Harry Potter (early 20s, post-Auror burnout) x Fleur Delacour (early 30s, post-war badass)
She helps him find peace in southern France. He teaches her how to swear in English. She teaches him how to live again
La Vie en Flames ♡ | H.Potter & F.Delacour ₊˚⊹ ᰔ
“She taught me how to swear in French and somehow made me believe in soft mornings again.”
pairing : Harry Potter x Fleur Delacour
summary : After burning out from life as an Auror, Harry escapes to southern France, where Fleur Delacour teaches him how to live slowly, swear fluently, and feel again—one croissant and curse word at a time.
warnings : Mentions of burnout and past war trauma (softly handled), language (mild swearing), slow-burn fluff, emotional vulnerability, one (1) very sassy French grandmother.
author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.
della's note : This is your reminder that even war heroes deserve soft mornings, messy French, and someone to feed them croissants until they learn how to live again. Normally, I am a hinny shipper but the request was too cute to ignore!! Hope you like it <333 And my French classes and google translator definitely helped with the fic.
word count : 0.5k
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banners : @/cafekitsune and @/uzmacchiato and @/omi-resources
The cottage smelled of honey and herbs and something gently smouldering in the distance—Fleur swore it was just “la cheminée,” but Harry suspected her cooking might be the real culprit.
“Merde!” she hissed, flinging open the window and fanning away a thin trail of smoke with her apron.
Harry blinked from the kitchen table, where he was trying and failing to look relaxed while reading a French cookbook upside down. “Is that one of the words I’m not supposed to say around your grandmother?”
Fleur turned, narrowed her eyes. “Non, that word is mild. Try shouting putain de bordel de merde in front of her and see what happens.”
“Blimey,” Harry muttered, scribbling it down on the back of a wine label. “Is that the one that means ‘bloody hell’?”
She arched an elegant brow. “It means… many things. But yes, close enough.”
He’d arrived on her doorstep three months earlier, tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix. The Ministry had been efficient in overworking him, and England had grown too small, too loud. He remembered her from the war—a blur of silver hair, elegance, and curse-fire.
Now she wore linen dresses, her laughter free and unfiltered. She grew tomatoes with her wand tucked behind her ear. And despite it all, her eyes still held the weight of someone who knew what grief tasted like.
“You do not eat enough,” she said one morning, pointing at his plate.
Harry, still groggy, looked down at the warm croissant she’d placed before him. “That’s bread. And butter. That’s all that’s here.”
She leaned in close, her voice dropping in mock scandal. “Exactly. French breakfast is not for the weak.”
He let out a soft chuckle, his chest loosening as he bit in. Crumbs caught on the corner of his lip, and she reached across the table to brush them away with her thumb.
They both paused.
“Merci,” he said softly, then cleared his throat. “So, you wanna learn how to properly say ‘bugger off’ today?”
Fleur smirked. “Only if you learn how to say ‘je t’aime’ without sounding like you are being tortured.”
The vineyard behind the house turned gold by late July, and every evening they sat outside, barefoot, sipping wine older than their scars. Harry was getting better—at sleeping, at smiling, at swearing in French.
One evening, Fleur watched him lean back in the chair, arms stretched behind his head, hair messy and sunlit. He looked peaceful.
“You look less like a ghost now,” she said.
“Do I?” he asked, voice light.
She nodded, pouring another glass. “And more like a man.”
He flushed. “You always did have a dramatic way with words.”
Fleur stood, walked to him, and tilted his chin up with one hand. “And you, mon cher, always underestimate the poetry of healing.”
That night, when she kissed him, it wasn’t sudden.
It was warm and slow and tasted like peaches and rosemary. It was earned.
Harry whispered something against her lips that made her laugh.
“Quoi?” she asked, breathless.
“I said… putain de bordel de merde, that felt good.”
She laughed until her sides ached, and the moon rose over the fields of lavender.
🥐 French to English Translation Guide
Merde
→ "Shit" (mild swear word, quite common in French)
La cheminée
→ "The fireplace" (what Fleur claims is the source of the smoke)
Putain de bordel de merde
→ Roughly: "Fucking shitstorm of shit"
(A very strong, angry curse phrase — extremely vulgar and emphatic. Use with caution!)
Non
→ "No"
Blimey (not French, but British slang used by Harry)
→ Expresses surprise or disbelief
Merci
→ "Thank you"
Je t’aime
→ "I love you"
Mon cher
→ "My dear" (masculine form, tender and affectionate)
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Hey! Just wondering, if it’s not too much trouble, if you would mind finding me some funny crack fics. I need a good laugh right now. Thanks again!
Sorry for the late reply Nonnie, my life has been a mess!
I don’t have many crack fics in my bookmarks so I’ll just give you all of the ones that I have. They’re not all on AO3 and they’re not all Drarry.
Floorbidden Love by FabulousJojo
Right, so this one is a ‘Flarry’ fic. AkA Harry x The Floor of the Hogwarts Castle. This fic is such a trip, man.
Draco Malfoy, Drama Llama by enchanted_jae
I’m not even sure what to say about this one that will do it justice but basically, Draco gets turned in a llama and propositions Harry….while in llama form.
Does he taste like butterscotch? by olly_octopus
This one’s Drarry. Hogwarts students are writing fanfictions and Draco and Harry find out and confront them.
Harry dolphinitely wasn’t into it by ShippingAllShips
This one’s a Tomarry which I haven’t actually read yet but it’s been in my bookmarks for agessssssss after I saw the hilarious discourse about it on a Tomarry blog. It’s apparently hilarious. Probably a bit disturbing too but I don’t know, lol.
Eu já elegi a minha pessoa no mundo. E ela nem é meu namorado. Minha pessoa no mundo é alguém com quem minha alma se conectou de pronto, com quem as afinidades são realmente infinitas. E isso não significa que seremos sempre próximas. Nem que eu não queira desistir dela de vez em quando. Ou ela de mim. Esse, por exemplo, é um momento em que eu estou cansada de tentar. Cansada de aguentar, por ela, desaforos. Cansada de tentar ajudar e não receber nada além de grosseria. Ou de ouvir que eu nunca ajudei. Ou que eu nunca fiz nada pra melhorar. Hoje eu cansei, e queria só ter um pouco de paz. Hoje eu queria que a minha pessoa no mundo fosse sincera comigo, que tivesse sempre sido sincera. E eu sei que não foi. Dói quando você confia a sua vida a alguém e a pessoa não retribui isso. Dói quando você tenta ajudar (podendo errar, como qualquer ser humano normal) e te dizem que você só está piorando. E enquanto isso, do outro lado, existe alguém que só quer afastar a sua pessoa de você. Quando você tem uma pessoa no mundo, você dá à ela todas as chances para quebrar seu coração e destroçar o seu psicológico, e confia que ela não vai fazer isso. Mas ela faz, porque é um ser humano errante, como você também. Mas é difícil quando ela não tenta concertar o erro. Eu já elegi a minha pessoa no mundo, mas ela não me elegeu de volta.
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So I found this fanfiction today (Merlin, don’t ask me how I found it), it’s called Floorbidden Love and it’s a ‘Flarry’ fic. AKA Harry Potter x Floorboards. Yeah. Yeah that.
Meet my new boy, Flarry (Or Fin). No, he’s not a thunder bird. He’s a griffin. Extremely friendly and would die for you. He likes to eat meat. So, if you are a squirrel or rabbit you are definitely on his menu.
Undertale by Toby Fox
Jul/2011 Eu vivi os melhores dias da minha vida. Conheci lugares incríveis, mas o incrível foi perceber o quão importante é ter uma boa companhia. Eu estava no lugar onde os sonhos se realizam, realizando meu maior sonho ao lado de pessoas que também sonhavam com isso. Vi meu maior sonho se materializando na minha frente, mas percebi que o maior sonho que eu poderia sonhar estava ali, ao meu lado. Eu descobri que amizades verdadeiras podem ser construídas e destruídas em 15 dias, que amigos de verdade ajudam os outros em qualquer circunstância. Descobri que em 15 dias você pode encontrar o amor da sua vida várias vezes, e que bolsas menores são úteis. Descobri que usar um uniforme realmente facilita a vida e que andar no sol forte é desconfortável, mas quem está do seu lado deixa isso mais tranqüilo. Descobri que olhares dizem muito mais que qualquer coisa, e que um sorriso ao acordar faz total diferença e que uma presença pode te fazer ligar o foda-se a noite toda. Descobri que energético é uma invenção maravilhosa e que quando se trata de amizade, pouco importa a cor, nacionalidade, idade, etc. Descobri que a saudade é dolorosa, mas faz com que o reencontro valha mais a pena. Em 15 dias eu percebi que um espetáculo caro pode ser um sonífero, que dormir 4 horas por noite é muito e que acordar cedo com pessoas falando em outro idioma com você é legal, apesar de um pouco irritante. Matei a saudade de acordar e ver uma amiga pulando pelo quarto e outra demorando meia hora para se maquiar. Descobri que comer fast-food o tempo todo faz com que você queira arroz e feijão, ficar sem internet é bom e um livro faz falta quando se está voando. Descobri em 15 dias que o seu medo pode ficar no país de origem e que a saudade vai te torturar. Hoje, aqui, depois de ter passado por tudo, de ter aproveitado cada momento, eu agradeço a oportunidade de ter ido. Sei que terei outras chances de voltar para o mundo mágico (espero) mas dentro de mim a certeza de que não será a mesma coisa é clara. As melhores férias da minha vida foram únicas, perfeitas, verdadeiras e… Não há como descrever.