Welcome to Chapter II — A Mirror's True Purpose.

A huge thank you, once again, to Taliesin19, x102reddragon and NerdDragonVoid, all of whom had a big hand in shaping the technical side of the three chapters.

I'll make you wait a little while longer for the last chapter—two in one day is already spoiling you. A massive thank you to everyone that reviews, favourites and follows. If you do have the time, reviews and critiques are always appreciated they help me hone my craft and, hopefully, produce better content for you.

Until next time, stay safe and enjoy!

The following letter found him lying in bed, Hedwig's fluttering drawing him from a fitful slumber. Soft wings tickled his face, her beak nipped at his fingers until green eyes met amber.

"Hey girl," Harry croaked, holding a single finger out to let her nuzzle it, "What've you got for me?"

When he saw her handwriting, the last vestiges of sleep vanished in an instant. He tore at the back of the envelope and procured his prize from within, devouring the words in an instant.

Dear Harry,

I'm more sorry than you can know about Cedric. I'm sorry you had to go through that, and I'm sorry you had to be the one to try and give his parents closure.

You could've sent them away, could've told them nothing, could've made them wait. You really could have done anything you wanted, yet you helped them and hurt yourself in the process.

On a lighter note, thank you for what you said. It's easy to forget who I am or what I've done. It made me happy; I think I needed that.

You're a good person, Harry.

But I know what you're probably thinking, not everyone is a bigot or spiteful of our beauty. Veela influence other people, you know that it's not the smartest strategy to have everyone suddenly staring at me and not doing their work.

To put it simply, we're an inconvenience to most.

I don't mean to be morose though, tell me your days, how are you keeping busy?

Write soon,

Fleur.

P.S. If your nightmares get any worse, we can talk if you'd like. I won't judge.

He reread the line that stoked, once again, boiling anger at the world.

To put it simply, we're an inconvenience to most.

Harry stalked over to his desk with the intent of ensuring she knew just how much she was worth. His quill attacked the page in a desperate attempt to convey the thoughts that didn't have words just yet.

You're the best person I've ever met, he jotted down.

No, Harry decided, That sounds like I'm coming on too strong. He crossed the line out and began anew just below it.

I guess you can't really change their minds, he tried.

Definitely not, Harry sighed.

It took longer than it should've, obsessing over every meaning he thought she could glean from his words.

Because that's what friends did, wasn't it?

Definitely, Harry assured himself, good friends. Just good friends.

With a few more moments of silent rumination, he finally decided on what to say.

Dear Fleur,

You're not an inconvenience to me. I think you're perfect.

A day later, the girl would see it and, despite rereading the line half a hundred times, it still brought a smile to her face. Another piece of him that didn't make it all seem so difficult.

Then the days began to pass them by and, with each rising morning, a letter and with each letter, the slow parting of a glimmer of their heart.

He just didn't know it yet.

And neither did she.

It was the early hours of the morning in Privet Drive; it had to be. Despite the summer, the cold was enough to stand hairs at attention as he carefully descended the stairs.

With a vigilance that did not befit the mundane act of descending the stairs, even while the house was asleep, Harry slowly crept to the bottom floor. The second last stair creaked without fail, bracing himself on the bannister, his feet hit the ground, and he sought his destination.

Once safely in the lounge room, Harry sought out his objective. He crouched down before the fireplace, shifting old logs and the grate. He made enough room for him to be able to place his head within.

While he surveyed his handiwork, a hand fished around in his pocket and procured a small, silk bag he'd received from an owl not a day earlier.

He peered inside, assisted by the low-light of the moon. The grains were azure and luminous; it looked almost akin to floo powder.

I suppose it's got a similar purpose, Harry shrugged.

In lieu of an actual floo connection, this was the best Sirius could do. Sending the perpetually reticent but bound house-elf, Kreacher, that he'd heard so much about to Knockturn Alley. The Elf had apparated into his room, gnarled and cantankerous, depositing the bag and disappearing without a word.

Harry dispersed a handful of the powder into his palm, weighing it gently as not to lose any grains to the floor.

Then, after a brief burst of hope that he wouldn't wake the house, Harry threw the handful of the powder at the fireplace.

"12 Grimmauld Place!" He whispered as loud as he could as the small explosion before his feet flared to life.

The flames rose, a dark blue like the powder, they roared and cackled, billowing thick plumes of smoke through the chimney. With a healthy dose of scepticism at the instructions, he plunged his head into the flames.

They were unbearable for the briefest of moments but tapered off into just 'uncomfortable'. Like the feeling of waking up at night overheated—unpleasant but manageable.

Before long, a familiar face popped into view; he had the barest view of the room behind the figure, clarity shifted and swirled as the flames flickered. Dark wood had been cracked and wallpaper torn, spanning once elegant walls that bore the brunt of neglect as far back as he could see.

"Hello, Harry," Sirius said, taking a seat on the floor, it was clear he'd waited up all night for the call.

He looked less dishevelled and disorderly than when he'd last seen him. The second year of freedom had borne little, but perhaps the slight ease of the evidence of Azkaban's attrition left behind.

"Sirius!"

"I'm glad my money was well spent," Sirius opened, taking a seat on the floor, "Gringotts seems to have a dislike for wizards, traitors and criminals. Just as it happens, I'm all three."

"I'll have to repair the Dursleys' fireplace, I'm sure," Harry cringed, "But it'll be worth it."

Sirius scoffed and cursed, "It'll do the bastards some good I reckon," he said, "But…." Sirius seemed to struggle with how to form his words, "How have you been?"

"Like I said in my letters—"

"I've read your letters, Harry, I know what they said," Sirius interrupted. "What I want is to hear it from your mouth, is it the same nightmare?"

Harry shook his head, "Different," he mumbled, "It's always something different, something new ."

There was an awkward, pregnant pause between the pair. The sort that made Harry search for anything to fill it, fortunately, Sirius beat him to it.

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"Not really," Harry said, "They're just not really things I want to relive."

With a small nod, Sirius relented, "I have nightmares too, for what it's worth," he said, "I've been having them for most of your life." He winced and paused, "When you put it that way, it sounds far worse than I intended—yours won't last that long."

"I know what you meant, Sirius," Harry interjected.

"Good, good," Sirius said, scratching his long beard, "What I'm trying to say—"

"And failing," Harry laughed and finally, the man seemed to ease up even if slightly.

His laughter seemed to bring about Sirius's own, "Cheeky like your father, aren't you?" He said, "These things happen sometimes, to anyone who has to go through what you did. I knew more than enough people who fought in the war who couldn't sleep a wink. Talking helps, maybe not now, maybe not to me. Dumbledore, Ron, Hermione— anyone , but sometimes dealing with your problems alone isn't always the best way to attack what we feel, okay?"

In place of words, Harry simply nodded through the flames.

"Now, not that I'm any stranger to doing things without questions," Sirius began anew, "But I think this all warrants a bit of an explanation, don't you?"

"Professor Dumbledore thinks the Ministry is intercepting my mail—"

Sirius mumbled something beneath his breath that sounded conspicuously like, "What a big bunch of cunts."

"—Hedwig tried to deliver a message to… someone ," Harry explained, eyeing the perch in the corner of his room. "Something attacked her, it must've been pretty big too. She came back all bloody, the letter was torn to shreds."

"Was it anything that the Ministry shouldn't have gotten their hands on?" Sirius urged, "Anything at all?"

"No, it was more… personal , I guess," Harry shrugged, trying not to delve too deep, "Did you figure something out?"

Sirius's response was not with words, but the gentle action of delving deep into his robe pocket and plucking something from within. With a firm grip, he pulled it free and brandished it proudly. Harry fought the urge to delve deeper into the back of the fireplace for a better look.

When proffered, Harry could make out the shape of his own face through the blue fire that licked his jaw; it was a mirror. Resplendent bronze caught the light and shone it back to his eyes, elegant artistry spanned its outside edge—a trio of ravens in flight.

Absentmindedly gazing at his reflection, Harry asked, "A mirror?" He said, "And that's supposed to replace letters and owls?"

After all he'd seen, Harry supposed the disbelief was somewhat misplaced.

Smiling, Sirius began his reminiscent explanation, "Your father and I used to use them when we were in separate detentions, McGonagall thought that'd be her master plan." But after a moment, the smile faded and was replaced with bittersweet longing, "I stole it from Orion—my father, before I ran away. My mother decided to make my portrait on the family tree a smouldering hole and well, I fell in with your grandparents."

Sirius shook the mirror, "This is the last memento I have of dear old dad ," he said,

"I can't take it, not if it's all you've got left."

"You'd be doing me a favour," Sirius chortled with bitter mirth, not at all the reaction Harry expected. "Don't worry about me, James—"

"Harry," Harry frowned.

That sent Sirius sprawling, losing all positive momentum that sapped the awkwardness of not really knowing one another away.

"Sorry 'bout that," Sirius mumbled, "You just remind me too much of him, we had the same sort of conversations half a hundred times." He let out a long, turbulent sigh before speaking, "You just start hoping—" but he stopped himself before he got too far, "Not the time, really."

Harry shifted his eyes, trying not to make the man feel any more scrutiny as he tried to gather his thoughts.

"Point is we used to take being blasted off the family as an accomplishment, meant you had to be doing something right," Sirius explained, "Marrying a muggle, thinking for yourself, my Uncle Alphard got blasted off after he died all for giving me money after I'd run away. Trust me, I'd rather make my parents angry by having their goods well, do some good."

Seeking not to push the issue any further, Harry changed tacts, "How does it work?"

"It's simple, really, you say the name of the holder and their mirror will vibrate, once they say your name, you'll see one another through it."

"It's that simple?"

"Thankfully," Sirius said, "not everything has to be so complicated."

Harry sorely wished his life echoed a similar sentiment.

Sirius beckoned him forward, "Give me your hand," he requested. Harry reached forward until his knuckles were destined to brush against hard, soot-covered bricks. Rather than graze them, however, his hand gripped the cool sensation of metal as Sirius sat the mirror in his palm.

Harry dragged his hand back, and the mirror came with it, he took a moment to marvel at the piece before his eyes proper.

Cringing at the sudden realisation of what he'd have to ask, Harry's next words came out awkward and terse, "Hedwig definitely isn't ready to fly yet and I don't want to risk her getting attacked," he said, "Could you… send it to someone for me?"

Yawning, Sirius ran a hand through his hair, "I've still got the toucan from the Pacific Islands, reckon she could make the journey," he nodded. "Who are you sending it to? Ron? Hermione?"

"Not exactly," Harry blurted, hoping that the quicker it got out, the less chance he had of being questioned.

"Oh? Is it someone you've told me about?"

There was the briefest glimmer of war within him—a shade of irrational conflict.

On the one hand, he didn't want to tell anyone. The truth would stoke questions he wasn't sure he wanted to hear, much less answer.

On the other, he felt he almost owed it to Sirius and himself. The prospect of telling Sirius, anyone , seemed liberating. He just didn't know why.

Rumination and weighty silence led to a single conclusion, "It's a girl," Harry said.

And finally, with those words, Sirius seemed to be in his element.

"Merlin, Harry," Sirius breathed, "You didn't…."

That flared panic within him, "Didn't what?"

If it was possible to look proud and sly in equal measures, Harry was sure Sirius was wearing it.

With a loud, boisterous laugh, Sirius alleviated his fears, "You got a girlfriend?" He asked, "I'm impressed, kid."

Sirius's assumption fuelled distant hope; the thought of Eden, however, was quashed by the forbidden, and after that moment of hope, Harry fell back to earth.

'It's not like that," Harry defended, and the words themselves tasted bitter, "Just friends, I promise."

The persistent sly grin seemed to think otherwise.

It's definitely not like that, Harry promised himself, It could never be like that.

"So where does this girl of yours live?" Sirius asked and, with a flick of his wand, he summoned a quill and parchment, ready to write.

"Sixteen Finch Circuit..." Harry began but paused soon after.

"Go on?"

"Le Marais, Paris."

Sirius clearly didn't wear shock as well as he thought he did, his head reeled back, independent of his body and for just a second, he stared.

"A French girl?" Sirius laughed, astounded, "I don't need to tell you what we used to say about those, do I?"

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't."

True to form, the most important question came out first, "Is she pretty?" Sirius asked.

"Promise you won't judge?" Harry mumbled.

He supposed the chances that Sirius would be judgemental over Fleur, even as a friend, were slim. He'd fled his family as a teenager for their beliefs, he liked muggles and muggleborns.

But, as recent events had proved, Harry Potter, beyond a doubt, had much to learn about the world.

"Never, kid," Sirius promised, "I'm always on your side, though I'm sure she's not that bad, hey?"

"She's a Veela."

One second passed.

Then two.

Finally, a third passed them by with aching lucidity and then, a smile—wide and resplendent.

Disbelief was evident in his voice, but the sight of the smile assuaged his fear, "The things your father would say," Sirius laughed, "God how I wish he could see this."

"Good things?" Harry asked.

Sirius guffawed again, "Of course it'd be good things!" He said, "I doubt you could do anything to make him, or your mother for that matter, anything but proud."

Subconsciously, his chest warmed and puffed up at the thought.

"Need any tips?" Sirius asked, "I don't reckon Azkaban dulled my charm."

"The smell might."

"You really are your father's son," Sirius said, shaking his head, before his face was dragged back down under the sullen weight. "I know I can't replace him, don't really want to try if I'm honest. It should be him here, talking to you about the girls you like—"

"Sirius—" Harry tried to interject, but the man continued.

"—but he's not. And I guess I need to tell you how sorry I am about that."

By the time he'd finished, he looked, in some aspects, relieved. In others, he looked as poor as the man he'd seen in the Shrieking Shack.

"I'm sorry I'm not James."

Harry tried again, "You don't have to be sor—"

"I cost you your parents, Harry," he whispered, "Please don't tell me I don—"

This time, it was Harry's turn to interrupt. Plagued and pained by old wounds, he said the only words he knew in that moment.

"I forgive you."

With the easing of pain, even if only slight, morning came and rose, high and warm. Heralded by a broken fireplace and budding bond.

There was a sort of eagerness to him as he paced around the room, mirror in hand.

It was the kind that made you wonder if upon opening your mouth, you'd have the right words, if you'd make them laugh, make them feel .

In hindsight, Harry felt silly.

Sunlight bathed the room through threadbare curtains, thick and warm. Not that he paid the light or warmth any particular heed, his mind's only fixture was the mirror in his hand, the cool metal warmed in his grip and thrummed gently with soft vibrations.

He walked backwards and forwards, across both sides of the room and finally rested against his bed. Harry debated speaking her name again, though opted not to out of fear of seeming desperate.

Harry would've assumed he'd waited a slow eternity if not for the rising sun dating his actions as it rose in the sky.

And then, suddenly, a foreign world swirled into view from the mirror.

She'd answered.

The mirror shot to his eyes in an instant so he could see her and, presumably, so she could see him.

There was a casual radiance to Fleur Delacour as she lazed against the headboard of her bed. Strands of silver tresses were pulled behind her head to form a bun; the rest ran a platinum stream down her shoulders. Deep, ocean-blue eyes peered at him, inquisitive as they drank in his own features that felt woefully inadequate.

Harry quickly decided that no one would ever look so good again.

"—Harry?"

Her soft voice brought focus back to his eyes and clarity back to his mind. He hadn't even realised he'd lost it—even across hundreds of miles, she was still enrapturing.

Not that he'd admit that just yet.

Swallowing at the familiar lead weight of anxiety, Harry once again, true to form, said the single word that encompassed all he was feeling at that moment.

"Hey."

So it needs some work, Harry lamented.

Rolling her eyes as she adjusted on her bed with a smile, she returned the greeting. "Hey," she said.

Then, the familiar, comfortable silence as they stared at one another through their mirrors.

"I just wanted—" Fleur began, though unfortunately, Harry had begun his sentence.

"How did you—" Their mouths ground to a halt as their words jumbled into something incomprehensible.

Letters were definitely easier.

Fleur was unable to control herself and erupted into dulcet little giggles. Harry smiled and looked towards his lap as he felt anxiety melt away at the melody.

"You first," Harry said as her laughter eventually died down.

"Fine," Fleur said, as if it took a huge amount of effort, "What I was going to say is that I wanted to thank you for the mirror. It's beautiful."

The corners of Harry's lips rose, "I'm sorry I took so long," he said, "It's been one of those kinds of weeks."

"Want to talk about it?"

He shrugged, "It's a long story."

"It just so happens you've caught me in my bed," Fleur said, "I'm listening if you need it."

How desperately Harry wished she'd worded that differently.

Harry mulled over how to start for a moment, "Like I said, it's been a week," he began. "Professor Dumbledore thinks the Ministry was trying to read my letters—"

"They didn't!" Fleur shot up in bed, anger marred her beautiful features.

"Well, I don't think they managed to read, you know, anything of ours ," Harry tried to placate her. "I tried to send you a letter and something, or someone I suppose, attacked Hedwig."

Anger morphed to concern in record speed, "Oh Merlin, Harry, she's okay, isn't she?"

Nodding, her fear eased. "Fine," Harry assured, "she flew back, the letter was pretty torn up though."

"And this is all because they don't believe you?" Fleur breathed, "I hadn't realised it was so...so… excessive ."

"Yeah," Harry sighed lamely, "Professor Dumbledore thinks they might try and make a move, something that'd make us, I don't know, seem like liars?"

"You'll be okay though, won't you?"

Harry shrugged, "I 'spose, I don't think I've got much to worry about, I don't think they'll attack me or anything."

"I'm sorry it's happening to you," she said, her eyes softening into the mirror. "You don't deserve it."

"I've got it though," he said, "I guess the reason I'm explaining this is… well, I understand if you want to distance yourself. I just don't think you deserve this either."

It sounded weak and lame, but pragmatic. Despite being for her own well-being, the thought of her leaving was still a knife in his breast. Every afterthought seemed to twist it just that little more.

Fleur exhaled, "Harry?"

"Yeah?"

And, with faltering resolve, he steeled himself for what could've been the end before it began.

"You're an idiot."

He didn't think he could help the smile that found his features as, with only three words, the knife left and the wound healed.

Some people just had that effect. Harry had learnt that quite a bit over the past year.

"You sure?" Harry prompted as his smile lingered, "Here's your chance to run away."

She shook her head, "I think after all that we've been through, I'm here for the long run."

"Is that your way of telling me I can't get rid of you?"

"I don't think so," Fleur grinned. "Anyway, now you."

Her words confused him, "Pardon?" Harry asked.

"What were you going to say?" Fleur prompted, "You've had me interested."

Harry groaned and fought the urge to bury his head beneath the pillow, "It's going to sound so stupid in comparison."

"Go on," Fleur said, looking eager.

"No," Harry refused, "it'll just make me look like an idiot."

"Say it or I'll think you're an idiot anyways."

"Nope," Harry remained stalwart.

"Come on," Fleur prodded, "do it!"

"I don't want to," Harry refused, and Fleur, for just a moment, halted her assault.

A detente rose between them, staring intently at one another through the mirror in the hopes the other would crack.

"Please?"

And with a single word, that same stalwart resolve that had seemed unshakable was promptly shattered.

The mirror got closer to her face, highlighting perfect imperfections from a distance he'd never reached before. Eyelashes fluttered, and eyes seemed doe-like, her bottom lip protruded.

After all he had faced, all he had seen, it was a startling revelation to learn his bane was not Voldemort but a beautiful girl with a pout.

"Fine," Harry did his best to feign anger, but the happy, tinkling laughter that left her mouth made even that difficult. "You'll laugh."

"Probably, yeah," Fleur admitted.

Harry chewed on his cheek in contemplation before leaping, "I just wanted to know if you slept alright, okay?"

"Is that it?" Fleur asked, the mirth in her tone was unmistakable.

"I was just wondering if you had a good night's sleep," Harry said, 'that's all."

"Oh?" Her tone made him think his words weren't the right ones, "Do you think of me sleeping often?"

"That's sooo not what I meant."

"Oh?" She repeated though it sounded deeper, "So you don't think of me?"

"You're leading me into this," Harry grumbled.

Fleur disagreed, "No," she said, "I think you're doing a great job of that yourself." She gave him a little smile through the mirror, and their eyes met, "Hey, Harry?"

"Yeah Fleur?"

Her lips parted just a glimmer, pink, plump and perfectly sculpted.

"You're still an idiot."

"Yeah," Harry smiled, "I think I got that one."

It wasn't a first meeting, but perhaps a new first meeting, if there was such a thing.

And as far as new first meetings went, well, he was no expert in the area.

But he liked to think this one went perfectly.

Bronze caught the pleasant sunlight and reflected it into his eyes; the blue suffused midday sky, and a gentle breeze made the backyard of Number Four, Privet Drive, more hospitable than usual.

"Have you got it?" Fleur's voice cut through the silence.

Harry scoffed in feigned indignation, "Of course I've got it," he said. "What do you take me for?"

She arched an elegant eyebrow in a way that was so distinctly her , "Someone who didn't have it, clearly."

"Well, I did promise," Harry said, waving the white paper bag around. "I snuck out this morning, it wasn't easy to find."

Fleur cringed at his action, "Careful!" She warned, "you'll ruin it!"

"I'm not going to ruin it," Harry pouted, reaching within the bag to procure his goods with gentle fingers.

She marvelled as it came into view; even Harry had to admit it seemed spectacular. The surface marbled with white and brown, artisan swirls and a delicate base. With how rare it had seemed this morning, he hoped the adventure had all been worth it.

"I can't believe you got it," Fleur breathed, "I… I'd heard rumours."

Harry couldn't stop the short bark of laughter that left his lips, "You're being an idiot," he said.

"—but in person?" Fleur continued, "It's beautiful ."

Harry held the item that, for all intents and purposes, might as well have been the Holy Grail to Fleur up for closer inspection.

The famous frangipane mille-feuille, her favourite pastry.

"Taste it," Fleur urged with alacrity. "Go on!"

Harry acquiesced, "Alright, alright," he said, "I'm tasting it."

His hot breath ruffled the delicate pastry as it rose to his lips, his tongue darted out to taste the cream before his teeth clamped around the food and dragged a chunk into his mouth.

"Do you like it?" Fleur promoted eagerly, chewing on a similar pastry of her own, "Tell me you like it!"

Raising the back of the hand to his mouth and swallowing, Harry took just a moment to savour the remnants on his taste buds. In place of an immediate answer, he bit another piece off.

"You like it!" Fleur practically shouted, "what did I tell you?" She celebrated her victory but mirroring him and taking another piece of her own pastry.

Harry conceded his defeat after swallowing, "You win," he said, "it reminds me of you, in a way."

"Oh?" That statement clearly piqued her interest.

There was this sort of instantaneous regret that followed saying something stupid or sweet. Harry had a hard time discerning which was about to leave his mouth.

He gave a long sigh that made Fleur giggle, "Well," Harry began, "It tastes sweet—"

Before he even had a chance to justify his words, she pushed her way in, "Oh?" she asked, "I taste sweet, do I?"

Stupid, Harry decided. It was definitely stupid. His cheeks began to warm under her sudden barrage, in the bright daylight, there was no way she hadn't seen the blush nor neglected to seize the opportunity.

"Maybe if you'd told me I tasted sweet at Hogwarts, I'd have kissed you again," she smirked.

It was a joke, it had to be.

She was normalising the kiss because to her, that's what it was—normal. There were no romantic undertones, simply two friends sharing a goodbye they thought could be their last for quite some time.

But joke or not, it stoked smouldering coals in his gut, the place he hid feelings too big to fully understand. It beckoned his mind to drift towards new frontiers, of what she'd taste like with the sweet pastry on her lips, what it'd be like to reignite that passion.

Though not knowing what he felt, the feeling found its way into his gut with the others, another lead weight, smouldering or not.

"That's not what I said," Harry opted for eventually.

"So I don't taste sweet?" She furrowed her eyebrows as if she were cross, "Maybe you're the one that didn't want to kiss me."

Harry shook his head, "I didn't say that either."

"So what are you saying?" She gave him a sly grin that made him groan.

There was this rapier wit to her that he adored, even if he came up against it, time and time again and never came out on top. It was sharp and swift, piercing chinks in the armour before you were laid bare, red-faced and confused as to which way was up.

It was merely another thing that made Fleur Delacour so unique.

"What I was trying to say," Harry continued, finally. "It's sweet on the inside, all… fluffy and gooey but on the outside it's hard and elegant. It just reminded me of you, okay?" He couldn't help but sound like he was defensive, "it doesn't really mean much, I guess." Harry added as a mumbled addendum.

As the words left his lips and breathed life into those stupid thoughts, her reaction wasn't the laughter he'd assume. It was a smile, full of happiness and a glimmer of teeth as she gazed down at him through the mirror.

"You're a sweetheart," she said, the wide smile even audible in her voice.

"Would it have been more or less sweet if I'd got it out the first time?"

Fleur was quick to answer, "Definitely less," she admitted, "I'm a fan of seeing you blush."

Putting his back against the cool grass, he basked in the conversation as the sun continued its journey in the sky overhead until the day waned, and inevitably the pair had to part.

Though far happier together than they'd been divided.

[BREAK]

"Favourite colour?"

Harry sat at his desk, scribbling away at a piece of parchment paper with a pencil he stole from the drawer in the lounge room. A quill and inkpot weren't particularly suited for his current purpose.

"I feel like I've already answered this question," Fleur said.

Harry merely shrugged in response, "You probably have."

His hand dragged the pen across the parchment in long, swift strokes until the outline had begun to take shape. It had been an age since he'd drawn outside of shapes in the margin while Binns droned on, likely Primary school.

He couldn't say he had a particular talent for drawing or, well, art of any sort. But something within him, something he couldn't decipher, yearned to express himself beyond the verbal.

There was a memory that'd captivated him for days, though, dominated idle waking moments, enough so he picked up a forgotten craft. It was her, laying against the grass of the meadow; her hair splayed out and the sun lightening her eyes a few shades.

They chatted and laughed as they always did and, despite having not lived a full life, Harry was quick to declare that no one could ever be half as beautiful as she'd been in that moment.

"Well if I've answered it before, you answer it then," Fleur demanded.

It took a moment of contemplative thought as Harry sketched strands of hair, "Green," he decided.

"How woefully unoriginal," Fleur snorted.

"How is mine 'woefully unoriginal'?" Harry asked, defensive.

Fleur's tone seemed to make it seem like her rationale was incredibly simple, "It's your eye colour."

"What's yours," Harry scoffed, "Blue?"

"Yes," she said proudly, puffing her chest out, "why yes it is."

Harry let out a short bark of laughter, "How is that any different to mine?"

His hand wasn't inactive as they bantered, drawing the ever-so-slightly angled ellipses that comprised her eye and had been closed just a fraction that day, shielding herself from the sun. Harry cast his eyes up to the mirror that was propped up against a book on his desk so she could see him as she worked.

She was reading a book, some romance novel he couldn't quite make the title of. Even though they were doing separate tasks, the presence of the other was a simple comfort he wasn't sure he could fully explain.

"Blue's the colour of wisdom and intelligence," she boasted, "It's the sky and the seas, green's just… green ."

"Somebody is full of themselves," Harry huffed, moving on to another piece of his drawing.

"Do I have any reason not to be?"

Harry rolled his eyes but gave her no response. She had quite a lot of reasons to be full of herself, he found. And yet, she wasn't.

He spared her a glance through the mirror.

A reference for the drawing, he convinced himself, that sounds good.

The mirror was situated at the end of her bed, a decent distance away. The perspective was just wide enough that he could glimpse the top of her legs through the side of her dress that'd been ruffled by the way she was sitting.

He hadn't looked, that he swore to himself, the odd view had simply caught his attention. He dragged his eyes away but not before her own flashed up and caught him.

Blue eyes narrowed in confusion, thinking she'd just caught him staring at her. It was a brief moment before she saw the state of her dress; she smoothed it out, and, in place of the berating his accidental glance might've gotten him, it was something entirely different.

It was a smile, shy, soft and playful.

And one that confused an already confused Harry Potter.

His cheeks flared crimson, and Fleur sat up in bed, her legs crossing beneath the cotton confines of the sundress. The same soft smile had morphed into a smirk with the seconds that had passed.

"I saw that," the playful smirk was evident in her voice.

"No you didn't," Harry squeaked back. That was the most convincing reply he could muster, and it clearly wasn't enough.

Her response wasn't in words like he expected, but a laugh. Low and… deep? If there was meaning to be conveyed, he'd missed it.

Women are confusing , Harry thought and left it there, content to let the accidental glance be secreted away to some recess of his mind.

In her leaning forward, the title of the small book he hadn't been able to see became visible through her fingers. He squinted at the mirror in order to read it.

" Veela and Vixens, " Harry read aloud, " Love not meant to be?"

Fleur spluttered, and, finally, the upper hand was ceded to him. Harry pushed the offensive, "What happened to ' love being too complicated to be represented on the page '?"

For the first time he'd in recent memory, Fleur Delacour was utterly speechless and all because of a trashy romance novel.

Harry couldn't help it, not caring if his relatives heard it, he laughed—loud and happy in his chair. His cheeks stung from being pulled taut in a smile, and his breath came in gasps, it was only seconds before Fleur shed her embarrassment and laughed along too.

Soon the laughter was about nothing, and yet, together, it was everything.

There was nothing quite like the fight to gasp for breaths after laughing too hard, nothing like a sore stomach in the right company.

And, as he'd slowly come to realise over the past year, there was no one like her.

There never would be.

Laughter died down and relegated the pair to recover from the fit. Looking down at his work, Harry placed the pencil down on the desk.

"I'm finished," he declared and brushed eraser rubbings from the piece.

"Show me!" Fleur shot bolt upright and laid flat on her bed, close to the mirror.

He grasped the corners with gentle fingers, "Promise you won't laugh?" Harry asked.

"Never," she promised.

The words galvanised his will, and within an instant, he turned the parchment to her.

It wasn't as elegant as she deserved, didn't do her the justice he wanted, but a piece of him was on the page. He waited with bated breath as she observed it with a keen eye.

"It's… me?" She breathed with realisation, "The other day, beneath the tree?" Harry merely nodded and awaited the critique that was surely soon to follow.

Though it never came.

"I love it," Fleur declared, "and it's perfect."

Harry beamed.

Their call had lasted later than usual, the sun had fallen level with the horizon, highlighting the suburbia with burnt orange accents. The soft glow bathed his room, face and mirror in its waning attempts to keep the day alive.

A familiar voice roused his attention from the sunset, "So…." Fleur said.

"Sooo…" Harry echoed, turning his attention back to his mirror.

Fleur was brushing her hair in preparation for bed, the mirror resting upon her dresser. A dark hairbrush wove through glimmering silver tresses, even across the distance, the same echoes of allure sounded. Though perhaps simply a facade.

But truth or falsity, they still sang to him.

Be mine, they called again, be mine.

Her voice broke him from the Siren's song, "It's your birthday soon," she trailed off, the brush still weaving.

"That's the thing about Birthdays," Harry explained in faux condescension. "They tend to be the same time every year, you see."

She rolled her eyes, "Someone thinks they're funny," Fleur said.

"Knows," Harry corrected. "I like to think I'm quite funny."

"I like to think I'm a Nundu," she scoffed, "I think we'll both be disappointed."

"You laugh at my jokes all the time!"

"Okay," Fleur relented with a sigh. "Perhaps you're occasionally funny."

Harry nodded, "better," he praised. "So what's got you interested in my birthday?"

"Promise you'll like my gift?" Fleur asked, there was a smallness to her voice—a vulnerability that made his chest feel open.

"I told you not to get me anything," Harry sighed. "But I'll love it no matter what."

"Promise?"

"I promise," he said. "You got it for me, it'll be perfect. It just better not be expensive."

"And if it is?" Fleur smirked.

"I'll hate you forever."

That made her laugh, "You love me."

Words that made his throat constrict for reasons he didn't care to ponder at that moment.

"Yeah," Harry said. "Don't push it though, Gabby could be a good replacement, after all."

Fleur snorted in an almost mocking fashion, "If I can't handle her, neither can you," she said.

"I can't even handle you," Harry mumbled, turning snorts to giggles.

"So—" Harry began after her giggles died down. He peered at her intently through the mirror as her vision tracked across the room. It dragged ever close to his own eyes, culminating in a shout that almost made him jump.

"Chanceux!" Fleur cried, "No!"

Before the last word had even left her lips, the mirror spun on its axis and clattered to the plush carpet with a soft ringing. Harry didn't have to search far for the culprit, he didn't stray too far from the scene of the crime, immediately coming back to inspect his handiwork.

" Meow. "

Teal eyes peered down at the mirror flanked by long, white whiskers. His coat was a patchwork of brown, highlights of light and dark crossing his fur with swathes of near-black forming neat lines.

"You must be the famous Chanceux," Harry smiled at the small Kneazle, not much bigger than a kitten.

Chanceux crinkled his face and sniffed at Harry, the mirror's vision obscured by a cute nose and a flash of little top teeth.

Harry wasn't too sure what protocol was, did he talk to it? Were Kneazles that smart?

He opted to try it anyway, "I'm… Harry," he said, "it's nice to meet you."

" Meow ."

"I take it you're not one for conversation," Harry said, his smile doing its best to hold back laughter. "Can Fleur have me back now?"

In response to his words, Chanceux licked Harry's face in the mirror and then, rather than walk away, he curled up on the mirror. Harry saw nought but fur and purr.

"Chanceux," Fleur hissed without malice before shouting, "Gabby! I found him!"

It could've only been five seconds before Harry heard the door to Fleur's room fly open and Gabrielle's voice come into earshot.

"Chanceux!" She cried, "Come on you silly cat!"

" Meow ."

If it was possible for a meow to sound defiant, that was it.

Even from a distance, he could hear the pout in Gabrielle's voice, "I guess I'll just have to give your food to Odette."

Harry supposed that Kneazles had to be fairly smart. With the thought of no food, the cat bounded away with Gabrielle hot on his tail.

Then teal was replaced by ocean and whiskers with a silly grin.

"He likes you," Fleur smiled.

"He's been spending too much time with Gabby," Harry laughed. "As far as first impressions go, I'm a big fan."

"At least you've got an ally in our house," Fleur smirked, "What were you saying before?"

It took Harry a moment to remember, "Did you hear back from the Enchanters?"

"I did," Fleur sighed, and within the instant, Harry knew no good news was destined to come. "Apparently charming a dragon wasn't enchanting enough."

"I'm sorry," Harry apologised meekly, having wished he just bit his tongue.

Fleur shrugged, "It's not your fault, you didn't know."

"If it's any consolation, you're more than enchanting enough for me."

Smooth, Potter .

She gave him a sad, small smile, "you're an idiot."

"Yeah, so you keep saying," Harry said, daring to test waters with his next words, "but I'm your idiot."

Suddenly the smile didn't seem quite so sad, or small at his words.

"The next one then," Harry continued, "eventually someone will realise how incredible you are."

Under the weight of praise anything but idle, she hid reddening cheeks under silver tresses.

Conversation continued until the sun finally lost its battle with the horizon, burnt orange turned darker until twilight rose, tall and domineering with the moon at its apex.

Tap.

A groggy hand swatted at empty air, eyes fluttered open for just a moment before the weight of slumber dragged them closed.

Tap.

His eyes opened again, only a tad wider than the last attempt. The curtains did little to shield him from the sunlight, but the silhouette pivoting back and forward on the edge of the window sill did. Letting its appearance be known with the persistent;

Tap.

An owl , Harry realised through tired eyes and a particularly familiar one at that. With a groan, he threw his legs over the side of his bed and, with both hands, attempted to rub the signs of sleep from his eyes.

Fleur had insisted she say a happy birthday as midnight turned, the sentiment made his heart jump to his throat, the after-effects, however, didn't.

Odette, however, much like her owner, wasn't fond of letting up.

Tap.

Hedwig let out a counter-squawk to try and get the other owl to stop, but her efforts amounted to little, forcing Harry out of bed proper. He shambled at the window and unlatched it. Odette flew back to allow it room before gliding in.

The new owl took momentary dominion over the new space before settling in front of Harry, clutched in her talons a package that must've been shrunk. Covered in brown paper and wrapped in twine, a note dangled down.

"Thanks, girl," Harry said to Odette, reaching for the deceptively heavy package. "How was Fleur?"

The owl merely ruffled her feathers in response, Harry frowned.

"You know I was really hoping for a 'good'," he joked. She merely twisted her head and peered at him with keen, inquisitive eyes.

Harry shrugged, "tough crowd," he murmured before reaching to inspect the package, plucking the note from the twine.

Thank you for being you.

Happy Birthday!

Love,

Fleur

P.S. Call me before you open it, it'll take some explaining.

Despite the letter, Harry couldn't help himself. He tugged experimentally at the string only for it to loop itself around and form another knot.

Guess she was right.

His hand groped beneath his pillow and snagged the cold metal handle of the mirror, pulling it before his eyes.

His lips hovered an inch away, "Fleur Delacour," Harry whispered.

With the name spoken, the mirror's surface shifted and spiralled. Smoke coalesced beyond the glass, alabaster until the surface shimmered like milk glass, the pleasant thrum of magic in his hands heralding her arrival.

Then, like always, she arrived.

Fleur's first words were, while predictable, backed by the wide, enrapturing smile he'd come to love. "Happy Birthday!" She practically shouted with more fanfare than he ever knew she could muster.

"Thank you," Harry said warmly, "Odette got the present to me just in time." Harry spared a cursory glance at the Eagle Owl making a play for the bag of Hedwig's treats.

"Is she still there?"

Harry swivelled the mirror around in his hand at the owl sneaking treats, "Yeah," he said, "she woke me up too."

Fleur crossed her arms, "Serves you right for sleeping in," she said, "I've been waiting all morning."

"For a present I couldn't open?" Harry deadpanned to her soft amusement.

"How'd I know you'd try and open it?"

"B..because it's my birthday?" Harry squinted quizzically, she rolled her eyes in response.

She shrugged her shoulders, uncrossing her arms, "I bought it for you, I wanted to see your face." She explained, "I charmed it to have an activation phrase, I didn't want to miss it."

"Want to see me open it?"

"Clearly," Fleur said, desperately trying to not let the excitement she felt seep into her voice. "How many extra knots did you put in it?"

"None," Harry defended, though far too quickly and without the conviction of the truth.

Fleur shrugged silver hair from her face and narrowed her eyes, "and yet you knew it wasn't openable."

Harry brushed it off with feigned nonchalance, "lucky guess."

Eyes narrowed even further, "Three?"

"Nope," Harry shook his head.

"Four."

"One," he corrected.

With an approving nod, she relented, "Impressive," she congratulated. "I'd have assumed at least two."

Harry scoffed before defending himself, "I do have self-restraint."

"Didn't you—"

"Don't finish that sentence," Harry pleaded.

"—loo…" Fleur teased the further part of her sentence, drowned out by Harry's words, noises and cries to the contrary.

Harry sighed before reaching for the parcel, "Do you want to see me open this or not?" he grumbled.

"Be my guest," Fleur prompted eagerly, crossing her legs beneath her.

Tugging at the twine again without the memory of what happened the first time, it came loose, only to duplicate itself and seal access.

"I'll need the activation phrase," Harry realised, toying with the string between his fingers.

Fleur seemed to realise too, "My favourite colour."

That definitely sounds too simple.

"Just that?" Harry asked.

"Just that." Fleur answered.

"Blue."

Nothing happened, not that Harry could see anyways. He tugged the string and, rather than come free, it tied another knot. Supposing it could be a puzzle, Harry raised the package to his ear and shook it gently.

No percussion of something being too small for its space, no tinkling to tell him what might lay inside.

This time, he tried more forcefully, "Blue!" Harry practically demanded.

Another knot, and with it, his final idea vanished. Lacking any guidance, he turned back to the mirror to a beautiful face adorned with a cheeky smile.

Fighting against the first makings of laughter, Fleur offered him a clue. "Maybe it's a shade of blue."

How was he supposed to know shades of blue?

"Sky?" Harry guessed, the sky being blue the extent of his rationale.

"Nope!" Fleur chirped.

Harry ran his tongue over the back of his teeth, "Blueberry?"

"Is that even a colour?"

Harry shrugged, "I'm sure it is," he said before guessing again. "Blue...blue?"

"Is that your final answer?" She smirked before scooting forward so she was barely a foot away from the mirror propped up by books on her desk. "Maybe you just need to search more… close to home ."

The next guess at his lips died a quick and sudden death at the hands of her, her eyes shining as she peered at him intently. They were magnificent and emotive, they rolled and churned a deep blue. Harry had seen them hold so much, happiness, anger, sadness, shock and now something entirely unique.

It crashed against his chest like a wave, the calm English shore set upon by the rolling French storm. Glimmering and vast, edges that had almost a year ago seemed rough had never seemed softer.

Realisation was sudden, the cadence of the rough seas matched the rapid beating of his heart in his mouth and with it, the answer.

An ocean .

The answer was at his lips, and yet, he held her gaze still. Pretending to search for more, that he hadn't yet seen all she intended. All other thoughts of birthdays, presents, mirrors and owls were foregone—drowning, kicking and screaming in the ocean, just as he.

A dull breeze through the open window returned clarity, he'd stared to long and yet, she stared back. Perhaps she had seen something in him too, rolling plains in place of crashing waves. He hadn't noticed the parting of soft, pink lips he'd once touched with his own or the breaths that sounded ever so slightly ragged.

But, as soon as he noticed it, it was gone. A few seconds after the wind had broken him from the stupor, her eyes searched elsewhere in the room before returning to him in a far more neutral way.

"Ocean."

His breath had been ragged and soft, in spite of that the twine untied and went slack. Fleur neglected to comment on his victory, he sent her a sidelong glance through the mirror as not to stoke anything untowards.

She looked indecisive, that was as much as he could tell. To risk anything more intrusive might warrant a conversation he didn't want to have. Instead, he tore at the paper holding the present.

Or presents, as it was.

"The one that's still wrapped is for later," Fleur cut in eventually, sounding as if she was weak. "You'll have to wait until tonight."

Harry furrowed his brow, "Tonight?"

"I've got something planned," she explained, "Enjoy your gifts and friends but tonight, you're mine."

An innocent phrase had never stoked such a feeling, a heat from his chest that sent blood, molten and fast, to every limb.

And, once again, desperate hope reared its ugly head.

"The other one is for now," Fleur continued. "Go on."

Harry took the present into his hands, slowly but surely, it enlarged itself until it took two hands to hold it safely.

It was black and minimalistic, sleek with only a few knobs and holes in the surface alongside a needle.

"A wireless?" Harry asked, looking up into the mirror.

"Yeah," Fleur offered lamely in return, seemingly afraid of his reaction.

Quick to quash the sentiment, "I love it," Harry declared. "What made you think of it?"

He mulled the item over in his hands, experimentally playing with a few of the dials.

"You told me at Hogwarts you'd never really listened to music," Fleur said. "That your relatives weren't very fond of it." She shrugged and turned her gaze squarely onto him, "I guess it just stuck. That and…"

The words trailed off, swallowed against before life was breathed into them.

Fleur looked to the ground as if she was ashamed, "It's silly."

"It's not silly," Harry assured her. "Not if it means something, I suppose. Even if it means nothing, when has that ever made you stop trying to get me to tell you when I had a stupid thought."

The pregnant pause that followed was laden with the indecision he'd seen on her face, thick and heavy as she fought a battle he couldn't understand.

As silent minutes passed them both, it culminated in a single sentence he wasn't sure what to make of.

"Do you trust me?" She breathed, her voice throaty and horse.

"Always."

Her next breath was gusty but seemed to harden her resolve. "Stand up," Fleur requested.

Harry complied, his feet found the ground and with the mirror in one hand and the wireless in the other, he waited for her next request.

"Put the radio on your desk," she said. "Turn the dial until a song comes on, it'll be soft, slow ."

He did just that, fiddling with the dials, to and fro searching for what she requested.

And soon, he found it.

Before he even had time to take in the song, the final request budded and blossomed on her tongue.

"Now…" The words fought and perished on the journey from heart to mouth until they finally won. "Dance with me."

Whatever he had been expecting, that hadn't been it.

"I'm not much of a dancer," Harry whispered to the mirror, swallowing at the things he couldn't feel.

"Please?"

Her voice was vulnerable, hopeful, full of all the things he could figure out and, most importantly, those he couldn't. It was there the last glimmers of his own resolve that, in the face of what he assumed would be impossible, melted away into nothingness.

"Okay."

It was a piano, he recognised, that led his feet to sway and shuffle with ill-practised motions.

"Just…" she swallowed, "Focus on me, your feet can do the rest."

He couldn't tell the other instruments, to a layman, it sounded all so similar and yet so vastly different. But dragged back to the same enchanting eyes, he stopped trying to discern the current and simply floated.

Harry stepped gingerly around the carpet, for just a moment, it all didn't seem so impossible.

It could seem like she was here, right in front of him. Swaying to the same slow piano and strings, in the arms of the other when all the odds had seemed against them.

When her voice came, it was soft, almost lost to the music. "If I could do it all again, I'd take you to that ball instead—just to know ."

"Know what?" His curiosity prompted.

"Everything and nothing," Fleur shied away from the question.

He let a small smile show across the depths of the mirror. "Even if I stepped on your toes?"

"Especially if you stepped on my toes."

And with that, they danced to feel, to be free and understand all the things they couldn't, all the things they wouldn't.

To feel safe, to feel better. To whisper all the things they wanted the other to hear through the soft shifting of feet on carpet.

It was awkward.

It was them.

It was there they drifted into gentle day, wrapped amidst arms hundreds of miles away.

Chapter 2: A Mirror's True Purpose