There is such magic in the way she moves. I watch her for hours at night while she’s asleep, her hair floating over the pillow in a striking fit of silvery silk, each breath moving the soft curves of her chest gently up and down, up and down, quiet dream-induced laughter forcing a grin onto that set of lips that like to pout in mock sternness.

There is much magic in her actions: when her eyes flash in anger or reproach, and I hear the softness of her accent suddenly embittered: there’s magic in that. Yes, yes, there’s magic in her innate charm; one who is part-Veela can’t escape that assessment. But that’s not what makes her magic to me. No, not at all.

When she holds me. When her arms wrap around me. When her hand, tiny and warm, sits in mine. When her lips brush against mine. When her fingers play over my skin. When she whispers into my ear; when she covers my eyes with her hands. When she faces me and looks into my eyes and tells me she loves me in her own language, her own tongue. When she laughs and it sounds like bells pealing at a faraway church: this is the greater magic.

Any witch or wizard can wave a wand and make a bouquet of flowers, or brew a love potion, or make themselves invisible. It’s ordinary, common, every-day spellwork.

But only Fleur makes my heart race this way.