Flowerpot

He enters the shop, the jingle of the door bell rings his arrival. Her eyes move lightning fast to his green. The white of her teeth visible behind the soft red of her lips. His breath hitches. She approaches from behind the bar, a note in her hand and a pencil clasped between her fingers. He waits, listening to the soft steps of her sandals. The loud voices dulled by her elegant evasion of nodding heads and moving elbows of regulars. Then silence. The lights dimmed. Or seemed to dim. He couldn't quite tell. Her hair grew brighter, her eyes blue crystals bathed in tender ink of a Fountain pen. "Hi," he finally manages without sounding hoarse. "Salut," she responds with shy grin. "Back again, Monsieur?" "Yea-yes," he chuckles nervous, the hand rubbing at his neck. Her eyes studied him, absorbed his appearance. "You look nice," she comments carefully. "Are you per'aps- perhaps meeting someone?" Caught in the moment, he nodded before shaking his head and hand self-consciously. "No-no, I'm her for yo-I mean...I'm here because it's a nice place." Unsure whether she'd heard his faux-pas, he tried to seem confident, giving her a calm smile that hid his teeth. "Please," she placed a hand on his shoulder, the touch electrifying. "I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. You must forgive me, I can be so stupidly direct." "It's alright, I was just thinking of yo-yoghurt." He froze. The world stood still. The beat of his heart slow but undeniably twisting in embarrassment. Then he heard a giggle and turned his head toward the silky sweet sound. Her blue eyes gazed at him with mirth, understandably used to such behaviour in front of her. Because of her, undoubtedly. "I must strike you as a fool, aren't I?" He admitted, his eyes turning down to look at the cutlery on the table, hoping to reach for the knife and end his life right here before he made a bigger fool than he already was. "Possibly," he heard her admit, his heart sank. "But I like you nonetheless, Monsieur."

The sun dwindled low on the horizon as the raven haired man opened the gate, making his way up the gravel path through the garden. He stopped before the door of the quaint little cottage, his hand coming up to knock once, twice, three times. He barely had to wait a moment, the door pulling open, as the scarred face of Bill Weasley came into view. The redhead smiled at the man in front of the door, his voice warm, “Hello there Harry. Long day?” Harry Potter chuckled sheepishly, running his hand through his messy locks, “You know it. Sorry I’m so late.” Bill patted his shoulder, “It's no biggie. We’re always happy to have that little bundle of sunshine around. You know that.” He turned, calling out over his shoulder, “Fae! Your father’s here!” An excited squeal sounded out from inside the house, a silvery haired blur streaking past Bill to slam into Harry’s stomach, small arms squeezing as hard as they could, “Papa!” Harry’s face lit up in a smile. He crouched down as his daughter scrambled up onto him, his arms wrapping around her as he hoisted her up, chuckling as she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I love you too sweetie,” he said, lightly pecking her nose as she giggled in delight, “Now… were you good? You didn't give Uncle Bill and Aunt Elena any trouble, did you?”

She shook her head enthusiastically, green eyes alive with indignation, “No papa! I was good!” Harry turned to the doorway, quirking an eyebrow as he looked at Bill, who had an arm wrapped protectively around his wife’s waist, Elena having arrived since Fae’s eager reunion, her swollen belly visible in the red cardigan she wore. The pair smiled as they shook their heads. “Not in the least,” Elena assured, reaching out to tap the little girl’s nose, “She was just a wonderful angel, weren't you?” “Thank you so much for looking after her today,” Harry said apologetically, “I should have been here earlier but..” Bill shook his head, smiling, “Work gets demanding sometimes, I get it. It was our pleasure.” “Say thank you, Fae,” Harry said gently, his smile broadening again as his daughter waved, “Thank you Uncle Bill! Thank you Aunty Ellie! Bubye!” The eldest Weasley son and his wife waved at the father and daughter duo as they made their way down the path, watching as they stepped outside the gate, Fae giving one last, jaunty wave as they popped away.

He appeared in muggle London, no particular destination in mind. His brain told him he should be in tatters, like discarded rag, but he just felt lost. So, he stumbled through the streets, ignoring the people going about their evening. At least he had the sense to transfigure his clothes.

“I can’t do this anymore, Ginny. I just…can’t.”

As he made his way deeper into the city, further away from the wound still festering in his chest, he eyed a pub tucked away in the corner, its neon “Open” sign and interior glow the only indication it was still in business. He didn’t normally drink during the week, but it would be hours before Ron or Hermione attempted to contact him, he was sure. With a sigh, he crossed the street.

“You and I, we’re not going to work. All we do is fight, make up, and then fight again. It’s over, Ginny.”

He stepped through the door, surprised at the number of people within, the exterior giving no indication this was a popular establishment. The regular crowd paid him no mind, preferring the solitude of their drinks to the looks of a stranger. That suited him just fine. He had only gotten a few paces in when he stopped.

There, at the end of the bar, was Fleur.

And she did not look well.

Tentatively, he walked over to her, sitting down slowly in the stool next to her. She didn’t react, content to stare at her half empty glass of wine. Correction, mostly empty glass of wine, and judging by the makeup stains on her cheek, not her first.

“Hey-” he started, but she gave an exasperated groan.

“For the third time, I’m no…Harry?” she said, stopping her tirade as she took in his features, recognition forming on her face. It’d been a while since he’d seen her, a few years at least, not out of any malice or spite, just simple happenstance. She looked good, more mature, but just as radiant as he remembered her being during the war.

Which made him all the more concerned by her current state of being.

Her hair was a mess, wildly out of control, and her eyes were red from crying, the faint stains on her cheek having clued him into that already. Suddenly, she narrowed her eyes.

“Did Bill send you?” she asked with venom in his voice. He shook his head just as the bartender came over.

“Whatever she’s having,” he said as the man behind the bar got to work. Looking back to her, she was downing the rest of her glass, placing it roughly on the bar, a curt nod to the bartender, a sign she wanted a refill. Neither said anything as a glass was placed in front of Harry, red wine filling its contents before the same was done to Fleur’s.

“Do you mind if I ask why you’re drinking?” he questioned. She raised an eyebrow.

“Do you mind if I ask why you’re in a muggle pub on a Tuesday night?” she replied. Harry shrugged.

“Ginny and I called it quits,” he said, a small gasp escaping her lips. She moved to put a hand on his forearm, but he shrugged her off. He didn’t want anyone’s pity. “It’s fine. I think we’ve both known for a while that this was coming.” He couldn’t decide if that was true or he was merely convincing himself of it.

“Was it that bad?” she asked. He shrugged again.

“Not at first, no. It’s just, we’re too different, Ginny and I, and we weren’t good for each other. Like fire and gasoline. In the end, we’d have just made each other miserable. So, we ended it tonight.” He looked over at Fleur. “What about you?” he asked, gesturing to the glass.

“Bill and I are headed the same way, I suspect,” she said, sadness in her voice. “We were young and in love, but most of all, young and stupid. Not so young, not so stupid anymore. Not so in love, either, I think.” Harry nodded, keeping his mouth shut, he suspected she didn’t want his pity, just as he didn’t want hers. With nothing else to do, he raised his glass.

“To being young and stupid,” he said, causing her to give a humorless laugh, clinking her glass against his as they both drank.

After months of preparation, the operation was finally underway. The Bulgarian Ministry of Records stood empty before him, completely unprotected. With some galleons to pay for expenses, their local contact was currently entertaining key facility staff on an overnight hunting trip in Eastern Germany. More galleons had bought a detailed ward scheme for the building.

Now, all that remained was the actual entry. Striding up to the weak point in the alarm system along the southeastern wall of the building, Harry carefully and slowly withdrew a runestone from his pocket and tapped it onto the wall. With a ripple, the wards collapsed. There would be some fixing to do before sunrise, but that wasn’t his problem.

A quick hop up and through the conveniently (and deliberately) unlatched window, and Harry was striding down the hallway towards his destination. He took quick steps, mentally consulting the floor plan he had long-since memorized. Weaving through the maze-like hallways of the building, he finally arrived in the Criminal Records archive. Now, the British Ministry would know exactly which Death Eaters the Bulgarians were still protecting.

Opening the third filing cabinet from the left, second row from the door, Harry began carefully rummaging through for the correct folder to duplicate, quickly plucking it out from among its brethren. Just as he was about the replace the original where it belonged, he heard a footfall behind him. Carefully drawing his wand from his pocket and swiveling on his heels, he turned to face the intruder. Long, familiar blonde hair and piercing blue eyes greeted him, as Fleur Delacour stood, frozen, halfway into the room, with her own wand in hand. Her eyes flicked from him, down to the open filing cabinet, then back to him again. With a slight smile, she approached with careful, measured steps. Reaching his side, she carefully extended her wand, and tapped the folder still in his hand, casting her own duplication charm. Dumbfounded, Harry could do nothing but finish replacing the original, and slide the drawer back shut.

Placing a finger over her full, beautiful lips, Fleur’s eyes flicked towards the door. Together, they returned to the hallway, and Harry could feel Fleur’s eyes on the back of his head as he double-checked that the wards had been properly restored. Turning to face her once more, he gave a sharp nod and tossed his head to indicate which direction he had to go. Giving him a nod in return, Fleur gave a similar nod in the opposite direction, then stepped forward to clap a hand on his shoulder, before striding off down the hall.

Quickly extracting himself from the building, Harry made his way away from the scene of the crime into the brisk Budapest night, records safely in hand. But, as he shrunk the folder to shove it in his coat pocket, he found said pocket already occupied. Withdrawing the small scrap of office stationery, Harry unfolded it to read the message within:

Harry,

My handlers were curious why the Records building was unoccupied tonight, but we could not let the opportunity slide. It seems we have some sorting out to do. Meet me at Szimpla Kert tomorrow at 9 o’clock. I will buy the drinks.

Fleur

Well, it seemed as if this job only got more interesting from here.

"Avada Kedavara!"

"Nnnnnooooooo!"

Fleur Delacour had just seen the unthinkable. Her love, her best friend, the man that she would spend the rest of her life with collapse to the ground in front of her. He had just been struck down by the Dark Lord, who was now cackling with laughter. Fleur felt her rage explode as her Veela self wanted justice, vengeance. It didn't matter if she lived or died at that point.

In her transformed state, Fleur vaporized any Death Eater she saw, eviscerated any she could with her talons and used her metallic-like feathers as instruments of death to cut down any in her path. Even the Dark Lord perished in a combination of Veela fire, talons and bladed feathers.

As the battle wound down, Fleur dropped down next to her beloved and held him for as long as she could. Fleur realized she did not have long to live as she felt the blood drain from her body. I love you, Mon Amour, Fleur thought to herself as she felt herself pass on.

Harry had heard of Fleur Delacour. How could he not. There was scarce else upon every males lips from the moment Beauxbaton’s carriages set foot on Hogwarts greens. It wasn’t until the selection of champions however, that he first laid eyes on her.

She was not at all what he was expecting. Large doe eyes shielded by the largest pair of glasses Harry had ever seen. Piercing innocence shone through her lenses, a contradiction, Harry thought but no less was accurate. It wasn’t until she stood upon her selection, tucking into herself with slight self deprecation that he saw the curvaceous body that was the conversation of the castle.

But it was the eyes that held Harry’s attention. Blue in a way the sky surely was envious.

"Omg I love your glasses!" They burst, uncharacteristically for them. With nary a thought fingers find the rim of beautiful lenses, centimetres away from wide, mesmerized eyes. The rose sprouting at the intimate contact breaking the capricious bout.

"Oh.' said the other, an interjection filled with unspoken questions, but also, with subdued glee of its own. "Thanks, I guess." They said with a small loopy smile, eyes lowering, embarrassed at their own pleasure.

The movement made free of locks that were equal to none in colour, making them brush agile fingers.

Another blush, another smile.

"Ahem." A third interjected, and the closed off world they had lived on for those unmeasurable seconds disappeared. The world around them started to move again.

Harry's smile turned down under the weight promised danger, but Fleur's suffered not of such a weight, and as he looked at that rémanent of a world made, they both knew.

It had not been destroyed, it merely flee, hidden on the most recondite parts of the chambers of what was now a single heart.

Broken from their reverie, Dumbledore slamming Harry into the awards case was shocking. The release of her Allure was immediate and unconscious. Even the great Albus Dumbledore was not unaffected. Graceful as was her nature, she gently pulled Harry back to rest on his own feet, straightening his glasses in a way which nearly brought upon them once more the révenant they had parted from.

“Thank you,” their eyes holding a million conversations, countless connections contained within two words.

(A take on love at first sight at the selection of the champions, or “Love Through Untinted Glasses”)

The scene opens, and here she was, Fleur Delacour looking at Harry Potter as he enters her world.

He looks at her with those warm, emerald eyes and smiles.

She could see his hand quiver in anticipation for her own hand on his. Fleur slowly reaches for his shaking hand, and laughs as it began to shake even more.

He laughs with her.

The next scene of their story flips through her mind. A memory.

Harry sat next to her. They watched the lake’s sunset. A usual activity for them but this time laced with intentions.

She could feel the tension, her eyes darting forward and downward as she tried her best to maintain her gaze at the sunset. Harry’s hand landed on top of hers and squeezed while his gaze was still on the horizon.

Her heart was almost his.

Another scene plays in her head, he was right in front of her again. Just like the moment she first met him, but this time he tells her, it will all pass.

He tells her, to eat well and to sleep well.

Because it will all pass.

He tells Fleur, “You will end up sleeping well again, Fleur. I know that.”

She closes her eyes, unable to linger.

Her memory flies to yet another moment.

He was looking at her again, in their place in the world. He looks at her straight in the eye, warm and filled with emotions.

He moves to kiss her, his eyes set on her lips before they closed. Their lips touch as she wrapped her arms around his.

She knows she can’t just levitate without an incantation, an intent, a spell and yet here they were, lips locked and airborne. [12:09 PM] The memory stops, and rewinds. Instead of him reaching to her, he moves back, and the memory relives her of him saying it will pass.

“You deserve to be happy,” he finally says.

She wanted to shout to the void, at the memory, at everything. She wanted him to hear what her heart has been dying to say.

“Please don’t say that,” she whispers, remembering once again. “It hurts to hear that.”

Her mind fleets to one of their first dates. An Auror and a Curse breaker, going on a dinner date.

She remembers heading home, hand in hand. But as she reached for the door, she dares to look back.

He makes a face and she rushes into him, like a child and hugs him, like there is no tomorrow.

It’s only their first date.

Their second, she remembers. They play wizard’s chess. He loses and so he challenges her to a game of cards. She loses. Unable to take her loss, they play and play again.

All night. No one should have had that much energy to put up with her. But he did. He showed her that he had the patience, that he can love her.

That night, he told her, he’d love her.

His words came ringing back as she remembers him leaving her apartment for the last time.

She whispers to herself, “You told me you’d love me. So, what is this?”

The scene ends.

“You’ll never know. What you caused me to feel. You’ll never know the feelings I’ve had,” she says as the wind blew through her apartment.

“I’ve always had a fascination with the moon, you know?”, she whispered, dirty blond hair shimmering in the soft light of the moon she stared at, waving gently in the cold night breeze.

“I suppose it may have been because I was named after it. Luna. Both the moon itself, and its embodiment. The idealisation of a silent watcher, a goddess, so close yet so far, consistent across the years, across continents, spanning lives, cultures and beliefs”, she continued, voice soft, heedless of his sharp emerald eyes, watching her as he sat by her side, silent, listening.

“Perhaps because, a long, long time ago, me and mummy and daddy would clamber up to the roof of the Rookery, and just watch the new moon cross the sky. Or maybe because it was only companion I had on those night after mummy had her accident, sitting alone on the bed as daddy tried to drown his shattering world in the kitchen below”, she mused, legs kicking over the open air below as they sat on the parapet of the Astronomy tower.

His hands crept along the bare inches of stone between them, intertwining her dainty fingers in his larger ones, a soft smile blooming across her features, as her grip tightened, holding onto his hand like a silent lifeline, her silvery eyes glistening as she stared at her namesake.

“I’ve always wanted to visit it, you know? Go there, see what it's like, see what the world looks from so far away”, she remarked, “I always thought it was impossible. Magic couldn't cross the stars. Yet… yet muggles had done it. With no magic, no precedent, just determination. And…. it makes me want to go there all the more.”

Luna glanced at him, her silvery eyes, usually so distant, meeting his emerald ones, burning with uncertainty, “But…if i went…Would you come with me?” Harry smiled softly at his best friend, one of his closest companions as he held their intertwined hands up between them, raven locks swaying in the cold night breeze, “I’ve already told you Luna. I would follow you anywhere.”

“As I write this, twelve of my colleagues have already taken their own lives. I intend to follow their example. But the things I saw-” a convulsive scribble. “They must never happen again. Branches of magic so foul their exploration defies words. ‘Evil’ is not enough to describe what I saw. Should you seek to emulate what I describe, may you be damned. This is what we found on the dread island off Dùn Èideann.” The urgent, terrified scribbles were littered with ink splatters and scratches, like the author had broken many nibs penning it. “Dùn Èideann is Scottish gaelic for Edinburgh,” Lily sent. “That’s as good a place to start.” Harry nodded numbly, paging through Sarella’s journal. “Tattered cloaks of blackened human flesh…Oubliettes: narrow, deep, dark holes no wider than a man standing upright, welded black grates overhead, with holes in the sides that led to the Dementor hive, so the foul things might torment the thing. The one inside, it was still alive somehow. The dementors had done things to it. Enough that we could not be certain of the human’s gender…And the bloody, blackened manacles jingled together like some grotesque wind chime, bound to a living, naked man. His irises were gone, the eyes were terrified whites surrounding a jagged black pupil…Manacled to a stone plinth. The woman was screaming, struggling against her restraints. Her abdominal cavity was open, large spider legs splayed out over her sides. A faint chittering could be heard over the cracking, squelching sound of her organs being eaten…The dementors would not fall even to the Aramaic Death Curse. Johnsen was foolish enough to summon Fiendfyre. Similar results. …Evidence that Ekrizdis made sport of letting the victims try to escape. Dementors would swoop down on anyone who tried to enter the water, driving them out to sea, abducting them once their stamina ran out. My partner touched the waterline on accident, investigating skeletons chained to rings at low-tide. I cannot get Marinella’s screams out of my head. Her death was not quick. …Surrounded by patroni at all times, it scarcely keeps them at bay. The dread terror the things emanate radiates past even the strongest spirit-guardian. We keep finding living victims who should not be alive…Limbs backwards…missing too many organs… …I wish I had perished before we ventured past the upper levels. Azkaban is only the topmost layer. Beneath the ground level, stairs lead down to further labs…Eerie carvings on the walls depicting the foulest, most unnatural magicks, forbidden for good reason…Can barely tell the victims were human once. The experiments grow more gruesome, the air is stale and tainted. The inner walls are thin, only a single layer of stone between us and the Nest. Dementors scratch endlessly against the outside… …Dark holes and chasms emanating foul breath, decay and rot. Armstrong ventured too close to a passageway. His patronus was between him and the darkness. Even the patronus-light could not penetrate the darkness. Scabby, blackened hands snatched him into the abyss. They were not the hands of a dementor. Something else is down here. The stone blocks are all bloodstained. Where has all the blood come from? It’s far too much for the estimated number of victims Ekrizdis took. I don’t know how long this has been going on for. Ekrizdis may not have been the first wizard of Azkaban. The inner walls are gone. The triangular shaft stretches all the way to the sky, but it cannot be seen. Darius sent his patronus into the shaft. I leaned over and looked up and down. The silvery light reveals perhaps thirty feet before the unnatural darkness obscures the shaft. Looking down, a sense of unnatural dread immediately seizes me. The walls of the shaft below are smooth, oily black stone. The shaft should be open on all sides to the many, many levels, but it is smooth and unbroken as far as I can see in either direction. I have a feeling I could fly straight up on a broomstick forever, and never reach the sky. I felt an unnatural compulsion to jump down. Either my eyes are playing tricks on me, or the darkness is somehow– seething. I teetered on the edge and lost my balance, but Darius caught me. I need to leave this place. We’re surely a mile deep by now…Don’t think we can go any deeper. I’m hearing things, I think. Chanting in an unfamiliar language, rattling chains, the sound of hoarfrost cracking. Paranoia consumes even the most level-headed of those of us who remain. The stairs down do not end. Our supplies are running out. I am relieved. Thirty of us went to explore the lower levels. Seven of us remain. Even with wizard-spaced bags to carry provision, the food is spoiling unnaturally quickly. Bread crumbles into grey sand, fruit and vegetables shrivel and turn putrid. We begin to ascend. Something beckons me deeper, appealing to my basest instincts. I feel as though I am being summoned. Each step upwards feels twice as hard as it should be. One of us turned back. We left her. Six of us remain…The passages are changing. We descended counter-clockwise the whole way, a straight helix directly downwards. Now, we must hunt for the ascending staircase on each level. It is time consuming, and supplies run dangerously low. The Aquamenti charm produces blackened, tainted water…Darius split off with two others to search quicker for the stairs up on each level. Whichever team found them first, we called to the other. Seven levels up, Darius’s team vanished. They had the supplies. Three of us remain. Me, Amelia, and Horus. This place has taken its toll on them. Their faces are drawn and gaunt, there is a spark of madness in their eyes. Their skin is pallid and dirty. I imagine I look no better…None of us can sleep. Weariness drags at us like leaden weights, but the nightmares would surely be worse…Amelia broke her leg badly slipping on the steps. We had to amputate immediately. Some black, necrotic flesh was spreading up her thigh. Horus conjured her a crutch…I lost count of how many levels we ascended, but I know it has been more than we went down…Despair feels both natural and unnatural…feel less hunger and thirst than we ought to. Horus theorized we were so close to death that starvation and thirst were unlikely to be the cause of our death. I agree. The more my body shuts down, the more potent the draw, the longing to turn back and go deeper. Time cannot be counted beneath Azkaban. The three of us escaped. They say we were gone four days. It felt like years. I write this twenty-eight years after my birth, with wrinkly, liver-spotted hands, fallow, stringy, limp grey hair, and the beginnings of cataracts. If you visit Hell, DO NOT GO DOWN. …My last entry. I met with Horus one last time. We are but pale reflections of our innocent selves before venturing Down. Amelia passed. She Obliviated herself. The spell erased everything but her time in Azkaban. The healers did not try to stop her from killing herself. …I am afraid of death. But I cannot continue living. Even now, under the sun in my parents’ yard, that paranoia and longing tugs at me to return to Azkaban, to venture back down. Only Horus understands me, and he too, feels the draw.

A more edited and revised version of an original slam-poem I wrote titled: Nothing To Be Done.

Nothing to be done.

The laundry on the floor piles higher still as the dishes in the sink collect into societies, days and faces blur to a stream of pointless niceties. Hours blend into weeks and years, but time is money so I spend them as quick as I can, wishing for a single friendly soul to meet me where I am.

Where did purpose go?

Down with the last dose of reality, sliding into place like a subway car door on the way to a job, the kind of money that you know isn't worth your time if it wasn't the only thing holding back the need to rob, 

and steal, and make morals a maybe. Ethics don't feed babies. 

So I choke down the fury and savor the taste of fantasy, wishing I could make 86 Postal a present 20s reality. Tried boxing to get the rage out of me, but it cannot be just another wasted effort while waiting for the next order of calamity. 

Plagues every day and no Moses in sight, seven years of darkness with no one to strike a light but the people, ‘cept we don’t have a thing to burn. Our kids gotta read, so to the flame our bodies yearn. 

As they light my martyr’s torch I look up into the sky. My daughter learns her letters while my son learns how to cry. The people shout my name in thanks and the rich laugh as I die, I clench my teeth in spite and picture camels going through a needle’s eye.

Life like a crime scene white-collar and proper, had their lawyers explain it all and charge me every dollar. Speaking slow and smiling as they scam my life away, leave me breathing in the gutter so I can work another day.

Waiting, wasting, wanting for something I never knew I wasn't supposed to have. Watching wall street burn and wanting to laugh, but it sticks in my throat as I remember why it's not ok. That hedge-fund money was my Daddy's 401k.

Where did purpose go?

Into quiet lonely nights wondering what there is that's worth spending money on, out of childhood memories and into the twenty-four-hour newsreel burned into my brain alongside the guilt and the shame from how the president told me I killed the planet as I breathe in bottled air, made in China.

Nothing to be done.

I spend the days as fast as I can wishing the world would slow down. "No refunds," God said. Never take the deal when the dealer's inside your head.

This promised land is a scam, nothing here but the opportunity to live like sardines in a can and I can't, but I can't leave either. Not with the gate closed on fate and sealed by elected deceivers.

"You're doing the devil's work," the man said as I handed him his triple shake with extra whipped cream. I crack a grin and nod as he drives off in a cloud of pollutants and steam, 

Thinking to myself that I'd gladly work for angels if they were hiring; but they're all busy off being inspiring and firing and making a show of being high and mighty and always in the right. Just another devil, better at hiding in plain sight.

Why bother?

"Do what makes you happy," said the billionaire as I clock into my shift. "Pay your bills," says my landlord. "Call the suicide hotline," says Google as I search for a poison to kill the rat that ate my cereal. Nothing feels real.

Not the news, not my paycheck, not the dreams I leave behind in my bed, nothing save the Greek king's sword the Boomers left hanging over my head Not even denial can save me from the dread, watching prices tick higher as the dollar ticks down. Like a thread, pulled tight as a wire, like walking a tightrope and looming ever higher, have you ever known the fear of having just enough to lose? 

Escapism, I say, that’s the way to go. What’s it matter if we’re all dead anyway, so plug me in the matrix let me reap what I have sown for once. Just once. Then I’ll die happy cause machines don’t charge taxes. So what if ice caps are melting and half the planet’s building nukes, it takes a lot more than that to get me shaking in my boots. I just don’t care, you see. Daddy was a smoker, see, so I wasn’t gonna make it past thirty anway. Secondhand cancer costs more than I can pay.

It's a competitive world built on capital insight, fight or fight no flight, just the kind of scars seen under blacklight. But it's alright, my philosophy teacher said meaning is meaningless anyway. I want to say he's a fool, just another tool, but he's not. He's got something to say, but he's wrong, I'll do it my way if it kills me. So it killed me.

There's nothing I can do.

"Save a child, adopt today!" but orphanages charge more than I'm worth and uncle Sam takes twice as much as it is. This dirt ain't worth giving my kids. 

In a fairer world, they would never have been born at all. But they're here, and I'm here; we're looking back as the end draws near, what do we see? What's left, what's become of me?

This my empire, like sand, legacy like smoke in the hand, no supply to meet the growing demand. I'm just one man.

Not a single good deed in the world.

I tripped over a pile of laundry in the dark, but I'm too tired now. I'll clean it up tomorrow.

Harry extricated himself from the mangled Anglia. “Quickly, Ron. This thing is pissed!” He cackled and monkeyed down the writhing branches. Ron peered out the passenger door queasily. “I think I’ll stay right here, mate-” A massive branch reared back, curling into a shape that very much resembled a fist. “Bloody hell,” “Accio, Ron’s robes!” Harry called. Dragged by his lapels, Ron tumbled through the air. “Arresto momentum.” he jerked in the air, orange hair sticking up in odd directions. Panting, Ron grinned. “Thanks mate, thought I was a goner.” Then he went very still, and the frown turned into an expression of utmost dread, focused on a point just above Harry’s shoulder.

“Potter. Weasley,” Snape drawled, disdain dripping from every syllable. “The headcount at Hogsmeade station came up suspiciously short two, and then I spotted Granger absent her imbecilec entourage. You cannot imagine my gleeful anticipation at being the one to arrive here first. I had the displeasure of spending seven years coexisting with your blowhard father, Potter, and yet in all that time, never did I witness him do something even a tiny portion as moronic and ill-advised as flying a madman’s hobby car to Hogwarts. Detention, Potter, Weasley. Detention for every single weekend evening until-”

“Severus!” a familiar voice called from the candlelit castle, striding across the grounds. “I thought to inform you-”

“The headcount came up short,” Snape drawled. “Yes, here stands the reasons why, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore paused and examined the smoldering blue car, driving circles around the Whomping Willow as it flailed and pounded the ground in a vain attempt to reduce the offending vehicle to scrap. He glanced at Ron and Harry.

“What an ingenious alternate route to get to Hogwarts!” he exclaimed, twinkling.
Snape stared at Dumbledore in astonishment. “They could have been seen.”
“Er, dad put an invisibility switch on,” Ron offered. “We left it on all the way.”

Dumbledore hummed and nodded. “Nevertheless, the Statute of Secrecy is not to be toyed with, Messrs Weasley and Potter. Might I ask you what inspired your- innovative mode of transportation?”

Ron nodded. “Yeah, the arch to the platform closed on us, Harry reckons it might be a house elf-”

The Headmaster held up a hand. “Much as I would like to hear the rest of this story – and I would like to, if either of you wish to relay your suspicions over a bowl of lemon drops – you are both fine young men capable of clever problem solving, and I suspect alternatives to your risky venture might have presented themselves if you had given them proper consideration.”

“What’s the point of childhood if not to make memories for a lifetime?” Harry smiled innocently.

Ron, who was trying in vain to flatten his hair into a semblance of order, put on a sheepish smile.

Dumbledore broke into a smile. “Excellent point!” Snape made a noise of disgusted outrage in his throat. “Ten points to Gryffindor for a creative and exciting application of problem solving, and a wonderful new Hogwarts legend that will surely inspire many imitators.”

The Potions Professor turned and stalked off wordlessly, robes billowing all the way up to Hogwarts’s grand doors. He threw them both open and as he passed through, flicked his wand in the air. The portals slammed shut with a resounding boom.

“Professor Snape would make an excellent Drama coach,” Dumbledore sighed. “Sadly, I learned not to pitch the idea to him anymore after that month I was unhappily clean shaven. Come along, boys. If we’re quick, we’ll all get back before the good dishes are gone.” He rubbed his hands in anticipation.

His rough fingers dug into her soft, pale flesh in a firm, yet lovingly gentle grip. A soft, sensual groan emerged from her throat as she luxuriated in his touch, his hold, his possessive hands on her skin.

His grip slackened for a moment, fingers lifting from her form, her breath emerging in short, ragged gasps, before they came down again, pressing against her skin.

A wave of pleasure shot through her, a moan tearing its way past her lips, “Oh god yes!”

He continued his ministrations, his tanned skin a sharp contrast against her luscious form, as she panted, groaned, and moaned ever more sensually under his touch.

“Oh Merde! Yes! 'Arry! Don't Stop! Harder!”

Her mind was lost in bliss, half lidded eyes barely coherent of their surroundings as mindless French babble spilled from her lips, slipped in among moans and ragged demands of 'harder, faster, more and giveittomedontstopohgodpleaseyes'

All she felt, all she wanted, all she needed, was his touch.

His hands stopped, pulling away, and she whined softly.

“Umm…. Fleur?”

Pale blue eyes met emerald green as she turned her head to look at him, tongue flicking out to lick her lips as she took in the sight of him, most of his glorious form on show in the shorts he wore.

“Yes 'Arry?”

“Could you… stop with the moaning please? You’re kind of making a scene...”

She blinked, glancing around them, realising that yes, people were indeed staring at the couple, at her, as she lay on her front on the towel they’d spread out on the warm sands of the Rio de Janeiro beach, the sea breeze whipping through her silvery blonde hair as her boyfriend massaged her bikini clad form.

“Uhhh… Whoops”, she muttered, chuckling sheepishly as she ducked her head, face burning with shame. An awkward silence descended over the pair, broken when she spoke up once more.

“You’re… still going to do my front though, right?”

They had lost the war, only able to run and hide as Britain and then the rest of the world collapsed around them. Years on the run eventually led them to taking on even greater risks and making even more outlandish plans to take down Voldemort. Eventually, Fleur had gotten the idea of how to send someone back in time. Much discussion ensued and they settled that they would put the plan into action.

Harry awoke to find himself in a dingy bar in front of the most beautiful woman he ever saw. Blonde, blue eyed, and a smirk that made him feel funny things. Just keeping his bearings and not staring at the woman was taking all his effort as his head throbbed in a staccato of pain.

"'Arry! Good you made it. We have to brief you before we can send you back. Viens mon beau petit héros, we are in the back."

Harry got up from the chair and was half dragged by the blonde woman behind the bar and through the employee doors. There he found someone who looked like Ron’s older brother Charlie and Hermione’s mom.

“Mrs. Granger? What are you doing here?”

“Ha, toldya he wouldn’t know what was going on. Harry, it’s us!” The Weasley man barked and smirked at Mrs. Granger.

“He obviously didn’t look outside and probably was staring at his amant's rear end,” giggled Mrs. Granger as she watch him blush brightly. He didn’t follow and tried to figure out what an amant was, but couldn’t think of much beyond it sounding French.

“Can someone tell me what’s going on? I don’t really know any of Ron’s older brother all that well.”

“Ah, oui. Tom Riddle won ‘Arry. He succeeded and we had to resort to extreme measures,” the blonde from earlier grabbed his hand and bent over in front of him to meet his eyes. “We had no real choice but figure out a way to send some information to prevent that.”

“Yes, we figured out a way to alter the past by circumventing the way that the information is passed through time by-.”

“Hermione, we talked about this, he doesn’t need a lecture on theory, but instead needs a gist. Harry, look, mate, we brought you to the future through magic to tell you where all the places that your old friend Tom hid other things like the Diary. He put another no-no on the name for those things, so just get the books Hermione tells you to buy and you’ll get enough of an idea.”

“Hermione? Ron?”

“Right, let’s get this over with, mon étalon. It all started…” —

“Okay, so if I do make it back to the appropriate time I should be able to find all of Tom’s things before he’s made any new ones. I also know that I can reach out to the French ministry for asylum for Sirius which will cause the British Ministry to deal with it fairly. Anything else?”

“Yes. Harry, we know that you are particularly inept with at magical travel, so just prepare for some thing like that after your arrival. Think of it as a much worse floo trip,” muttered the older Hermione. It was still strange to see Hermione her mother’s age, but he was glad she was here. He doubted he would have trusted anyone else if they tried to explain this all.

“Bugger, how am I even getting back anyways?” Asked Harry as he looked over the trio.

“Oh, that’s all Fleur, she figured out that you could just use a time turner and some maths. Just have to get you in position so that you end up in your closet until your past self disappears into the future.”

“How does that even-“

“See Ron, I knew he would need some theory,” smirked Hermione at Ron, “it’s all about how time turner’s work. Time turners turn back the time of the one operating it. Meaning that you’d travel back in time objectively, as you have traveled forwards in time but only experienced one and a half hours of actual subjective time. It’s all wonderfully simple once you take into account the frame of reference and translate the time vector into the subjects reference basis and then-“

“I think that is enough Hermione. If you could let me have a moment with ‘Arry?”

“Sure, come on Ron.” As the pair walked away Fleur stepped closer to Harry and gave him a list.

“You must get all the items on the list and show up at the time and place.”

“So I should buy a Dungeons and Dragon fiend folio, a 25 kilo bag of diatomaceous earth, and a red beret and croissant and show up on the 3rd of April 1993 on your balcony?”

“Oui, if you do, I’ll be yours. Don’t worry it’ll all make sense that day, mon rayon de soleil en bottes de pluie.”

“I-, Yeah, okay might as well. Anything else I should know?”

“Je te retrouverai dans le passé, mon amour. Take care and follow the plan,” with a kiss Fleur then put a time turner in his hand before sashaying towards the door.

“I would not risk taking too long, I would hate to see you stuck here,” she gave him a wink before leaving Harry alone in the room.

“Might as well.” With a quick triple turn of the little artifact, Harry was gone.

Waning wisps of moonlight fell over the Danube like a shattered mirror. Peeking through the clouds to cover the water’s surface, coated and hued in the ethereal gaze of a pregnant, early October sky.

It’s a hope for what could’ve been, he pondered, idly twisting his spoon against the bottom of his coffee cup.

Happenstance returned him here, or so he thought. Perhaps there had always been some longing beneath his breast, the ache to return to where the pestilence of war hadn’t fallen.

In some ways, for that very reason, Hungary itself was its own sort of ethereal. Maybe that’s why the ache always urged him back.

“What did you think of the Balaton?” She asked from beside him, the steam from her own cup rising skywards.

He spared her a haphazard glance to ensure she was real, “I’ve never been.” He answers awkwardly, and, in lieu of words yet to come, he raises his cup and takes a scalding sip.

Her expression turned contemplative for a moment as the dull whispers of the street below seemed far too loud for the hour.

“Oh,” she mumbled before the strength to her words returned. “We could always see it today, if you’re free that is?”

“I’d like that,” he nods. “I hope I’m not taking you away from anything too important.”

“Work will hold for a day,” she brushed off with the smallest smirk. “I don’t think there’s anything half as terrible as missing the view—I’ll be sure they understand that.”

His gaze returned to the river, “If you’re sure,” he offered quietly.

“Quite,” she returns.

For just a moment, there was that naive piece of hope. The sort that stretched the future—all the ‘could be’s’ and wishes—into dried ink. In that future, he was on the banks of the Balaton; he was walking along the river—he was living the life he’d so desperately yearned for.

And it was all with her.

But clarity returned with time as they sipped on their coffee, the aching chasm that was these frantic days of passion in foreign hotels split open again. The future was, as it had always been, lemon and salt in an old wound.

And came and went in the bittersweet way the futures do.

But there was comfort in the now, in seizing the day.

“The Balaton,” he weighed the thought with a soft smile. “I think I’d enjoy that.”

She breathes a happy sigh of relief. “Well, I think that sounds perfect.”

No matter how many different scenes unfolded before him, foreign countries or sights that passed him by, he had these small comforts in their fleeting moments of happiness.

It was that thought that brought his eyes back to the rolling river and rising sun that had inexplicably lost a glimmer of their lustre when his gaze drifted mindlessly back to her and ran an involuntary comparison.

It was that thought that ushered in the others.

Perhaps the river was the ache that bought him back.

Or, perhaps it was her.

Hagrid stood in the middle of the field of giant pumpkins, his umbrella wand spraying out water like a hose. He stood out like a great cactus of brown fabrics and curly brown hair against the last rays of daylight.

Harry walked closer to him, Hagrids whistling of a drinking song or other, getting clearer the closer he got.

“Oh, hullo Harry, almost did n see ya there” Hagrid said.

“Hey Hagrid”

“I was, I was just wondering how Buckbeak’s doing?” Harry said weakly.

Hagrid stopped the Aguamenti spell, and looked out into the forest.

“They are just like us you know, smart fellers. They don’t like to be tied up, and feel lonely just like ors”

He looked down at Harry

“But they are also strong, and proud.” Hagrid nodded.

“He still eats what I give him, and fights against the leash and even though he tries to peck me, when he looks in ma eyes, he knows I want the best fur him” Hagrid smiled sadly.

“But, But do you think he’ll go free?” Harry uttered a bit too quickly.

There was silence for a time, Hagrid muttering the Aguamenti spell again and spraying the pumpkins, the squeaking of water on leaves the only sound.

“I will do my best, and if that’s not enough, I’ll bury him and cry for him.”

He looked down at Harry again.

“But I know he’d want me to be happy, and he’d want his friends to be happy, so I’d try to live a life I could be proud of, like he is of himself.”

“Give something back ye know, like I’m doing now, taking care of the others griffs, teaching about misunderstood creatures”

Harry nodded, looking at the ground.

“And I think that’s enough” Hagrid sighed.

Harry felt Hagrid’s big hand on his shoulder and felt a little bit warmer in the cold October air.

He blinked rapidly, stifling a yawn.

He had to get some coffee. Yep, coffee sounded good.

As he stepped away, a small hand, its grip feeble, uncertain, clutched at his wrist.

“Papa?” Louis’s voice was soft and scratchy, as Harry turned gently, settling once more on the chair.

Smiling warmly, his hand made its way to his son’s dark locks, still sticky with sweat, as he spoke, “Yes Louis? Do you need anything?”

Louis’s eyes locked on his, that flawless cerulean he loved so much unreadable, his voice uncertain, scared as he asked, “Papa? Why do you bother?”

“Huh?”, the word slipped from Harry’s lips, even as he blinked, confused.

“Wh… why are you still bothering with the treatment?” his son’s words were soft, even as they drove a lance into Harry’s heart, tears slipping from his eyes. “Why do you try so much? It… it's not going to help. I… I’m not going to get better. Wouldn't it be better to - ”

“Louis!” Harry’s voice was sharp, interrupting his son’s rising voice. The raven haired man breathed deeply, his voice trembling as he continued, “Don't you dare speak like that!”

“But -”

“No buts!” Harry said, his voice softening, his hand moving to cup his son’s face, as he smiled at the boy, “You don't get to speak like that. You’re going to get better. You are going to grow up into a marvelous young man, a wonderful man, a good man. You are going to find a beautiful, lovely, kind young woman, who loves for all you are, and nothing else. You are going to marry her, and you are going to treat her right.”

His voice cracked as he continued, a tear slipping from his eye, “You are going to have children, so many adorable, wonderful children, for Grandpa Harry and Grandma Fleur to spoil to bits. You are going to watch them grow up, you are going to be waving them goodbye as they depart for school for the first time, be that Hogwarts or wherever else. You are going to be there for them when they need it, be there for them as they grow up into wonderful young men and women of their own. You’re going to be a great father, a great husband, and a great role model.”

“Louis,” Harry’s voice was soft, warm, safe as he kissed his son’s forehead once more, “We love you. All of us. Me and your mom and Fae and your aunt Gabrielle and Grandma Appoline and Grandpa Sebastian and Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron and Rose and Hugo and everyone else. We love you…. And we’re never going to give up on you. Ever. So… please. Please. Dont give up on us. Please.”

His voice had devolved, desperation leaking through as he pleaded, his forehead touching his son’s, eyes shut, yet tears leaked from them nonetheless.

Fleur had a bad day at work. All she wanted to do was to see her husband's smile. So; on her way home, she pulled out her phone and dialed his number. As soon as he as answered, she began to rant about how bad her day had went.

Harry listened to his beautiful wife as she complained about the men who just kept on trying to ask her out. And she finally finished her rant with an exasperated sigh. Chuckling to himself, Harry looked at the screen and...

BOOP

Fleur had ranted for a good half hour on the phone. When she saw her husband's understanding smile, she was relieved. What he did next, surprised and caught her off guard.

"'e booped MOI," Fleur said angrily...then she started laughing hysterically. I am so going to punish 'im when I get home, Fleur thought to herself.

"You are soooo in trouble, 'arry..."

Was the response Harry heard after his "boop". Fearful of his wife's wrathful hands when it came to his sides, Harry tried to think of ways to escape his wife's punishment.

When Fleur got home, there was a beautiful chocolate cake on the dining table with candles around it.

"Welcome home, love!"

Fleur started giggling and knew why her husband and baked the cake. Coward, she thought to herself with a laugh.

"You are forgiven, 'arry," Fleur said laughing as her husband wrapped his arms around her slim waist. "But do not 'boop' moi again."

BOOP

"'ARRY!"

When he'd first made the joke, it'd been rather mean spirited, a poor rebuttal to her own comment about his age. The two started out rather poorly, but after he saved Gabrielle from that accursed task a tentative accord was made. A pact of civility for the remainder of the tournament.

The second time he'd used it a year later, it was oddly endearing. A friendly tease said into her ear as she'd hugged him.

"your aczent iz 'orrible" she had said. Trying not to laugh when he had simply raised an eyebrow as he pulled back.

The short time in which he was there made her stay with her in laws bearable. She would see the way his jaw ticked when one of them made a snide comment. The way his eyes flicked to her whenever things would become heated. Silently asking if she wanted his input.

She knew he would step in if she asked, Bonds of friendship be damned. It was One of the things she had loved about him even then. He knew she didn't need help, but was there, if she wanted it.

Later in life, she would look back and crave that kind of support..

...

The day of her wedding, she had felt something missing. She'd said her vows and kissed the groom, but it didn't feel right.

When that stupid joke was again whisperd in her ear it had clicked. As they stole a dance, and he had explained his reason for leaving afterwards, she had felt.. Terror, for him, and his safety. And, in that moment she had known, as they danced at her wedding to another man.

Fleur Isabelle Delacour was in love with Harry Potter..

All she had been able to do was wish him luck. Not trusting her traitorous heart.

"be safe" she had said just before all hell broke loose, and he had disappeared..

In the months that followed her hearts revalidation, she had settled, her life became that of a housewife. And the more she threw herself into it,the more she was able to lock away her hidden feelings for another and focus on her husband.

But, no matter how hard she tried Fleur could never silence the part of her that wanted more.

When she next heard his joke. It was said with no humour, he was dirty, bruised, and he was hoarse from crying. The elf that had saved them now a resident of her garden.

Without a word, fleur had held him the pair stood silent in the dim kitchen. Until she began to hum softly..

When the final battle arrived, and she believed him dead in Hagrids arms. Her heart cracked. She had felt numb, cold. Nothing else mattered in that moment. He was gone.

And then, he wasn't. He was up and fighting, and her heart was whole again. She had wanted nothing more than to be at his side in that moment, but fleur had known that her interference would only distract him.

Instead she flung herself into the frey, against her husbands wishes, determined to guard his back from the death eaters..

When it was all over, she had to fight the urge to go to him. Despite what her heart wanted, Fleur knew she had to Bury it deep..

"she's gone" two words that changed her life.

At first it was just a few visits to make sure he was eating and taking care of the children after Ginny ny left. But after a fight with Bill, fleur had decided to stay with him for a while.. And just never left.

When, that morning she received a birthday card signed by his children that read

happy birthday mum she had gasped. And when Harry had greeted her downstairs with a plate she had laughed

"Omlette du fromage" they had both said. Before fleur kissed him..

"Master, that crazy Mandalorian again?" Fleur looked at her Master with wide eyes, many emotions on them. "He only brings trouble." Fleur mumbled to herself.

Yaddle looked back at her with knowing eyes, "And yet, always a smile for him you have, Padawan."

Fleur blushed, "He's a good fighter, and...funny as well...I guess, and the soldiers like him, but he...so, ugh!" she almost stomps her foot as she used to do at the Temple when they would refuse to give her a second helping of crepes.

Yaddle chuckled quietly to herself, "And even then, quickened your heart is, when you see him, hmm"

Fleur turned terrified eyes to her Master, her blush both shame and fear now, she was relieved to see her eyes understanding and warm as they always were for.

"600 hundred years I may have, but blind I am not, my young Padawan."

"Master, the Code..."

"Bah!" Fleur was surprised when her Master beat her stick on the ground, as she did on the rare occasions one of the older Jedi said something that displeased her, "the Code, the Code. The Jedi the Force serve, not stone and paper!" She gestured around them, at the Republic base quickly being built in the middle of the forest moon, "Look around you, the Force alive is, it's in you, in me and even in him." she pointed at the distance and Fleur had to work to not smile at seeing that idiot.

There he was, talking with Captain Jen, without his helmet, again, with that stupid messy hair blowing in the wind, and he turned to look at her with those expressive bright green eyes and that insufferable smuggler grin he learned from his mentor, Harry gave them a jaunty wave.

"The Force you should follow, my Padawan, and led astray you won't be." her Master finished as they approached and the young Mandalorian received her Master with the perfect Jedi bow taught at the Temple and her with a smug smile and a curtsy from her homeworld reserved to nobility.

Damn him.

The Hogwarts students gathered near the shores of the Black Lake, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang Delagations. However, there was one noteworthy exception, Harry Potter, the famed Boy-Who-Lived had not arrived at the Castle at what should have been his first year.

When Harry failed to show up, Dumbledore reactivated the Order of the Phoenix to try and find the missing Potter Heir. Unfortunately for the searchers, Harry Potter had seemingly vanished.

Professor Dumbledore had recently announced the reopening of the Tri-Wizard Tournament to foster unity and friendship between the three premier schools of Magic in Europe. The first to arrive was the mighty ship transporting the Durmstrang Delegation led by Igor Karkaroff, who stepped off the gangplank. He was followed by Viktor Krum, who marched in front of the Durmstrang students in a precise, military fashion.

After the Durmstrang Delegation made their way to their spot, the Hogwarts students spotted something approaching the Castle from the sky.

It was a magnificent carriage with several large horses in front of it. As soon as the carriage from Beauxbatons touched down and came to a halt, a large, statuesque woman got out and led her delegation of students.

A procession of young males and females exited the carriage led by one of the most beautiful young women the Hogwarts students had ever seen. She had silver bright blonde hair that led all the way down to her waist and startling cerulean blue eyes. Many of the male Hogwarts students stared slack-jawed at the beauty in front of the Beauxbatons Delegation. Whispers broke out amongst the Hogwarts students as many of them pointed out that she was a "Veela!"

Fleur Isabelle Delacour slightly smirked to herself as she led the girls in a perfectly performed curtsy while the male students removed their hats and bowed. As she was about to lead her fellow students off to one side, a voice rang out from inside the carriage.

"Hold on a second, Fleur! I forgot something!"

The girl now known as Fleur, pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head in silent laughter. "'Urry up, 'Arry! We don't 'ave all day! Everyone eez waiting," she shouted back to the open door of the carriage.

The young man stopped in front of Fleur and passed the young girl over to her. Fleur took the young girl and gave her a tiny peck on her nose before she adjusted her hold on her.

The young man smirked at Fleur before he turned around and faced the gathered Hogwarts and Durmstrang students. "Allow me to introduce myself," the young man began, "my name is Harry James Potter."

Gasps could be heard throughout the gathered students and professors as many questions formed through their minds. The young man then removed his cap with flourish, an action that revealed the lightning bolt-shaped scar, and with a grin spoke, "If I had known there were such beauties here, maybe I would have come here instead!"

His words caused many of the girls to nearly swoon before Fleur decided to take action. She grabbed Harry's lapels and pulled him into a searing kiss and spoke the words that would break many a young witch's (or wizard's in some cases) hearts…

"Too bad girls! He's already spoken for!"