magnetic_pole

Title: Walk a Mile
Characters: Tonks/Fleur
Word count and rating: 800 words, G
Notes: For

mindabbles, a story about a weekend ramble in Diagon Alley, a sundae, and an apology.

It's disconcerting, seeing her step out of the Floo at the Leaky Cauldron. Her purple hair is tousled, as if she’s just woken up, and the sleeves of her robes hang too long on her, almost hiding her thumbs, like a child. She spreads her arms theatrically and turns around for you to see.

“Lovely,” you say, and she smiles wryly.

“Check your laces,” you add, and she laughs.

“No, really,” you say. Rolling her eyes, she lifts the hem of her robes an inch or two.

Neatly tied. Good.

“Let’s walk,” you say, and you both step out into the bright, chilly bustle of Diagon Alley in early autumn. You walk arm-in-arm. It’s cold enough that you have a long jacket on, its collar turned up against the wind, and a wool scarf tied around your head. She is bare-headed and pink-cheeked. Cold, perhaps. Or excited. The plan had been your idea, but it hadn’t taken much to convince her.

You stop at Quality Quidditch for a few moments and then Flourish and Blotts, drifting in and out of the crowd, chatting absently about things you might purchase and things you really shouldn’t even consider spending Galleons on. Shortly after noon on a Saturday so close to Halloween, both shops are so busy no one gives either of you a second glance.

As you walk out of Flourish and Blotts, she squeezes your arm. “No one is looking at me,” she says, her voice full of wonder. “It is as if I am invisible.”

“Yeah,” you say, smiling. “Funny how that works, isn’t it? No one pays much attention to us ordinary witches. Not a bad thing for an Auror.”

She is listening to you carefully, really listening. The crowd jostles past, ignoring you.

“Unless I trip,” you add, keeping the tone light. “In which case everyone stares.”

She laughs before she can catch herself and then looks guilty.

“And wizards never race to help me up,” you say. “Usually, they laugh. The wankers.”

She is watching you now, her face (your face) more serious and attentive than you’ve ever seen it. “But you could be beautiful,” she says slowly. “Why not?”

You were as beautiful as Fleur for two years at school. Fifth year and sixth. Graceful. Thin. With long dark hair and a nose much more like Mum’s than Dad’s. After five boyfriends and noticeably better marks, you landed in the infirmary with Madam Pomfrey, exhausted, and you gave it up. “I tried,” you say. “I didn’t like it. Too many expectations.” Her face (your face) is puzzled, and you wonder if she understands. It’s effortless for her, after all, as well as compulsory; it’s who she is. “It just wasn’t me,” you add.

At that, she nods. “I like that you look like yourself,” she says. “I do.” She frowns. “I’m sorry I said that. About making more of an effort with yourself. Is that what this was about?”

Fleur is smarter than she looks. Or, more precisely, she’s smarter than you are willing to admit. You both have your prejudices and assumptions. “Apology accepted,” you say.

She leans in and kisses you, very gently, on the cheek. She has (you have) surprisingly soft, warm lips.

“I’ve never been kissed by myself before,” you say.

“Very interesting,” she says. “Better than being kissed by me?”

“Of course not,” you say. Then: “How much longer?”

“Approximately forty five minutes,” she says. “I couldn’t bring myself to drink it all.” She shudders.

“Ice cream?” you ask, gesturing at Fortescue’s. “The last time before it’s too cold, I imagine.”

“It is never too cold for ice cream,” she says, slipping an icy hand in your pocket, alongside yours.

As you enter the shop and take off your jacket and scarf, you concentrate on your features, shaping them to look like your mother’s at your age to avoid comment. Fleur orders the ice cream, and you claim the last empty table, right in the center of the restaurant.

Later, as you watch her scrape the bowl, she glances up at you shrewdly. “I like the fact that you are the only one who stares at me,” she says. “I find it....” She trails off, looking for the word. “Intimate?”

Under the table, you press your knees up against hers. “Sexy?”

She laughs.

“It’s not about how beautiful you are, Fleur,” you say quietly. You haven’t admitted to anything quite that serious yet, and your stomach twists.

“I know,” she replies, and to your surprise, her eyes (your eyes) are shining. “I have never felt this way before, worried I might not...how do you say? Measure up?”

You catch her hand under the table. The wizarding world laughs and indulges in ice cream all around you, and you realize you have never been this deeply, hopelessly in love.

On a completely different note, rs_small_gifts sign-ups begin Saturday at 12:00 noon Eastern time!