To Improve Her Eenglish!

[fleur]

England was so odd in the veela's eyes. Étrange. Strange, in the language they used here. It wasn't as if Fleur Delacour, magical prodigy and valedictorian of Beauxbatons Academy for Magic felt she was in a different world. There were so many things in England that were very much the same in France. But there was so much that was different also. Their methods, primely. The term that Fleur had spent visiting with Madame Maxime and some of her fellow Beauxbatons students at Hogwarst School for Witchcraft and Wizardry she had noticed this. But now? Graduated? Living in England of her own accord and on her own? It was a very strange experience.

The veela witch could not deny she found the magical community of England very enticing. Why else would she have turned down several priceless job opportunities in Paris to come there? Fleur knew that she wanted to settle down and start a family of her own soon enough, but she at least wanted to experience a little more of the world before that came about. Indeed, as a licensed (and very capable) Apparator, Fleur could have kept residence in her own country and make it to work with time to spare, yet she refused. Acquiring a post in Gringotts National Wizarding Bank had been a breeze. Trop facile, or 'too easy'. What with her astounding test results and a pile of written references from the most noble wizarding families from France.

For the moment, Fleur had secured a flat on the quieter outskirts of Diagon Alley, a short five-minute walk from her current job. It had been her very first day when the witch realized something much more... interesting was in store for her at Gringotts. The same dashing and handsome wizard that she had seen at the last Task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament apparently had just arrived recently from Curse-Breaking in Egypt for Gringotts for a 'desk job' as the English put it. From what Fleur had been told, his name was 'Bill Weasley'. A brother, funnily enough, of that ginger-haired friend of Harry Potter.

CRACK!

Fleur shook herself from the reverie at the shattering sound. It took a moment or so to realize that she had accidentally knocked her tea off the table with an elbow. Fleur spared not even a brief glance at the street-side cafe around her. In a moment she produced her wand and gave it a practiced twirl. The shattered remains of her teacup jumped back together, the puddle of drink on the ground dried instantly as the cup itself bounced on to the table, settling on its saucer. To finish up, Fleur tapped the rim of the thing, causing tea to fill magically of its own accord.

Fleur felt a wave of homesickness threaten to arise and quelled its rebellion with strict ease. A witch or wizard could rarely have sound reason to experience such feelings. Why just now the veela could have disapparated and been on her parent's doorstep in a single breath. True enough, Fleur did so at least every Sunday to dine with Monsieur and Madame Delacour and (of course) Gabrielle. Fleur's little sister was busy of late bombarding her with questions concerning Beauxbatons - in light that she would be attending for her first year that autumn. Fleur answered them dutifully enough, but kept an air of mystery in her reports.

Gabrielle deserved to discover Beauxbatons and all of the palace's splendor first-hand. The young witch got a little cross with her elder sister when she was less then forthcoming, but once Fleur stopped to explain the reason behind such illusive responses, the annoyance died at once from Gabrielle. Fleur sniffed sharply at the thought of her darling sister and directed her mind instead on something else. What was she to do with the rest of her afternoon? After debating for a time, Fleur decided that she would not leave Diagon Alley, but beyond that her day was left to circumstance.

The veela witch gave one last sip of her tea before setting the correct funds on the table beside the cup and saucer. Fleur still hadn't deposited her wand and instead kept it poised comfortably in her slender hand as she stood. The witch swept her silvery blue cloak round her shoulders, attached the silver broach and was off. The main street of Diagon Alley (which, actually was more of a small magical suburb and less of an alley) was too busy at this time of day for Fleur to want to go there. Instead she drifted across the cobbled street and down a lane branching off of it.

Her hair trailed in a silky wave behind her. Fleur's cloak shimmered and rippled as if in its own wind and her feet seemed not to step on the ground, instead it appeared that the woman glided gracefully ore the street. The silvery glow that Fleur had inherited from her Madame Delacour and her own grandmother oozed from her pores and caused passing wizards to raise their brows and smile in a slacken way. Hommes ne sont pas différents ici. The thought that arose in Fleur's mind was true enough. Men were no different here. The witch paused at a display of elfin wine before a shop, though drink was the last thing on her mind.

Très bien ne pas tous les hommes... Yes... not all men... Fleur found the ginger-haired and dashing visage of Bill Weasley form in her minds eye and a grin similar to the ones that passing wizards displayed in her direction drifted across her lips. Eyes glazed over in a thoughtful way and Fleur found herself drifting through the alley without much thought to where she was going. At last she found herself in the main lane of Diagon Alley, caressing a ornament of peacock and phoenix feathers on a cart stationed on the corner. Definitely not all men...

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