Chapter Text
July 25, 1995
Fleur Delacour needed to practice her English. She had graduated from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic with impressive grades – top of her class in Arithmancy and not far behind in Potions. She spoke French and German. She was a Triwizard Champion. She had a prestigious trainee offer with the London branch of Gringotts bank. And she needed to practice her English.
The newspaper – the Daily Prophet – seemed mostly worthless. Fleur had no problem reading English, or even writing it, but speaking was a whole other matter. Roger Davies hadn’t seemed to mind much, but then again Roger Davies was boring. Fleur’s flat mate, Agatha Ansbach from Amstetten in Austria, was some help, but her English wasn’t much better than Fleur’s.
“Eight sickles, please,” the slightly breathless shopkeeper said, handing over the small bag of potion ingredients. Fleur paid and started out into Diagon Alley to meet Agatha for lunch at the Leaky Cauldron. It was Sunday, seasonably warm, and surprisingly un-rainy. Agatha was waiting at a booth just inside the dingy bar (was every eating establishment in Britain dingy?).
“Fleur, over here!” Agatha called. Edward Wilson, an Australian foreign trainee one year ahead of the two women, sat with her. Fleur sat down primly.
“Bonjour, Edward.”
“G’day, Fleur,” Edward responded, grinning. The difference between British English and Australian slang was small (at least smaller than the difference between French and English), but Edward seemed determined to hang on to the differences. It only endeared him to Agatha further.
“Fleur, Edward has had the most excellent idea,” Agatha said, “He is going to practice our English with us!”
Fleur raised an eyebrow. “Really?” she said.
“Oh ja, he has the whole idea planned out. A pen pal of his, Bill Veasley– ”
“Weasley, Agatha, Weasley.”
“Yes, Veasley, well that is why we need English practice. Veasley. Weasley. Bill. He has just come back to England from, where was it Edward?”
“Egypt.”
“Ja, Egypt, and he is bored. Most bored, Edward says.”
“His mother wants him home,” Edward cut in, “But Bill has been living in Egypt for a years now – went there back in 1990 as a trainee when they found that cemetery in Giza and just came off a year working on the Alexandria ruins. He came back to spend some more time with family, but, y’know, not too much time.”
Bill Weasley. The name sounded vaguely familiar.
“So, what do you say, Fleur?” Edward asked with a smile.
January 12, 1996
“Miss Delacour.” The tall, redheaded man swung open the door dividing Gringotts from Diagon Alley and stepped aside with a nod.
“Monsieur Weasley,” she replied, returning a nod. Gringotts required formality, especially between a junior trainee and an experienced curse breaker.
“Are you looking forward to your weekend,” he asked solemnly.
“Oh yes,” replied Fleur, “I have a most excellent evening to look forward to tomorrow night.” She smiled up at him.
“Ah, well, I would not want to tire you out with too many social events.”
“Oh?”
“Only I thought I would invite you to dinner in London. There is a lovely Muggle restaurant just on the other side of the Leaky Cauldron.”
“I am sure I can make time in my schedule. After all, it does help me improve my English.”
Bill smiled at her. More and more of their weekends were going this way – dinner Friday, dinner Saturday, and perhaps a quick stop in for tea on Sunday if he had time before going to the Burrow. He’d moved back to Britain for family – to be near them as Voldemort rose, rather than on the other side of the Mediterranean – and for the Order. He had no illusions about immediately returning to Egypt or the dig at Alexandria. The first war had lasted over a decade – and that was just open hostilities. But it turned out that even the cold gray of London had a silver lining.
He offered Fleur his arm.
May 27, 1996
She was engaged.
She was engaged.
She was getting married.
She was nineteen years old.
That wasn’t very young, not by wizarding standards. Her own mother had been engaged at eighteen and married at nineteen.
There was a slight draft from the window, even in May. It was one o’clock in the morning and she was sitting on the sofa in Bill’s apartment (thankfully, he had no roommates) with a blanket pulled up around her and a silver-and-sapphire engagement ring glinting on her finger. Occasionally, a headlight from a muggle automobile on the street below would catch the ring and send gentle beams of light along the walls of the apartment.
“Would you like some tea?” Bill padded over to her in pyjama pants, shivering slightly, and picked a knit jumper off the floor.
“Non, merci.”
“Having second thoughts?” He slid onto the sofa next to her, stealing a bit of the blanket to go over his feet.
“Second thoughts?”
“Reconsidering.”
Fleur turned and snuggled against Bill. He was warm.
“No, no second thoughts.”
“Good. Do you like the ring?”
“The ring is beautiful.”
They sat in silence for a little while, listening to the automobiles roll by, even this late at night.
“I am nineteen,” Fleur said.
“Yes,” he responded, “Although probably you’ll be twenty by the wedding, unless you want to elope. That makes me feel like less of a cradle robber, not marrying a teenager.”
“Cradle robber?”
“Someone who preys on younger people romantically.”
“Oh…you are not a cradle robber.”
“Thank you,” he said.
Another pause.
“Do you want to elope?” Bill asked. Fleur thought for a moment.
“No,” she said, “I want a wedding. A proper wedding. Even in wartime.”
“Even in wartime,” Bill agreed quietly, “Not that the Ministry will admit it. So, when and where?”
“Hmmm, I do not want to talk about when and where. Not yet,” Fleur responded.
“What do you want to talk about then?” Bill asked.
Fleur snuggled closer. “What do you think about pink for the bridesmaids’ dresses?”
August 1, 1997
“Really, Molly, this construction is quite haphazard. You would think it was built on a pigsty! I am a hundred and seven and stairs are not good for my joints.” A loud voice clacked up towards the first floor landing at the Burrow. Ginny Weasley froze, hand on the doorknob of the small bathroom. She had been about to dash from the small bathroom to her room, which was now blessedly devoid of Phlegm – Fleur – who had relocated with her mother and younger sister to get ready in Percy’s bedroom one floor up. Ginny had thought the house was safe and briefly considered running out anyways – serve Muriel right – but giving her centenarian great-aunt a heart attack was probably not a good wedding present. Even for Phlegm. Fleur.
A door opened. Ginny hit her head (quietly) against the wall. Hermione.
“Hello, Molly, I heard –”
“Is this the muggleborn?” Muriel interrupted, “Hmph. Bad posture and skinny ankles.”
“This is Hermione, Aunt,” Molly said firmly, “She’s a dear friend of Ron and Harry’s.”
“Harry? Harry Potter! Will he be here? I assumed young Ronald was exaggerating.”
Muriel’s squawks and Molly’s just-a-little-too-calm replies faded away quickly, even for a woman of a hundred and seven. Ginny dashed across the landing and slammed the door behind her.
“What was that!” she heard Muriel exclaim. Hermione glanced at Ginny.
“Nice towel,” she said with a hint of sarcasm.
“I heard you met Great-Aunt Muriel. She’s a delight, isn’t she?” Ginny responded, “I can’t wait to hear what she says to Phlegm.”
Hermione and Ginny, once they were both dressed and ready, arrived in Percy’s room to find Muriel supervising how Fleur’s mother Apolline was arranging Muriel’s tiara in Fleur’s hair. Ten-year-old Gabrielle stood near the door, fingers out, trying to look unobtrusive. “She has mentioned the tiara is ‘goblin-made’ six times,” Gabrielle said in a whisper to the newcomers. Ginny held back a snort. Gabrielle reminded her of the twins.
“No, no, not like that. A little higher, my dear Apolline. It really needs to set the whole look off. Goblin-made, you know.” Gabrielle looked at Ginny and stuck out another finger.
“Aunt Muriel, maybe you’d like to go find your seat?” Molly interrupted. It had been a trying twenty-four hours already. Some gnomes had snuck back in overnight, there was the whole business of magically reinforcing a chair for Hagrid (Ginny thought it unlikely that he’d manage to sit in it on the first try anyways), Fred almost forgot to pick up the programs from the printer in Diagon Alley. And of course, Ginny had kissed Harry. Only to be interrupted by Ron.
“Well!” exclaimed Muriel indignantly, “I suppose that will just have to do! I am a hundred and seven you know. Only so much time for arranging tiaras.” Molly finally ushered Muriel out, followed by Hermione.
Apolline, Fleur, and Gabrielle were speaking softly in French. Fleur did look beautiful. There was a knock at the door, and Monsieur Delacour stepped through.
“Ma belle fille,” he said, tears in his eyes, and stepped over to Fleur.
“You look lovely, Ginevra,” Apolline said, gliding over, “It is almost time. Shall we go down?”
Apolline, Gabrielle, and Ginny walked down to the ground floor where Molly and Arthur were waiting.
“You look beautiful, Ginny,” her father said. The music began. “Let’s go get Bill married.”
September 1, 1998
“I want a baby,” Fleur whispered to Bill, standing on Platform 9 ¾ with steam billowing, watching Hermione and Ginny board the train. Harry and Ron looked wistful. The Aurors, standing guard, looked tense.
They’d whispered it back and forth over the past year, at chilly midnights interrupted by nightmares, overcast afternoons with the distant flashes of spellfire, sunny mornings with fleeing muggleborns huddled around the dining room table. The war could last for years. The war could never end.
“I know,” Bill responded quietly after the Hogwarts Express finally pulled away from the station. They apparated back to Shell Cottage. It had been a waystation during the war, after the Ministry had fallen. It wasn’t perfect. Bill had told the secret of the Fidelius to operatives and refugees and Order members. If he had died, the secret of Shell Cottage would no longer be safe. But he hadn’t. Fred had died. They had sent muggleborns to France, to Germany, to Greece. They had sent the Cattermoles to New York.
There had been no time for babies. No time for family. Fleur hadn’t seen her parents and sister since the wedding, even though Bill tried to send her to France. But she was a pureblood, even if she was a quarter-Veela and a Weasley. They needed the illegal portkeys for the muggleborns, and even then, she never would have left him.
September 12, 1999
They had tried for a year. Twelve months. 365 days. Nothing. They had been to midwife mediwitches, healers at St. Mungo’s, even gotten Fleur’s Triwizard Tournament medical records from Madam Pomfrey. The French fertility experts hypothesized that there was something about the interaction of Bill’s mild lycanthropy infection and Fleur’s Veela genes. There was no record of a Veela and a werewolf ever conceiving, though Bill was not a werewolf and Fleur was not a full Veela.
“Mrs. Weasley?” the mediwitch called. Fleur and Bill were waiting again at St. Mungo’s. Fleur was late (for the fourth time since they had started trying). “Right through here, room three, yes thank you Mrs. Weasley. You can wait here Mr. Weasley,” the kind older woman said. She had seen them a few times, rendering a negative verdict with each test. St. Mungo’s was old-fashioned, and Bill would have to stay outside until after the test.
“How are you feeling today, Mrs. Weasley?”
“Fine, thank you,” Fleur responded.
“Any symptoms? How many days late are you?”
“Three days, and no, just a touch of nausea.” Fleur had been nauseous every time she’d come in for the pregnancy detection charm, probably nerves. The mediwitch cast a few preliminary spells – weight, blood pressure, temperature.
“Are you ready for the pregnancy detection charm, Mrs. Weasley?”
“Yes, thank you.”
A swish, a jab, a ball of light. It bounced and turned lavender.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Weasley. You’re pregnant.”