Flowerpot

Harry really liked Hagrid's gift of a flute in his first year, and soon, he was playing it almost every day near the Lake, or even in the common room, learning from books and attracting a small crowd of students, staff and even animals and creatures, his often melancholic notes brought many to tears, on his birthday before Second Year, he woke up to a more intricately carved one, that felt just right for him.

Harry's music brought forth emotions on those that heard it, and while many times it brought warmth and happiness, his life wasn't easy and the songs were often melancholic and sad, during Third Year they were even more hauntingly beautiful, a tune of longing for his parents' love, and even anger at their supposed traitor, though for some reason, the Dementors would avoid him when he was playing.

His friends tried to help him, and even Fawkes once or twice sang a beautiful duet song while Harry played his flute(said song reportedly made the Dementors get far away from the area, and brought comfort and hope to any who heard it), the melodies however, got even more melancholic after Harry's perceived failure to help Sirius be cleared of his charges and letting Pettigrew escape.

However, on his Fourth Year, after the foreign delegations arrived, Harry's songs became much happier; beautiful, warm melodies that attracted larger crowds and were often accompanied by birdsong, often, animals and magical creatures would get on the edge of the forest to hear it.

His friends and some of the staff were pretty sure it had everything to do with the beautiful girl in light blue that began to attend all Harry's "recitals" as they were being called, for in her presence, his songs made even flowers and plants bloom when he reached a crescendo, some swore even the weather cleared sometimes.

Hermione once caught Harry alone with said girl, who was dancing to his flute in a clearing, and she swore the trees swayed and lights danced around them while flowers bloomed in moments, even the wind seemed to swirl in harmony to the melody.

“I’ll be back soon.”

Those were the words she’d said, her fingers carding through his raven locks as they’d laid, wrapped in warm covers, basking in the glow of their coupling.

“It’ll be a week. Tops. I’ll be back before you know it.”

She’d been so earnest, so sure as she’d spoken, assurances and promises, and he’d nodded, forcing aside his unease.

He knew she could take care of herself. Yet, a nagging sense of unrest, a… feeling of uncertainty had clawed at him, like he was making some kind of mistake.

Yet… he trusted her. He had given her all of himself, and she had given him all of her. There was no reason for him to hold her back.

“Fleur,” Harry had said, grasping her dainty, pale hand, a warm smile on his face, “I have no problem. You don't have to try to convince me of anything.”

Her smile had lit up the room, cerulean eyes glimmering. She’d leaned down, her lips brushing his brow, her silvery blond hair curtaining their faces, before she’d snuggled close.

He drew the covers closer around them as she whispered, “Still. I’ll be back within the week. I promise you Harry.”

“Fleur.”

Green eyes snapped open in the predawn darkness, bright and hopeful, wishing, needing..

As their owner shot up in the bed, taking in the dark room,the cold draft coming from the open window, the empty bed beside him, that light faded.

Harry reached up to rub his eyes. That dream, that bloody moment again. It haunted him, a spectre of mistakes made, decisions he could never undo.

I’ll be back within the week. I promise you Harry.

Three years. Three years since those words, perhaps to the day.

Three years since he’d forced down his apprehension, his unease.

Just under three years since he’d regretted those words every single waking moment. Gods how he wished he could turn back time that far. He didn't know what he would have done. But he would have done something.

He staggered into the bathroom, the light flickering on as he bent over the sink, splashing his face with cold water.

It didnt help. It never did.

He did it anyway.

He looked up, and from the mirror, what remained of Harry James Potter stared back.

Dull green eyes set in a tired face. He was still handsome, perhaps more so… or so his friends told him.

Yet, he didn't care. He hadn't cared for three years.

He’d only cared how one person had seen him. And she…. She wasn't around anymore to see him.

Wind whipped at Harry’s clothes, mussing his hair as he sat on the cliff, the sea churning against the jagged rocks a hundred meters below. Behind him, a solitary, pale willow tree marked the spot, their spot, her spot.

Fleur had loved this place for some reason. Chalk white cliffs topped with rolling green waves of grass, a few hundred metres from the nearby tourist attraction, an impressive lighthouse. They’d come here often. Not for anything in particular, just to laugh and smile and watch the sunset.

It was a place where they’d shared many a fond memory.

It was a place he’d come to occasionally in the last three years.

They’d searched. Gods how they’d searched. He and Ron and Hermione and the Weasleys, Appoline and Gabby and Sebastian and all their friends and anyone and everyone they could ask. They’d searched, and searched, and searched.

But each lead had been a dead end, and slowly, but surely, people had stopped searching. One by one, muttering condolences and hopeful, yet hollow promises, everyone had stopped, even her family being forced to accept the worst, until Harry had been the only one left.

And, eventually, even he’d been forced to give up.

Footsteps crunched on the grass behind him as he blinked, abruptly aware of the wetness on his cheeks. Tourists, most likely, looking for some semblance of privacy.

Wiping his tears, Harry stood, head bowed, as he turned to leave.

And proceeded to walk into someone. Stumbling back, he lifted his head.

Yet his apologies died on his lips, as a flash of familiar silvery hair, framing a face he knew all too well met his eyes.

Cerulean eyes, familiar eyes, guilty eyes met his.

“Fleur?”, he muttered, hands trembling, scarcely believing what he saw.

Eyes wide, dressed in a flowy, yellow sundress, looking as if she’d never left, Fleur Delacour stared back at him, her voice trembling, almost fearful as she spoke, “’Arry?”

He loved moonlit nights.

The way the light danced on the dark waters of the lake was soothing. I reminded him of.... of something. He shivered. He sighed.

He would give anything to see the memories the moon pulled from somewhere within.

He was always at the edge of a precipice, but the threat of the fall was a comfort.

Answers laid at the bottom, he was sure.

He opened his eyes, and the light greeted him.

"I wanna know," he whispered.

"Do you really?" The wind whispered back behind him, his hair raising.

"Turn around," spoke the leaves of the forest behind.

He turned, but there was nothing. Nothing but the smell of the grass and the sway of the leaves as they fell. He sighed once again, but before turning back, something moved out of the corner of his eye.

A shadow moved deeper into the forest.

His vision blurred and something bubbled to the surface of his mind. An echo. Laughter. The scent of cinnamon. Just as quickly, it was gone. He frowned, moving towards shadow.

Deeper and deeper he went into the forest, until finally he heard it. The voice, singing a tune both wholly unfamiliar yet oddly comforting. As he got closer, the voice grew, and he... recognized it. But how?

As he came upon the small clearing he stopped, for in the center, upon a large rock sat a woman with silver blonde hair looking up into the sky, her voice carried by the wind to his ears.

Again his vision blurred, and the echo returned. Dancing. Stargazing by the fire. The heat in his chest of a passionate kiss. As the echo faded, he stumbled, the raw emotion causing him to lose his balance, and a twig snapped beneath his foot.

Instantly, she stopped singing, and the night got just a bit darker. Quickly, she turned to him, wand held ready, and they locked eyes.

She smiled. A smile he knew, from an echo...no, a memory.

He's smiled back and approached.

As he approached, a faint laughter could be heard, as of the forest itself had accomplished it's task.

Fresh, clean, the breeze mottled with a pleasant dampness as it relieved the heat of the bright sun and clear sky. It blew his hair into an even messier state than before, the salt spray sticking in his hair and setting it into unfamiliar wild curls. It rattled through his shirt, the faded white linen battering and billowing around his ribs like a sail as he stood exposed on a rock before the sea.

It was quiet, but never silent. The endless dull roar of the waves a lullaby to stirred spirits as sure as the thunder awoke them with fear, or so he was told. Harry had never been afraid of the storm, but he found himself agreeing with those who found the waves soothing. He took another breath, another deep draught of Zephyros.

The Dursleys had forgotten him, spitefully determined to ignore his disruptive presence on the annual trip to the beach as they were, they hadn't said a word to him since the initial outcry upon learning of Mrs Figg's accident. His heart went to the woman, it truly did, but if ever he had been willing to pay a price in someone else's pain it was now.

A particularly large wave crested, the peak falling in a curl as it bent low over itself before breaking on the shore.

They'd be back for him eventually, the fear of it being discovered that they'd abandoned a child on the seaside more than enough to overwhelm their loathing of his presence, and Harry would gladly accept whatever punishment they'd concocted for daring to be forgotten. It was worth it.

The breeze quickened, a sharp and sudden wind hurrying across his face and carrying away the sharp exhale of his breath as leaned forwards eagerly, eyes pulled as wide as they would go, searing the sight into his memory. The ocean stretched out before him, vast and deep, and filled with an endless motion that he could feel in his very bones, somehow knowing that in a moment it could be whipped up to a storm. He was sized by a sudden temptation to see it, to witness the water's fury, but in mere moments the waves' melody had carried the notion away.

He sat, and he waited, and he smiled. Content before the sea.

“Excuse me, are you wanting the Bouillabaisse?”

She rolled her eyes preemptively, prepared for the inevitable reaction. Sure enough, one of the boys in front of her - the ginger - lost himself to her allure. Her eyes flitted towards the other two teenagers sitting in front of her, hoping for a response. The bushy-haired girl opened her mouth to speak, but was beaten to the punch by the other boy at the table.

“Ah yes, the Bouillabaisse - something that we definitely are used to eating, like, and cherish. Pretty high demand here, sorry but like you’re fresh out of luck.”

“...What?”

A chime range as he entered the shop.

The smell of fresh meat wafted in the air, not unusual, considering he’d entered a butcher's shop. Behind the glass of the long counter were various cuts of beef, all likely chopped that very day, though the selection was limited. The sun was waning, and they would be closing soon. It would only make sense that they’d have limited products this late.

He heard the rhythmic chopping from the door leading further into the establishment, the opening covered by a simple black flap. He cast a glance around, noticing various pictures of famous people shaking hands with the owner littering the wall. He hoped that his investigation was leading him in the wrong direction.

The case was odd and this place felt normal.

He hit the bell on the counter and waited, placing his hands in his pockets and turning around to survey the shop once more. It all led here. All the threads that his bosses said didn’t exist, the ones he swore everyone was simply turning a blind eye to. Everything pointed here. He heard the flap push aside and a grumble.

“What do you want?”

Harry turned around and tried to hide the shock at the size of the large man in front of him. His broad shoulders and chest made it seem as if he’d be more at home in a weightlifting competition rather than a simple butcher shop. Though the man's arms meant he likely had very little issues chopping and cutting. Reaching into his coat, Harry produced his badge and displayed it to the man.

“Detective Potter,” he said as he slipped his badge back into his coat. “I was hoping you might be able to help me with a case I’ve been working on.”

The man shrugged and grabbed the towel thrown over his shoulder to begin wiping down the glass in front of him.

Harry turned around and gestured at the various art and pictures hanging on the walls.

“How long has this place been here?”

“A couple decades,” the man replied without looking up from his task. “My father owned it before he passed.”

Harry paused. Now why would he lie about that? The age of the business was correct, but ownership records show that it was owned by an elderly couple who had no children.

“Seems to be a good bit of product out this late at night,” Harry continued, “think you’ll sell it all tonight?”

The man nodded.

“Most of it, yeah. We generally sell out most nights.”

Tension flooded Harry’s shoulders at the lie. Income records showed the place barely broke even. If they were selling out each day then they’d be in much better financial shape. They wouldn’t have two outstanding loans. He pivoted on his heels to face the man and placed his hands on his hips. One rested gently on his service weapon.

“Mr. Marbach is your name, correct?” he asked. “Son of Philip Marbach?”

The man nodded. Harry smiled. Marbach was the name of Harry’s favorite bartender.

“This case I’m working on has been all kinds of odd. I’ll admit, I don’t believe half the things I’ve read.” His brow furrowed and he saw the man grip the towel tighter. “It’s about these bodies, you see. We keep finding them, but not the whole thing. One was missing their legs. Another was missing their hands. The last one? No head.”

Harry jerked his head towards the doorway behind the counter.

“You mind if I take a look in the back, Mr. Marbach?”

“I do,” growled the man, finally looking up and glaring at Harry.

There was a counter between them and no knives in the man’s area or on his person. Even if he lunged, Harry could get a shot off in time. He clicked his tongue. . “I’m going to level with you, sir,” Harry said. “This case is the weirdest shit I’ve ever seen. It’s got incredibly creepy vibes and we’ve found evidence that my superiors seem hell bent on burying, but I’m a persistent bastard. Now, we both know your name isn’t Marbach and that you don’t own this establishment. The only question left to answer is how much I’m going to have to fight to find out why you’ve been hacking up bodies.”

Silence.

A clock in the back chimed and the stranger leapt over the counter. Harry’s eyes went wide as he stepped back and drew his weapon, shocked at the agility. He hadn’t even bent down to clear the glass. The man lunged and Harry fired twice. The stranger staggered backwards and clutched his chest. Harry lowered his weapon but paused as he watched black liquid emerge from the man’s chest.

The man looked up and his face was changed. His skin was charred and cracked. The eyes were completely black; no white remained. Brown, twisted horns sprouted from the man’s forehead and he smiled at Harry. It wasn’t a human smile, but rather, something of pure evil.

He looked like a demon.

“What the fuck?”

The demon-like being charged. Harry raised his weapon but the beast swatted it away with ease before grabbing him by the throat with a scarred hand. He lifted Harry up and slammed him into the ground. The air was pushed from his lunges as he impacted and stars played across his vision. The beast looked down at him and smiled again.

“How is it you, a mere human, found me out?” The voice was deep and it seemed to reverberate from every surface with an unnatural tone. “You’re not even DSA. Who are you?”

The sound of breaking glass and an explosion ripped through the night air. The hand released him and Harry gasped for breath. The being staggered back, clutching its stomach. Harry’s vision blurred, but he saw a woman with bright pink hair step over him, towards the being. Without a word she raised what appeared to be a stick of wood and a glowing orb towards the being. Another explosion sounded and he covered Harry’s head.

After several tense seconds he looked back up and the being was gone. The orb at the end of the wood flashed red and went dormant.

“What the fuck was that?” he asked as he propped himself up against the wall.

The woman turned to him and smiled before looking down at the stick in her hand.

“This? Well I only know it by its unofficial name, so I have no idea. Worked on that guy though. Sent him right back to hell.”

Harry rubbed his eyes and winced as the pain in his back made itself known. When he opened his eyes the woman was crouching down in front of him, the same smile playing across her face.

“My name is Tonks,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Potter. We’ve been keeping an eye on your investigation for some time. Tell me, what do you think just happened?”

Harry’s head pounded and he needed a stiff drink, but he gestured towards where the being had been.

“Seems like that thing was some sort of demon,” he looked at Tonks and raised an eyebrow. “That’s not right though, because demons aren’t real. This case was odd, but that can’t be true. Demons are just fairy tales.”

The woman reached into her coat and pulled out a business card. As he took it, he read the black letters printed on the white card.

Agent Nymphadora Tonks Department of Supernatural Affairs

He looked up at her. She smiled again and her hair changed from pink to bright green.

“The demon was right about one thing: you managed to figure out his scheme all on your own. My boss thinks you’ve got brains and guts, so how about a change of employment?” .

"Arry, it will hurt only for a moment. Don't be afraid, it's because I want the best for you."

With tears in his eyes and cheeks reddened in defiance, he pulls his blanket back over his exposed lower body. "Never. I will fight you and that stabby abomination you call a medical tool. I won't have it anywhere near me."

A huff escapes her and she retreat back on the bed with an audible 'plop'. "Listen, Arry. If you let me prick you and thus heal you..."

The obvious taunt of a trade of favours was impossible to ignore and thus he allowed his blanket to lower down from his face. "Yes?"

Smirking to her successful move, she bit her lip. "Then I will return the favour and let you prick me."

Silence.

Awkward silence.

Very pregnant silence.

"Arry?" She calls, worried that he may have not heard her offer. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Nurse Delacour," he announced bitterly. "I don't know how you can dare look at yourself in the mirror everyday but your fascination with needles..." He shudders visibly. "It's not what I'm looking for in a woman."

Fleur's face turns ashen and drops the syringe on the floor, where it cracks and is forever destroyed.

"Fleur? Why are you dressed up like a dentist?" "I just saw Little Shop of Horrors, 'arry."

Harry bolts out of the room with Fleur in hot pursuit.

"It won't 'urt, I promise! I just want to be a dentist!"

Hermione and Ron just arrived through the Floo. Hearing the last part what Fleur said, Hermione turns to Ron and smiles sweetly.

A feeling of dread tears through his spine as Ron asks Hermione, "What's a dentist?"

Hermione smiles slowly, "Come, I'll show you."

Later that night...

Both Hermione and Fleur can be heard singing,

"She said, "I think someday You'll find a way To make your natural tendencies pay You'll be a dentist You have a talent for causin' things pain Be a dentist People will pay you to be inhumane Your temperament's wrong for the priesthood And teaching would suit you still less Be a dentist You'll be a success"

Both Harry and Ron: "NNNOOOOO!"

To go along with my prompt, yes this is based off a conversation from Daredevil Harry slowly walked up to the bar to stand beside the angel in the blue dress.

“A Phoenix Rebirth for me and another glass of elven wine for the lady.” Harry said to the bartender with a nod.

“Perceptive, but a lady can order her own drinks. A Golden Snitch, if you would.” she replies without even bothering to look at Harry.

After a moment of silence, Harry leads, “Would you like to dance?”

Finally, she turns to look at him, “Not particularly. Nice shoes by the way, a soldier?”

“Hmmm, how’d you know?”

“You’re not exactly a tough read.” She replied with a slight lack of interest.

“I might surprise you.”

“Doubt it.” She replied, taking a sip of her new drink.

“Maybe, wanna give it a try?” he shot back nursing his drink.

“You were drug here by your father I assume. You’re too young to know anyone from this crowd and it's clear you don’t want to be here. You would much rather be doing anything else than having to rub elbows with this crowd. You’re a fighter, clear from the way your head is on a slight swivel, your stance, and your choice in footwear. And now, your mind is racing trying to think of a way to keep me interested, because the last thing you want is to spend your night here at the bar nursing your drink and waiting till your father comes to ask you to dance with some random politician’s daughter you have no interest in.

The problem is you lost the moment you came to this bar. You’re boring, I’ve met hundreds of boys just like you.” With the conversation seemingly ended she turned back towards the bar to finish her drink.(edited) [9:24 PM] Harry says the first thing that comes to mind, “Wow, you get all that from a pair of shoes?”

When she doesn’t reply he asks, “You wanna know what I think?”

She gives a little hum of agreement so he continues, “I think that despite your artisan shoes, and tied back hair. Despite being richer than god, and turning most men to mush with a look, you’re bored. Bored enough to spend your time looking at a stranger's shoes. I think you are dying at this party just as much as I am if not more because daddy’s money can’t buy you the one thing you really need?”

“Oh, and what's that?” she asks, finally turning back towards him as he leaned in closer.

“The unexpected.” He said leaning back.

She took another look at him deciding on her reply, “Maybe you aren’t so boring after all. Fleur Delacour.”

“Hadrian Peverell.”

Severus Snape

Severus Snape was angry. He had been promised Lily Potter as a reward for information on The Prophesy. Lily was to be his! He threw the glass at the fireplace and continued to pace in his anger. He was startled out of his musings when he heard a noise coming from his den. Severus cautiously approached the room and was stunned to find Lily Potter standing there.

What worried Severus was Lily's appearance. She was dressed as if she were going into combat with her Daisho in her obi belt. The way Lily's hand rested on her Katana drew his attention. Her thumb rested against the sword's tsuba as if she were ready to draw the blade in an instant.

"Why, Severus?"

Nervously, Severus spoke, "He promised -- " Severus never finished the words as he felt the blade of Lily's sword against his flesh and; then, he knew no more.

Location: Malfoy Manor

Sitting in what he considered his throne room, Lord Voldemort pondered his next moves when a House Elf brought a him a box.

"This was left at at the edge of the wards, Master," the House Elf spoke before it popped away.

Curious, Voldemort opened the box and was surprised to find the head of one of his most trusted servants, Severus Snape. A head that was still screaming.

You laugh, your smile lighting up the room, an ethereal glow about you that everyone sees, but only I notice. He wraps you in his arms, and I would give anything to trade places with him. To be the man you needed, the one you chose. But I wasn’t, and I’m not. I was broken, far more broken for anyone to fix, at least at the time.

You came to me, the night after the battle, found me in the Head Boy suite, alone with my thoughts. We didn’t speak, because we didn’t need words. That time had long passed. We’d spent a year talking, getting comfortable, understanding.

That night we made love, an awkward, but meaningful sort of love, neither of us sure of ourselves.

As I watched you sleep, the moonlight dancing across your bare skin, I knew I was too broken for you, too damaged for even your healing light to fix.

In the morning, you were gone.

The next time I saw you, what felt like an eternity and an instant, the two of you were together. You looked happy. Content.

I smile. I’ve lost you, but I’m happy if you’re happy. . . Your face sparkles with mischief as you bring out the cake, a youthful exuberance in your step as you place it in front of her, your lips brushing once. You drape your arm around her shoulder as the room sings, and I wish with everything it was my shoulder that arm was around. That it were my lips you would kiss. But it’s not, and they’re not, because I was terrible and I pushed you away.

I went to you, the night after the battle, knowing you’d be in the Head Boy suite. Alone, thinking, mourning, putting it all on your conscience. We sat together by the fire, fingers intertwined, a comfortable silence settling in the air. We knew each other better than we did ourselves, words were just an unnecessary addition that would have served as nothing more than a distraction.

That night we made love, an awkward, but meaningful sort of love, neither of us sure of ourselves.

As I watched you sleep, I knew I wasn’t good enough for you, the kindness in your heart matched only by the caring that sat alongside it. I wasn’t good enough and knew I never would be.

I left before you awoke.

The next time I saw you, both sooner and longer than expected, the two of you were together. You looked happy. Content.

I smile. I’ve lost you, but I’m happy if you’re happy. . . I frown, looking between my sister and my personal hero.

She laughs, leaning in to her husband, and she looks happy, but I can see it. It’s hidden, just behind the surface. In the eyes. I see the pain, the sadness, the longing.

She casts a quick glance to the other side of the room and my heart hurts as her mask slips just a fraction. I see her true self and it nearly breaks me.

I look at him, leaning into his wife’s red hair, whispering something into her ear that causes her to swat him playfully. He looks happy, but I can see it. It’s hidden, just behind the surface. In the eyes. I see the regret, self-doubt, the longing.

He casts a quick glance to the other side of the room and my heart hurts as his mask slips just a fraction. I see his true self and it nearly breaks me.

I frown, looking between my sister and my personal hero. I know what’s in their heads, and once again my heart aches at the truth of it.

Lies.

I frown. They’ve lost each other, and neither will ever be happy without the other.

Voldemort let her finger brush against his scar, with her sharp eyes undoubtedly tracking each and every branch of the lighting that broke his skin. The softness of her skin felt unlike anything he had felt before. Perhaps it was because his senses were high on adrenaline and picked up on each and everything he came into contact with now.

"Fascinating," she uttered barely over a hoarse whisper. The words tickled on his face as he stilled, waiting for her to make further utterings.

"To have been bested is something I have experienced many times," she spoke to no one in particular. He wasn't even sure she realised he was even awake and listening to her observations. "I have been hurt. I have been beaten and humiliated," she continued with her silky smooth voice that came from the mouth that was guarded by soft and sensual lips. Each and every word evoked a sense of promise.

'A promise of what?' he thought, his mind drifting with the waves of his heightened senses.

"But I have always been whole and complete. For every defeat I've suffered, I've never given an inch or an ounce that I couldn't take back tenfold," Voldemort spoke, still seeing another world through his scar.

"Except for you," she finally eyed him, the red hue in her iris glistening in the shine of the moon reflected off his battered glasses.

He tried to speak but couldn't. He found his voice couldn't even form. The breath wouldn't leave his lungs, except for a silent exhale.

A small, brief smirk grew on her face, the upturn on one of her lips' corners a ghost of a motion. "Don't tire yourself on my account. I won't harm you."

She dropped the hand that had been massaging his scar, letting it disappear into the sleeve of the long dark raincoat that had been brought to her earlier.

"I can't very well attempt and destroy one of my unintended creations, after all," she finally mused aloud.

'What do you mean?' he tried to demand but couldn't bring his voice to bear.

"Exactly as my words imply," she replied, disregarding his frightened frown. "I made you. On that fateful evening in October 1981, when I fell to your dear deceased mother, I didn't simply turn into a puff of smoke."

She paused, her gaze changing into that of slight tenseness. "When the killing curse rebounded, it carried over an intent I had had in mind at that moment." Harry couldn't follow what she was saying, the words didn't make sense to him. 'What else is there to a killing curse? Do people murder other people while thinking of buying groceries?'

Voldemort couldn't help but snicker. The action drove a renewed sense of fear into his bones. 'Can she–'

"I can," she supplied curtly. "But don't let it worry your young mind. Right now, it's of no consequence to you, either way."

The leisurely way she observed him with her piercing sharp eyes reminded him of an apex predator toying with their food. The image didn't inspire the same kind of amusement in him, so he reacted in the only way he could. With his mind doing the talking.

'What do you want from me?' He pushed to the forefront of the empty landscape in his inner eye.

"Clever boy," she said, her lips forming a wider smile now, the brief shine of white teeth peeking through the gap of her mouth. "Yes, why am I playing with you? Why not just end you, right here, right now?"

Moments past where no words were exchanged.

"Because," she finally sighed, "I actually can't kill you. If I did, it would put me in a tricky predicament."

His eyes grew thinner. 'Can't kill me? After all this time?'

The absurdity of her statement left him speechless. The irony wasn't lost on either of them.

"Quite," she nodded to his unvoiced confusion. "when the spell backfired on me, and effectively rendered me an angry wraith, it also left a mark on you." [4:09 PM] He weighed her words and slowly and surely, a thought occurred to him. 'The Scar.'

"Bravo," she said with a smile, giving him a few short singular claps. "Exactly."

'What did you do to me?' he thought in accusation.

"Willingly? Nothing," she replied flatly, her demeanour that of pure innocence. "All blame ought to be put before Lily Potter herself. I had no part in the mechanisations of this particular outcome."

'Bollo-'

"Language, Harry," Voldemort reprimanded him, like an instructor at school would. The brief image of Professor Voldemort in the appropriate attire of an educator seemed as bizarre as it sounded.

A chuckle escaped from the Dark Lady. "In another life, maybe, it could have been."

A look of nostalgia crossed her ruby eyes before she squared her shoulders again and let her focus return on him. "That will never be now. But let us return to what I was trying to get to with you."

He swallowed, still in his uncomfortable position by the grave.

"When your dear departed mother cast whatever spell she'd come up with, my curse rebounded off of you and attacked me, instead. But as you can see now, I was never really 'dead'."

'Evidently.'

She seemed to appreciate his candour and gave him a look of amusement. "You see, I had already been messing with my soul, long before your mother had thought to kill me with my own methods, by my own hand, no less. But no matter her genius, you can't kill something that isn't quite there."

'What?'

"What I'm about to tell you, is a secret I haven't spoken to anyone outside of my inner circle. It's what has kept me alive all this time."

'Why is she telling me then?' It didn't take long to dawn on him.

"For the killing curse to kill someone, it needs an intact soul. A living being that is whole and complete. Knowing my own tools and my own methods, I have always pondered how to avoid falling victim to my own hubris."

"I have studied soul magic, arcane magics, fae magics, anything that would allow me to circumvent a trap of my own shortcomings. And I have found it."

'What did you find?' He goaded her. If that was wise, he wasn't sure.

"I found a way to anchor my soul to this world, regardless if my body is destroyed. Even if I had died of old age, I wouldn't have passed on. I would have become a wraith regardless. So, in all honesty, your mother has done me a favour."

His brows furrowed at the implication. 'Really? A favour?'

"Yes, I would sooner or later have had to face the impossibility of keeping my body. The only way to have been able to try that, you destroyed in your first year. Imagine my frustration when you unwittingly turned it to dust. A priceless object."

He remembered vividly, the scarlet weight in his pocket when he was eleven and a frightened child.

"But I digress, it's past and can not be undone,” she waved with her hand. "My new body is that of a homunculus, an artificial thing, purely made of magic, only for those who can wield it. It's quite poetic in that sense."

"I can no longer age. After I have achieved unending life in the soul sense of the word, I have now achieved immortality of the flesh. And all thanks to you, Harry. Both you and your mother have made all this possible."

'No.' He rejected those words of gratitude, this couldn't be what his parents died for.

"But they did," she said with seriousness underlining her insistence. "But do not think them dead for naught. They have granted you the same gift that I have received."

Her words left him even more confused than he had been when she first stepped before him, nude as the moon was in the sky.

"When I was defeated by my own spell, the magic that I have used before, to ensure I would survive, has unintentionally done to you what it had done for me." (edited) [4:12 PM] At first, her words echoed no sense in his mind. They seemed like empty platitudes and nonsensical pleasantries of a Dark Witch drugged on her own legend. But then, with some consideration, the same words rang true to past thoughts he had pondered, experiences he had had, and the words of others that had fallen on his head.

'You speak with snakes.'

She nodded with a very wide smile. "Yesssss. I see you're slowly seeing where all this is going."

'No. It can't be.' He was losing his grip on reality. 'This can't be.'

"But it is," she insisted. "A part of my soul has latched onto you and when the curse rebounded back on me, you sent a part of your soul into me."

She spread her arms apart and began to laugh. "You see now, the irony is uncanny. You cannot kill me. And I cannot kill you. We stand at an impasse from which we cannot step back from, only press forward to."

Voldemort waved her wand at the statue holding him, and he dropped to his knees before her. His breaths were ragged and his sweat burned in his eyes, as the world turned around him.

He felt her kneel before him, the slit of her long skirt exposing a beautiful, smooth thigh. Her palm moved to his chin and raised his head to meet her eyes. He could feel her puff of breath touch his cheek.

"I look forward to an eternity with you, Harry."

4th Year, Tri-Wizard Tournament, Yule Ball

Harry James Potter, 4th champion in the reinstated Tri-Wizard Tournament, sighed as he looked around the Grand Hall. It had been transformed into a dance hall for this year's Yule Ball, something which he was wholly unprepared for. He barely learned how to dance from his date, but he hoped that what he was about to do would more than make up for it.

Harry took out his violin and began to play slowly, pouring his heart and emotions into the piece he was playing. As he continued, many of the onlookers watched in awe as they felt the pull of the music itself, almost as if it were a patronus. The onlookers felt joy, sadness, hope and love in the sound of the music.

As Harry finished the song, everyone stood up and applauded. But what happened next surprised everyone, including Harry himself.

Fleur Isabelle Delacour, Beauxbatons champion, stood up from her seat and walked over to Harry, who was still standing in the middle of the dance floor. Fleur looked into Harry's emerald eyes and pulled him into a gentle kiss

"Zhat was beautiful, Harry," Fleur said, with tears in her eyes.

Harry smiled and kissed Fleur, "For you."

Accompanying Piece: Franz Shubert's "Seranade"

The figure loomed ahead, small and sickly against the rocky peak it stood on, an island in the ever shifting seas of ashen sand. The winds circled the figure, like the eye of the slowest hurricane the world had ever seen, a dark gravity pulling dust and wind into orbit around it like stars falling into black holes. The wind was never fast but it never slowed, just enough to sting the left corners of my eyes as I walked forward.

My foot still ached and pulsed with every step, there must still be some specks of rock embedded in my heel. It doesn't matter, the swelling has already started. I climbed the rock, heaving myself up its gentlest slope, wary of the loose looking chunks of stone. By the time I reached the top my shirt had been snagged in countless places, and a choir of new small holes littered the cloth. My jeans fared better, built for rough work as they were, I should have been grateful for them a long time ago.

Eventually, I stood face to face with the figure. He wore a threadbare shawl of blackened rags, and in his hand was a crooked cane of cracked and twisted iron stained with rust. He was short, shorter than anyone I had ever known, though if it was his natural height or from the frailty of his body I couldn't know for sure. He was thin, too thin, skeletally so. His skin should have been tight to his bones but instead it sagged, as if the body inside had diminished so much that its skin was now a size too big. Everywhere I looked He was dry, like a cracked desert, a thin grime of dust and ash clinging to his form even as the slow wind gathered even more dust around his feet.

"What are you?" I tried to ask, but my voice was too hoarse to make proper words. I went to try again but it wasn't needed, it understood.

"I am Death", it replied without moving its lips, its voice carried past on a fleeting wind. "And I am the last of the gods, the only one yet to die."

"Can you?" this time the words made it out, even if they sounded like they were spoken by my aunt after poker night instead of me.

"No, but the world can."

It took a moment for the words to register, then I nodded. I leaned down, heaving myself to stay up and controlled for as long as possible before collapsing down beside him. I looked out over our surroundings. It felt like night, but the truth was that there was no sun left to set anymore. There was nothing anymore, not anything, except for the dust, the bones, and the wind.

"Let's watch it together then," I croaked, pleased to hear my voice had graduated to 'five packs a day'.

"I will be here after you are gone," came the whisper on the breeze.

"Eh, doesn't much matter when it's gonna end, best to make it worth something while you can."

Death said nothing, but he sat down by my side.

Harry James Potter, 21, was the hero of the wizarding world. Showing up alongside the Minister and other war heroes at various events, parties and gatherings. Harry, just Harry, showed up at too many burials. Ron's and Bill's, the Lupin's, the Weasley Twins', Katie Bell's... Funeral after funeral, to say a last goodbye to those that Voldemort and his followers took from him. Yet for everyone else, there was only Harry James Potter.

Even for the remaining members of the Weasley family.

And so Harry sat beside a fire, under a tree on a hill, the Burrow, from which the sounds of a grand party were echoing, still in distance. And he thought. Of all the horror he had seen, chasing every piece of his archnemesis' soul and followers. Of the flowers that would grow on the tombs of those that followed him until the end, and of the butterflies that would flutter around their resting places. Of how the world will be, for how could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened ? How could the end, his end, be happy ?

As he extended his arm to grab a bottle of Ogden's Old finest firewhiskey, the orange and yellow flames of the fire turned blue for a split second before flames of each colours were intertwined, almost dancing in front of Harry's eyes. The bottle was kicked aside by someone sitting beside him. Turning his head, Harry gazed in deep blue eyes, of a colour similar to the flames. The woman linked their fingers, before looking in silence toward the fire.

"I'm not him." he whispered, eyes returning to the blaze.

Her grip on his fingers tightened.

"I know." She whispered back.

It was by accident that Harry stumbled upon this demonic lair. He and his team snuck in to see what was inside, and found a prison. That made the decision for them. Through a series of bloody running battles, they cleared out the guards, and now his team was escorting the former prisoners out.

There was another chamber in front of him. The locked doors yielded easily, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he neither saw any demons, nor did he feel the usual revulsion these outsiders brought out in him.

The last members of his team nodded at him, and went to help carry out some of the prisoners who couldn’t walk under their own power.

He was tired, riddled with small wounds, burns, and caked with dried mud and demonic blood, and his left ankle was tender at best, but he went in.

The chamber was circular, with a dais in the middle, upon which stood a table with manacles and other numerous implements. A torture chamber.

He spotted movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned as fast as his aching body allowed, brandishing his sword. The sight stopped him in his tracks.

“You?”

She stood there, a twisted, perverted version of the angel that had appeared in his dreams ever since he had picked up that sword. Her brilliant wings were now the colour of dried blood, and instead of the golden radiance she had exuded, crimson glow escaped her through the crisscrossing cracks and scars in her skin.

Her blood-red gaze fell upon him and he shuddered under its weight. Then she noticed the glowing sword in his hands.

“So that is how I felt you?” She closed her mangled fists, and flames sprung up from where they had torn out her nails. “No matter, the past is dead. This is insignificant.”

The flames lashed out and formed into a simulacrum of a sword, while the feathers on her wings narrowed, resembling arrowheads now.

“Please.” He brought his sword up in a guard. “Stop! We need not fight!”

She answered with a wild swing he dodged, though a trail of smoke followed the top of his head.

“On the contrary. My master commands me.”

He had to dodge a swipe of her wing, her feathers now razor-sharp, and parried her flaming blade.

“Defy him! We’re saving everyone here!” He dodged a stab. “Come with us.”

“Useless.” One of her feathers cut his cheek. “Fight! You need to slay me if you want to leave.” Her next strike nearly took his head off. “I will come after your friends!”

A by now familiar warmth suffused him, and he knew golden light filled his new wound, keeping it from bleeding. The same light that emanated from his sword. The same light that she used to glow with.

He deflected her next strike upward and sidestepped, but she defended herself with her wing. “Why fight for your captors?” He changed the direction of his next cut from vertical to horizontal, and opened a wound on her forehead. “Join us, please.”

“Too late.” She raised her flaming sword, preparing a powerful cut. “For you.” With a step forward, she launched a strike that would cleave him in two.” “And for me.”

By instinct he stepped back and slashed downwards into her cut, stopping it in mid air. Then, he stepped forward and twisted his sword. Its tip entered her heart.

Her legs grew week and wings fell slack. The flames went out. And with a long sigh that filled the room, she collapsed, the sword still in her chest.

He rushed to her, lifting her head. She was still breathing.

“I fell once—“ she whispered, “because of excess faith. I trusted the faithless.” She looked into his eyes, and where before her own glowed like burning coals, now they too were going out, dim. “And now I fall due to a lack of faith. Let me go.” With immense effort, she touched his hand feebly. “Leave, and live.”

Harry was shaking his head, and gripped the sword again. ‘Heaven or Light, or whoever was watching over me these months, now would be a good time for a bit of help. Please!’ He urged the energy he had left, all that remained, to come forward. ‘I know I felt that golden spark sometimes. Please! You’ve helped me so many times before.’ His knees grew wobbly as warmth gathered in his hands. ‘Is she not worthy of mercy? Please! Help me! Why would you have protected me if you won’t help her?’

The familiar warmth suffused him again, more than ever before, and he felt a comforting weight on his shoulders, as if unseen hands gripped him and covered him with a quilt. ‘Please! Please! Please!’ Then came a sense of certainty. Of absolute trust. And then a dam burst open and the room was bathed in golden light. Tears he did not know he shed fell on her.

“Tears? Why cry for a fallen angel?” Her voice was still hoarse and she gripped his hand with all the little strength she could muster.

He saw the light fill her, her skin regained its glow and the cracks and scars go from crimson to gold, then vanish. One by one, her feathers lightened. He returned her grip and held her hand, stained by his tears.

“Oh, that’s a long story.”

“Papa, papa! Storytime, papa! You promised!”

Chuckling, Harry Potter wrestled his daughter from her perch on his head and began the valiant fight to tuck his offspring into bed. The battle was long and fierce, with both sides taking casualties, until a valiant tickle attack managed to sweep away the last of the young girl’s defenses and he covered her in her blankets as she giggled.

“I suppose I did, didn’t I?” Sitting down on the edge of her bed, he couldn’t help but be swept away by the little girl in front of him. His heart almost stuttered in his chest - he simply could not understand how he played a role in making something so perfect. At five years old, Mirielle was a whirlwind of enchanting green eyes and Veela beauty. She was a force to be reckoned with - a spitting image of her mother with a temper to match and all of his curiosity and drive.. Smiling, he leaned down to place a kiss on her forehead and tapped her nose. “So which story would you like to hear tonight?”

“Tell me the story about how the red man beat up the dark man and saved maman!”

Harry froze, one hand reaching unconsciously for his neck before he caught himself. Realizing that Mirelle had caught his sudden stiffness, he forced another smile and ran the pad of his thumb down her cheek. “That’s a long story, ma petit poule. Who told you about it?”

“Uncle George! He said there were dragons and werewolves and that the red man beat them all up!”

“Did he now,” Harry muttered dryly, resolving to have a word with the man about appropriate stories for children. “What else did Uncle George say?”

His daughter’s eyes went wide and she began an excited recounting of her weekend spent with the Weasley clan, telling him about how she and her best friend Rose had an adventure in the garden and surprised a particularly ugly gnome, and how George had found them as they fled and told them all about the adventures of the “red man.”

He ‘hmm’d’ and gasped at the appropriate times during her tale, stifling a mischievous grin as he considered mentioning George’s storytelling prowess to his wife. Fleur had maintained a reputation with the Weasleys ever since Bill had made a joking pass at her one year at Christmas. He wasn’t sure how the man managed to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, or how he managed to escape the animated Christmas ornaments for that matter, but the lesson had been received despite uproarious laughter at Bill’s expense. Angry Veela were scary.

“I think I’ll have to ask your maman before I can tell that story, little hen. It’s pretty scary, and I’m not sure it’s suited for a little chicken’s bedtime.”

His daughter glowered at him in a way so reminiscent of her mother that he could not help the smile that spread across his face, which of course only served to incense the little Veela further.

“You promised, papa! You said any story I want after dinner, and I even ate my vegetables.” Her face twisted, and she spat the last word out like a curse. He laughed and ran a hand across her wild and untamed silver hair, brushing a particularly stubborn lock behind her ear. “So you did. But it is a scary story, and you know how maman is with those.” He leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “I think she’s a little shy about being a rescued princess,” and was rewarded with a tinkling giggle in exchange.

“Oh, is that so?” The deadpan voice from behind him made him freeze, and he slowly turned to face his wife, a shaky smile spreading and a nervous chuckle escaping him. “Fleur! I, er, didn’t realize you would be home just yet.” Her already arched eyebrow raised a little higher, and she leaned against the door frame with a decidedly unimpressed look on her face.

“I thought it would be a nice surprise, yet here I find my husband spinning tall tales to my only child.” She crossed her arms and looked at him expectantly. “So? Do go on, whatever story this is must be worth the suspense.” [11:21 PM] Mirielle took advantage of his distraction to escape from her fluffy prison and beam at her mother as she happily chirped, “Papa was going to tell me about the red man and the dark man, maman!”

Fleur’s other eyebrow rose to join its twin before furrowing into a glare leveled at her husband. “Is that right,” she said levelly, in a tone that somehow managed to convey the treacherous ground he stood on. Harry’s hand rose to rub the back of his neck and he made his last attempt at salvation.

“Would you believe me if I said that George is the one who brought it up?”

“Non.”

Desperately, he looked to his offspring, the light of his life, and muttered, “Could really use some help here, little hen.” Lighting up at the chance to tell her mother about the weekend’s escapades, she began chattering away, completely oblivious to her mother’s darkening countenance.

“Il semble qu'une autre leçon s'impose,” she muttered darkly in French. Sighing, she crossed the room and took a seat on the bed next to her husband and coaxed Mirielle back underneath her blankets. “Your papa is right, little chick. Uncle George should not have brought it up, it is a very scary story.”

Mirielle looked crestfallen, and her features morphed into a pout with such force that Harry was convinced it would create world peace if weaponized. “But papa promised, maman! He made a pinky swear!” Harry just sighed, preparing himself for the outcome of delivering the bad news. Fleur stared at her daughter for a long moment, searching her features for something, before softly responding, “Well, it wouldn’t be right to break a pinky swear.”

Harry gaped at his wife for a moment before quickly sobering up. “Fleur, are you sure? She’s…”

The woman nodded, “Young, I know. But she will hear the truth one day, Harry. I would rather it be from us.” She smiled, but it had an edge of deep sadness. She cupped her daughter’s face and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, relishing the warmth and life of the girl as she inhaled the fresh scent of lavender shampoo. “I knew you would grow up someday, little chick. I wish it was not so fast.” The girl preened with the attention before turning the full intensity of her pout on her father.

“Story time, papa!”

And with those words, Harry Potter, savior of Wizarding Britain, the Red Mage of Gryffindor, folded like a wet napkin to the will of a little girl.

“Then… Well, I suppose we should start from the beginning.”

Mirielle cheered and settled on to her pillow as Fleur leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder.

“After my first year at Hogwarts, I was in the Hospital Wing when Professor Dumbledore came to visit…”

Novel are the eyes,

That look and not admire,

Willful respite to which I retire.

Comfortable are the hands,

That touch unburdened

By ardor and

Otherworldly command.

And how did I long, my love

For that it was not so

And the novelty was normal,

And the comfort was intimate.

Caresses soft as verdant leaves

Brought forth smiles radiant

Hands and fates interweaved

I woke up and you were there still

Dreams were sweet but not quite

As knowing in your embrace I'd always be

Oh lover mine

"None of that worked, you're terrible at advice, why do I even listen to you?"

Luc adopted an affronted look. "That is factually incorrect Harry, I'm very good at advice."

"My Friday night plans to the contrary." Harry grumbled morosely dropping his chin onto his bag and slumping over the library table.

"Alright mate, what happened?"

"I did what you said, down to the amount of aftershave and she just laughed and kept talking about her stupid history essay due next week."

Luc's brow furrowed, genuine confusion marring his features, as he took it in. It should have worked.

"Okay, give me the run down, walk me through it."

So Harry launched a retelling of his disastorous attempts at making a move on Fleur the night before. Luc listened attentively, up to a point, and then he was shaking his head with a dawning look of realization that ground Harry's tale to a halt.

"What?" He bit out, glaring at his friend.

"Mate, mate, mate," the blonde was shaking his head, all good humored eye rolls and smug understanding. "Of course it didn't work, you didn't tell me it was Fleur we were wooing, that'll never work on her." His tone implied that he was graciously leaving the word 'obviously' off the end of his sentence.

"I think it was implied, idiot." Harry snapped, his embarrassment and despair at the whole situation sharpening his tongue.

"Look Harry," Luc said, managing an almost serious facade for a moment. "All that stuff I told you... that was for picking up girls yaknow? Like down at the pub on a saturday night, not for her."

"I fail to see the distinction." He said flatly, honestly he could see what Luc was getting at, but he didn't want to give his friend the satisfaction. Asking for help the first time was bad enough.

"Look mate, girls out at the bar dont want to get picked up. Not really. They're out having a good time with friends, that doesn't mean they aren't open to it, but there's all kinds of creeps out there, so they won't give you the time of day unless you're the right guy. That's what I thought you were after you know? Just a casual night out. But Fleur... well..."

He trailed off and Harry nodded glumly.

"Is practically a different species, yeah, I know. I'll just crawl back into the engineering annex and die there." Luc was giving him the oddest look, one he was actually able to make note of despite his severely depressed and hopeless state.

"Look man, I can't really help you land that plane, but it's not because Fleur's out of your league or something, though that is true, it's not why I can't help."

"Because im helpless," he agreed, "you can say it."

"No dingus, its because Fleur's in love with you and I spend all my time running full sprint from that four letter word. It's beyond my wheelhouse."

"Don't be stupid." Harry dismissed, not acknowledging that bubbly elation that sprung forth in his stomach at his friends words.

"Am I?" Luc grinned, and his momentary sincerity fell away to his usual base smugness. He jerked his head out the library window and Harry followed his gaze to the beautiful woman in question.

She was walking down the hall, and as she did she pulled the gaze of nearly everyone she passed, as always. Just as usual, she was supremely unaware of her effect on the crowd, she walked, unhurried but with purpose, head held high. He had the pleasure of seeing the moment she caught sight of the two of the in the library, and her face lit up as she waved.

"Holy shit."

"I told you mate."

Fleur Delacour was scared.

She had taken her avian form in front of Harry. She averted her eyes away from him, desperately wishing that he didn’t see her like this.

Harry didn’t care. He stepped forward, slowly.

Step by step.

In a fit of panic, flames emerged from the Veela, almost touching Harry.

“‘Arry! Ze flames will ‘urt you! Don’t!”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Harry said softly, continuing to step forward. “Fleur, you are my fire.”

“Why? Why do you persist? Zere are others!”

“But they’re not you. You’re the one I desire.”

“Stop it!” Fleur cried. “I know you are only zeying zis to make me feel better! We can not be like eet zat way!”

She continued sobbing, staring down at the ground beneath her. Suddenly, she felt him in front of her, and his arms wrapped around her.

Fleur let out gasp, feeling the warmth of his body against her. She suddenly felt herself slowly transforming back into her human self.

“Believe me, Fleur, when I say…”

Harry gently cupped his hand into her chin, slowly lifting her to face him. His lips curved, ready to whisper the words that she never thought she’d hear in this lifetime as a Veela.

“I want it that way.”

Their eyes met each other’s.

A thousand words were conveyed into that one simple sentence. But Fleur knew that they shouldn’t. She gently pulled away from Harry, who had a pained expression when he saw what she was doing.

“‘Arry…” Fleur started. “We are two ‘orlds apart. I can not reach zour ‘eart as I am.”

She let out a deep breath. Her next words would change everything.

And it would break his heart.

“Especially…when you say… ‘I want eet that way.’ Because…I do not want eet zat way.”

With that, she turned around and began walking away.

Harry just stared in disbelief.

But he didn’t believe her. He knew that she was scared, that she was hurting.

So he ran after her, grabbing her hand.

“Fleur!” Harry shouted.

Fleur jumped when she felt his hand grabbing her arm. She turned around to see him staring at her with a pleading look.

“Tell me why.” He demanded. “Has it just been a heartache?”

“…”

“Was it just a mistake?”

“…”

“Tell me why, Fleur!”

She couldn’t answer him. She just continued staring past him, with an almost dazed look on her face.

Harry scoffed. He angrily let go of her and stormed off.

Fleur’s quiet voice called out to him. “I never wanted to ‘ear say you wanted eett zat way, ‘arry.”

The words made Harry freeze. He turned around, almost snarling.

“Well, now I can see that we’ve fallen apart from the way we used to be,” he growled.

However, seeing Fleur’s sad expression made him soften. He only let out a sigh before he gently said his final words to her.

“Fleur…no matter the distance…I just want you to know that you are my fire. And will be my only desire.

And with that, he began walking away.

When his words began to echo in Fleur’s head, she knew she had made a mistake.

She went after her, and she threw it back at his face.

What had she done?

No…she couldn’t let it end like this.

This time, she was running after him.

She slammed into his back, her arms wrapping around him.

“I DON’T WANT TO ‘EAR YOU SAY EET!” She cried. “I don’t want to ‘ear you say eet has been nothin but a ‘eartbreak! Nothin but a mistake!”

“I never want to ‘ear you say it…”

“Because ‘Arry…I do…”

“I do, want eet zat way.”

Inspired by

"You will tell no one of what you saw. No. One." She punctuated every word with a poke on his chest. It felt like being poked with an ice pick. He couldn't help but let the corner of his mouth pull up to a smirk.

"Do you understand?"

"Uh...No?"

She stared at him with a frown. "Are you trying to be funny?" She poked him harder this time.

He had to clench his teeth to remain unsuspecting. His smirk grew steeper.

"What's wrong with you?" Fleur demanded hotly. "Were you dropped as a kid? Do you not even speak your own language?"

"No, I do." He insisted, nodding vividly but holding on to that tense smirk.

His words seemed to do little to calm her and with a sudden step forward she jerked her hand at his throat, circling her fingers around his tie and pulled him toward her. His face was mere inches from her own. Her breath tickled his nose hair.

"Are you mocking me, English? Do you fancy a visit to the infirmary?" Her tongue lashed across the vowels like a whip, slashing across his face like an apex predator taunting their prey into making one more fatal mistake.

"No. One. Do you understand these words?"

"It's Harry." He offered dumbly.

"Quoi?" She jerked slightly. It wasn't the reply she expected. "What do I care for your silly name?"

"I'm merely being polite," he strained against her harsh grip on his tie. "I'm English. But I'm also...Harry."

She studied him and noticed a sense of defiance in his eyes, albeit small and more akin to an ember of spirit. She then loosened her grip on him to which he sighed a breath of relief.

"Harry, the English, then?" She summarised, her face a mirror of boredom. "So you have a name, you are English but seem incapable to follow...instructions?"

"Yes," he provided first before realising his mistake. "Or...No?"

She schooled her feature. At least that's what he thought she did. Her skin had just seemed to move.

"Your...face," he worded slowly. "It moved again. Just like before."

And again her fury made its presence known, letting the air around her dance.

"I don't know how your people have remained alive this long, but surely they can't be as foolish as you are proving to be?" Her grip on his tie tightened and pulled him up toward her again.

"What game are you playing?" She asked once more. "What is it you want?"

The question was warranted. Why did he play the fool with her? Why did he always play the fool? With her? He licked his lip and swallowed.

"sp...ti..w..ou," he murmured.

"Quoi? Say it again. Louder," she instructed, jerking at his tie again.

"To spend time with you!" he yelled at her.

His eyes were closed as he did spell itt out for her. What else could he do? It was certain death. He didn't want to die and let the last thing he remembers to be her.

So he waited. And waited. And waited. He waited for a curse. For the pain. For the end.

But it didn't come. It never came.

Instead he feltt his tie slacken. He felt the ground under his feet. He heard the sharp intake of a wet breath.

Slowly, he opened one eye, and then he opened the other.

His sight needed a few moments to clear up. It was all shapes and colours until a few flinks wiped the moisture from his vision.

She looked different. She didn't look like herself. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth was covered by her hand. And her cheeks, a deep scarlet.

Before he could say or do anything, she quickly pulled herself together and snapped at him.

"Forget what I said about telling no one. You are shameless. You silly boy. Shameless, arrogant...," her voice failed her as she huffed and puffed. "Time...with...me?"

She huffed again, only this time with a look of indignation.

A moment later, she whirled around and sped off into the distance and into the shadow of the evening leaving him to look at the last place he’d seen her silhouette.

What he couldn’t hear anymore or could see any longer was the many shakes of her head and the teeth that bit her lip.

What a silly, silly boy. Aiming higher than his station should permit. But that face. So earnest. So honest. How could I not?