Fleur painted a surreal image onto her canvas. The same man that has visited her dreams night after night. Even in her waking hours, the same man walked every corner of her mind
She remembers his features a little better now. She had a feeling that her earlier paintings of the man were inaccurate, though she was unsure why. It was as if something was always missing. And for the first time, in six months, she was satisfied. The man looked like someone she knew but cannot remember. It was far different from all that had materialized from her paint brush. They all seemed foreign to her, a man she knew nothing of with the exception of his wand and his scar that seemed faint as if it had faded over the year.
Today, the image she drew was everything and nothing quite like the man she had been pouring hours over. The image she drew looked more like a boy with a scar so prominent, it almost felt like he had just gotten it the day before. He still had the messy hair, the largest spectacles and behind those were emerald eyes that had never felt more alive to her.
Every stroke that her hand performed reminded her of that painful afternoon. A brief second that gave her as much pain as it did with hope.
Every time Gabrielle saw her paintings, she comes close as if to remember fondly which Fleur never fails to miss.
“Who is it? Do you know…who…who is it?” she asks, hoping for an answer despite failing to elicit one for a few months now. Her sister would only smile and give her a hug hoping it would somehow answer her question.
“I’m not sure, Fleur. I just thought he looked familiar,” she offered this time, instead of simply walking away to tease Fleur.
Gabrielle was no longer the sweet, playful sister she once had. She has now grown to be a beautiful woman just like herself. Perhaps a little less ladylike than her mother would have liked, but still, a very beautiful woman that gets cranes from both men and women. She had been lost in thought when her sister patted her back and made to leave.
She tried her hardest to remember her younger sister, and all her fond memories of her. She had been away for most of her time, playing games internationally and locally. Despite all that, they remain close as ever but she can’t help but think that her sister, just like her parents, have been hiding something. Perhaps she should have pressed on earlier. Everything feels hazy now.
“You have a visitor,” she announced on her way out, snapping Fleur out of her daze. “Maybe he can give you an answer.” She added in a soft voice that sounded almost cryptic to Fleur.
Fleur nodded in silence to her sister while she looked at the latest painting she made. Her room was filled with the paintings of the an. She would often paint these in the fields every weekend, hoping she would once again hear his voice. Or what she thinks is his voice.
We must have a connection, she thought. Her first paintings, she destroyed, in anger. In frustration at the apology she had gotten in the fields, she had burned down every painting she had of him.
But the dreams never stopped and she was always happy, until she woke up again.
And so, she painted him. She never asked anyone but her family in fear that she had perhaps gone quite mad, as folks would probably say. Besides, she had never felt the same. Whatever happened 6 months ago left her feeling incomplete.
“Fleur?” a familiar voice said behind a knock on the door. She stood up and walked towards the door. She remembers his voice. She was engaged with him after all. After letting out a sigh and changing her expression, she opened her door. “Hello, William,”
“Hey Fleur,” he said in a rather formal tone. Silence followed before he made another move. “Erm…I brought you flowers. Your favorite.” He said as he produced the bright, yellow tulips he was hiding behind his back.
Fleur eyed the flowers before reaching for it. “Thank you, William,” she called out as she moved back to her room’s receiving area to put the flowers in her empty vase. She usually fills it with flowers she would find randomly in the fields during her painting sessions. This week however, she found no flowers. It was odd, now that her mind went to the thought of it.
“Come in, I’m sorry our receiving room is not yet ready. It is…undergoing renovations,” she added softly. Her massive room has its own receiving room where she paints and hangs her creations. Having little to no visitors ever since waking up with hazy memories, she never really anticipated anyone and had left all her paintings lying around. She felt a little embarrassed to have Bill see her private illusions. However, remembering what Gabby had said, she resisted casting a disillusionment spell.
Bill entered and his face painted recognition to Fleur, “I didn’t know you and Harry were together.”
“’Arry?” she asked - careful with the name she had been imparted with. I’m not crazy. I’ve not gone crazy. “Who..who’s…H….H…Harry?”
Bill laughed as he walked towards one of her paintings. “Hmm. You could never get his name right, can you? Yeah, I’m pretty sure it is Harry,” as he squinted closer to her paintings and then chuckled, “You’re missing the scar though,” he pointed at the bare forehead of one of her earlier paintings.
“Do you know where he is?” He asked. So, this...Harry was not with them. She suddenly felt fear along with her own confusion as she looked away, unable to process the revelation.
“Do…do you really not know?” Bill called out as he examined more paintings. Fleur shook her head. Bill looked at her with a pitiful look on his face.
“Show me…where the scar…,” Fleur managed to bring a brush to her hands as she walked towards her latest painting. “Here,” she pointed at her canvas.
Bill smiled and pointed towards the forehead, in the middle. “A lightning, the flashiest lightning bolt ever,” he said as she painted his scar like it was muscle memory.
Her mind began reeling in.
“Fleur? Fleur! Gabrielle! Help!”
She had heard Gabrielle rushing in as Bill called for help and held her in his arms as she collapsed. She looked at Bill’s eyes with tears before finally saying his name. “’Arry,” she croaked before her eyes finally closed.
=============================================================
She was in her dreams once more, only this time, everything was sharper than ever. She walked through her garden, the one she had back in Paris. The smell of her flowers that populated the area deceived her mind. This feels real. She walked throughout her roof in her nightgown as the moon once again gleamed in the night. She could see the same blanket she had seen in her dreams where she and a man lay.
But where was he?
Suddenly arms were wrapped around her belly. She turned around to see the man, Harry. She smiled at him as he smiled back bringing his forehead towards her own, “I’ve missed you.”
That voice. It’s the same. She
“I missed you too, ‘Arry” she heard herself speak from memory.
She felt her lips part before Harry was taken away and the dream immersed her in a different scenario.
“No!” she tried to scream out but no sound came.
She next saw herself, smiling at a piece of parchment. She looked around and noticed her office, just before she had left it.
She looked down on the piece of parchment that she was holding. Half expecting it to be blank or blurred just like in her earlier dreams, her vision finally adjusted as she read:
Fleur,
I am on my way to France (and to you). My scouting mission was terribly boring without you being a nuisance beside me. I did however gather very important intel. I hope you have kept yourself safe in my absence. Talk soon.
Yours in every way,
H.
P.S. I do miss you. Terribly. See you in the garden.
A smile formed in her face once more as she finished reading and re-reading the words that have finally found the parchment.
For a moment, her heart felt freed and unshackled. And then heavy all over again from all the words she had just read.
I miss a man I don’t remember.
She heard the white owl that perched itself on her window give a small hoot, presumably expecting a reply. Just as she reached for her quill, she felt herself being taken away.
Again, to another dimension.
Another memory. Another one of her paintings, perhaps. This time, the memories will be completed.
“…and...and I may not know a whole lot about love, but I know that love doesn’t come around everyday. Love is powerful. I survived out of love, and love…love…it just…” he struggled and slurred. Here he was, a man finally in his own right. “when it does come around, you’ve got to grab it and hold on for dear life. Love is magical, Fleur,” The young wizard declared in a vulnerable speech. He was clearly intoxicated with the way he slurred his words and the way he was talking with more confidence, that she was sure of. But his speech reminded her of why she did not marry William. A cause she had forgotten.
She knew of love being magical. She grew up in a fairytale, witnessing how her father never failed to exalt her mother in the most beautiful way.
She had forgotten that she grew up while facing the harsh realities of her heritage. She was Fleur, the Veela, Fleur, the French Veela, Fleur the Beauxbatons champion for a moment, and then Fleur the French Veela once again. And then she became Phlegm. Or whatever it is the Weasley girl called her. And while she was fiercely proud of being a Veela, only her friends in France and her family only ever came to respect her in terms of her own magical prowess outside of her heritage.
And maybe, Harry. Surely.
She offered a smile at the bumbling Harry who finished the last few drops of wine she had offered him. She remembered a piece of this memory, they had escaped the Weasley household, unable to celebrate the festivities with the forthcoming war and the feeling that they were vagabonds amongst the sea of red.
And then…Harry lectured her in love.
But…why?
She felt her head break into pieces as she tried her best to remember the boy that plagued all her dreams and even her reality.
“How…. auspicious ‘Arry, to experience the magic of love,” she heard herself speak, keeping her gaze at the sky. Amid the starlight that shone that night was the glow of the moon that watched their steady hearts.
“It isn’t quite the same for us. When a suitable…person…partner presents itself, we take our chance or we will have to keep enduring for the rest of our life. It isn’t all that glamorous to have everyone gawking and seeing just that part of you.”
“Yeah, I can agree on that, Fleur,” he said in a hushed voice, having lost the confident tone that wrapped his throat earlier. His speech about love now seemed lost in the harsh wind that landed on their exposed skin.