Flouncing was hard to do when a woman was as big-boned as Olympe Maxime, but she had not been able to remain with Rubeus Hagrid for another moment. She was too upset. He had called her a half-giant, confided his sad parental history and invited her to do the same. The conversation had ruined the Yule Ball.

She had been so pleased to dance with a man who made her feel feminine, delicate. Once they walked outside, she had looked into his eyes and thought he might care for her the way . . . .

Angrily, she broke off her thoughts. "Assez! Enough of ze thinking of 'Agrid and 'ow vairy merveille everything was until ‘e 'ad to go and put ‘is big foot in ‘is mouth!"

"Madame Maxime?"

Olympe turned with amazing quickness for a witch her size. She saw the Beauxbatons champion, Fleur Delacour, standing on the path behind her with that boy, Roger something. She tried to smile graciously, but the way the pair stepped back several paces said her expression was scary, not serene.

Automatically, Olympe started to speak French. "Moi je deconne…." She changed to barbaric English and started again. "I'm talking nonsense...not to you...return to ze ballroom."

The pair nodded and rushed off.

In the distance, the Head of Slytherin House was blasting apart rose bushes. A small smile transformed Olympe’s striking, olive-skinned face into something almost pretty. Fleur was too French to be caught snogging, as these unmannered people called it.

Her lips turned down. Frustrated by her own romantic desires, she stomped inside. When she passed a fountain beside the front entrance, the water rippled with the vibrations of her footsteps.

A half hour after returning to the Great Hall, Olympe leaned back against an expanse of wall and looked down at the professor who currently tried to chat her up. Manny Hands, the Muggle Studies teacher, had a gleam in his eye that she had seen before.

He stared at her bosom while he said, "You're looking enormously lovely tonight, Madame. Would you care to go someplace, uh, private to talk?"

"Faut pas rever—in your dreams, leetle man. I know your type, wiz ze liking for ze big women—pervert! Nevair talk to me again, or I will show you 'ow good zese fingers are at cracking nuts!"

The wizard's eyes almost bugged out of his head at her threatening speech—or perhaps it was the sight of her thick, opal-bedecked fingers that scared him. Either way, the dog scurried off, tail between his legs, leaving her in peace and alone, always alone, save for the company of those she did not wish to be with.

The sight of the dancers circling the floor, the students talking so happily with one another at the tables, made Olympe feel wistful and envious. She wanted a partner, too. With a sigh so deep, it blew out the magicked lanterns at several nearby tables, she left the Hall.

Her steps led her out of the castle and across the grounds to a massive hut with a candle glowing softly in the window. Concealed by the shadowy darkness, she stopped and stared.

Hagrid was standing outside his home, washing off in a rain barrel. It was incredible how different he appeared, stripped to the waist, with the unfashionable, hairy suit discarded. Trickles of water ran down firm, muscled flesh.

Mon Dieu, she thought.

Olympe had never imagined the man looked so fine underneath those layers of shaggy clothing. It was hard to swallow. Her mouth was completely dry. He bent to duck his head into the water, giving the watcher an excellent view of his arse in form-fitting trousers. Hagrid flung back his hair and shook it vigorously, shooting water droplets out in a range commensurate with his large frame. Several icy cold drops struck her, causing her to gasp.

Her heart jolted when Hagrid said, “Who’s there?”

-

Hagrid scanned the pools of darkness surrounding his hut. He had been trying to get rid of that bloody Eau de Cologne he had poured on earlier in the evening. The smell was just another reminder of how piss-poor he was with women.

He had thought Olympe and he had something between them. Hagrid had tried to tell her how amazing it was that they shared a similar history, and could understand each other in a way no one else could. He had hoped she would tell him her story, so they could really get to know each other.

He barely felt the cold. It was nothing compared to the frozen heart inside his body. Rejection always hurt, but tonight, Olympe’s denial of him—and who she was—fair sickened Hagrid.

A huge shadow moved forward, into the light.

He gaped. "Madame Maxime?"

Clothed in black silk that made his hands itch to smooth their way over the impressive hills and valleys, the Frenchwoman's lips curved. "Please, call me Olympe, 'Agrid."

An inner voice told him, Don't just stand there like a lummox. Say something! He wrung his hands in agitation and said,  "I don't have any of that wine you French like to drink, but if you wait a bit, I could go get some up at the castle."

Immediately, he wanted to duck his face back into the rain barrel. Did he have to say 'you French?' He would ram his great stupid head into the wall if Olympe would not think him dafter than ever.

His hopes rose when she said, "Non, don't go, tea would be nice."

Hagrid became aware of several things at once. He was wet, half-naked, and the woman he had been dreaming about actually wanted to come into his home and drink tea with him. Surreptitiously, he pinched his leg. It hurt. This was real.

Awkwardly opening the door and gesturing for Olympe to precede him, Hagrid followed her into his home. Every millimetre of exposed skin tingled at her proximity.

-

Within the large, yet compact space, Olympe's eyes lingered on the huge bed. The quilt looked very soft. Tearing her gaze away, she pointed to the fireplace. "Is zat where you do your cooking? Is eet vairy difficult?"

Hagrid pulled out a sturdy chair from the table, shaking his head in answer. He had to put some effort into pushing the seat back in once Olympe sat down. She was no fragile flower that was certain. Praise Merlin!

He hung his towel on a peg and quickly clothed himself in a soft white shirt Hermione had given him for Christmas—that lass was talented when it came to transfiguring things. Hagrid moved to put the kettle on. Waiting for the water to boil, he said, “You came to see me. Does that mean you're not mad at me any more?"

"Non, non, eef I have given you zat impression, I am sorry. I am vairy sensitive about my size. I do not know who my true parents are, because I was adopted. Will you forgive me?"

Hagrid's heart melted. Aw, he thought, the poor little thing, growing up without knowing why she was so different. Not even Norbert, his beloved dragon, had affected his emotions so much.

Overcome, he took a step forward and engulfed Olympe in a hug. The embrace lifted her out of the chair and off the floor. After a moment, her arms crept around his neck. Looking into her face, his gaze lowered.

Her lips were parting, lifting, screeching, "'Agrid, ze candle, eet has burnt out! Please, light anuzzer one!"

Sheepishly, Hagrid admitted, "I'm terrible sorry, but I don't have another. I forgot to get some more, being distracted as I've been lately." Noticing her frantic look, and the way her grip was slowly choking him, he asked, "Are yeh afraid of the dark?"

-

Olympe courageously took a step away from the safety of his arms. "Non!” she said, “It ees just zat, I do not care for eet. French are valiant! Frenchwomen are not frightened of anyzing!"

Hagrid's white teeth flashed. Tugging the beard that had felt so soft when it brushed her cheek, he moved to the hearth and grabbed the kettle, making tea for the two of them in sturdy mugs. His eyes twinkled, but Hagrid was polite enough not to point out how rapidly she'd sidled closer to the fire, or how her eyes darted apprehensively at every flickering shadow.

Perhaps he enjoyed having her scoot her chair until it rubbed his, or maybe he liked the way she pressed against his side while she stirred her tea with a unique teaspoon. It was golden, the handle in the shape of a dragon. Taking a sip of her 'tea,' Olympe looked down in disbelief. It tasted like the finest French roast coffee!

"That be an enchanted spoon what makes everything a person stirs with it to their exact taste. Good?"

Returning the smile that was starting to make gigantic butterflies swoop in her middle, she nodded vigorously. Her hair, coiled into a decorous knob at the back, slipped from its pins and slid free. How embarrassing. Hagrid was staring at the inky sheet of long, black hair. He probably wondered why a mature woman would bother to keep such inconvenient locks.

Long, slightly calloused fingers reached out and softly rubbed the hair between a thumb and forefinger. Reverently, he breathed, "It's beautiful...may I?"

She nodded faintly. It was hard to take a deep breath. That must be why it was so hard to think. She lacked oxygen.

In the firelight, Hagrid gently stroked his fingers down her hair and then brought it to his face. Brushing the ends across his lips in a way that made her breath even more ragged, he sniffed it and smiled. "Smells like flowers…you’re like a flower, Olympe, but even prettier."

Her common sense told her to say taratata, which in crude English translated to gobshite, but French passion overcame French practicality and Olympe threw herself into Hagrid’s arms instead.

-

Overwhelmed by the sensation of large, soft lips pressing against his, Hagrid did what any man enflamed with desire would do. He kissed Olympe with everything he had. She did not protest that he was too rough, or too big. She started speaking French.

He did not rightly know what all she was saying, but he liked the way she said it. Olympe's words sounded like music. They also sounded like an invitation.

One he tenderly accepted.