Harry
The Room of Requirement had gone full arena.
Harry had asked for a training space, and the room had delivered something halfway between a gymnasium and a battlefield. The ceiling stretched three stories high, the stone floor was sectioned into six dueling lanes marked with faintly glowing lines, and practice dummies lined the far wall, each one charmed to dodge, block, and fire back weak stinging hexes. One of them had already singed Seamus's eyebrows off during the warm-up, and Seamus kept touching his face like he expected to find the eyebrows had grown back.
They hadn't.
Over thirty students filled the space, which was a new record. Gryffindors made up the bulk, but Harry counted Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, a decent contingent of Slytherins who pretended they were only here out of curiosity, and five Beauxbatons students in their powder-blue robes, hovering near the entrance like guests who weren't sure if they'd been properly invited.
Harry stood at the front of the room, Fleur beside him. She'd pulled her silver hair into a high ponytail, and she was wearing fitted trousers and a dark jumper with the sleeves pushed to her elbows. No Beauxbatons robes. No silk. She looked like she'd come to work.
"Right," Harry said, and the chatter died fast. That still surprised him, how quickly they went quiet when he spoke. "Last session, Professor Moody beat all of us. Me included."
A few laughs. Ron called out, "He barely beat you, mate!" from somewhere in the middle of the crowd.
"He absolutely beat me," Harry corrected. "And he told us why. Speed, positioning, unpredictability. Those aren't just words. They're the difference between walking out of a fight and getting carried out." He paused. "Today we're working on unpredictability. Breaking your own patterns before someone else does it for you."
He gestured to Fleur, who stepped forward. A few of the boys in the front row seemed to forget how breathing worked.
"Most of you saw Fleur duel Moody," Harry said. "She pushed him harder than anyone else in that Hall. Different style than mine, different philosophy, and that's exactly the point. If you only ever train with one person, you only learn to fight one way. So today, Fleur's going to show you how she thinks about dueling. And it's nothing like what I've been teaching you."
Fleur surveyed the group.
"'Arry teaches you to react," Fleur said. "Shield first, zen counter. Défensif. It is a good approach, non? You survive long enough to find an opening."
Several students nodded.
"But I do not like to wait for openings." Fleur's lips curved. "I prefer to make zem. Ze space around you, ze floor beneath your feet, ze air itself, zey are all weapons. You do not need to 'it your opponent with a spell if ze ground is already doing it for you."
She drew her wand, and without warning, pointed it at the stone floor three feet to her left. "Defodio."
A trench ripped open in the stone with a grinding crack. Several students jumped backward.
"Now," Fleur said, calm as anything, "if I am standing 'ere, and my opponent is zere," she pointed across the trench, "what 'as changed?"
"Their movement is restricted," Hermione answered immediately from where she stood near the wall with a notebook. "They can't sidestep left without falling in."
"Exactement. I 'ave not touched zem. I 'ave not even aimed at zem. But I 'ave already taken away one of zeir options. Zis is what I mean by environmental control. You change ze space, you change ze fight."
She repaired the floor with a wave. "Shall we demonstrate? 'Arry?"
Harry grinned and stepped to the far end of the nearest dueling lane. The students pressed back to give them room, buzzing with anticipation.
They bowed.
Fleur moved first.
"Ventus!" A gust of compressed wind screamed across the lane, not at Harry but at the floor, sending a wave of dust and debris rushing toward his feet. Harry jumped, clearing the worst of it, and in the half-second he was airborne, Fleur's second spell was already coming, a Stunner aimed right where he'd land.
Harry twisted mid-air, casting a Shield Charm that caught the Stunner and bounced it sideways into a practice dummy, which toppled with an indignant squeal. He landed, rolled forward, and fired back three spells in quick succession: Expelliarmus, Impedimenta, and a Tripping Jinx aimed at her ankles.
Fleur dodged the first, batted the second aside, and turned the third into an opportunity. She let the Tripping Jinx hit the floor just in front of her, then Transfigured the affected stone into a low wall that rose to waist height. She dropped behind it, and her next hex came from an angle Harry hadn't expected, deflected off the ceiling.
"No fair!" Ron shouted from the sidelines, sounding delighted.
They traded ten more seconds of rapid fire before Harry called "Hold!" and they both lowered their wands. Neither had landed a clean hit. The crowd erupted into applause.
"See what she did?" Harry asked the group, breathing a little harder. "She never aimed directly at me until she'd already changed the terrain. By the time I was dodging her spells, I was also dodging the environment she'd created. That's two problems at once. Most people can handle one. Two makes you sloppy."
"And 'e adapted," Fleur added, looking at Harry with a look that was not appropriate in front of a big group. "Most opponents would 'ave stayed grounded and tried to shield through ze wind. 'Arry jumped. 'E changed ze game instead of playing mine. Zat is what you want."
She looked at the group. "Pair up. One partner focuses only on environmental spells, ze ozzer tries to fight through it. Zen switch."
Students scrambled for partners. The room dissolved into organized chaos, pairs squaring off in the dueling lanes.
Harry waded into the fray.
This was the part he actually loved, not the speeches or the leadership, but the teaching itself. Walking between pairs, watching, correcting, encouraging. Watching someone go from fumbling to functional. Seeing the exact moment a spell clicked and a student's face lit up with understanding.
He stopped behind Susan Bones, who was paired with Hannah Abbott. Susan had just attempted an environmental attack and managed to transfigure the floor into ankle-deep mud, which was creative, but her follow-up spell had gone wide.
"Your aim's off because you're looking at the mud instead of your target," Harry told her. "Once you change the terrain, forget about it. It's doing its job. You need to do yours."
Susan turned to face him, and Harry noticed she looked different today. Her auburn hair wasn't in its usual practical braid, it fell loose past her shoulders. She was wearing some kind of perfume, too, something light and flowery that hadn't been part of her kit at any previous session.
"Right," Susan said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Could you show me? The timing, I mean. When to shift focus from the environment to the actual attack."
"Sure." Harry positioned himself behind her, adjusting her wand arm. "Cast the terrain spell, then immediately look up and pick your target. Don't admire your work. Think of it like—"
"Like setting a trap and then forgetting about it?" Susan shifted her weight, and her shoulder pressed back into his chest. She didn't move away.
"Yeah, exactly."
"So I should just... feel the floor change and trust it worked?" She tilted her head back slightly, looking up at him. Her eyes were very blue this close.
"That's it. Try again."
Susan cast. The mud spell was better this time, and her follow-up Stunner actually clipped Hannah's Shield Charm. She beamed.
"Was that the practice session you promised me?" Susan asked, her smile wide and warm.
"Bit of a group session rather than one-on-one," Harry admitted. "But yeah, this counts."
"Maybe next time, just the two of us?" She touched his arm, her fingers lingering on his wrist. "I think I'd learn faster with your full attention."
"We'll see what we can set up," Harry said, and moved on before anything in his brain could register the look Fleur was giving him from across the room, which could have cut glass.
Daphne Greengrass intercepted him next.
She was waiting between dueling lanes, arms crossed, her dark hair swept over one shoulder. Her younger sister, Astoria, Harry thought, was practicing nearby, paired with a Ravenclaw boy who looked terrified of her.
"Potter," Daphne said. "Quick question."
"Go ahead."
"If I'm chaining a Leg-Locker Curse into a Disarming Charm, should I lead with the Leg-Locker to restrict movement first, or hit the Disarming Charm while they're focused on shielding the Leg-Locker?"
It was a good question. It was also a question that someone of Daphne's skill level already knew the answer to.
"Depends on your opponent," Harry said. "If they're mobile, lock the legs first. If they're a stationary fighter, the Disarming Charm is a better opener because they'll expect the movement restriction."
"Interesting." Daphne stepped closer. Her green eyes were darker than Harry's, but still quite similar. "I've been practicing combinations privately. Quite a lot, actually. I'd love to show you what I've worked out. One-on-one, maybe? I think you'd be..." she paused, choosing her word carefully, "...impressed."
"The group sessions are open to everyone," Harry said smoothly. "Bring your combinations next time, I'll give you feedback."
"Of course," Daphne said with a smile. "The group sessions." She turned and walked back to her lane, swaying her hips, showing off her...quite impressive ass.
Across the room, Hermione raised an eyebrow at Harry. He pretended not to see it.
Padma Patil was next, though at least hers started as a genuine request.
"Harry, can you demonstrate the Disarming Charm on me? I want to feel the correct amount of force so I can replicate it."
Harry disarmed her. Her wand flew cleanly from her grip and arced through the air. Padma caught it on the rebound and smiled.
"You're welcome to disarm me anytime," she said almost breathlessly.
Her twin appeared from nowhere.
"Harry!" Parvati said brightly, falling into step beside him as he moved toward the next pair. "I just wanted to say, have you been working out? Besides the dueling, I mean. Because your arms look..." she gestured vaguely at his arms, "different. In a good way. A very good way."
"I do a lot of running," Harry said. "And dodging. The dodging is excellent cardio."
"Clearly working," Parvati said, and her eyes made another pass over his upper body that was about as subtle as a Bludger to the face.
A voice behind Harry said something in rapid French. He turned to find a Beauxbatons girl, small, dark-haired, with sharp features and an eager smile, speaking at a speed that turned every word into a blur of vowels.
Harry leaned in, trying to catch something, anything, that he could respond to. "Sorry, I don't really speak—"
Fleur appeared at his elbow like she'd Apparated.
"Colette," Fleur said, and what followed was a burst of French that was too fast for Harry to follow. But the tone was clear enough. Fleur's smile didn't reach her eyes, and Colette's eager expression wilted like a plant in frost. The girl nodded quickly, muttered something apologetic, and retreated to the Beauxbatons contingent without looking back.
"What did you say to her?" Harry asked.
"Nozing important," Fleur said sweetly. "I simply reminded 'er zat she 'as a dueling partner waiting and it would be rude to leave zem standing zere."
"You're terrifying."
"Merci."
Cho Chang was the last one, and she was, at least, subtle about it. She approached with a genuine question about defensive positioning against multiple opponents, and Harry answered it properly. But she held eye contact a beat too long, and when he finished explaining, she tucked her hair behind her ear in a way that seemed practised.
"Thanks, Harry," she said softly. "You're really good at this."
"Just repeating stuff other people taught me," Harry said.
Cho smiled and drifted back to the Ravenclaw group.
Harry returned to the front of the room. Fleur was watching him with an expression that mixed possessive amusement with something lustier and more interested.
"You are very popular today," Fleur murmured when he reached her.
"I was teaching."
"Oui. And zey were learning. Among... ozzer things." She gave him a look that suggested the conversation wasn't over, but the session was winding down and Harry needed to wrap up.
He let the pairs finish their final rounds, then gathered everyone back to the center of the room. Thirty-plus faces looked up at him, flushed with exertion and buzzing. He could see Neville grinning, wand still in hand, he'd successfully disarmed Dean for the first time, earning genuine cheers from the group and a stunned laugh from Dean himself. Ginny had demonstrated a Bat-Bogey Hex so vicious that even Fleur had murmured "Magnifique" under her breath. Ron had paired with one of the older Hufflepuff students, a stocky boy named Aleksander, and had held his own for a full three minutes. Luna had practiced with her usual dreamy calm, telling her opponent she was aiming at the Wrackspurts around their head, and somehow her spells had landed with strange accuracy.
They were good. They were getting better.
The session dissolved after that. Students filed out in clusters, talking animatedly, practising wand movements as they walked. Several stopped to thank Harry. A few shook his hand.
Harry was collecting a pair of gloves he'd left on a bench when a hand closed around his wrist.
Fleur pulled him sideways, away from the last stragglers, into a shadowed alcove between two towering bookshelves that the Room had conjured along the wall. Her back hit the stone and she pulled him close, her hands fisting in the front of his jumper.
She kissed him.
Not the quick, affectionate kisses she gave him in corridors or at meals. This was desperate. Her mouth opened against his, tongue sliding hot and slick against his own, and the sound she made—"Mmmnnh"—was needy. Harry's brain emptied of everything except her. The heat of her body bleeding through their clothes. The way her hips rolled forward into his like she couldn't physically stop herself.
His hands found her waist, slid lower, gripped her hips and dragged her flush against him. Fleur gasped into his mouth and bit his lower lip hard enough to sting.
"Mmmm—'Arry—"
She pulled back just enough to breathe, her lips swollen and glistening, her eyes blown so dark the blue was nearly gone. Her chest was heaving, those full, heavy breasts rising and falling against him, and Harry's hands were already moving, sliding up from her hips, thumbs tracing along her ribs, palms cupping the weight of her tits through the thin dark jumper. No bra. He could feel that immediately. Just the soft, warm give of her flesh filling his hands, her nipples already stiff peaks pressing into his palms.
"Ahh—" Fleur's head tipped back against the stone, eyes fluttering shut, her mouth falling open. "Oui, just like zat—squeeze zem—"
He did. Kneaded the heavy flesh, rolled her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers through the fabric, and Fleur whimpered... this gorgeous, terrifying woman who'd dueled Mad-Eye Moody and her hand shot down between their bodies.
Her palm found him through his trousers and pressed.
"Mon Dieu," she breathed, fingers curling around the thick, rigid outline of his cock, already straining against the fabric. She dragged her palm along the full length of him, base to tip, all nine inches, and her eyes snapped open. The look on her face was feral. Starving. "You are already so 'ard for me."
"You're not wearing a bra," Harry managed, his voice rough as gravel. "In a training session. That's—"
"Zat is because I planned zis." Fleur stroked him again, her fingers tracing the swollen head through the cloth. Her thumb pressed into the ridge just below the tip and Harry's hips bucked involuntarily. "Nnnh—I 'ave been wet since you started giving orders, 'Arry. Since ze first minute. Do you understand? Ze entire session, standing next to you, watching you command zat room—" She squeezed his cock and her breath hitched. "—I was dripping. I could feel it on my thighs."
I need him inside me tonight or I will lose my mind, she thought, and the thought must have shown on her face because Harry groaned and kissed her again, hard, swallowing the moan she fed him—"Ahhhmm"—while his hands shoved the hem of her jumper up just enough to get underneath, skin on skin now, the obscene softness of her bare tits spilling into his rough palms, hot and heavy and perfect.
Fleur's hand worked faster on his cock through his trousers, gripping the shaft, stroking, making him with lust. Her hips ground against his thigh, seeking friction, and Harry could feel the heat of her cunt even through both layers of clothing.
"Come find me tonight," Fleur panted against his mouth, her hand still wrapped around his cock, squeezing the head. Her lips were bruised and her eyes were glazed. "Ze carriage. My bed. I need you to fuck me, 'Arry, I cannot—mmmnh—I cannot wait any longer zan tonight—"
"Fleur—"
"Do not make me wait." She nipped his earlobe, sucked it between her teeth, and gave his cock one final slow stroke from root to tip that made his vision blur. "Or I will find you and I will not care who is watching."
A pointed cough echoed from somewhere behind them.
Harry and Fleur separated, not quickly enough, based on the look Hermione was giving them from the end of the bookshelf. She had her arms crossed and her notebook tucked under one arm. Her cheeks were already blazing crimson, which meant she'd heard more than the cough suggested.
"If you two are quite finished," Hermione said, her voice strained with the effort of sounding dry instead of mortified, "there are still students in the corridor who can hear... well. Everything. And I do mean everything, Fleur."
Fleur straightened her jumper with immaculate composure, tugging it back down over her breasts as if she hadn't just been writhing against Harry's hands with her fingers wrapped around his cock. Not a hair out of place. The only evidence was the flush high on her cheekbones and the dangerous glitter in her eyes.
"We were discussing training strategies," Fleur said.
"Of course you were," Hermione said flatly.
Harry ran a hand through his hair. His face was on fire. His trousers were... a problem. He shifted his weight and angled his body away from Hermione, which fooled absolutely no one. "Right. Should we, er—"
"Leave ze room?" Fleur suggested, perfectly composed. "Oui. After you."
She walked past Hermione, pausing just long enough to lean close and murmur something in rapid French that made Hermione's blush deepen from pink to scarlet, her mouth opening and closing without sound.
Harry followed, willing his blood to redistribute itself to literally any other part of his body, his mind still buzzing, his skin still burning everywhere she'd touched, and the echo of Fleur's voice chasing him down the seventh-floor corridor like a curse he had no intention of breaking.
I need you to fuck me, 'Arry.
Tonight couldn't come fast enough.
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The common room was in its usual post-lunch state of comfortable collapse. Ron was sprawled across the sofa nearest the fire with Lavender tucked under his arm, both of them sharing a bag of Bertie Bott's and occasionally making disgusted faces when they hit a bad flavour. Fred and George had commandeered the table by the window and were hunched over something that was either homework or illegal merchandise. Ginny sat cross-legged on the floor near Neville, both of them playing a half-hearted game of Exploding Snap that neither seemed fully invested in. Hermione occupied her usual armchair with a book thick enough to use as a weapon.
Harry had settled into the armchair opposite Hermione, still buzzing from the training session, still feeling the ghost of Fleur's mouth on his, when the portrait hole swung open and Professor McGonagall stepped through.
She looked like a woman walking to her own execution.
Her lips were pressed into a line so thin they'd nearly vanished, and her eyes swept the common room. She carried a rolled-up parchment in one hand and her wand in the other, and she stood in the centre of the room. Everyone had stopped moving as if someone had just stopped time.
"Attention, please," McGonagall said. Her voice was not loud, but it echoed in the silent common room.
"As you are all aware, Hogwarts is hosting the Triwizard Tournament this year. What you may not be aware of is that the tournament carries with it certain... traditions." She said. "One such tradition is the Yule Ball."
The girls sat up straighter. Lavender gripped Ron's arm.
"The Yule Ball," McGonagall continued, "will be held on Christmas Day, one week from today. It is a formal event. Dress robes are required. Third-year students and above may attend. Those below third year may attend only if invited by an older student."
She paused, and Harry saw her jaw tighten almost imperceptibly.
"Students will be expected to dance."
The boys reacted as though she'd announced mandatory Potions homework over Christmas. Ron made a sound like a dying animal and sank deeper into the sofa. Dean dropped his head into his hands. Seamus crossed himself.
"Not," McGonagall said sharply, "the sort of flailing one sees at concerts. Proper dancing. Structured, dignified, and befitting the reputation of this school. You will represent Gryffindor House, and you will do so without embarrassing yourselves or me."
"Bit late for that," Fred muttered. George elbowed him.
McGonagall either didn't hear or chose not to. "To that end, I require a volunteer. A boy who is willing to demonstrate the basics with me, so that the rest of you have some notion of what is expected."
Silence.
The boys of Gryffindor House collectively discovered fascinating things about their own shoes. Ron appeared to be attempting to merge with the sofa cushions. Dean became extremely interested in a loose thread on his sleeve. Seamus stared at the ceiling as if he'd found God up there and was having a private conversation.
Harry kept very still. He was a Triwizard Champion who had killed Dementors and fought nightmare creatures, but volunteering to dance with McGonagall in front of the entire house was a different category of terror entirely.
The silence stretched. McGonagall's expression grew increasingly unimpressed.
Then Neville raised his hand.
Every head in the room turned. Neville's face was the colour of a ripe tomato, and his hand trembled slightly, but it was up and it stayed up.
McGonagall's eyebrows rose. For a moment, she seemed surprised, but then she smiled, looking at Neville with approval.
"Mister Longbottom," she said. "Thank you."
Neville stood. His legs were visibly unsteady, but he walked to the centre of the room with his chin up, which Harry thought was possibly the bravest thing he'd seen Neville do, and he'd once watched him try to stand up to Malfoy despite being hexed to the floor.
McGonagall waved her wand. From somewhere, a slow waltz began to play. Strings and piano, old-fashioned and elegant, the kind of music that belonged in a ballroom rather than a common room full of teenagers in pyjamas.
Neville turned to face McGonagall. He squared his shoulders, took a breath, and extended his right hand.
"May I have this dance, Professor?"
His voice cracked on the last word. He powered through it.
McGonagall looked at his outstretched hand. Then she placed hers in it, gently, and stepped forward.
"Gran taught me," Neville said quietly, almost to himself, as he placed his other hand on McGonagall's waist. "She insisted. Said a Longbottom should know how to waltz."
"Your grandmother," McGonagall said, "is a woman of considerable wisdom."
They began.
Neville wasn't graceful. Harry could see his lips moving as he counted — one-two-three, one-two-three — under his breath. On the third step, his foot came down on McGonagall's, and he flinched so hard he nearly broke the hold.
"Sorry! I'm so sorry, Professor, I—"
"Continue, Mister Longbottom," McGonagall said calmly. "A single misstep is not a reason to stop."
Neville swallowed and kept going. And somewhere around the second pass across the common room floor, something clicked. He stopped trying to be impressive and simply tried to be present, guiding McGonagall through the turns with genuine effort and surprising care.
McGonagall, for her part, was doing the quiet work of a partner who'd danced for decades. Her movements compensated for his without making it obvious, her hand on his shoulder applying subtle pressure to guide him through the tricky bits, her footwork adjusting to accommodate his slightly too-large steps. She made it look easy, which was the real skill.
The Gryffindors watched in stunned silence. Then, slowly, smiles started breaking out across the room.
Ginny was the first. Then Hermione, her book forgotten in her lap. Then Ron, who looked like he was witnessing something he couldn't quite believe.
The waltz wound down. Neville guided McGonagall through one final turn and brought them to a stop. He released her hand and stepped back.
Then he bowed.
"Thank you, Professor," Neville said. His voice was steady now, the trembling gone. "Gran always said the best dancers aren't the ones with the fanciest steps. They're the ones who make their partner feel like the most important person in the room." He looked at McGonagall directly. "I think you did that for me tonight."
The common room went very quiet.
McGonagall's lips parted. A faint wash of colour touched her cheeks, pink, barely visible, but unmistakable. Harry had never seen McGonagall blush. He wasn't sure anyone had. It lasted only a second before she collected herself, straightening her spine and clearing her throat.
"Ten points to Gryffindor, Mister Longbottom," McGonagall said. Harry could not remember her speaking so softly. "For demonstrating that courage comes in many forms."
Fred started clapping first. George joined immediately. Within seconds, the entire common room was on its feet, applauding, and Neville walked back to his seat with his face burning red but his shoulders straight. Ginny patted his shoulder firmly, looking genuinely impressed. Across the room, Harry caught Parvati whispering something to Lavender while looking at Neville with an expression that was decidedly new.
McGonagall let the applause run its course, then raised a hand.
"I trust the rest of you will put in similar effort before the ball. Practise with each other. Practise with broomsticks if you must. But you will dance on Christmas night, and you will not disgrace this house." She paused. "Potter. A word."
Harry stood and followed McGonagall to a quiet corner near the portrait hole, away from the buzz of conversation that had erupted the moment she'd stopped talking. Behind them, Fred was already trying to convince Angelina to practise with him, and Ron was staring at his own feet as if they'd betrayed him.
"Potter," McGonagall said, her voice low enough that only Harry could hear. "As a Triwizard Champion, you are expected to open the Yule Ball."
Harry blinked. "Open it?"
"The first dance. You and a partner of your choosing will take the floor before anyone else. It is tradition, and Mister Diggory, Miss Delacour, and Mister Krum will be expected to do the same."
"Right," Harry said slowly. "So I need a date."
"You need a date," McGonagall confirmed.
Harry tilted his head. "Can I bring more than one?"
McGonagall gave him a look that for a moment reminded him of Aunt Petunia. Her nostrils flared. Her jaw set. For a moment, Harry genuinely thought she might hex him.
"You," she said, her voice dangerously quiet, "are your godfather's boy through and through. Sirius Black asked me that exact question in 1978, about a different school dance, and the answer was the same then as it is now." She leaned forward slightly. "Absolutely not."
Harry raised his hands in surrender. "Had to ask."
"You did not have to ask. You chose to ask. There is a difference." McGonagall exhaled through her nose. "One partner, Potter. One. Choose wisely."
Harry's grin faded. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling the weight of the question rather than the humour of it.
"Professor... I don't know who to ask."
"Then let me give you the only advice worth giving," McGonagall said. "Ask the one who makes your heart feel at home, Potter."
She held his gaze for a beat, then turned and walked back through the portrait hole without another word.
Harry stood there for a long moment, staring at the spot where she'd been.
Ask the one who makes your heart feel at home.
He drifted back to the common room in a daze.
Harry sank into the armchair by the fire and stared at the flames.
Hermione. The girl who'd been beside him since she'd fixed his glasses on the Hogwarts Express and never stopped fixing things, his plans, his homework, his tendency to run headfirst into danger without thinking. She knew him better than anyone alive. She'd held his hand in hospital wings and argued with him in libraries and kissed him in the Room of Requirement. She was steady and fierce and she made him feel like no matter what went wrong, someone would always be there to help him put it right.
Tonks. His protector and his chaos. Pink-haired and sharp-tongued and so alive that being near her felt like standing in sunlight. She made him laugh when nothing was funny. She was like the light at the end of the night, reminding him that no matter how dark things could get, looking at the light, he would remember what he was fighting for.
Fleur. The woman who challenged him, who fought beside him, who bit his lip and called him mon coeur and looked at him like he was something worth burning for. She saw his scars and called them proof of survival. She'd faced seven mirrors that tried to tear her apart and walked out whole, unbroken, and then kissed him behind a viewing stand covered in blood because she was alive and so was he and that was enough.
Three women. Three different kinds of home. And he loved all three of them, not the same way, not for the same reasons, but with the same depth. Each one filled a space in him he hadn't known was empty until they'd arrived.
He couldn't choose. Not because they were interchangeable, but because choosing one meant the other two would stand on the dance floor watching, and the thought of that felt wrong in a way he couldn't articulate.
Ask the one who makes your heart feel at home.