***WARNING: DH SPOILERS***
Challenge Fifteen: Deathly Hallows Missing Scenes
Title: A Bientôt (See You Soon)
Wizard/Witch: Fred Weasley/Cecile Argent (veela cousin)
Rating/Warnings: PG-13/R, brief nudity reference
Word count: 1500
DH Chapter: Chapter 8- The Wedding
Summary: Fred and George had long since disappeared into the darkness with a pair of Fleur’s cousins. -pg. 151 of DH (American edition)
“When I get married, I won’t be bothering with any of this nonsense. You can wear what you like, and I’ll put a full Body-Bind Curse on Mum until it’s all over,” Fred says, shifting in his uncomfortable wedding attire.
“She wasn’t too bad this morning, considering. Cried a bit about Percy not being here, but who wants him? Oh, blimey, brace yourselves—here they come, look.” George points at the masses that were Apparating beyond the gate. In the slight craziness that follows, George leans over to Fred, jostling his twin’s elbow. “When you getting married?” he asks. “Holding out on me, mate?”
Fred snorts. “Nah. But someday, yeah?”
“And here I thought we were going to be bachelors forever,” George quips.
“Perhaps, Gred. But even we have to be serious at some point,” Fred says.
The subject abruptly changes when George catches sight of some of Fleur’s veela cousins, and the twins fall back into their normal light banter and competition.
Cecile and Celine Argent hold onto each other tightly, brightness from excitement and nervousness adding colour to their cheeks. Neither of the sisters has been out of France before, but when the invitation to come to Fleur’s wedding to the Englisher came, the girls had jumped at the chance.
Bits and snatches of conversation, loud and festive, meet Cecile’s ears, and she struggles to understand the quickly spoken English. It is so exciting, a whirl of bright colours, all of these exotic people, but it is also confusing and frightening.
The half-veela have been kept safely in their cozy little village in France. Cecile has never had the urges of her slightly younger sister to go out with the myriad of men that are attracted to their beauty.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a man about her age with bright red hair and a cheery attitude swoops over. “Here—permettez-moi to assister vous,” he says.
The two girls giggle at the mangled French, but the silly effort succeeds in breaking the ice and gives them some reassurance. They release each other and loop their arms through his, allowing him to escort them inside the marquee.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” her sister greets him. “I am Celine, and zis ees my sister, Cecile.”
“Bonjour, mem’selles. My name is Fred, and I will be escorting you to your seats today.”
“It ees a pleasure to be meeting you, Fred,” Celine says, leaning against him slightly and batting her eyes. Ever the flirt, Celine, Cecile thinks.
“En-shawn-tay,” Fred drawls, almost mangling the simple word, glancing down first at Celine and then at Cecile, who ducks her head shyly, hiding behind her fall of silvery-blonde hair.
“Enchanté,” Cecile murmurs. She peers at him through her hair, expecting his attention to be riveted on her outgoing, flirtatious sister, but he grins down at her, not Celine.
Fred shows them to their seats, but lingers for a moment. “If vous need anything, anything at all, come find moi, s'il vous plait. Moi, Fred, not my wayward twin, George.”
“Oh, a twin! ‘ow exciting!” Celine exclaims.
“It has its perks,” George replies, winking not at Celine, but Cecile, who blushes. “Remember, moi, not il,” he says again, catching her eyes and keeping her gaze as he brings her slender hand to his lips. He kisses the back gently and leaves with a wink as someone shouts ‘Oi.’ Another redhead; Cecile thinks that it’s his twin.
“Vous, not il,” she repeats softly. “A bientôt,” she calls after him in a fit of bravery, and she gets a broad smile as a reward when he glances back at her, eyes dancing.
Cecile stays on the outskirts of a group of her cousins. Their familiarity is welcome, even if she feels distinctly uncomfortable at the amount of male attention she’s getting. Some English friend of the groom corners her, and she clutches the stem of her champagne glass desperately when Fred appears.
He deftly inserts himself between l’homme and herself with a joke and an easy-going grin. “Cecile, you promised moi a dance with vous, oui?” he says.
She grabs his extended his hand and smiles brilliantly, unconsciously dazzling the man who has been talking to her. Fred’s roguish return grin makes her breath catch as they whirl onto the dance floor.
“Merci, Fred. Merci beaucoup,” she tells him.
The dance is fast and fun, and they are left with no breath to talk for several minutes. When they finally retreat from the dance floor, Fred finally replies, “Non problem.”
“You are being so silly,” she tells him. “Mixing your French and your English,” and mangling the French; she leaves that part out. She is laughing, however.
“I have to be silly or your beauty would silence me altogether,” Fred tells her, a serious look in his eye.
She flushes and he reaches out and cups her pinkened cheek. Out of everyone, he’s the only one she’s felt anything for thus far. “I am ‘alf-veela,” she says, shrugging a shoulder self-consciously.
“And you’re sweet and modest,” he says. “Unlike the others.”
If it’s possible, she flushes pinker. She opens her mouth to protest but is silenced with a gentle kiss. Caught by surprise, she sighs and returns the kiss, allowing it to deepen.
What promises to be a delightful snog is interrupted by the sound of clapping. The two break apart, flushing guiltily, but it is just his twin, George. On his arm is her sister, Celine, who smirks at her. “See you found yourself a girl, mate,” George drawls.
She feels herself getting upset at the rudeness of the intrusion, but Fred’s arm wraps around her waist, and he pulls her close. “Oi, your holey-ness, leave us be,” he says, oddly defensive as Cecile’s small form leans into his side.
George appraises him, eyebrows raised, but an easy grin slides onto his face. “Have fun,” he says and leaves it at that, leading Celine away before she can say anything to the embarrassed girl.
“Come, let’s go somewhere more private.” Fred takes her hand and leads her to a hidden spot behind some thick bushes. There he conjures a blanket for them to sit on.
She feels suddenly shy but allows him to pull her down onto his lap. Instead of trying anything, though, he starts playing with the ends of her hair. She starts to laugh as he tickles her with her own locks.
They’re laughing, and then they’re kissing, and it’s hot and sweet and Cecile loses herself in it. Kissing alternates with laughing and talking and caressing, but he asks nothing more of her, unlike every other man who has ever hit on her. For once, she is the one pushing things further.
When the distant sound of a loud voice is heard, Cecile’s dress robes are opened, her pert breasts bared to his awestruck gaze and reverent touch.
“The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”
The deep, slow voice sounds ominous to Cecile, who looks at Fred, eyes wide and frightened. The hard, serious look on his face scares her even more, and she clutches her robes to her chest. “Quickly,” he says, long, freckled fingers re-dressing her. “You have to leave. Go home if you can—it isn’t safe here.”
“No buts, Cecile. Go home. Um, allez à la maison,” he says firmly, his brow furrowing as he struggles to find the French words. She tries to protest but he puts a finger to her lips. “Please. S’il vous plait.”
Already the sounds of chaos reach them. “Oui. I will go home,” she says in her quiet voice, sadness filling her eyes with tears.
“Oh, don’t cry.” He pulls her to his chest, and she clutches at his disheveled robes. They’ve barely met, barely know each other, but she already knows that she wants to know him better. “I’ll see you again.” The promise is given rashly, but she knows he is sincere. However, she can’t stop the flow of tears.
“Promise moi?” she says, tipping her head up to look at him, tears sparkling on her eyelashes and trailing prettily down her cheeks.
“Je promise vous,” he says, crossing his heart.
She laughs through her tears, and he kisses each of her cheeks and then her pretty, cupid-bow lips. He stands and pulls her with him. “Now go, chéri.”
Cecile reluctantly pulls back from the circle of his arms, arms wrapped around herself. “A bientôt,” she says, as if saying that she will see him soon will ward off evil.
“A bientôt,” he replies, mangling the pronunciation. She Apparates away, and he hopes that somehow he will see her soon, though he has a heavy feeling in his chest that he can’t explain.
He cannot linger any longer and rushes off to do what must be done with the Order and his family. The softness of her hair and the scent of her skin lingers, as does the quiet shyness of her voice saying ‘A bientôt’.
Author's Notes: Some of the dialogue is straight out of Deathly Hallows. The dialogue in most of the first two paragraphs is from page 138 of the American edition. The dialogue of the fourth paragraph of the second section is also from pg. 138. The 18th paragraph of the third section is from pg. 159.
A bientôt means “see you soon.” If any of the French is wrong, it is my fault—I don’t speak the language beyond a few words.
Thanks to somigliana for her enthusiasm and to missblane for her wonderful skills. (I might even write follow-ups to this on my LJ!)
The sequel is Letters of Love.