They say some stories are as old as time.
They say these stories are already over, that they cannot be changed, that these conclusions are written before we are born. They say there is no use attempting to rewrite history already lived, no use in trying to tear out the pages.
But they are wrong.
This is Fleur Delacour as he’s always known her: she’s intelligent, a cursebreaker of no small renown and ability that's traversed the world in such a short span of time. She’s beautiful, her features set upon her as if some sculptor had laboured an entire life to replicate it. She’s strong, a now single mother that, despite it all, is determined enough to hold her head high enough so her daughter can’t see the making of tears hiding in her ocean-coloured eyes. Brave enough to sacrifice what she feels to make the day as normal as possible for someone who can’t understand what has been lost. She’s charming, evidenced enough by the not-insignificant group of people around her sharing smiles in such a terrible time, listening with such rapt attention that she might’ve been mistaken as a teacher.
Above all, however, regardless of what she looks like, what she’s made of, there lies a single truth that cannot be left unsaid—she’s entirely undeserving of what has happened to her.
This is her story, the one they claim is already written. This was how her happily ever after had come to a close.
And this was how he would change it.