telanik was crouched before him and staring into his face from a few inches' distance, Bill set both figurines down carefully, then sat back in his chair to give himself space. Telanik didn't follow him, so Bill knew he himself was not considered at fault.
Telanik, satisfied he had Bill's attention, went on, "We brought you to London to give you wider experience in management beyond an excavation site and its opportunities for analysis and efficiency. Now we have a trainee for you." Telanik's grimace was horrible, but Bill knew it was congratulatory rather than vindictive.
"French, female, very young (just out of Beauxbatons, of course), in the finance wing with six months in the Paris office, here to improve her English and her negotiation skills. Part-time. Start by making her comfortable here. Then get rid of that silly accent of hers. She is intelligent, and like most witches and wizards has a good ear; she does not need to sound like an idiot. She has learned Gobbledygook with no problems, and already has a pure accent; make her work on her English."
Telanik cocked his head. He added, "She is also part Veela, and of course very beautiful as wizards rate beauty. She may talk like that to reduce envy, or to distract attention from her sharp wits. Who knows. Train her out of it, at least when she speaks in the bank. If she wishes to be disregarded in the street, that is her affair, I suppose. But she is (or will be) a finance officer, not a spy, and our clients should respect both her and her skills."
"What else do you want me to concentrate on?"
Telanik grinned even more horribly. "I will leave that to you to decide."
So this was a test, as well as a learning opportunity. Surprise, surprise.
Bill had heard about Fleur Delacour from three of his younger brothers (though Ron had been fairly incoherent), so he went to find her (first speaking to her supervisor Nimchuk) with interest and considerable caution.
She was, indeed, a beauty. Bill found her stunning, but had no intention of letting her see that. She accepted his invitation politely, and shed some of her reserve on discovering that Fortescue's ice cream could please the tastes of an adult quite as well as a school child. She also sounded witless, but what she said was not just acceptable, but intelligent and witty. Nor was she vain, though she was pleased by his appreciative glances, carefully directed at her face rather than her form.
It was no hardship to invite her out to dinner. He wasn't surprised she accepted; he thought she was just beginning to feel lonely, isolated even from the small group of witches and wizards she would have had for company in the Paris office, and not yet having made friends in the comparable London group, most of whom would still be wary of her.
He could do with interesting company too. Though perhaps he had needed a rest, after curse-breaking in the shadow-shrouded tombs of Egypt, the bank was dull, and waiting for either Dumbledore or Voldemort to act made him want to curse both of them roundly.
FD+++BW
Fleur found Bill ready to help improve her English, though she thought he placed too much importance on getting rid of her French accent. She had always welcomed learning and using new words, and English grammar was not a problem - she had to admit it was convenient that one need not worry about the gender of any noun - but that was balanced by the strange choices English made of prepositions to follow verbs: nothing like as logical as French. She wished there was a list she could just learn off by heart, but no one offered that. Bill was ready to suggest some neat ways to ease remembering, however; and he organised two of her new workmates to help her practice speaking, though she thought Alizon spent too much energy thinking about the significance of Bill's long red hair and fang earring, and not enough on role playing different situations to expand her vocabulary.
By the time winter turned to spring, she was familiar enough with Bill to say irritably, "I wish you were not so obsessed about my accent! Some people think it very pretty, you know."
Bill said calmly, "You are very pretty." He sounded so placid it was hardly the compliment it might have been. "Have you ever noticed men paying much attention to the opinions of pretty girls in matters of business?"
That was a low blow. She had met far too many idiots who were convinced she must be an idiot too, just because of her looks. She had already learned the expression "blonde moment" for failures of intelligence.
Bill continued, "British people are very insular; they do not all trust foreigners, never mind like them." She had noticed that, too.
"If you mark yourself as a foreigner, you invite people to disregard what you say. You do not need the bank's clients reacting like that. If you talk like them, however, at least you will not have to overcome that prejudice. You'll have enough to face, being both female and attractive. Goblins are indifferent to your sex and appearance; they are only interested in the quality of your mind. Their customers are not like that."
Fleur hated to admit he was right, but she said, "Very well; no more 'zis French mees wis her strrrange way of spikking'." She got in one dig, however, saying tartly, "I notice on the Wizarding Wireless that many people have regional accents."
Blandly Bill replied, "We are not so provincial as the people of Paris, to think everyone should talk just like them."
Fleur was from the Auvergne, and knew that prejudice well; she gave up, and chuckled. She had noticed that Bill liked her laugh.
As April warmed into May, he suggested over their customary dinner on Friday night, "If it's fine tomorrow, would you like to come to Maiden Castle?"
"What is that, a refuge for young women?"
"No; a prehistoric hill fort in the south-west. It's enormous, about the size of fifty Quidditch pitches - we'll need our brooms, just to see it properly. Muggles have to walk. With brooms we can get above it, too, and see how the fortifications are laid out, far more easily."
"Yes, why not? I shall bring a picnic. Thank you."
Though Fleur lodged with a friendly woman whose house was not far from Diagon Alley, she had soon negotiated the right to use her kitchen: her patience with English cooking was limited. She had decided early that she had no objection to showing Bill that she was an excellent cook, as was any young woman brought up in a Veela nest: all their children were taught to value true independence and self-reliance.
Saturday was fine and sunny; and in Dorset, at least, the air was still, which made exploring so many acres of hilltop much more comfortable. Bill signalled them down to land some way from the long rolling ridge that rose far above them, its grass thick and succulent, the fresh green of spring. She could see the fortified banks on its heights, and could appreciate how large the hill and the fort were, and the incredible amount of work those early people had put into making themselves safer.
After she had looked her fill, they flew up, along the banks, tracing the fortifications, and the complex additional ramparts that shielded the entrance. Bill told her to ignore the unsightly holes and structures that Muggles had subsequently created in the secure area inside the walls, using the fortifications for their their own purposes.
They came to earth once more inside the vast space, at its highest point, and Bill spread out a blanket while Fleur enlarged and then unpacked her picnic basket. The fresh air, the sunny day, the isolated height, the marvellous view of miles of farmland and more distant villages and towns, all sharpened their appetites and enhanced their enjoyment.
After Fleur had repacked the basket she lay back on the blanket, as Bill did; then she turned on her side, propping her chin on a fist, to look at him, relaxed, at ease in himself and pleased, she thought, to be alone with her. As she was, to be with him. For some time Bill had taken her to admire places where they could be alone, though at first he had punctiliously made their expeditions in public, among other people, until she could be sure he was trustworthy. Fleur had smiled to herself, thinking he did not realise how strong were her defences; but she had liked his consideration.
"Would they have had witches and wizards, those who lived there?"
"I think they must have done," Bill replied, mirroring her position. "We used to live among Muggles, for thousands of years; it's only in the last three hundred that we've cut ourselves off."
That was an interesting way of putting it.
"You think the Statute of Secrecy unnecessary, then?"
Bill shrugged. "When it was introduced, times were hard for us. We needed to be more secure. But ever since, we've been in hiding, making ourselves more afraid of Muggles, not less. Who wants to live in an emergency for three hundred years and more? It's not as if there's no contact; there'll always be Muggleborn linking our worlds, our people. We claim to despise Muggles, or to find them interesting creatures to study, as Dad does - which is another way of pretending they can't affect us. Dumbledore thinks we should find a better way, so that neither they nor we need to live in fear."
Fleur scowled. "I have no great opinion of Dumbledore," she said flatly. "He is Headmaster of Hogwarts, in charge of the safety of all its children - yet he endangered my sister Gabrielle, snatching her away from Beauxbatons, for his Triwizard Tournament, making her a prisoner in that lake, risking that she would drown - or be drowned by the merfolk. I could not rescue her. What if Harry Potter had not done so? What would have happened to her?"
"She would have been safe." Bill spoke gently. He knew by now how much she loved little Gabrielle.
"How do I know? His champion Cedric was not safe."
"Not Dumbledore's doing, though. My brother was held under the lake too, Fleur. I didn't like it; Dumbledore didn't get our parents' permission, either. But I do believe Ron wasn't at risk - even if Harry thought so, just as he felt he had to save Gabrielle. But Harry was only fourteen, and knew very little about the wizarding world. If Voldemort hadn't had that elaborate plot to use Harry to resurrect himself, everyone would have been perfectly safe."
She was silent, not willing to say that she would trust his old Headmaster.
After a moment Bill added, "Now we know that Voldemort is back - and was trying to come back for years before - it's different; we need to take much greater care of all our vulnerable people." He reached for her hand. "There's going to be a war, Fleur. He wants it, though we don't. No one would suggest something as risky as another Triwizard Tournament now, I hope."
She gripped his hand hard. "That's why you came back to Britain from Egypt?"
He nodded.
"And Dumbledore will be your war leader. Your Ministry will do nothing until it's too late; that's plain. But Bill, he must have known, before, what Voldemort would do. The tournament wasn't held for so many years because it was dangerous in itself - shouldn't he have thought Voldemort might choose to exploit it?"
"Perhaps he should," Bill admitted. "I think he was more focussed on making an opportunity to build closer relationships with wizarding communities in Europe."
"He certainly got publicity for the dangers Voldemort brought - if anyone had believed that he had returned!"
"Yes," Bill said wryly. "I expect there'll be evidence no one, not even Minister Fudge, can ignore, when Voldemort's ready. Fleur, you may not trust Dumbledore with the safety of individuals, but I believe you can trust him to do his best for the wizarding world, to oppose Voldemort, to prevent him from taking over. He is a leader. He defeated Grindelwald, two generations ago. I came home to join his resistance - and to protect my family, especially the youngest ones. You, though - you don't have to live through a war."
Fleur had thought of this when her supervisor in Paris had suggested she should take a posting to London. She, more than most British or European witches, had seen what Voldemort could and might do, and had decided she would not let fear of him direct her whole life.
So now she said, "I'm not prepared to put my life on hold for a monster, or for fear of him. That would be a victory for him indeed."
She moved closer to Bill, looking intro his eyes, until her body lay gently pressed against his, so that she could feel his heightened breathing.
"I plan to live, Bill. As fully as I can, as long as I may."
Then she reached out and drew his head to hers, and took his mouth.
FD+++BW
Fleur's supervisor Nimchuk was pleased with her progress in sounding like a native-born British witch, and said so.
He began allowing her to interview the occasional client, though only for minor matters - which was fair enough, as she was working in the bank only eight days out of fifteen. He seemed satisfied with her dealings there, too, and began giving her documents to read from the bank's past - in Gobbledygook rather than English, which slowed her progress, since the alphabet was perversely complicated; she spoke the language much better than she read it. However, he also gave her a helpful translation charm developed nearly a hundred years ago by another wizard employed by Gringotts, one who was interested in tracing the development of certain important families' interactions with Gringotts. Fleur thought she would have liked to read that wizard's notes on that, but Nimchuk didn't offer her those.
She realised soon enough that Nimchuk was encouraging her to develop a sense of the bank's history, at least in London. She found interesting records which placed new light on certain classes in History of Magic at both Hogwarts and Beauxbatons, which was a demonstration of trust from a goblin, since they didn't invariably show either individual goblins or the bank itself in the most favourable light. They certainly showed offending clients in a poor light. If Fleur thought the goblins would be offended less often if they were less obsessively secretive, she didn't bother to say so.
Even more, Nimchuk showed her maps of the London bank's underground passages - maps which never stayed still, in their attempt to represent not only length and breadth, but depth, from different perspectives, and which revealed in the passages themselves an astonishing ability to react in a hostile manner to an intruder. Fleur studied them with interest, but Nimchuk never let her keep them overnight.
She was far too sensible to make any attempt to copy them, though she did redraw various small sections, in the attempt to represent all the changes possible, to see if she could detect any consistency. Arithmancy would have helped, but he forbade her to use that except by explicit direction. She showed him those drawings, and gave them into his hands when their discussions and his lectures were done. That she did so unprompted pleased him; she in turn was pleased that he did not destroy them, but filed them securely away. Either he thought them potentially useful, or he retained them as evidence of her skill, possibly for some future review of her status.
Nimchuk moved on to the bank's security provisions: the practical embodiment of that rhyming threat inlaid in the inner silver doors of the magnificent entrance hall:
"For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn."
She had heard the rumours of dragons in the highest security vaults, and other inimical creatures, such as basilisks, but thought that kind of security precaution impractical: none of those were domesticated creatures, willing to cooperate with or even to acknowledge an owner. Nimchuk said nothing to resolve her doubts, but talked of doors unable to be touched save by a goblin, vault keys linked to the identity not only of their owner, but temporarily to that of the goblin who escorted the owner to his vault. Naturally no client was ever allowed into the vaults alone. It seemed that even the crazy rail cars that transported guard and client to the depths could detect an unauthorised passenger - or wanderer in the passages - and that the rails themselves could attack an intruder. It all sounded very thorough, and typically dangerous for any but a goblin, with no allowance for innocent bystanders. Goblins didn't believe in innocent bystanders, of course.
Nimchuk didn't demonstrate any of these facilities, but he did give her a silver token which would allow her to explore by herself and, no doubt, to get into trouble by herself, too. It was both a test and a gesture of trust, such as one might expect from a goblin who believed one a trustworthy employee. When Fleur considered how junior and how new she was, she thought she should use her licence with extreme care.
Nonetheless, on her first free day, instead of staying at home with her textbooks and the mirror charmed to enunciate clearly, and then to show her how she formed words, Fleur left Nimchuk a note advising that she would be using the token he had given her - it seemed an appropriate security precaution of her own. Then she commandeered a rail car and instructed it to take her to that area she had spent so much time trying to diagram.
It was encouraging to find that she had managed to grasp the essentials of its structure, though she made mental notes of some refinements she had not noticed.
She decided not to test the ability of vault doors to repel the touch of anyone not a goblin; though Nimchuk hadn't warned her against doing so, that struck her as an act of recklessness. Nor did she plan to check how rails and rail cars might respond if she set her explorer's token aside.
It should, however, be possible to see if the deepest security vaults did have additional protections in the shape of guardian creatures.
Fleur spent longer than she realised finding and exploring a couple of those deeps, and only by chance discovered yet another, even deeper in the earth: a cavern of rock, which her Lumos showed to have a cathedral-high ceiling bristling with stalactites, and a floor littered with broken-off stalagmites, all in a pale crystal streaked with pink - from iron, she supposed.
She could see three vault doors at her left, and two at her right, evenly spaced. Why were there not doors running all around the cavern? Frowning slightly, she intensified the Lumos.
Several things happened at once. A whistling scream nearly split her head; something very large appeared in the cavern's centre, wings mantling, enormous head garnished with sharp teeth shooting forward on a long neck; and she found herself back at the entrance, shaking. She had never moved faster, short of Apparition.
"Merde, alors!" Fleur whispered, not even thinking of regretting she had not spoken in English as she was supposed to.
The scream sounded again. Her eyes abruptly focussed on that terrifying head reaching for her, so that she saw the nictitating membranes covering the pinkish eyes, the tears oozing from the eye corners, and then the head rearing back, trying to evade the light.
That scream was pain.
Shuddering, Fleur lowered the light level of her wand to something that let her see, but would not, she hoped, distress the dragon further.
The dragon continued hostile, unsurprisingly. Calmer now, Fleur examined it. There were heavy shackles on the hind legs that ensured the dragon could not reach her. It could come very close - what, after all, was the use of a guardian creature if it could not seize an interloper? Its head was viciously scarred, and its neck; there must be some cruel way of holding it back, when goblins entered the cavern with the owners of these vaults. Fleur felt ill. That poor creature - half blind, head and hind legs deeply scarred, scales a watery yellow, as if faded in the sun - but this dragon was faded by living in the dark: what kind was it? Goblins anywhere could most easily procure a local dragon: this was probably a Hebridean Black or a Welsh Green. She had not studied British dragons. It didn't matter. It had been here too long, suffered too much, been deprived of too much: no sun, no wind, no green earth, no free movement between earth and sky, no natural prey. It was probably mad.
The dragon was emitting steam from its nostrils, now, and a low hissing; it was more disturbed, not less. Perhaps she should leave it in peace, to settle down.
But maybe she could calm it. She was Veela, after all, however attenuated her blood.
She could speak to dragons. Fleur closed her eyes. She ought to be able to speak to dragons, who were distant kin, and be heard; but her heritage was compromised, and she had come late to it, unlike Gabrielle. Her father the wizard could not live within a Veela nest, and she had lacked training until her mother had surrendered, after Gabrielle was born, and had given her daughters to family to be taught, almost too late for her, though not for Gabrielle. Aunt Honorine and Uncle Louis had been loving parents and teachers to both of them, just as her grandmother, her other aunts, her great-aunts, had all showed her not only how to be human, but how to be Veela.
Fleur took a deep breath. She could do this. She could change to a form the dragon would not see as hostile; she could speak a language it would feel as sympathetic, even if it could understand few words - maybe none, but it would feel her kinship. She could soothe it, repair the harm she had done, if not the harm it had suffered over long years of imprisonment.
Fleur wasn't aware of Bill's arrival. He told her, afterwards, that he knew there was a dragon in this cavern; he had gone looking for her when Nimchuk complained she had not returned at the end of a long day; and he had found the cart she was using on the rails at the cavern entrance. Voila. So he had approached quietly, heart in his mouth. To find her talking and singing to a very relaxed dragon.
It had taken a long while - not surprising, considering how poorly the creature had been treated - but it had at last calmed, responding to a Veela's concern and affection, and had settled to the cave floor: haunches tucked up neatly, long neck and head laid out along the cavern floor, facing her, eyes half shuttered and jaws slightly agape, occasional steam and smoke coming from mouth or nostrils. Fleur tried not to think of it as looking like a particularly silly cat.
She had been telling her dragon about Maiden Castle: how it appeared, what a magnificent outlook it offered, how tender its grasses, how free the wind to blow over it, and how a dragon might rest easy in the shelter of its fortifications. She had reminded the dragon of clean air, open sky, clouds scudding, wind brushing over the grasses, sun to warm the scales and promote comfortable naps. All the things this prisoner had not experienced for too long.
Then Bill spoke, very quietly. "Fleur, can you back towards the entrance, please, and get out of reach."
She froze for a moment, aware of what he must be seeing, ashamed of her inability to keep the Veela form steady after holding so long for her dragon: witch - flicker - Veela - flicker - witch… For all his interest in her, he might not like to see her in the form she, as less than half-blood, found so difficult to maintain. Something like a bird, something like a large erect lizard, sharp claws, a beak meant for tearing, feathered crest, brilliant scales - impressive, perhaps, but hardly attractive to a wizard.
She summoned her pride, as well as her concern for the dragon: she had calmed it, she did not want it startled or angered because Bill had intruded on them. Nor could she revert entirely to her witch form; that too might disturb the lonely guardian of the dark and those cold heaps of gold in tiny cells.
Delicately she stepped back, not looking away from the great head whose half-lidded eyes were fixed on her.
"I must go now, Amaranth, sweetheart, but I'll come back to you. I'll try to find you a way out of here, so you can be in your own place, as you should be, instead of chained here to terrify thieves. Next time I can bring you gifts, just little things you might enjoy."
She reached the entrance, and Bill's hands clamped hard on her shoulders, telling her, despite his calm voice, how worried he had been.
"What gifts?" he asked, softly still.
"Dragon-nip. Fresh flowers and herbs to give this place the scent of open air. Salve for those terrible scars on his hind legs." She shrugged. "Things to let him know he is valued."
"He?"
Fleur turned, and Bill's grip eased so that she could do so, and look at him. She moved closer to him, and his hands slid down her back. She smiled. "He."
"Yet you call him Amaranth - a flower name for such a great beast?"
"He would have been handsome, once. Should he not have a name to reflect that? He deserves a name."
"Yes," Bill agreed. Soberly he said, "Goblins are not kind, Fleur. Can you live with that?"
"I can try to find an alternative they will accept, so their victim might go free, at last. Is he the only one?"
Bill hesitated, then said, "No. There's at least one other here in London."
"There are other dragons imprisoned in other caverns, elsewhere, then, to ward off intruders?"
"I haven't seen any, but yes, I believe so."
Fleur sighed. "I wonder how long they have been doing this, not to think that their own curse-breakers could put up better defences, at less cost, and be no danger at all to the goblins themselves."
"Illusions, and trap-wards, reveal and restraint spells, and if necessary real curses."
"Yes. You'll help me, Bill, to make a proposal they might listen to?"
"If you're serious; if you'll work at it too."
"Naturally I shall," she said crisply.
The relief she felt, however, made her lean against him, put her head on his shoulder, close her eyes, and breathe in the sense of safety and support.
"Thank you, my friend."
"You know I want to be more than a friend."
"Do you, Bill? I am Veela - you have seen me. Can you want that in your home, in your bed?"
"In my arms, in my life, for now and for always," he answered promptly. "A good friend is a reliable partner, Fleur; we shall both need that, before long." Softly, "I should value that."
"Oh, while that monster threatens this country, yes, and others too, perhaps, if he's let alone. It will not be forever. Peace is a truer state than war, even for witches and wizards."
"Partners, then, as well as friends?"
"Partners, friends, lovers," she agreed, and slid her arms around him, gripping him close.
She leaned up to kiss him, and his mouth opened to hers.
They had kissed before, embraced before, but this was new, this commitment, this confidence, this unity.
When Fleur sighed and eased back Bill too was flushed and heavy-eyed, his lips swollen and reddened and tender, like hers, with kissing. She could feel the hard pressure of him against her belly, and her own moist readiness to receive him, and the longing they shared to ratify their promises of words and feelings with their bodies, to come together in every way.
But not in a cavern deep beneath Gringotts, even if there were not an easily-disturbed dragon just out of sight; not where Nimchuk, or the watch wizards, might appear at any moment, seeking Bill now as well as Fleur.
She said only, "Not here, Bill. Come home with me?"
"Come to my place, rather. It's completely private. If you're ready now -"
She laughed ruefully, a little breathless with eagerness and the pleasure still running in her blood.
"Ready, indeed. But first we must take this cart back, and I must return Nimchuk's token -"
"Just as I must report you found."
With pleasing reluctance, Bill let go of her, then took her hand to lead her to the little mine cart on its narrow rails, as if touch was essential. She only released his hand when they came to the exit above, and observers.
When they reached the haven of his flat Bill offered her his bathroom. She accepted. It had been a long day, she had been active, and he at least had been worried (she had been too busy worrying about the dragon to be frightened of it). A warm bath or shower would relax them both, and make going to bed together easier.
"Come with me," she invited, holding out her hand.
Bill relaxed and smiled at her, before he reached to unfasten her robes. She returned the favour, not lingering, but anxious to strip him, to see him as he was and would be to her, naked in every way, willing, and hers, as she was his.
Their hands slid over each other, exploring, caressing, experimenting. They held back from kissing, more interested now in seeing what pleased and what excited, and in how many ways they could use hands and mouths on each others' bodies. A delicious voyage of discovery.
Bill drew Fleur down onto his couch, big enough to be comfortable for a tall man, then turned onto his back and beckoned her to straddle his hips. She did so eagerly, though she lowered herself onto his thighs rather than onto the erection quivering for her, wanting to touch it, to become more closely acquainted. Bill gasped, and sighed, then took her hands and pushed them away.
"No more!"
He released her hands, setting them on his body, suggesting she explore less sensitive parts. Fleur was very willing, stroking the fine hair over his chest and the arch of his ribs, fingering his tight brown nipples, following the line of his muscles with her fingernails. His own hands were moving as boldly, first on her breasts, but soon going between her thighs, spread open over him, fingering her lower lips, tracing between them, seeking out and spreading her moisture, then tickling her clit, and pressing into her, ever more deeply, until she too was gasping.
Soon she felt that her patience could last no longer. She was eager to move on, to finish, if she must, but in any case to join their bodies, to feel him stroking within her, to clasp him close, to climb the last of the beckoning heights and fling both of them off, reckless, fulfilled, completed.
"Now!" she demanded, moving up his body, lifting, then taking him in a firm hold and leading him home, sinking down upon him, relishing his long gasp and her own whimper of, not satisfaction, not yet, but its promise. She paused for a moment when he was fully home, then lifted up, and slid down. Bill grasped her hips and led her into a pattern of advance and retreat, until she was moving confidently in tune with him, each driving the other closer to that highest, brightest point, until eagerness become joy, and she cried out her pleasure, feeling herself gripping him more tightly than ever, feeling him thrusting and then spasming within her, as he followed her into the light and the warmth.
As the last of his climax shook him she couldn't hold herself up any longer. She let herself slide down on him, and lie along his body, feeling his hands clasping her to him, lightly, but warmly. She nuzzled into his throat, and licked delicately once at the sweat pooled in its hollow before she subsided into peace, letting her own hands caress and claim him in turn.
"Together," she said, after a while.
"No matter what comes," he agreed.
He turned his head so that he could kiss her cheek, gently, affectionately rather than with passion, and she said softly, but with determination, even as she brushed her fingers over his lips, "Against the world, if we must." She laughed softly. "Joy is part of enjoyment. We shall have it all."
"Together."
They eventually showered together, then ate, feeding each other, nibbling each other's fingers, and made their way into Bill's bedroom, to what would be their bed, to share their whole new world once more.
The End
End Note Maiden Castle. Choose the first pic: an excellent view.
As far as I know, the concept of dragon-nip (a parellel to catnip) belongs to Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle (see their novel The Burning City, from where I nicked it).