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Florian Delacour closed his eyes and took a deep breath as somewhere, in the depths of his soul, a fracture began and he experienced again the excruciating pain of being so close yet so far away.
He didn’t give a fleeting damn about the pain, he could handle more if need be.
He wasn’t worrying about useless moralizing either. Molly Weasley could shriek all that she wanted and he wouldn’t care.
However, today he was taking what he needed, what he wanted and thirsted for since the day he met her four years ago.
He would do anything and everything if it would soften her toward him if it would cause her to yield and accept his creature.
His parents were aware and ready and the British Ministry could go and swive themselves.
His claws slipped from his austere control and ached to inaugurate another transformation, to destroy and demolish and show the world what lived behind the perfect shell.
His violent tendencies were related to the years he spent without his mate despite recognizing her. He could no longer fight the cries of the creature living inside him.
Florian Sebastian Delacour had matured into a steady and good-natured young man, with a keen wit and a ready laugh. And in light of his talent and ambition, there was the promise of even more attainment.
He was a brilliant Curse Breaker and one of Gringotts’ most accomplished. So promising was his talent in Ancient Runes, that part of the tuition for his Mastery was assumed by the goblins, who decided that he could repay them by working with them upon finishing his studies.
The Delacours didn’t need the money, they were an affluent French old magical family. However, it was unwise to turn down a goblin’s offer; they could make your life ‘Hell’ to say the least.
Florian Delacour was part Veela. It wasn’t a secret, many recognized his allure whenever he lost control or was swamped by strong emotions.
More than a young witch, with feeble Occlumency shields, chased him and gave him grief.
He had close to no male friends. No wizard wanted to have his sister, girlfriend or worse, fiancée or wife bewitched by the blond, French Veela.
“What are you thinking about? I know that look, Florian,” Bill asked softly, sounding tremendously amused.
He was his best friend, one he met thanks to Calanthe Potter.
“Oh. Sorry Bill, but I was wondering what to do. Since the war ended, she became withdrawn and I can’t reach her anymore. I’m not even sure that she feels the same. What if…”
Bill interrupted him before he could finish his wayward thoughts. A smile hovered on the git’s lips, this time edged with wryness and Florian lifted an inquisitive eyebrow.
“She feels the same, mate. Whenever we are in a room, she can’t take her eyes away from you,” Bill offered.
Florian scoffed. ”No witch can look away from this face when I’m in a room. Sorry Billy-Boy but no wizard can compare to me. Je suis parfait.”
Bill snorted and fake-punched his upper arm. ”You sound like a Malfoy. I know Calanthe and heard a lot about her, even before we met, thanks to my blabbering brother. She’s not the kind of girl to get swept off her feet because of a pretty face. Moreover, didn’t you say that she's immune to your allure thanks to you being her…”
Florian put his hand over his lips before he could utter another word. ”Shhhh, we don’t know if George is here. You know what kind of eavesdropping toys he produces. I don’t want to receive a lecture from Molly before I can tell Calanthe,” his face was drawn with anxiety as he looked around.
He never felt safe when in the Burrow. The Weasleys, even though they embraced him since their first meeting, were a bit intrusive; mainly Molly and Ginny.
He hated the way that girl looked at him, as though he was a prize. His creature shuddered every time she touched him and if not for Bill, he would never come back again.
Florian stiffened when he caught sight of someone behind Bill and groaned.
“Incoming,” he muttered.
“Damn it,” Bill said under his breath, and turned to face the approaching two women, wondering how he was going to distract them.
Molly and Ginny rushed toward them. The Weasley matriarch’s eyes levelled him up and her lips pinched with disapproval when they reached his hair, which was free and wafting gently over his shoulders and upper back.
The woman was very vocal and shameless. His Maman would never criticize a stranger, it wasn’t polite.
“Florian, how are you my dear?” she hugged him, almost crushing his ribs in the process, and he hid his wince and returned the gesture.
Bill looked at him sheepishly and he sighed.
Molly tugged at his black shirt and narrowed her eyes. ”It seems you’re embracing Bill’s style, which is dreadful. You are a respectable Curse-Breaker and you should dress the part.”
“Miss Weasley, muggle T-shirts and jeans are more comfortable and cheaper. We don’t have to worry about damaging them while getting inside tombs,” he tried unsuccessfully for his words were met with a shake of her head.
“And look at your hair. You should have a cut at once. You too Bill, I had it with your ponytail,” she pulled the soft strands and he shuddered at the touch.
Veela were more sensitive to magical auras than humans. They didn’t take well to invasive touches.
It was basic knowledge and Molly should’ve known better.
He removed her fingers gently and faked a smile. ”I prefer my hair this way, it suits me better,” he chuckled trying to hide his unease and she scoffed.
In truth, his hair was part of his culture, his heritage. It spoke for the freedom his ancestors shed their blood and their magic to achieve with their magical, silver strands making a statement.
Veela were not discriminated against and considered ‘creatures’ in France anymore. It was one of the first countries in Europe to nullify the laws imposing limits on their freedom and mocking their intelligence.
Molly retreated; looking disappointed, and gestured to her daughter. ”Ginny, let’s start working on dinner. It had been a while since Florian shared a meal with us and I’m sure that he was not getting enough sustenance. Look how frail he looks.”
Bill didn’t manage to smother his chuckle and Florian wanted so badly to torch the ponytail he liked so much.
“I believe that Florian is famished, why don’t you prepare a feast for my mate, Mum?” Bill snickered and Molly nodded eagerly and seemed determined to plow through him in her haste to reach the kitchen.
Ginny looked at him expectantly and he ignored her. The girl’s attention was alarming. Hopefully, he would get things settled with Calanthe and never cross paths with the redhead again.
Frail…
He was an adult Veela who found his mate. His magical and physical powers were at their best.
Did the infuriating woman forget the help he offered during the war? He managed to kill Fenrir Greyback, the nefarious werewolf, and avenge his best friend.
His heart bled with tears of sorrow as he remembered that gloomy night.
He had lost her for real before she came back. The moment the bond was snapped, he struggled to breathe. It was a memory he would never forget.
An explosion of pain filled his chest as he saw her motionless in Hagrid’s arms. He wanted to rush to her side and kill whoever had hurt her but Bill stopped him.
“Wait, use your senses, mate. This is not the time for your foolishness.”
Florian followed his friend’s advice begrudgingly and his grief was replaced by elation as he discerned her magical signature.
Calanthe had died but managed somehow to come back.
To come back to him.
“Go ahead, I’ll make sure that no one interrupts you,” Bill clapped his back and he swallowed thickly.
Ron and Hermione were thankfully out. The two-thirds of the Golden Trio broke up after they returned from Australia and Florian couldn’t say he was surprised.
He never understood what attracted them to each other in the first place.
Hermione, though way too brainy for his liking, was a loyal and brilliant witch with a promising future. She could do better.
Ron on the other hand was lazy and temperamental. They could never work as a couple.
Not to mention ...
Florian shook the inconsequential musings away and took the stairs two at a time. It was a rare occurrence for Calanthe to be alone and he wouldn’t lose this gift offered by Fate.
❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅
Calanthe gazed at the ceiling while she ran her fingers through her long hair. She was tired, bored and undecided about her future.
It had been months since she managed to vanquish Voldemort for good and assume the nickname of 'The Woman Who Won'.
Like the name that preceded it, she hated the new one with ardour. It reminded her of what she lost to be bequeathed such foolish titles.
She didn’t return to Grimmauld Place after the Final Battle, couldn’t with the memories woven into every nook and corner.
She knew that she had to start over but didn’t know how.
Hermione decided to return to school while Ron joined George in running the shop.
The Weasleys, like always, welcomed her with open arms and she was grateful despite Molly’s worried glances and Ginny’s unfathomable coldness.
Arthur was as always, eager to learn more about muggle gadgets and she was happy to supply him with the information.
She visited Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes often, under her Cloak of course, and spent the afternoons with Ron and George.
George was not the same after Fred’s death but thanks to the family and Angelina’s support, he was getting better.
Even Bill decided to remain in England indefinitely, despite his earlier plans to return to Egypt after the war.
The mention of Bill steered her thoughts toward another wizard that puzzled her.
Florian Delacour.
She met the French wizard four years ago and had never forgotten about him. There was something about the handsome, proud young man that viscerally called to her.
Before getting to know him, he seemed aloof and closed off. Many called him an arrogant French prat and accused him of using his charm to get whatever he wanted.
However, the tournament and the gruelling, life-threatening tasks they went through together showed her that it was not the case.
Florian was a brilliant guy, someone who, due to his Veela heritage, opted to remain alone and face whatever came his way.
He worked diligently to prove himself, to show the world that he wasn’t just a Veela; he was a gifted, capable wizard who aimed for perfection and didn’t shy away from hard work.
He asked her for the Yule Ball and she agreed as it solved their mutual problem.
While she was haunted by hypocrites who called her a cheat and a fake not long ago, Florian was chased and pestered by scores of witches who saw nothing but his beautiful face.
The night had been dreamy, the best she had.
He was chivalrous and attentive to her needs. He didn’t make it feel like a simple beneficial bargain, he treated her like a princess.
His princess.
Calanthe knew that she had no chance with the French wizard. He was older, more accomplished and a Veela at that. She devoured many books about mythical creatures in an attempt to learn more about them and understand their culture.
Veela, like Werewolves, could settle for no one except their True Mate. Florian was no different. She knew that, despite the hordes of witches that wanted him, he would find his mate one day and shower her with his love for all eternity.
Awash in boatloads of self-pity, Calanthe closed her eyes and tried she chase her turbulent thoughts away.
Maybe she was not meant for a wizard as great as Florian.
Maybe whatever attraction she was harbouring toward him was but the hallucinations of a love-deprived young woman who never experienced a mother’s hug.
Maybe it would be better to forget about him; she would gain nothing from dreaming about someone who treated her like a simple friend.
A soft knock startled her and she sat abruptly, rearranging her hair and crumbled clothes.
She winced as she caught sight of the tattered, old Dudley T-shirt she was wearing. She should’ve listened to Hermione’s advice and started spending the money her parents and Sirius left for her.
“Come in,” Calanthe said, thinking that it should be Mrs Weasley or Ginny.
Her heart skipped a bit as the door opened and someone she wasn't expecting strode into the room.
Their gazes met, clashing.
Good Godric, she wanted to ask him, beg him, to leave her be. It felt like her thoughts had summoned him.
The effort to utter a coherent word was drained away and all that remained was what little self-restraint she had left.
She watched the brindling of afternoon sun and curtains shadows on his face. She wondered how it would feel to press her lips to that soft light-tricked skin.
A delectable notch appeared between her dark brows as the strange thought assaulted her.
Every time she met him, she yearned for his attention, for his touch.
Freshly showered and dressed in muggle Jeans and a cotton T-shirt, Florian was exotically handsome, with silver-blond hair worn a shade too long and an emerald stud, the colour of her eyes, sparkling in one ear. He was lean and supple, with an easy way of moving.
Before taking the chair next to her bed, he leaned down to kiss her cheek, an open display of affection that caused her colour to raise.
She related it to him being French notwithstanding that she had never seen him welcome the others in the same fashion.
“Bonsoir Calanthe, how have you been?” Florian asked softly, his light blue eyes never leaving her face.
“I’ve been hiding from the outer world, I guess. I can’t even take a stroll in Diagon Alley without being harassed by fans and journalists,” She sighed.
Florian studied her for a moment before he took her hand in his.
The gesture was unpredictable but not unwelcome. Warmth seeped through her overheated skin and she wondered why his touch felt so right.
Casting an assessing glance at their clasped hands, Florin said without preamble. ”Why don’t you leave?”
Calanthe’s eyes widened as they beheld his face, which looked deceptively relaxed. ”Leave?”
He nodded, before he added, his voice riddled with contempt. ”Yes leave. This country gave you nothing but grief and bad memories. Why don’t you start somewhere else? You can become whoever and whatever you want. You won’t have to live up to Wizarding Britain’s expectations anymore. You can become Calanthe, just Calanthe.”
His voice was soft as he voiced her deepest wish.
Leave , yes she wanted to leave, so bad as a matter of fact.
In a daze of wretchedness and sourness, Calanthe scoffed. ’’And where can I go pray tell? This country, these people are all that I know. How can I leave everything behind and start alone in a foreign place?”
“But you have me,” were Florian’s muttered words.
Calanthe’s head snapped up so fast and she looked at him in bewilderment. ”You…but you work here and then you are…”
“A Veela,” he added helpfully, sounding amused and exasperated at once.
“Yes,” Calanthe nodded, feeling his probing gaze.
Florian sighed and reached down for her, gripped her smaller hand, and hauled her upward. She didn’t check the momentum but instead let herself fall naturally against him.
Her long skirt fluttered around his legs, and her body pressed all along his front.
Desperately, she searched for the strength, the will, to push him away. She was overwhelmed by the feeling of being in Florian’s arms, cocooned in his warmth.
“Florian…” she wheezed.
Florian tilted her chin up and said softly, too softly she wanted to weep. ”We can go back to France. I’ll get a job at the French branch of Gringotts and you can do whatever you want. I have an apartment in Paris, in the heart of L’Avenue Des Sorciers, the French equivalent of Diagon Alley. We can have a haven all to ourselves and live happily.”
Calanthe swallowed the tears that wanted to seep from her eyes and drown her in the longing she was battling.
“But you can’t be with me. A Veela needs his mate,” her tone was more devastated than she had meant it to be.
“You’re my mate,” Florian offered unapologetically, his voice dripping conviction and…pride.
At this foray into this dangerous territory, Calanthe felt her heart contract with repressed, conflicting feelings. A maze of tangled emotions rose within her. But then she entertained the hope that she might get what she had wanted for so long.
She was his, she will forever be.
“You’re…” she breathed.
Florian smiled, his eyes shining with happiness. ”I am. I’ve known since your fourth year but couldn't tell you. You were young and had so much going on. I couldn’t add to your burden. I wanted to wait till the war was over. However, I can wait no longer, mon amour. My Veela can’t stay away anymore, I need you like I need my next breath and I hope with all my heart that you’ll agree to have me.”
“And your family?” she asked in a small voice.
“Already love you and will adore you more when they'll get to know you as I do.”
Calanthe chuckled and hugged him with all her might, relishing in the closeness.
She stopped with a gasp as he took her face between his hands and ducked his head. He stole an off-center kiss from her lips as if her laughter were something he could taste.
She felt the imprint of his mouth even after he drew back, her excited nerves reluctant to release the sensation.
“Florian?” she whispered against his lips.
“Yes, mon amour?”
“I want to go with you. Please, take me away,” she pleaded.
“Of course, I will. I want to have you all to myself,’’ he whispered then bent to her again. She turned her face slightly, swamped by his nearness. He sought her neck instead, his lips brushing the vulnerable flesh with half-open kisses.
Dazed, Calanthe let her head fall back, her body accepting the steady support of his arms. He searched her throat with devastating care, touching his tongue to her pulse.
His hand cradled her nape, the pad of his thumb tracing the edge of her hairline. As her balance faltered, she reached around his neck.
He was so gentle, teasing colour to the surface of her skin, chasing little shivers with his mouth.
Blindly she followed, wanting the taste of him. As she angled her face toward his. Her lips grazed the smooth surface of his jaw.
His breath caught before he breathed. “One day soon mon amour, I will mark your throat for all the Wizarding World to see.”
His voice was soft, dark, like smoked honey and she shuddered, “Mon amour, you will be always loved by me. You are too well tangled in my soul.”
Before she could answer, he caught her mouth in a full, open kiss which she returned with fervour.
She didn’t need to voice her love, for every kiss, every touch, every breath they shared told him over and over again that she was his forever, until death and beyond.