Harry Potter loved magic. However, whenever they learned and practiced at Hogwarts, he felt uncomfortable, his magic restrained. The only relief from that were the Quidditch matches where he could freely soar, reveling in the wind in his face, as he wove intricate patterns between players and bludgers in his pursuit of the snitch. But then there were other moments, moments where his magic almost felt free, begging to be unleashed. When facing the ancient basilisk or the hoard of acromantula.
It was when he unleashed a Patronus that dispersed a throng of Dementors over a hundred strong that he felt his magic sing, a brief moment of freedom. In his fourth year, when his friends were worried for his safety, he, in secret, looked forward to each task, to the chance to hear his magic’s song again. To the outside observer, when the time for Harry to step up arrived, a strange gleam entered his eyes, the air around him seemed to shimmer and feel similar to the calm before the storm. As he weaved magic that no fourth year should by rights be able to wield, Harry’s heart soared and he tried his best not to laugh out loud.
It was during the summer before his fifth year that he met the real Moody. He took one glance at Harry, his scarred face blooming into a smile that sent shivers down the spine of all the occupants of Grimmauld Place, and took Harry under his wing. Their training was grueling, brutal, both of them often leaving the training room covered in sweat, soot and blood and wearing the same, wide grin, showing more teeth than any person watching found comfortable.
Draco Malfoy, having taken a single look into Harry’s eyes, decided to listen to his instincts, screaming at him to run away, to play dead, to show his submission, and decided never ever to bother Harry Potter again. He was proven right when he heard the tales of Harry’s duel with his dear auntie Bella. While she initially enjoyed playing with young Harry, his grin and madly gleaming eyes were enough to unnerve even her. When he began laughing in the middle of their fight and his casting speed only increased, she grew truly nervous. In the end, she loudly begged for someone, anyone to get her away from Him, while Harry’s smile only showed even more teeth.
---
Fleur Delacour was used to standing apart from her peers at Beauxbatons. None of them took magic seriously enough. It took only a few duels after they started insulting her for her heritage, to teach the populace never to provoke her. She excelled in her studies, growing fast, agile and fierce with her wand. When she was selected Champion, many of her peers cried. Not because they envied her, no, but because she was proven right by a magical artefact. While the competition didn’t go as she would have liked, she met some people she could consider respectable.
Even if Bill Weasley turned out to be a disappointment in the end, unable to cope with her fierce, intense nature, she got the chance to participate in the conflict against Voldemort’s forces. They learned to fear her, though they despised her creature heritage, they also scampered whenever she pointed her wand at them. And then, in the middle of a larger fight, facing a combined force of Death Eaters, Giants, Dementors and Inferi, she came across Harry Potter. Seeing the glint of her eyes reflected in his, his smirk mirroring hers, they nodded at each other and stood side by side.
It was match made in Hell and it would endure.
---
Follow up Conversation
Somebody mentioned a Blood Knight!Harry?
DukeDoveofAthenai-RudeSoftPunk🥃 — 07/11/2020 I'd like to thank the person who did, cause that's prompt is awesome [10:35] Vindictive feels
LTCMDR Michal Drápalík 🖖 — 07/11/2020 Not so much Vindictive, more like: Combat in the most honest form of communication vibes, maybe? The only time they feel truly alive? Their magic, finally freed from the restraints of everyday humdrum, can finally stretch...
DukeDoveofAthenai-RudeSoftPunk🥃 — 07/11/2020 I like it. It would do for a epic style fic [10:38] Everything turned to 11 [10:38] I gather Voldemort would be another of these types of individual
LTCMDR Michal Drápalík 🖖 — 07/11/2020 Maybe. But I see Voldemort as ruled by fear. Always running, wanting to be eternal. For Harry and Fleur, death would be an acceptable outcome if the fight was worth it. [10:43] "Death and pain are just a small price to pay for the enjoyment of battle!" [10:48] Also, maybe: "Don't break anyone's heart, they only have one. Break their bones, they have 206."
DukeDoveofAthenai-RudeSoftPunk🥃 — 07/11/2020 I can see that too. Laughing wildly as their opponent slowly, arduously bent his defenses, pushing him just a tad faster than he could move, hitting just strong enough that his shield gongs and his arm buckles. He laughs as the fizzling energy rips past him and scorch him with their proximity, his mirth echoes the high of the explosions around him, he moves because it would not do to stop, his wand sings because he'd make the opponent squeeze the victory out of his hands. Yet he knows he's been bested, and against the adversary's his magic, his whole being chorus. Finally, for the few glorious seconds that will be sung out loud for generations, he soars as high as he ever could.
He doesn't even feel the hit.
He keeps casting, keeps floating, and down from the crescendo his magic weakened flowed slower, thicker, until his arm became too heavy to hold.
A hand caught his own, a pale hand with clever fingers that he would recognize by their mere touch. He followed the smooth lines up to a brilliant face glowing -literally this time- down at him. White wings spanned an incredible length behind the very much human body of she who was dearest to him.
In his inspection he noticed that the sounds of flowing magic had stopped and a cursory glance at his surroundings told him that there was no more colour left in the world but for that on the sinuous, armoured body of his beloved.
There down on the floor and just at his feet laid himself. His wand and hand over the whole where his heart had been, his eyes closed an wide peaceful smile belied the violence shown by the rest of the body.
He look up into cerulean eyes, eyes that knew him enough that an answer came forth without need for a question. [11:16] "I fell before you, Mon cœur. We where meant to meet them and go no further. To live to our peak and be remembered like that."
He grabbed her other hand and squeezed, the clinking of metal making him realize that she was wearing a full armour of some kind, quite different from the tapered coat she favoured normally.
"And yet we are here," he stepped closer, "what then?"
She bent her head and whispered against his lips, "Now we go. They are waiting for us at the 'all."
He closed the infinitesimally small distance and kissed her as he did that first time, with all of his passion burning with the strength of a sun.
That part of him that he had always thought off as magic roared and gave colour and heat to the world, it roared untill the surrounding grey was to bright to look at. Unfettered by his body, this was now all that he was, and he had never felt freer.
They went together, like old friends, like secret lovers, raising entwined as if woven light until the sound of a horn welcomed them. And they where,
Beyond.