Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Pairing: Bill/Fleur.

Author's note: Time to turn upside down those clichés about French people! Or not. The title is French for "impossible is not french". It's a quote by Napoleon. And yes, I am French myself. This was written for the Country Challenge on HPFC.

She is standing there, looking out the window and watching the rain pour.

It’s August, and it’s raining. It’s been raining for almost a week, without interruption. Bill is afraid that Fleur might regret living in England. They won the war about two months previously, and it’s the beginning of the rest of their lives.

“Fleur… do you miss your country?” Bill asks.

Fleur turns, looking surprised.

“Do you ask zees because of ze weazer?”

Bill smiles, shrugging. He’ll never get tired of her cute accent. Fleur turns her back on him again.

“Yes, I do. Eet ees normal, eesn’t eet? I like England, don’t get mee wrong, but I do meess France a lot.”

Bill walks towards her and encircles her waist with his arms, breathing her intoxicating scent and kissing her neck. Her creamy skin feels wonderful against his lips, and he still can’t believe she’s his wife.

“You hardly ever talk about your country,” Bill remarks. “What are French people like?”

Fleur gently disentangles herself from him and looks at him, her wide blue eyes twinkling.

“Do you want to know eef the old clichés are true?”

Fleur seems highly amused; Bill nods, looking down and feeling a bit stupid.

“Well, we don’t all walk around weeth berets on our ‘eads and bread in our hands,” Fleur rolls her eyes. “Onlee old people ever wear berets, aneeway.”

“I heard that French people complain all the time and about everything.”

For one second Fleur seems on the verge of slapping him, but then her face lights up and she laughs.

“Oh, les Anglais… Eet ees not really true. I mean, I theenk that we do tend to complain a lot, but eet ees not ‘alf as terrible as our reputation.”

Bill sits down, curious and sheepish at the same time. He’s always wondered what Fleur’s life was like before she met him and, though she’d filled him in on lots of personal details, she’d never really told him anything about what she thought of her country.

“Most people like France but dislike French people,” Bill says slowly.

Fleur scowls at him, and he cringes.

“It’s a general fact,” Bill adds quickly. “Nothing personal.”

There is a short silence. Fleur’s expression turns to smugness and she smirks.

“You like French people, though. You like me.”

Bill shakes his head very seriously.

“I don’t like you, Fleur.”

Fleur frowns at his sincere tone, probably wondering if it’s some kind of English humour only the English can understand. It seemed, indeed, that their two nations didn’t have the same idea of what was funny and what was not, and very often at the Burrow, Fleur was the only one who wasn’t laughing, looking bewildered by the general hilarity.

“I love you.”

Bill smiles widely, and Fleur runs towards him, hitting him playfully on the chest.

“You stupeed Engleesh man!” Fleur cries, in the midst of their childish giggles.

But she kisses his cheek, and they grin stupidly at each other until they realize that the rain has stopped.

“You know,” Fleur says thoughtfully, caressing his hand softly, “we always complain about ze Engleesh weazer, but eet’s not always sunny een France. Een some regions, eet rains a lot, too. But notheeng like ze Engleesh weazer.”

Fleur sighs, probably thinking longingly of sunny French days Bill has never known.

“I don’t know about that,” Bill says, shrugging. “I like rain.”

Fleur, who has been sitting with her head against his chest, glances up at him sharply, looking bewildered.

“Beel, you are crazy.”

Bill laughs. “Probably. Centuries of rainy days must have taken their toll on us English…”

Fleur chuckles quietly and he runs his hand through her long blonde hair. A sudden, disagreeable thought crosses his mind.

“It’s also said that French men are the most romantic and are always… classy and refined, or whatever.”

Fleur smiles and kisses him softly on the lips.

“Ees zees what you are worried about?”

Bill shrugs, trying to act detached. “Just wondering.”

The most annoying grin lingers on Fleur’s face.

“Just anozer cliché, I’m afraid,” Fleur says, feigning sadness. “I theenk French men are just like any ozer. And I’ve ‘eard zat Italian men are ze most flirtatious.”

Bill nods, and can’t help but feel inwardly relieved.

“I can’t wait for ze ‘oneymoon!” Fleur says. “Only four days away. You really ‘ave to see Paris. One ‘as not lived one’s life eef one ‘as never been to Paris. And I can’t wait to see what clozes are fashionable zeese days.”

Bill snorts. There’s something else he’s heard, that French people are often vain, but he has the impression that Fleur wouldn’t like that one at all.

“I don’t know why everyone makes such a fuss about Paris.”

Fleur shakes her head. “Zat ees simplee because you ‘ave never been zere.”

Four days later, they are in Paris, and still Bill can’t see why everyone makes such a fuss about Paris. Of course, there are many things to do, but it’s pretty much the same as in London. And what about the Eiffel Tower? It’s just a giant, ugly, metallic thing (that’s what he writes to his brothers). It’s not half as classy as Big Ben, honestly. He has to admit, though, that the food is good, even if he misses his mother’s good old stew. And beer. What is it with wine?

“Darleeng, what are you zeenking about?”

Bill comes back to reality. They’re in a cheap French restaurant, the only thing they could afford for their four-day-long honeymoon, but Fleur is so happy to be there. And Bill has to admit that he’s happy whenever Fleur is, even in a country where ugly metallic things are worshipped and people moan just for fun, or so it seems.

“I’m thinking that I like France a lot,” Bill replies, smiling.

Fleur grins back at him, looking pleased. Bill sips on his wine. He wants beer. Badly.

“I knew I could make you like France,” Fleur says. “Nothing’s impossible.”

It’s only half a lie, Bill thinks. He doesn’t mind France and there are beautiful things to see, it’s just French people he doesn’t care much about, with a few notable exceptions which bear the name of Delacour.

“Impossible n’est pas français.”

Fleur peers at him to see if he remembers. He does.

“Indeed,” Bill says, his voice a bit choked, and raises his glass of wine.

She is standing there, looking out the window and watching the rain pour.

It’s August, and it’s raining. It’s been raining for almost a week, without interruption.

Bill is lying on their bed, tracing the scars on his face with his fingers. It’s become a habit.

“I’m sick of this, Fleur,” Bill says.

His voice is hoarse and weary and doesn’t even sound like his own voice – the voice he had before. She turns to him and slowly sits down on the bed.

“I know I should be as strong as you are,” Bill says, “but sometimes it’s just too hard.”

Fleur takes his hand in hers and squeezes it. She looks at him in the eye.

“We weel pull through zees, Beel. Togezer.”

Bill opens his mouth to speak, but she puts a slender finger on his lips.

“I’ll be zere. Always. You ‘ave my word. You’ll see zat eet ees not impossible.”

Bill feels soothed by her words, by her calm eyes. Fleur suddenly smiles a broken smile, a smile which has seen war and death and despair, and yet which still has a glimmer of hope. Bill hates and loves this smile at the same time. He would follow this smile anywhere.

“After all, impossible n’est pas Français.”

Heartwarming? Too sappy? Did I get Fleur's accent right? (total pain to write) Please tell me! Thanks.