I didn't really plan to write a sequel as such and truth be told you don't even really need to have read the first part of this to understand this part, but enough people asked, and I can never say no to writing these two, so...here we go! Thanks for all your reviews of the first part :)

It was raining sideways.

Until she'd moved into their little clifftop cottage in Cornwall, Fleur hadn't even known such a thing was physically possible, but now she'd gathered that sideways rain was not only possible, but frequently occurred in this part of the world. She knew this because she spent so long, these days, staring out of the window waiting for her husband to return and trying not to let her overactive imagination run away with her whilst he was out.

Bill hadn't been attacked. He wasn't lying injured (or worse) somewhere unknown. He hadn't been abducted to be tortured by Death Eaters. He was only at the muggle supermarket, buying food. Totally normal.

She could almost believe it.

Things had been hard enough before Harry, Ron and the rest of them had descended on their house. They hadn't been able to go to work for some months, such was the climate at Gringotts, and they had both been involved in various missions for the Order that kept one or both of them away from home for hours, sometimes whole days at a time. They knew that they were being watched: shadowy figures had lurked in the village for months, eyes following them as they hurried from shop to shop, trying not to let the muggles see the wands they were hiding beneath their clothes, scared that at any moment they'd have to fight for their lives.

Then, in the middle of the night, three total strangers, two teenagers and a very old man had appeared in their back garden, followed almost instantly by Bill's youngest brother and his two best friends, one of whom had been tortured, the other clutching a dead House Elf. Oh, and the goblin, too. Pure adrenaline had kept her going through the chaos and she'd managed to nurse the injured back to health—or at least patch up the most obvious injuried—with little medical knowledge and even fewer resources, all the while convinced that Death Eaters were going to descend upon the house and kill them all.

But somehow, it hadn't happened. Bill had got the rest of his family to safety; they all had to live under a Fidelius Charm, but they were all safe from attack. No Death Eaters had appeared. The injured recovered, though it was taking Mr Ollivander longer than she would have liked to improve. No matter: he would soon be well enough to be transferred to Bill's Auntie Muriel's, and she was more than happy, on this occasion, to defer to her mother-in-law's superior nursing capabilities. She wasn't exactly known for her sympathetic and caring nature.

The missions for the Order had stopped, too—constant coming and going from their home put everyone in danger, and if they were captured there was now the added danger that they may be forced to drink Veritasium and give away Harry's location. That, combined with the fact that their home was now entirely hidden by magic, meant that, bizarrely, they were the safest they'd been for months. It was literally impossible for anyone to find them, so as long as they stayed within the bounds of the cottage, they could not be hurt in any way.

Unfortunately, it was still occasionally necessary for one of them to leave their house to buy food, especially now there were eight humans and one goblin to feed.

This involved one of them Transfiguring their appearance, then disillusioning themselves and walking about a mile away from their property, before apparating away to a random muggle town to purchase food from one of the big, anonymous supermarkets. Being Gringotts employees, they had enough of a grasp of muggle currency to stumble through the transactions; in the end, this was usually the easiest part. Trying to get there and back unassisted, without being followed or alerting the Snatchers who lurked in Tinworth to their presence was much, much harder.

They couldn't even go in pairs, as one of them had to stay at home to guard the cottage and lift the wards when the other returned. It wasn't exactly how she'd imagined her first year of marriage, constantly having to point a wand at her husband and demand he prove his identity every time he arrived home. And it was always her in this role, always her waiting at home for him to return. They'd argued about this once, Fleur demanding to know if he thought she was weak, incapable of fighting like he was. It wasn't fair that he should always be the one to risk his life, leaving the property, even though she was just as capable at magic, at defending herself.

And he'd half laughed at her, and said no, that he didn't think she was weak. "You're much stronger than I am," he'd said. "That's why I ask you to stay at home. Because I could not do it."

Every time he had to leave, she would stand in the living room, one hand on her wand, her body pressed against the French window. It overlooked the garden, beyond which was the lane, and the line of their property. The hedgerow was where their wards stopped, and it marked the place Bill would return.

The others knew to leave her alone when she was in position. That day, the strange girl, Luna, had drifted in to the room then out again, saying nothing, which was unusual for her. Harry had appeared, calling her name, then muttering something about it not mattering, that he'd ask later. She hadn't responded to either of them, hadn't even moved. She knew if she cried out, they'd come running to her aid, even the wandless boy, Dean, though it would mean certain death for him. But she wouldn't let them: if it came to it, she'd buy them time, let them get out, and Bill could—

A sudden movement broke her out of her reverie; a glow growing stronger, and then Bill's patronus burst into the room. "Rain, rain go away," it chanted. Then, "I'm outside. Lift the wards." They set a different password every time he had to leave, and today's had seemed appropriate, given the weather. Satisfied it was him, she concentrated hard and lifted the wards between the two apple trees, the preordained place. She couldn't yet see him; he was still disillusioned, but he sent up red sparks to indicate that he was safe, and she replaced the wards. He removed the disillusionment spell, and worked on magically removing the other disguises they'd put on him as he wound his way down the garden path, levitating several bags of food in front of him.

She rushed into the kitchen, pulling open the back door just as he lost the last of his disguises—a huge handlebar moustache—and revealed his own scarred face. "Are you safe?" she asked. "Did you 'ave any problems?"

He didn't answer at first, placing the carrier bags on the floor and shaking the rain out of his cloak and hair. "They were out of bananas," he said eventually, "so I got extra oranges. And I couldn't remember if you said we needed rice, but I got some anyway."

"That's fine," she said, sensing there was something else.

"And I think I was spotted," he continued heavily. Her heart began to pound. "I walked into the village on my way out, so I could apparate from the other side—the further away from here, the better," he said. "And there were some people in cloaks hanging around near the muggle library. I couldn't get close enough to see anything, but one of them pointed at me, so I went around the back of library—the alleyway between that and the newsagents, you know? Once I was out of sight, I disapparated, but I'd heard them start to follow me so...I don't know. There was no sign of them when I returned to Tinworth later, and I apparated to a few different places to throw them off the trail before I went to the muggle supermarket down in Penzance, so I reckon we're safe, but I wouldn't risk going there again, just in case."

Fleur realised almost absently that she was gripping the back of one of the chairs so hard her knuckles had turned white. She didn't know why; if Death Eaters did arrive at their house, it would make much more sense to be gripping her wand—but if she had to defend her home, her lover, their family and friends with only a kitchen chair, she would. She would make it work.

"I think we're in the clear," Bill was saying now, but his face had not lost its tense, alert look. "Mostly because I reckon that if anything were going to happen because of it, it would've happened by now. They're probably still out looking for me, but they didn't follow me home, they don't know where we are. And even if they did, they can't break through the charm that's hiding us."

"My wards will keep us safe, too," she added, and he nodded.

"Of course," he said. "I think the best thing to do would just to go on as normal. We're as safe as we could be here, and we've got enough food now that we won't need to leave the house for a little while. We should lie low, not tell the kids, carry on as normal—"

"And it will be okay," she said softly. She glanced across the room at him at the same time as he looked up, and their eyes met in a look of mirrored non-belief. She almost panicked then, at the thought of all the maybes and the what ifs and the perhapses, the idea of losing him, of being attacked, of all the could-happens. And then, very slowly and deliberately, as though he could read her mind and knew she needed soothing, he winked at her, and she felt that familiar fire start deep inside her. As long as that could still happen, things perhaps weren't as bleak as they could be.

"Right," Bill said briskly, breaking their moment. "Let's get on with it. Where's this shopping going?" It was a rhetorical question; he moved to begin unpacking in the same moment she did. He, however, had not noticed the puddle of water that had gathered where his cloak had dripped onto the stone floor; he crashed down in a whirl of windmilling arms and loud curses. It was such a perfect slapstick moment, a long fall complete with a second where he nearly made it and almost managed to remain upright, before succumbing and crashing straight down onto his back that she had enough time to wish she'd managed to grab a camera, to preserve the moment of hilarity.

God only knew how much they needed a laugh.

He'd managed to knock into the bags he'd bought in, and a single tin of baked beans rolled out of it and across the stone floor. It seemed to make a very loud noise in the almost total silence, and Fleur bit down on her lip to stop herself laughing out loud. She'd never really seen Bill so graceless before now, never seen him loose that edgy coolness, not even when he was in the hospital having first been injured. Even then, once conscious, he'd managed a sort of suaveness, but now, he'd gone down like a performer in a slapstick sketch, and dammit, it was funny.

Several voices shouted down then, asking if everything was alright. The cottage was small, and he'd made a lot of noise. "Everything ees fine!" she called back, and the others seemed satisfied. Certainly, no one came rushing into the room, wands drawn, which was a relief, because Bill was still on the floor, having not moved an inch since he'd gone crashing down.

For a second she was fearful again—had he been hurt?—but then he turned to her and she saw such an overwhelming sadness on his face, such defeat in his eyes, that her heart ached. She rushed over, heedless of the damp and the bags and the mess, kneeling on the floor behind him and helping him into more of an upright position, half lying on her lap, with his head resting against her chest, and for the first time, it felt, she noticed how tired he looked, how bad the dark circles under his eyes were. His scars seemed sharper, too—not in any danger of reopening or becoming infected, as such, but they were more visible than they had been even a few weeks ago, and she understood then more than ever the great strain he must feel, being responsible for his family's safety as the Secret Keeper for his Great-Aunt's house, but also for the safety of Ron and Harry and Hermione, and those two other children, and Mr Ollivander, and even the goblin.

And her.

"I'm so fucking sick of it," he said, and she knew he meant both the sneaking around, the ridiculous pantomime they had to go through just to leave the house to buy groceries, and the war itself, and everything in between.

"I know, darling," she murmured, and she kissed his forehead.

He let out a long sigh, and she wrapped her arms tighter around him, balancing her chin on the top of his head. "I'm just so sick of it," he said again, and she didn't say anything this time, just hummed a little and held him even tighter. What could she possibly say?

They sat together for a long moment, ignoring the damp and hardness of the stone floor, the sounds of other people—some almost strangers—in their home, their sanctuary. It was hard, these days, to get a moment just for them, and if it had to be in a cold puddle on the kitchen floor—well, she would take it.

"I feel like it's never going to end," Bill said dully, staring straight ahead out of the window.

Fleur followed his gaze. The rain was still coming down in sheets, but when she glanced slightly to the right, over the clifftops and out to sea, she could see a faint patch of blue poking through the clouds. She felt her heart lift. "Au contraire, mon amour," she said. "It ees clearing up already."

He twisted round slightly, frowning, then followed her gaze and saw the clear skies in the distance. She felt him relax, and some of the tension from her own shoulders dissipated in response. And then he sat up properly, twisting around and lifting her up and fully onto his lap, wrapping his arms around her waist, and then he kissed her, properly, as a man kisses his wife. The bags still needed unpacking, and she could hear footsteps on the stairs coming closer, but she didn't care, kissing him back harder and deeper and more, always. Everything else could wait, because he was the only thing that mattered.

She would kiss him now, in the rain and the cold and the fear, but someday soon, she would kiss him in the sun and the warmth and the clear.