Sorrowful eyes gazed longingly at the sleeping figure.
The young man was sprawled across the bed, his messy hair somehow worse, green eyes shut in sleep’s embrace.
Beside him, the bed lay empty.
It hadn't been, a few hours ago.
Oh, how she longed to return to that bed. Crawl into the covers next to him, feel him wrap her up sleepily and doze off in his embrace.
But… she couldn't. It wouldn't be fair, to her or to him.
Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears.
She’d never meant to get caught up with him. It was, it had always been meant to be a moment of brevity, an escape, some harmless fun, before she returned to her duties.
One year. That was all she had given herself.
She had never meant to fall in love.
She bit back a sob. It was a painful decision, the one she was making. But it was one that had to be made.
Pulling out a piece of paper, she jotted down a few words. A form of… closure.
For who exactly, she couldn't say.
Placing the note on the nightstand, the female figure brushed back hair that had once been a silvery blonde, wiped tears from eyes that had once been blue.
And left.
Through the tears, she never noticed her note was missing a comma.
Fleur Delacour was a Lie.
Well, that wasn't entirely correct. A girl by the name Fleur Delacour had been born, to Appoline Delacour and her husband, in the year 1978, in France.
She died of dragon pox eight weeks later.
The Fleur Delacour who had been selected for the triwizard tournament turned out to have joined Beauxbatons barely a year before, a transfer from homeschooling with reputed tutors, apparently.
Questioning of the Delacour family brought to light the haziness of their memories from 1993 to 1994.
In the end, all Harry had left of the woman he loved were memories. Memories, and a note, one that read:
‘I’m sorry I loved you.’
But Harry had never been one to give up.
He was going to find her, wherever and whoever she was.
And he was going to get some fucking answers.