The French Girl

The French Girl
La Fille francaise

One of the things that Harry Potter could not fathom to was why he had to fall in love with The Little French Veela.

Why couldn't he look past sisterly love with Hermione and Ginny, he wondered? Why her? It was disturbing to him, not only because she was part-veela, not only because she was six (six!) years younger than him, but because the first time they had met he went to sleep thinking about how cute and giggly she was, and on the night of the second time they met he went to sleep thinking about how beautiful and lovely she had become.

The second time she met him, he'd been stupid. Stupid to forget who she was and who her older sister was and that she wasn't eight anymore, but seventeen. He was stupid for wondering what kind of eau de parfum she used, because she smelled strongly of sweet apples. He was stupid for staring at her so blatantly as she went up to the podium to accept the award for Best Junior Foreign Ambassador to the Ministry, and stupid for letting her catch him staring. She had grinned when she caught his gawking green eyes, and her teeth were certainly white and made her silvery, fluid-like hair shine out even more than it already was. He had felt the heat rise up in his face.

But he wasn't convinced.

She's a veela, he told himself over and over again as he helped her read the map on the Underground. She's a veela, he reminded himself as she stuttered in English, cursed in French, and quickly apologized in both languages for 'not being a lady'. "Ah, excusez-moi, ce n'est pas certainement tres de dame! I am sorry, Mr. Potter, very sorry! Pardonnez-moi pour dire que...I should not 'ave said zat...." He had assured her it was fine, and then he was reminded of Ginny cursing like a sailor and Hermione yelling when she stubbed her toe. How he would have liked to hear them speak French, but somehow he knew it would not be as...satisfying as hearing Gabrielle in her native language.

He had been assigned her Auror-guard, even though he knew she could take care of herself with a wand perfectly fine--she was, after all, Fleur's sister. But he did not mind. She was lively and intelligent and funny and absolutely beautiful, but she's a veela, Harry had sighed to himself. A veela with veela charms, and you're falling for that and not for her, don't be an idiot--

"Mr. Potter?"

A voice clear as vodka, he remembered, had interrupted his thoughts. He looked at her, the woman who made him drunk like vodka, and suddenly he realized something.

"Miss Delacour." She had nodded in response, smiling; she's got really smooth lips, Harry found himself thinking. Ah, damn. "Why do you call me Mr. Potter? We've met before, why don't you just call me Harry?"

She'd blinked at him like the matter was menial and unimportant. "Seemply because, Mr. Potter, when you met me tonight, you called me 'Miss Delacour'. So of course I 'ad to call you Mr. Potter, eet ees only polite."

Harry found himself scoffing. "Well, don't call me that, it's way too formal and it makes me feel uncomfortable."

She had looked at him with a--was it scheming?--look in her eye. "Eef I must call you 'Arry," she smirked, "then you must not call me Miss Delacour."

It was as if he had dropped a rock on his foot; he wanted to call her Gabrielle but he knew it just wouldn't be right. "Okay then," he said in what he hoped was not in a strangled tone of voice. "I will call you Le Petit Veela Francais."

His French, he had known and still knew, was only mediocre and it embarrassed him slightly to be talking to a native speaker in it. But the weight on his chest lessened slightly as Gabrielle laughed: clear like vodka and sweet like the apples she smelled like. "Ah, 'Arry, you are so funny," she giggled, her hand over her mouth. "I am not 'Ze Little French Veela'. I am not even 'ole veela, I am only part and eet ees not enough to make me like grandmuzzer. She was 'ole veela, and even Fleur 'as inherited more veela blood zan me. So zat is not fitting at all! Please, call me..."

But Harry recalled that he had not been listening, for he was thinking about what she had said about her veela blood. 'I am not even 'ole veela, I am only part and eet ees not enough to make me like grandmuzzer....even Fleur 'as inherited more veela blood zan me.' So that meant--that meant--

As this sunk in, a collision of sorts happened in Harry's stomach--like relief had dropped from his heart and understanding from his brain. Suddenly he'd found himself laughing.

Gabrielle's eyes widened, and Harry thought later that she might have been feeling a bit self-conscious at his outburst. "What?" she exclaimed, "quoi?"

He had shaken his head, quelling the laughter and smiling now. "It's nothing. I just realized something, and it was funny to me because I was being stupid."

"You are okay now?"

He'd nodded. "I'm fine." Very fine, he thought to himself, grinning.

In the distance, a clock tower had begun to ring eleven o'clock. Their eyes met, he remembered quaintly, and the scent of apples had drifted into the night air.

"Thank you for tonight, 'Arry," she had said briskly. "I shall see you again?" Her voice held a hint of hopefulness.

One of the things Harry Potter could not fathom was why he had to fall in love with The French Girl, even though now he knows she is neither a girl nor a veela (for the most part).

"Of course we will," he remembered himself saying, shrugging as if the question were menial and unimportant. "You have a lunch meeting at the Ministry tomorrow, don't you?"

She clucked her tongue, making her hair ripple again. "Eet ees nothing. I will skip it, and you and I will go for cafe au lait." She had eyed him beadily, those marble eyes slitting to resemble a cat's.

"We will, won't we?"

She may not have been even a quarter veela, but he found himself nodding, tripping over those eyes and that hair and that voice of hers--then for a split second he had had a mental image of an apple falling from a tree.

Onto his head.

"Bien sur, mais oui."

Of course, but yes!

-Fin-