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🕑 Added 2025-05-13 00:56:56 +0000 UTCHarry was in teasing mode, leaning back, he looked at the couple, “So,” he said, tone far too casual, “I heard the parents are meeting?”
Neville choked on his hot chocolate.
Fleur, more composed, though her ears pinked slightly, gave him a narrowed look. “That is your fault. You invited my family to your Yule, and then Neville’s grandmother insisted they stay with them.”
Harry smirked. “Didn’t realise I was playing matchmaker for the in-laws.”
Neville still looked like he wanted to crawl under the table. “It’s not—look, it’s not that serious.”
“You snog her every time you’re in the same room,” Petunia said, not even glancing up from stirring her tea.
Neville let out a noise that was somewhere between a cough and a squeak. Fleur, bless her, just took a slow sip of her drink like nothing was out of order.
Harry shook his head. “Just keep it civil at Yule? There’ll be important people there.”
Neville gave him a look like he’d been unfairly accused of something criminal. “We’ve been very restrained.”
Fleur didn’t miss a beat. “We didn’t even kiss at breakfast.”
Petunia gave her a flat look over the rim of her cup. “That’s hardly a medal-worthy achievement.”
Neville cleared his throat. “Still counts.”
Harry shrugged. “Just don’t be the reason I have to field questions from foreign diplomats about wand etiquette and tongue etiquette in the same sentence.”
Neville muttered, “Double standards,” and buried his face in pastry.
Fleur grinned, leaning back in her seat like she had something on him. “You’re just jealous no one’s snogging you.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, didn’t rise to it. “Suppose I am,” he said blandly, sipping his tea.
She tilted her head. “Well, it would explain your mood.”
Harry shrugged. “Not much of a mood, really.”
Neville groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Don’t bother, babe. That’s not a fight you’re winning.”
Fleur raised a brow, amused. “No?”
Neville pointed across the table with his spoon. “Harry’s had more chances than half of Hogwarts combined. He’s just... not rushing.”
That got Fleur’s attention, but Petunia was already narrowing her eyes at Neville. For completely different reasons.
Neville didn’t notice. “I mean, it’s not like he’s clueless. He just doesn’t chase after every skirt like Blaise does.”
Fleur cut in. “How many girls have you turned down and why haven’t we met any of them?”
“I don’t keep a ledger,” Harry said, setting down his cup.
Neville laughed under his breath. “He’s not joking. I’ve seen girls try everything. Subtle hints, not-so-subtle ones, outright confessions. Nothing sticks.”
Fleur squinted at Harry over the rim of her cup. “So, the nine girls you danced with at Yule—Daphne, Tracey, Luna, Hermione, Ginny, Susan, Hannah, Astoria, and Pansy—last year. Are they the only ones catching your eye?”
Harry didn’t even blink. “They’re friends. We spend most of our time at Hogwarts together.”
She wasn’t buying it entirely, but didn’t argue. Instead, she let the subject drop with a faint “hm,” swirling her spoon through what was left of her hot chocolate.
After drinks, they spilled back into the magical street. Inside, it was all satin, lace, and charmed mirrors that critiqued posture. Fleur went straight to a row of robes that looked too expensive to exist, flipping through them, making Neville flinch with incoming bill.
Petunia followed at a slower pace, pausing to touch the sleeves and check price tags with a quiet eyebrow raise.
Harry and Neville stood awkwardly near the entrance, arms crossed, surrounded by floating ribbons and hovering tailor tape. They exchanged a glance, then sat on a bench near the front.
Neville muttered, “I should’ve brought a book.”
“You’ve got Fleur,” Harry said.
“She’s busy planning a runway takeover.”
“She’ll look good doing it.”
Neville grinned. “Obviously.”
One of the mirrors chirped something about poor colour choices, and Petunia muttered under her breath, “Says the pane dressed like a boiled sweet.”
Fleur didn’t even flinch, just kept flipping through a rack of deep blues and silvers. “Ignore it. These mirrors think everything should be gold and emerald.”
“That explains a lot,” Petunia replied, squinting at a lavender number with suspicious lace.
Further back, a second mirror tutted. “Lavender washes you out, dear.”
Petunia shot it a look. “Lavender hides the urge to smash mirrors.”
Petunia and Fleur stepped out of the changing cabins at the same time. Fleur was in deep blue robes with a clean cut and subtle charm shimmer, clearly made to stun under ballroom lighting. Petunia wore dark green, sharply fitted, the kind of dress that didn’t beg attention but got it anyway.
Neville dropped the catalogue he’d been flipping through like it personally offended him. “Right,” he said, blinking once. “That’s… that’s unfair.”
Harry took one look and smirked. “Told you we shouldn’t have let them go in together.”
Fleur cocked her head. “You approve?”
Neville stood, clearly attempting composure and failing. “You’re not going to wear that in public, are you?”
Fleur raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
Neville gestured vaguely. “You’ll cause a diplomatic incident.”
She stepped closer, leaned up, and kissed his cheek. “Then perhaps your Ministry should train better negotiators.”
Petunia was busy adjusting the strap of her dress in the mirror, ignoring them both. Harry walked over, flicked the loose strap back onto her shoulder, and gave a short nod. “It suits you.”
She squinted at her reflection. “You think?”
“Better than what Fleur picked 10 minutes ago.”
That earned a glare from Fleur, who was halfway into a discussion with the saleswitch about matching charm accessories. “I’ll have you know, that red velvet was haute couture.”
“It was velvet with delusions,” Harry replied.
Petunia smirked and turned from the mirror. “Right. I’m ready. You?”
“Always,” Harry said, already moving toward the front to settle the bill.
Neville tried to pay, but Fleur slipped her hand into his coat and snatched the coin pouch before he could blink. “You can pay next time,” she said, handing it off to the cashier.
Harry gave him a pitying look. “You’re not winning that one.”
Neville muttered, “I never do,” and followed the rest of them out the door.
“Next stop?” Harry asked.
“Pastries,” Fleur declared.
Neville didn’t argue. Neville had completely surrendered to French bakery protocol by now, which was ironic.
They ducked into a shop with a glass front fogged from the heat inside. The shelves were packed—eclairs, macarons, tartlets with enchanted berries that sparkled faintly. Petunia went straight for the lemon tarts. Fleur examined the pistachio éclairs like she was picking hex ingredients.
Harry chose two chocolate croissants and a ginger biscuit the size of his hand. He passed the biscuit to Neville. They paid and stepped outside again.
“Where now?” Petunia asked, taking a careful bite.
Harry looked over the street. “We could go up to the overlook. Bit of a walk, but view’s decent.”
Neville shrugged. “Better than another dress shop.”
Fleur elbowed him. “You’re lucky I didn’t drag you into shoes.”
“That’s next term,” Petunia said.
Harry ignored them, already turning uphill. “Come on. Let’s move before the sun disappears.”
The path wound out of the district’s edge, climbing toward a ridge blanketed in early snow, up toward the ridge that overlooked most of the hidden magical neighbourhood. There weren’t many people this way—too cold, too steep—but that suited them fine. By the time they reached the top, their shoes were dusted with snow and their fingers red.
The city stretched below them in a quiet sprawl of gold and pale grey, rooftops tucked under the first coat of proper snow. The wind had eased. Lights twinkled faintly in windows down the slope. Up on the ridge, it was just the four of them, perched along the low stone wall—Fleur and Neville wrapped up together, his coat half-swallowed her scarf; Harry sat with Petunia at his side, shoulders lightly touching.
They stayed like that for a while. A few soft comments passed between them—Neville asking if Fleur’s hands were cold, then holding them in his. Petunia leaned into Harry slightly.
Eventually, the sun dipped low, taking most of the warmth with it.
“Alright,” Harry said, brushing his hands on his coat. “That’s enough romantic hill-sitting for one day.”
Fleur laughed softly, standing with Neville still clinging to her hand. “Tomorrow then?”
Harry nodded. “Yule starts off at six sharp. Don’t be late.”
