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There was a knock on their door in the middle of dinner; the sound flared irritation in both Harry and Fleur, for in their busy lives they so rarely had time to spend together, alone. That summer was particularly cluttered, for it seemed that all of their friends had decided to marry, or begin their families, and so every evening was spent at one event or another.
The pair of them met eyes over their food, before sharing a frown.
"Who could it be?" Fleur asked. "Did we get the date wrong for Luna and Rolf's engagement party?"
Harry shook his head. "No, I was at theirs two days ago; I'm sure it's not for a week," he replied, before beginning to stand, slipping his wand into the top pocket of his shirt. Due to their notoriety, their house was placed under a Fidelius charm and so there was to be no great cause for concern, especially in times as peaceful as they were then in, yet he could not feel comfortable without it. "I'll go and see."
However, in spite of the charm, Harry found himself shocked as he opened the door. There stood a boy he could scarcely recognise, with blond hair made silver by the evening sun and blue eyes that looked oddly familiar. He couldn't have been older than sixteen, and yet there he stood, alone, at their front porch.
Harry offered him a quizzical look, with a question forming on his lips about how on Earth he'd managed to find his way into their home, yet he didn't voice it. Instead, there was something in the boy's eyes, a distinction in his gaze, that Harry found himself wondering over.
Then, at once, all of it suddenly seemed to click. He knew those eyes - he'd known those eyes years. He'd seen them first in the Black Lake, youthful and terrified and thankful. Then, he'd seen them peering up at him in visits to France in his happiest summers; then, those eyes asked him to play in their pool or speak about Hogwarts and his adventures.
Here, they looked up at him in hope. And, as recollection dawned on Harry's face, a tentative smile came to the boy's face.
"I'm Olivier," he said, quietly. "Can I come in?"
Harry opened his arms. "Always."
Olivier Delacour rushed to hug Harry, just as he always had; holding Harry as though he would soon drift off if he let go. And, Harry returned the embrace just as fiercely.
Behind the pair of them, Fleur stood up from the dining table, her curiosity overwhelming her, and followed Harry's path to the front door in search of the interruption.
Olivier pulled away from Harry then, his eyes widening as he heard the footfalls of his sister. Yet, as Fleur made her way to the front door, the fear dissipated, for Fleur's eyes held the same love as they always had.
"Sister," greeted Olivier, his eyes downcast. Harry wrapped his arm around the boy's shoulders.
"Brother," welcomed Fleur, with a warmth to her voice greater than the sun that shone above.
Olivier, it seemed, could stand still no longer, and rushed toward his sister. Fleur swept him into her arms, just as she had done when he was a child.
"I love you," spoke Fleur, into his hair. "Nothing will ever change that."
For a moment then, Harry watched Fleur begin to smile, seemingly at nothing.
"What is it, love?" Harry asked of her.
Fleur smoothed down her brother's hair, the act bringing Olivier to meet her eyes. "It seems that everyone was wrong," she said, by way of explanation. "They had all said that there was no such thing as a male veela. Yet, here he is."