Chapter Text
Bill Weasley sighed as he looked at the line in front of him. He'd gotten to the Ministry of Magic's business office early on this miserable July day in the hopes that he could update the primary jurisdiction on his banking license without any difficulty, but nine or ten like-minded individuals were already waiting in line ahead of him.
He'd arrived home for good just two days prior, and was due to start at the primary Gringotts branch in Diagon Alley on Monday. This morning he had arranged to tour flats near the bank, because as much as he loved his mother, he'd already reached his limit of hearing how his hair "needed a bit of a trim." Although, if the moving company had really sent all of his things to Wales like their note had hinted at, he wouldn't have much to furnish a place with. He sighed again, not for the first time wishing he was back in Egypt.
His place in line didn't change for several minutes as the clerk argued with an old wizard who seemed decidedly unwilling to take the word "no" at face value.
Bill's interest was piqued when the blonde woman in line directly behind the disgruntled man stepped up to the counter, elbowing him out of the way and laying a stack of documents down in front of her.
"English is my third language, and I understand this woman better than you," she said to him witheringly, her heavy French accent clearly identifying one of the other two languages. "Go away, you silly man."
The old man sputtered, pointing a finger in the blonde's face, but she just turned back to the clerk, ignoring his very existence and conducting her business professionally. After a few moments, the man must have realized no one was going to give him any more attention, because he slunk off towards the exit, still muttering. Bill was impressed by, and grateful towards, his unexpected hero as he finally got to take a step forward.
Half an hour later, license stamped and paperwork filed, Bill took the public floo to the Leaky Cauldron, hurrying through the pub and out onto the street beyond.
He was exactly on time to meet the leasing agent. There was a flat for rent above the tobacconist on the corner, and another one above a teashop, both of which were within his price range and immediately available. After seeing both, he went with the teashop – the floors were in nicer shape, and he worried that he would smoke too much of his budget if he chose the other.
By the time he had paid the deposit, signed the paperwork, written another owl to the moving company with his updated address, and set up his floo connection, he was starving. Thinking he might grab a sandwich from the bakery across the alley, he paused in passing to look up at the impressive presence that was Gringotts.
Bill had a brief but vivid memory of a visit to the bank when he was very small — it might be his earliest memory. He remembered holding his father's hand in the lobby, surrounded by endless marble and shining crystal chandeliers. Beside them, a goblin had been assessing a pile of gems, and had held an immense sapphire up to catch the light; next to him, a wizard counted heavy gold coins that looked like something out of a pirate storybook.
Later on, sometime around his twelfth birthday, Bill had first learned about cursebreakers from the Daily Prophet. The article told about a group of them who had discovered a long-abandoned warlock's trove in the Swiss Alps, and he had cut out the accompanying picture and stuck it to his bedroom wall. They all looked so cool, especially the man in front who was lying against a pile of treasure, his dragonhide boots kicked up on a chest and a gem glinting from the lobe of one ear. Bill knew from that point on that there was nothing else he wanted to do.
He had wanted to travel, to explore ancient ruins, and to find treasure. He had managed all of that, to an extent; his first assignment had been in Italy, his second Greece, and for the last four years he'd been in Egypt. It definitely had never been his plan to end up back home so soon, but then there were a great many things happening right now that were never part of his plans.
Raised voices attracted his attention to three teenage boys, seventeen or eighteen years old; the leader was a slimy looking kid with dark hair. He and his cronies had cornered a young woman who had just exited the bank, and it seemed they, like the old man from this morning, were having difficulty with the word "no."
Bill felt his temper rise, and drawing his wand, he strode towards them, intent on teaching the obnoxious trio a clear lesson about respecting women.
Except he didn't need to. The young woman's face was blocked by the boys, so he couldn't say exactly what happened, but Bill heard something that sounded French, and suddenly the little monsters who had previously been so confident were running down the alley, yelping in pain with every step.
The girl watched them run with an intense satisfaction painted across her face — her stunningly beautiful face. Honestly, she might very well be the single most beautiful woman Bill had ever seen. She was tall and slender, with waist-length blonde hair and porcelain skin. Her cheeks were flushed, and she held herself so gracefully that he was instinctively wary. After all, the first rule of curse-breaking was that the lovelier the object, the more likely it was to be bespelled. Not that this fierce woman was an object, of course, but something about her triggered the same feeling he got when he discovered something especially powerful.
He should have gone on, but something nagged at him that he knew her from somewhere.
"That was impressively handled," he said to her, putting his wand back into his jacket pocket.
She turned to him, looking proud, and then studied him as he was her. "Merci," she said, "it was nothing. They are pathetic little boys." A cloud shifted as she spoke, and the changing light turned her hair from silver to gold.
"You were at the ministry this morning," Bill remarked, piecing that together, but still certain he knew her from somewhere else. "I owe you a bit of thanks — I'd have been late for an appointment if it hadn't been for you telling off that git at the counter."
She smiled at him, her pearly white teeth framed by full lips. "I know you," she said, tilting her head slightly so that the light caught her startlingly blue eyes. Like sapphires, he thought absently, and his certainty that there was something more to her grew. Her face lit up as she exclaimed, "You are sweet Harry Potter's family! At Hogwarts!"
Yes, that was it. The Beauxbatons champion. So she was even younger than she looked, barely out of school. He vaguely remembered seeing her the morning of the third task, and then again in the hospital wing after — after everything.
He smiled back at her and extended a hand. "Bill Weasley," he said. "Harry's a good kid, he’s been best friends with my youngest brother for years."
Her handshake was confident, her hand incredibly soft yet strong. "Fleur Delacour."
"Well met, Miss Delacour. If I had recognized you earlier, I'd have known you wouldn't need my help. You’ve handled far worse."
"Parfois it is good to have help, even if it is not nécessaire." Fleur said. “Maybe you can help with something else?” she added, looking up and down the alley behind him. "I wonder, do you know of a good café? I know nothing here."
"That's a bit of luck," he answered. "I'm on my way to get lunch right now. I'm happy to show you around if you'd like." Of course, he hadn't intended to begin his afternoon acting as a tour guide, but he wouldn't feel right leaving her alone, even if she could take care of herself. He'd been in new cities often enough to know how overwhelming it could be.
Her smile of gratitude left him momentarily dazed before he shook himself back to reality; he completely missed her answer, but understood from her demeanor that she had accepted. He gestured the direction, and the two set off side by side, Bill pointing out a shop or two he thought she might be interested in.
When the woman behind the till at the bakery rang their lunches up together, Bill waved off Fleur’s offer to pay, as he would have for anyone; having grown up without much, it always gave him a bit of joy to be able to spend money on other people now that he could afford it. They sat together at a little table by the window, her drinking a coffee and him a cup of tea while they waited for their food, and he was surprised by how comfortable it felt.
‘So what brings you to London?” he asked.
“I have been wanting to live here since I was a little girl,” Fleur answered, turning her eyes away from the window to meet his. “There are many places I would like to live, but London is the top of my list pour l’instant. Ce matin, I interview with Gringotts, and I apply for my banking license.”
Bill, surprised, leaned back in the too small chair. “You’re joking!”
“Mais non!” she uttered, looking offended. "I intend to be a banker!"
He hurriedly clarified. “No, I don’t mean that. I mean — I’ve worked for Gringotts for years, ever since I finished school. I’m a cursebreaker, and I’ve been working internationally, but I’ve just moved back. If you get the job, we’ll be working together.”
“C'est impossible!” she laughed. “Meeting you was fate!”
Bill was starting to believe it was. Their food arrived, and Fleur asked him about all of the places he’d been. After every story, she asked for another, and he was halfway through a great one about a living statue in Argos when the woman who had rung in their order cleared her throat.
“Sorry to interrupt, but we closed ten minutes ago,” she said apologetically.
“What?” Bill said, startled, checking his watch to confirm that it was somehow ten after four. The two apologized profusely, but the woman just smiled at them.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, “a pair like you two sitting in the window is bound to be good for business, and I enjoyed overhearing your stories. Come back anytime.”
Slightly embarrassed, Bill held the door open for Fleur, earning himself another dazzling smile.
“Where are you off to?” he asked once they were out on the cobblestones and he could make his thoughts work again. The day that had started out gray had cleared up, and the sun felt nice. Not as nice as it had in Alexandria, of course, but he’d take what he could get.
“I am to meet a friend from Hogwarts for dinner,” she said, with the tiniest hint of disappointment in her tone. “But not until 7,” she added quickly.
“You staying at the Leaky?” Bill asked thoughtfully. He chewed on his lower lip as he ran through his to-do list, and ultimately decided that there wasn’t a thing on there that was more important than a good conversation.
“Let’s get a drink,” he said when she confirmed that she was.
They sat at the bar of the Leaky Cauldron, and Fleur insisted on paying for his whiskey since he’d gotten lunch. She told him her own stories as she sipped her glass of wine, and had just gotten to the good part of facing the dragon during the Trwizard Tournament when they were interrupted once again.
“Bonjour, Fleur,” a clean-cut young man said with a horrific attempt at a French accent. He was somewhere around Percy’s age, Bill thought, with thick dark hair and expensive-looking robes.
“Ah, Roger!” Fleur exclaimed. “You are early!”
“Hope that’s alright,” he said. “Just couldn’t wait to see you. Who’s this, then?” he asked coldly, nodding his head towards Bill.
It was difficult not to laugh at the childish bravado, but realizing this boy thought that Bill was in competition with him, he decided it was time to leave. Throwing back the last of his drink, Bill got up from his stool, standing a head taller than the newcomer.
“Bill Weasley,” he said, setting his glass down and offering his hand.
“Roger Davies,” the boy said, trying to crush the older man’s fingers in his grip and adding to Bill’s amusement. “Former Captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, currently in training camp for the Tutshill Tornados.”
“Hey good for you mate,” Bill said, trying very hard not to laugh at Roger’s self-important tone.
“Bill works for Gringotts,” Fleur said diplomatically. “He has been telling me about his experience.”
“I bet he has,” Roger muttered under his breath. “I’ve got us a table around the corner if you’re ready.”
“Yes, of course, I will be right with you Roger,” Fleur said kindly. When he didn’t move, she added, “I will meet you there in just a moment, okay?”
While he didn’t look happy about it, he did go on his way, and Bill managed to keep from chuckling until he’d disappeared among the crowd of tables. “Sorry if I made that awkward for you,” Bill told her. “If I’d realized you had a date, I’d have paid better attention to the time.”
“I am not bothered,” Fleur insisted, “except that he ruined the best part of my story, and I retourne to France in the morning.”
“I’m sure you’ll get a chance to tell it again,” Bill reassured her. He studied the girl he’d spent a good six hours talking to today, and hoped that what he said was true. After being abroad for so long, there weren’t a lot of people in this part of the world he’d consider good friends, and despite the difference in their ages, he really enjoyed her company. “Hang on a second,” he instructed her.
Popping over to the main desk, he borrowed a quill and a scrap of paper and scribbled out his new address. Returning to the bar, he passed the paper over to Fleur. “Let me know if you get the job,” he said. “I’ll try to put in a good word for you.”
The dim, smoke-filled pub could have been transported to the Italian coast with how warmly Fleur glowed at his offer. She held the scrap of paper in her hands as carefully as he held ancient relics, and he felt himself blushing, which wasn’t something usual for him.
“Merci, Bill. Merci beaucoup. Today has been magic.”