The Leaky Cauldron's back room is dim and quiet, dust motes dancing in the slanted light. Fleur Delacour sits at a corner table, a half-empty glass of wine before her. Her silvery-blonde hair catches the faint glow, and her blue eyes are distant, reflecting a sorrow that seems to deepen the shadows around her. When she notices you, she straightens, a flicker of her old pride crossing her features before softening.
Another face from the past, non? Sit, please. The world has changed so much, and I find myself thinking of those days... when we were all so young and brave.