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The Room of Requirement had outdone itself again.
Harry stepped through the door and stopped. The room had configured itself into something that belonged in a French château rather than a Scottish castle, a proper ballroom, all polished hardwood floors and mirrored walls that multiplied the warm golden light from enchanted candelabras floating near the vaulted ceiling. The mirrors made the room look three times its actual size, which meant there were also three times as many reflections of Harry looking lost and slightly uncomfortable in trousers and a button-down shirt that Hermione had picked out for him that morning.
Soft music drifted from somewhere, strings, mainly, playing something slow and classical that Harry didn't recognise but assumed was French because everything Fleur touched ended up being French.
Fleur was already there, standing at the centre of the floor with her back to him. She wore a simple dark dress that ended just above her knees and a pair of low-heeled dance shoes that looked shiny.
She turned when she heard the door close. Her eyes dropped to his shirt, then his trousers, then back up. A smile spread across her face.
"Ermione dressed you," Fleur said. It wasn't a question.
"How can you tell?"
"Because ze shirt fits properly and you did not tuck it in wrong." She walked toward him, her shoes clicking on the hardwood. "Left to your own devices, you would 'ave arrived in a Quidditch jersey and called it formal."
"I would not have." Harry paused. "I would've worn the clean Quidditch jersey."
Fleur laughed. She stopped in front of him and straightened his collar with both hands, an excuse to stand close, her fingers brushing his neck.
"Zank you for coming," she said.
"Thank you for agreeing to teach me." Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm genuinely worried I'm going to break someone's legs at this thing. Possibly my own."
"'Arry. I 'ave watched you dodge Mad-Eye Moody's curses. You 'ave better reflexes zan most professional duelists. You can manage a waltz."
"That's different. Dodging curses has clear stakes. Life or death. Simple." He looked at the vast, polished dance floor like it was a minefield. "Dancing has worse consequences. Public humiliation. In front of the entire school. And two other schools. And probably the Minister of Magic."
"You are being dramatic."
"I'm being realistic."
Fleur took his hand and led him toward the centre of the floor. Their reflections walked alongside them in every mirror, dozens of Harrys being pulled by dozens of Fleurs, all of them heading somewhere Harry wasn't sure he wanted to go.
"Dancing and dueling," Fleur said, turning to face him, "are more alike zan you think. Both are about reading your partner. Anticipating where zey will move. Controlling ze space between you." She held up their joined hands. "Ze only difference is zat in dancing, you are supposed to enjoy ze closeness. In dueling, ze closeness usually means someone is about to lose a limb."
"Great. Very reassuring."
"I am a very reassuring person."
Harry snorted. "How good are you at this, anyway? Dancing, I mean. When did you learn?"
"I started formal lessons at seven. It is expected in French 'igh society, especially for families with Veela blood. Grace is considered... an extension of what we are. Like ze allure, but physical. Maman enrolled me in ballet first, zen ballroom."
"Seven. When I was seven, I was running from Dudley."
For a moment, there was a flash of anger in her blue eyes, but it disappeared quickly. "Since zen, I 'ave attended at least a dozen formal balls. Ministry galas wiz Papa, ze annual Beauxbatons ball, diplomatic functions, Veela clan gazzerings. Zey are very serious about dancing at clan gazzerings. Grandmère once made a foreign ambassador cry because 'e could not keep time during a pavane."
"Your grandmother made someone cry over dancing?"
"She is a full Veela. Crying is ze polite outcome."
Harry shook his head. "Tell me about the Beauxbatons ball. What's that like?"
Fleur's expression softened. "Ze Palais de Beauxbatons 'as a grand ballroom on ze top floor. For ze annual ball, zey enchant ze ceiling to show ze real night sky over Provence. Stars, constellations, sometimes a meteor shower if ze Astronomy professors are feeling generous. And ze dance floor..." She smiled. "Zey Transfigure it into crystallised moonlight. When you dance on it, it feels like you are floating on ze surface of a lake made of stars."
Harry tried to picture it. "That sounds incredible."
"It is beautiful, oui." She paused. "But crowded. And loud. And full of boys who think one dance entitles zem to somezing more."
Harry's stomach tightened. He asked before he could stop himself. "Did you dance with any of them? Boys, I mean."
Fleur looked at him with a knowing smile. "Of course I did. It would 'ave been rude not to. Politicians' sons, mostly. Foreign students from visiting schools. A few Beauxbatons boys who zought a waltz meant I owed zem a kiss." She shrugged. "None of zem were..." She trailed off, searching for the word.
"None of them were what?"
"You." She said it simply. "Zey spent ze entire dance staring at my chest or tripping over zeir own feet because my allure turned zeir brains to porridge. Or boz at ze same time, which is quite a trick when you zink about it."
Harry laughed. He pictured a line of red-faced French boys stumbling through a waltz while trying not to look at Fleur's tits.
"You are ze first person I actually want to dance wiz," Fleur said, and her voice had dropped the teasing edge. "Not because I must. Because I want to." She held out her hand. "So. Shall we begin?"
Harry took her hand. "If I step on your feet, I'm sorry in advance."
"You will step on my feet. It is part of learning. I will forgive you." She positioned them face-to-face and placed his right hand on her waist. The fabric of her dress was thin, and he could feel the warmth of her skin underneath, the firm narrowing of her waist, and her breasts pushing against his chest. She put her left hand on his shoulder and raised their clasped hands to the side.
"Posture," Fleur instructed. "Straight back, shoulders down, chin up. You are leading, so you must look confident even when you are not."
"Story of my life."
"Quiet. Now, ze basic waltz is a box step. Watch my feet first." She demonstrated forward, side, close, back, side, close. "Simple, non? Like a square. You go forward when I go back, and vice versa."
Harry tried. His first attempt was stiff, wooden, every step slightly too late. He was thinking too hard about which foot went where, and it showed.
"You are counting," Fleur said.
"Of course I'm counting. How else am I supposed to—"
"Stop counting." She stepped closer, pressing her body against his until there was no space between them. Her breasts pushed against his chest, soft and warm through the thin dress, and her thigh slid between his. "Feel ze music instead. Do not listen to it, feel it. In your chest. In your stomach." Her hand tightened on his shoulder. "Follow my breazing. When I breathe in, you step forward. When I breathe out, you step back."
Harry swallowed. It was difficult to focus on breathing patterns when Fleur was pressed against him like this. Did she have no idea how sexy she was?
He tried again. Forward when she breathed in. Back when she breathed out. Side, close. The rhythm was slower than counting.
"Zere," Fleur murmured. "You see? Your body knows what to do. You just need to stop telling it not to."
They waltzed in a slow circle around the ballroom. Harry's reflection moved in the mirrors, and he looked, to his own surprise, not completely terrible. His posture was decent, his steps were landing roughly where they were supposed to, and Fleur was smiling up at him with genuine pleasure rather than the polite encouragement of a teacher humoring a hopeless student.
They turned, and the candlelight caught Fleur's silver hair in a way that made it blaze white-gold for a second, and something about the angle, the warmth, the closeness, the music, made Harry's breath catch. His foot landed wrong and he stumbled, barely catching himself.
Fleur steadied him with a hand on his chest and a grin. "I did not even use my allure."
"You don't need to....You are so beautiful."
"Flatterer," she said, but her cheeks had gone pink.
They practised the waltz until Harry could lead without conscious thought, not perfectly, not elegantly, but competently. He stopped stepping on her feet after the first ten minutes, which Fleur declared "a better record zan most boys I 'ave taught" and Harry chose not to ask how many boys she'd taught.
Fleur moved them to a foxtrot next, "Slower, smoother, more forgiving of mistakes, which you will appreciate," and then to the opening steps of something she called a marche cérémonielle, a formal processional dance used at French wizarding events.
"Zis one is mostly walking in time," Fleur explained. "Ze trick is looking elegant while doing it. Which, for you, will require effort."
"Cheers."
"I am 'elping."
The teasing escalated as the lesson went on. Fleur started adding increasingly complicated turns, spinning herself under Harry's raised arm and then looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to catch up. The third time she did it, Harry improvised, instead of following the turn, he pulled her back in and dipped her.
It was something Sirius had told him about once, a move James used to use on Lily at Hogwarts dances. Harry had made sure to remember as theoretical knowledge, never expecting to use it, but his body committed before his brain could object. He bent Fleur backward over his arm, her hair falling in a silver cascade toward the floor, her body arched, one leg extended.
Fleur gasped. Her eyes went wide, and for a moment she looked genuinely startled.
Then she laughed.
"Where did you learn zat?" she demanded as Harry pulled her upright.
"Sirius. He said my dad used to do it to my mum."
"Your fazzer 'ad good taste." Fleur was breathing harder, her cheeks flushed, her hand still gripping his shoulder. "Do it again."
"You just want to be dipped."
"I want to be dipped by you."
He dipped her again. She arched deeper this time, trusting his hold, and when he brought her back up, they were nose-to-nose, breathing the same air.
The music played on. Neither of them moved.
"So," Fleur said, her voice dropping low. "'Arry. 'Oo will you take to ze Yule Ball?"
"I..." Harry started, and his mouth kept moving without producing useful sounds. "That's... I haven't..."
Fleur watched him struggle, her blue eyes bright with amusement. She let him flounder for a full five seconds before she giggled and cupped his face in both hands.
"Mon coeur," she said gently. "Breathe."
"I'm trying."
"You are turning red."
"Aware of that."
Fleur stroked her thumbs across his cheekbones. Her expression shifted from amused to tender, the kind of softness she only showed when they were alone.
"It is fine, 'Arry," she said. "Whoever you take, I know where your 'eart is. I do not need a public declaration to know what we 'ave. I was zere last night, non?" She leaned closer, her lips almost touching his. "I remember last night very well."
Harry's face went from red to approximately the colour of a fire engine.
"As long as I get at least one dance wiz you," Fleur continued, "I will be 'appy." She kissed his lips. "And per'aps, after ze ball, we can 'ave a more... private celebration." Her voice dropped to a murmur. "Just you and me. Or per'aps not just you and me. Depending on 'ow ze evening goes."
Harry's brain provided several vivid images that were deeply unhelpful for maintaining composure.
"I'd like that," he managed.
"You deserve a reward for dancing so well," she purred, slowly sinking to her knees before him. Her silver-blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders as she positioned herself between his legs.
Her elegant fingers worked at his belt buckle, taking her time as she maintained eye contact. "I 'ave been thinking about zis since you first took my hand tonight," she confessed.
Harry's breath caught in his throat as she freed his impressive nine-inch cock. The firelight played across her perfect features as she admired him, licking her lips with anticipation.
"You know what Tonks told me?" Fleur asked, her voice husky as she wrapped her delicate fingers around his shaft. "She said Hermione keeps a journal of all ze things zat make you moan ze loudest."
Harry's face flushed. "She doesn't—"
"Shhh," Fleur interrupted, her thumb circling the sensitive head of his cock. "I think it's sweet. We all want to please you in our own ways."
With that, she leaned forward, her plump lips parting to take him into her warm, wet mouth. The Veela blood in her veins gave her an instinctual talent for pleasure, and she used it expertly, her tongue swirling around his cock as she took him deeper.
Harry groaned, his fingers threading through her silky hair. The sight of Fleur's beautiful face, her full lips stretched around his thickness, was almost too much to bear.
She pulled back slightly, letting his wet cock slide against her cheek. "I love ze sounds you make," she whispered, her breath hot against his sensitive skin. "It makes me so wet knowing I can pleasure you like zis."
Her large breasts pressed against his thighs as she returned to her task, taking him deeper with each bob of her head. Her hands weren't idle, one gently massaged his balls while the other gripped his shaft, working in perfect rhythm with her mouth.
Harry leaned his head back against the sofa, surrendering to the exquisite sensation of Fleur's skilled mouth. She alternated between deep, enveloping strokes and teasing, feather-light caresses of her tongue along his shaft.
"Merlin, Fleur," Harry groaned, his fingers tightening in her silver-blonde hair. "That feels incredible."
She hummed with satisfaction around his cock, sending vibrations coursing through him. Pulling back slightly, she gazed up at him with those piercing blue eyes, his glistening length still resting against her swollen lips.
"I know what you like now," she murmured, her accent thicker with arousal. "Better zan when we first started, non?" Her hand continued stroking him as she spoke, maintaining the delicious pressure.
Harry couldn't help but smile at the memory. Their first time together had been passionate but clumsy. Now, months later, Fleur knew exactly how to bring him to the edge and keep him there, prolonging his pleasure.
"Much better," he agreed breathlessly.
Fleur smiled wickedly before lowering her head again, this time pressing his cock between her magnificent breasts. The soft, warm flesh enveloped him as she squeezed them together, creating a tight channel for him to thrust into. Her tongue darted out to lick the sensitive head whenever it emerged from between her cleavage.
"Tonks taught me zis trick," she confessed, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "She said it made you nearly pass out ze first time."
Harry's cheeks burned at the reminder that his girlfriends compared notes. The thought of Fleur, Tonks, and Hermione discussing their intimate moments with him was both embarrassing and intensely arousing.
"You three will be the death of me," he muttered.
Fleur laughed, a melodic sound that sent another wave of pleasure through him. "But what a way to go, no?"
She released her breasts and returned her attention to his cock, this time taking him deeper than before. Her throat relaxed as she swallowed around him, her nose nearly touching his stomach. Harry fought the urge to thrust upward, not wanting to choke her, but Fleur seemed to have no such concerns. Her hands gripped his thighs, encouraging him to move.
The Room of Requirement, always attuned to its occupants' desires, dimmed the lights slightly and caused the fire to burn higher, casting flickering shadows across Fleur's perfect form.
Harry reached down to caress her cheek, tracing the outline of his cock visible through her stretched lips. The sight of proud, beautiful Fleur Delacour on her knees for him, enthusiastically pleasuring him, was almost too erotic to bear.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire.
She pulled back slowly, letting his wet cock slide from between her lips with a soft pop. A thin strand of saliva connected his tip to her mouth for a moment before breaking.
"And you are delicious," she replied, planting soft kisses along his length. "I could do zis all night."
She demonstrated her point by taking him in again, this time focusing on the sensitive head, her tongue swirling around the tip while her hand worked the shaft with firm, steady strokes. Her free hand moved to cup his balls, gently rolling them between her fingers.
Harry felt the familiar pressure building at the base of his spine. Fleur sensed it too. Now, she was taking him deeper.
"Fleur, I'm close," he warned, giving her the chance to pull away.
She increased her pace, her hand and mouth working in perfect synchronization, her eyes locked on his face to watch his expression as pleasure overwhelmed him.
"Cum for me, mon coeur," she murmured during a brief pause, before taking him deep again. "I want to taste all of you."
Her words pushed him over the edge. His cock pulsed powerfully as he came, flooding Fleur's eager mouth with hot spurts of cum. She moaned appreciatively, swallowing each one, her throat working as she devoured his essence like it was the finest delicacy.
Even as the waves of pleasure continued to crash through him, she didn't relent, her tongue lapping at his sensitive flesh to collect every drop. Harry's hips bucked involuntarily as the intensity bordered on too much, but Fleur held him firmly, determined to prolong his bliss.
Finally, when the last aftershocks of his orgasm had subsided, she released him with a satisfied smile. Her lips were red and slightly swollen, her hair disheveled where his fingers had gripped it. She looked thoroughly debauched and entirely pleased with herself.
"Mon Dieu, you taste better every time," she said, licking her lips. "Something about your magic, perhaps? Hermione has a theory about it."
Harry laughed weakly, still recovering. "Of course she does."
Fleur rose gracefully from her knees and settled beside him on the sofa, curling against his side. Her hand rested possessively on his thigh, occasionally straying to caress his softening cock with gentle touches.
"You know," she mused, "Tonks is on patrol duty tonight. She might join us later if we're still awake."
Harry leaned in to kiss her, tasting himself on her lips. "Later," he promised. "First, I think it's your turn."
He slid from the sofa to kneel before her, reversing their positions. Fleur smiled down at him, parting her legs invitingly as Harry pushed her dress up her thighs, revealing she'd worn nothing underneath.
"Were you planning this all along?" he asked, eyeing her exposed pussy with appreciation.
Fleur laughed, the sound both innocent and wicked. "I told you—I like to be prepared for any... dancing opportunities."
As his mouth descended to taste Fleur's wet heat, he silently thanked whatever twist of fate had brought these three extraordinary women into his life.
Fleur's fingers tangled in his messy black hair, guiding him to her most sensitive spots as she sighed with pleasure. "Mon Dieu, 'Arry... you've been practicing."
⚯ ͛
The Great Hall was loud and warm and smelled like shepherd's pie, which was Ron's favourite, which meant Ron was happy, which meant Ron was talking.
"—and then he did that thing with his wand, right, that little flicky spiral, and your Stunner just reversed. Reversed, Harry. Like it hit a wall and bounced back. I've never seen anything like it. Have you ever seen anything like it? Because I haven't. And I was there."
"You've told me this four times," Harry said, reaching for the pumpkin juice.
"Because it was four times worth telling!" Ron loaded his fork with a truly heroic quantity of mashed potato. "You went toe-to-toe with Mad-Eye Moody. Mad-Eye. The bloke who caught half the Death Eaters in Azkaban. And you held your own."
"He was holding back."
"Everyone holds back. The point is you made him work for it." Ron gestured with his fork, flinging a glob of potato across the table. It landed on Hermione's open Arithmancy textbook. She looked at it, then at Ron, with an expression that promised consequences.
"Sorry," Ron said, not sounding sorry at all.
Hermione Vanished the potato with a flick of her wand and turned to Harry. "Ron's enthusiasm aside, Moody made a fair point about your patterns. Have you started training with different partners?"
"Yeah, actually. The DA session with Fleur co-instructing helped. Her style's completely different from mine, all environmental control, changing the terrain. Forces me to think on my feet instead of falling into Sirius's combinations."
"Fleur's mental," Ron said appreciatively. "That thing she did with the floor trench. Defodio, and suddenly your opponent's got nowhere to go. Brilliant."
"I've been practising with Seamus, too," Ron added through a mouthful of pie. "Won our last spar, actually. Clean Disarm. He didn't see it coming."
Hermione looked up from her textbook. "Really? Ron, that's wonderful."
"Don't sound so surprised."
Lavender Brown appeared at Ron's elbow. She'd been hovering at the far end of the table with Parvati, but now she slid onto the bench beside Ron and tucked herself under his arm.
"Are you talking about the dueling tournament?" Lavender asked brightly. "Because I signed up. Parvati too. We figured even if we don't win, the training sessions are worth it."
"Good thinking," Harry said.
Ron looked at Lavender. Then he looked at his plate. Then he looked at Lavender again. Something was happening behind his eyes.
"Lav," Ron said.
"Hm?"
"D'you want to go to the Yule Ball with me?"
The directness was so unlike Ron that Harry actually put down his fork. Hermione's eyebrows rose. Even the salt shaker seemed surprised.
Lavender's face went through about six emotions in two seconds: shock, delight, disbelief, more delight, a brief detour through smugness, and then pure beaming happiness.
"Yes!" She grabbed Ron's face with both hands and kissed him.
What started as a celebratory peck rapidly escalated. Within five seconds, Lavender had turned sideways on the bench and was practically in Ron's lap, her arms around his neck, his hands on her waist, both of them making sounds that really should not be made over shepherd's pie.
A first-year three seats down made a retching noise. A second-year covered her eyes. A cluster of third-year boys started chanting "Get a room! Get a room!" with the enthusiasm of a Quidditch crowd.
Harry exchanged a look with Hermione. She had her lips pressed together so tightly, she was holding back laughter.
A shadow fell across the table.
"Mister Weasley." McGonagall's voice could have frozen the pumpkin juice solid. She stood behind Ron and Lavender with the air of someone who had been summoned by the sheer force of inappropriate behaviour, like a tartan-wearing vengeful spirit.
Ron and Lavender sprang apart. Ron's face matched his hair. Lavender, to her credit, looked entirely unrepentant.
"This is the Great Hall," McGonagall said. "Not a broom closet. You will conduct yourselves with the dignity appropriate to students of this school, or I will assign you both detention on the night of the Yule Ball itself. Do I make myself clear?"
"Crystal," Ron squeaked.
"Yes, Professor," Lavender said, and somehow managed to make it sound like she was accepting a compliment.
McGonagall swept away. Ron slumped in his seat and stared at the ceiling like a man who'd survived a near-death experience, which, given McGonagall's expression, wasn't far off.
Lavender leaned into his ear and started whispering. Harry caught fragments, "dress robes" and "colour coordination" and "what shade of blue do you think matches my eyes?" — and Ron's expression shifted from terrified relief to gentle horror as he realised what he'd committed to.
Hermione watched this unfold with a small, knowing smile. Then she turned to Harry, and the smile sharpened into something more purposeful.
"Right," she said quietly, angling her body so the conversation was between them. "We need to talk about the ball."
"I know."
"You need to choose. Between me and Fleur. For the opening dance."
Harry opened his mouth, and what came out was, "What about—"
"Tonks," Hermione finished for him. "No."
"But—"
"Harry." Hermione said gently. "She's here as an Auror. On active duty. Guarding the school. She cannot publicly attend the ball as a student's date. It would compromise her position and very possibly her career." She paused, letting that sink in. "However, she'll almost certainly be there as part of the security detail. Once the formal opening dance is over, there's nothing stopping you from asking her for a dance during the evening. Several dances, even. But the opening dance has to be someone who can stand next to you publicly without consequences."
Harry deflated. She was right. Of course, she was right. Hermione was always right about the things he didn't want her to be right about.
"So it's you or Fleur," Harry said.
"It's me or Fleur," Hermione corrected. "And I think you should ask Fleur."
Harry stared at her. "What?"
Hermione set down her fork and folded her hands on the table.
"I have options," she said. "Viktor Krum has been... hovering. In the library. He comes in, picks up a book he clearly has no interest in, sits three tables away, and stares at me for forty minutes before leaving without reading a single page." A faint smile. "I believe he may ask me. And if he doesn't, I'm perfectly capable of attending alone or with someone else."
"You think Krum's going to ask you?"
"I think Krum has been building up to asking me for two weeks and keeps losing his nerve. But that's beside the point." She met Harry's eyes. "Fleur's situation is harder. Her allure makes it nearly impossible for most boys to behave normally around her. Anyone else she goes with will spend the entire evening drooling or stammering or staring at her chest. You know this."
Harry did know this. He'd been thinking about exactly this since the dance lesson.
"She deserves a partner who can actually look her in the eye," Hermione said. "Who can hold a conversation with her. Who can dance with her without tripping over his own tongue. That's you, Harry."
"And you're really okay with this? Genuinely okay, not just saying it because it's logical?"
Hermione reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "I know what we have. I don't need the opening dance to prove it." She held his gaze, steady and sure. "But I do want at least one dance with you. A proper one. Where you're looking at me and not over my shoulder at the next crisis."
"I promise," Harry said.
"You'd better. I'm holding you to it." She squeezed his hand once more and let go. "Now go ask her before someone else does."
Harry smiled. Something that had been knotted tight in his chest for days loosened. It wasn't a perfect solution but it was the right one, and Hermione had handed it to him with the kind of practical generosity that made her Hermione.
Lunch ended. The Hall filled with the scraping of benches and the general chaos of students filing toward the doors. Harry stood, and looked toward the entrance hall.
Fleur was there.
She stood near the main doors with three Beauxbatons students. She was wearing her powder-blue robes today, and she was laughing at something one of the other girls had said, her head tilted back, her throat exposed.
Harry walked toward her.
He didn't rush. He didn't overthink it. He just crossed the Hall, weaving between students from all three schools, passing Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws and a cluster of Durmstrang boys who were arguing about something in Bulgarian.
The noise around him faded as he got closer, or maybe he just stopped hearing it. His focus narrowed to Fleur, she noticed him coming and turned to face him.
He stopped in front of her. The Beauxbatons girls went quiet. A few nearby students slowed down, sensing something.
"Fleur," Harry said. His voice carried more than he'd intended, or maybe the entrance hall had just gone oddly still. "Will you be my date to the Yule Ball?"
Heads turned. Conversations stopped. A fourth-year Hufflepuff boy froze mid-step with his mouth open.
Fleur looked at him. Those blue eyes, sharp and soft at the same time. Her lips parted, and for one horrifying second Harry thought she might tease him, draw it out, make him sweat in front of the entire school.
She didn't.
"Oui, 'Arry," Fleur said, and her smile was the kind that changed the light in a room. "I would love to."
She stepped forward, took his face in both hands, and kissed him.
Not a peck. Not a quick, polite, public-appropriate brush of lips. She kissed him like they were alone, her mouth warm and open against his, her fingers sliding into his hair, her body pressing close enough that he could feel her heartbeat. His hands found her waist and he kissed her back, and the entrance hall could have collapsed around them and he wouldn't have noticed.
The reactions came in waves.
Ron wolf-whistled from somewhere near the Great Hall doors. Someone dropped an armful of books with a crash that echoed off the stone walls. The Beauxbatons girls behind Fleur erupted into furious whispering.
McGonagall made an audible groaning sound and pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. "Like James and Lily all over again."
Harry and Fleur separated. Both grinning. Both slightly breathless. Both aware that they'd just given the Hogwarts rumour mill enough fuel to burn for weeks.
Fleur leaned close, her lips brushing his ear, and whispered something. Harry didn't catch all of it, half French, half breath, but the parts he understood made his face go hot and his trousers go tight.
She pulled back, winked, and turned to rejoin her Beauxbatons classmates, who were staring at her with expressions ranging from impressed to murderous. She walked away with her hips swaying and her silver hair catching the light, and just before she reached the doors, she looked over her shoulder at Harry.
That look. The one that said I know exactly what I'm doing to you and I'm going to keep doing it.
Harry stood in the entrance hall, surrounded by the whispers and stares of half the school, his lips still tingling, his heart still hammering, and thought: worth it.
Every single second. Worth it.
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