“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?”