#harleur

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)

Quoi? → "What?"