And so concludes our journey, a few weeks of late-night writing and a fair degree of stress at completely overshooting the deadline. I hope you've enjoyed it.
Once again, a huge thanks to my beta readers for this story: Taliesin19, x102reddragon and NerdDragonVoid.
And thank you to Emily. Who I'm assured, in the face of adversity, has not let the world get her down. This story, every review, favourite, follow and view is steeped with the hope that life will give you everything you deserve. It was my pleasure to write this story and, even if minuscule, to have a part in your journey of recovery. Stay strong, stay brave, and stay with us.
Until next time, stay safe and enjoy!
The day waned and, with its passing, numerous letters found their way into his hand. Those they could risk being sent came in the hands of Nymphadora Tonks, who snuck into Number 4 under the fine hewn silk of an invisibility cloak.
A birthday card from Hermione and, from her and Ron, sweets from Honeydukes. It wasn't much, and, in light of all that happened, it was more than he had expected. Their gifts, cherished as they were, held no candle to the soft melodies the radio had been singing all day.
It was with those same melodies that carried him along as he waited for night to fall.
Harry had eyed the second present, though this time in compliance with her words, he hadn't attempted to open it. Rather pushing it to the side so that every errant glance filled him with a little ball of happiness.
Not even Aunt Petunia's wilted salad served at dinner could dampen his spirits. He merely retired to his room and snacked on the chocolate sent to him.
When twilight rose, purple-hued, unadulterated, and ushered in by bright stars, it stoked a feeling. One amongst many he couldn't quite understand when his mind drifted to Fleur Delacour.
She was, in the simplest of forms, an enigma.
He clutched his mirror tight as sunlight vanished beneath the horizon. One by one, the footsteps of the Dursleys made their way to their bedrooms. With their retiring, Privet Drive was silent save for the passing of cars, the rustling of wind and the dull throb of distant suburbia.
And then, the silence heralded all that he'd been waiting for, his excitement rose to a fever pitch.
The mirror had begun to vibrate.
"Fleur Delacour," Harry whispered into the shimmering glass, the telltale smoke within the mirror began to form shapes. Alabaster turned to ivory and, for the second time that day, Harry Potter was confronted with her beauty.
"Hey," he whispered again, careful not to rouse the Dursleys.
Her lips quirked upwards, "Hey," she whispered in return, taking the cue. "Happy birthday."
"That's the third time you've wished me Happy Birthday," Harry's own lips rose.
Even in low lamplight, Harry could see a dusting of pink rise on her cheeks, "I just like to remind you," she said. "Now are you ready for the rest of your present?"
"I've been waiting all day," Harry said. "What wonderful phrase have you chosen this time?"
The look on her face was evil, pure and unadulterated. "What's the most boring colour?"
"You didn't." Harry shook his head, assisted by a healthy dose of incredulity. "On my birthday?"
Fleur shrugged, "What? Should I start lying on your birthday?"
Rolling his eyes, Harry reached for the smaller package sequestered away on his bedside table. Cradling it in his hands before bringing it closer to his lips.
"Green," Harry said softly.
Nothing.
He sighed, "Not this again." Harry levelled the mirror with a pointed look. Fleur merely just giggled.
"Grass green?"
"Oooh, nice try," Fleur congratulated. "But no."
"Tropical green?" Harry tried again.
"Yes," Fleur deadpanned, "From all those times I've seen the tropics."
Harry harrumphed, "Can I have a hint?"
"Nope." She said, popping the 'p' loudly.
"Well, it's not exactly like I can look closer now, can I?" Harry challenged.
It was him testing the waters more than anything, to see if the morning's events were a one-off, or a continued possibility of intimacy. Harry knew well enough he shouldn't test it any further that, by itself, it wouldn't— couldn't mean much to either of them.
Yet he'd said it all the same, the recess of his brain that had always yearned to know exactly what this was ran to the forefront and made the decision for him.
Fleur shifted from her seat on her bed for just a moment and swallowed hard. Harry watched through the mirror as it traced her way down her throat with agonising slowness and, upon disappearing, her judgement landed.
"Look at me again."
It had seemed incomprehensible that four simple words could have such a powerful effect. Yet, they stripped him of all rationality, thoughts to the contrary disappeared as he slipped further into the things he couldn't label.
This time, her studying was more intense. Had that same rationality stuck around for just a little while longer, it might've told him that she had to already know the answer—that this had to be something else.
But, having abandoned him, he laid bare before her scrutiny. For the second time today, he willingly let the waves drift peacefully over him.
"Emerald," Fleur spoke as minutes lived and died across the mirror's gaze.
And, just as it had that morning, the twine and paper fell away to reveal the gift beneath. It enlarged as soon as the correct word had been spoken, allowing him to recognise it.
Harry cocked his head to the side, "A… picnic basket?"
Once again, she looked far more nervous than he'd ever remembered seeing her. The Second Task had seemed so vastly different to this, he just couldn't place why .
"You'll need to trust me again," Fleur said. With the words, her voice carried the same undertones, the same anxiety and uncertainty that made him wonder of all the things she didn't dare speak.
But the same question wouldn't beget anything but the same response, with a breath that hitched on its exit, "Always," burst free.
Her smile was one of relief, the shedding of fear that, after this morning, it would all be so very different.
And it was, just not in the way she feared or anticipated.
"Good," Fleur's words and smile were breathless, "Because we are going on a picnic."
"A picnic?" Harry asked before blurting out his next words. "Like a date?"
Fleur's response came out equally as rushed, "just friends," she assured him.
Harry didn't have it within him to feel the bitter tang of rejection, only in part because she didn't sound so sure of it herself.
"You need food to have a picnic," Harry pointed out, "And well, you know, we're a—"
"I know." Fleur cut in to save him from having to utter that particular truth again. "I packed some stuff, just in case. Nothing major, just some stuff I co—"
Her rants meant nerves; Harry had come to know that well enough. He cut off the makings of such an episode with "Thank you, it'll be perfect."
"You haven't even looked inside," she said, crossing her arms.
"How could it be anything but?"
Fleur had no answer for that question, and Harry had a thousand to prove it.
"Get your shoes on," Fleur said. "I'll go to the meadow, you go to the park. That way no one can hear us."
That way no one can hear us.
Harry spent a good few seconds pondering the meaning behind that in the back of his mind.
He agreed with a nod of his head, "Sounds good to me," Harry said. "Let me get my shoes on first."
The smirk on her face that followed made him give her a confused look, "We'll need to steal some stuff from your relatives first," she said. "Have I interested you?"
Her last words had sounded so distinctly posh that Harry's own came out in a similar suave fashion without even trying.
"I believe you have," Harry said to her soft giggle.
"You'll need a glass, a wine glass if possible. A plate and a match, seeing as someone can't use magic."
"Sounds easy enough." Harry nodded, "I'll get ready and head there?"
"Perfect." Fleur smiled, "I have to get ready too, give me a moment."
Fleur left her mirror on her desk as she left his field of view, with nothing to occupy him save for getting ready. He slipped his trainers on and began to lace them, after they were on, he reached for the picnic basket.
And then, as he reached, he caught a glimpse of something in the mirror.
It was her bare shoulders as Fleur shrugged out of her clothes. It was just a glimmer of flesh, no more, no less.
But she had to have known he could see, she sat the mirror in the same place, day after day. Was she just looking for a reaction?
Because she got one.
His cheeks burned harder than he could ever remember, and, as quick as he had noticed, he'd turned away. He didn't possess the courage to sneak another peek.
Women were, as Harry had thought countless times before, completely and utterly confusing.
Pushing the thoughts from his mind that stoked lower reactions, he picked up the mirror and the picnic basket before heading for his bedroom door.
Sneaking down the stairs, Harry tiptoed his way into the kitchen. His searching procured all the necessary items; the plate was simple, the ones he sat out from dinner, breakfast and lunch. The wine glass from the top of one of the cupboards, only ever drawn out for guests—or Aunt Marge. Finally, the matches were found on the top of the fridge after much aimless rummaging above his height and in the dark.
"Hey," Fleur's voice called softly from the mirror, passing it into his right hand, Harry peered down at her face. It took up most of the image, hiding whatever she'd done to her hair of what she was wearing. "I still need to get ready, call me when you're at the park?"
"Of course," Harry said, "see you soon?"
"Soon," she whispered, and with a final vibration, she faded into mist.
As she left and with all the material gathered, Harry set out towards the front door. Twisting the handle and pushing and closing the door with a soft click as to not rouse the inhabitants. His first step was greeted by the concrete path beneath his feet and a breath of warm, summer air.
Harry trekked towards the park, picnic basket in hand, passing parked cars and fading in and out of the glow of street lights overhead.
Before he knew it, he was at the park.
It was, of course, empty at this time of night. Harry placed the basket down, procured the blanket within and spread it out. Harry took a seat before fishing his mirror out and speaking her name.
It took no time at all before she appeared again.
Fleur was in the meadow, flanked by candles and moonlight, her hair behind her ears and tied in a loose bun with two wisps framing her face.
Every time he saw her, Harry swore there would never be anyone more beautiful than her and yet, when she came again, the notion died in its infancy.
"Are you ready?" Fleur asked, even though they'd left Privet Drive, her voice was still quiet.
"Of course, what do we try first?"
"The wine?"
Harry looked taken aback, "I'm underage."
Fleur rolled her eyes, "Of all the rules you've broken, you want to choose drinking with me to be the moment you start caring?"
Harry winced, "That's a fair enough point," he conceded. "I've just… never drank before."
"It's easy," she assured him. "There's nothing more to it than just drinking anything else."
"I'll take your word for it," he mumbled. Harry reached into the picnic basket and pulled free the bottle. It was smaller than he anticipated, and the liquid within seemed almost transparent. Reaching for the steam of his glass, he poured himself a moderate serving.
Harry observed the glass up close, "And I just drink it?"
"You just drink it," Fleur confirmed, "that's it."
With her words giving him enough courage to lift the edge to his lips, Harry let the liquid wet his lips and slipped past into his mouth. As he took his first sip, she mirrored him.
It was fruit as it tickled his tongue, a pleasant sensation that, after a moment, was backed by the acrid and bitter taste of alcohol. It wasn't the most pleasant of firsts, but it wasn't terrible either. Harry tipped the glass back up to try and taste again to see if the second was any more pleasant.
Fleur eagerly looked on as he tasted again, "What do you think?" she asked.
"It's… something ," Harry decided after a few moments. His hand reached into the basket to free a grape from its stem, popping it into his mouth to relieve him of the taste.
"It's the taste of elegance ," Fleur announced dramatically as she sipped her own again.
"Elegance tastes a bit like shite," Harry murmured, and, at his words, Fleur snorted into her glass.
Harry took another sip, if only to finish the glass, before laying down on the blanket and staring up at the stars.
She let out a gentle, pleasant breath as she too retreated to her back. "It's a beautiful night tonight," Fleur said.
"It is," Harry agreed, "I love it out here, the stars."
"Gabby and I used to come out here to watch them all the time," Fleur said, her eyes still glued upwards. "She loved them—we both did. We used to have our own little picnics, steal food from the kitchen and play. Maman would've killed us if she ever found out but, well, she didn't."
Harry laughed softly, "Is that where this idea came from?" He asked, "night time picnics with Gabrielle."
"Yeah…" Fleur trailed off into the night, "It's my happiest memory and well…."
"Yeah?" Harry echoed.
"I just thought I wouldn't mind making another happiest memory," Fleur practically whispered, "I know how that sounds—"
"Perfect," Harry said, "I think it sounds perfect."
She tried to get away from her side of the conversation, "What's your happiest memory?"
Harry chewed at his upper lip in thought, "That's a tough one," he said. "I've got a few, I guess. When Hagrid told me I was a wizard? That's got to be up there, I suppose. Meeting Ron and Hermione, even if I didn't know how we'd end up. Sirius? Learning about my parents and…" He cut his words off abruptly.
"What's that?"
He shook his head, "It's another one of those things I say that'll make me look like an idiot."
"I'm going to make you tell me anyway," Fleur smiled, he couldn't see it, but he heard it in her voice. "Might as well just say it."
His heart thumped hard in his chest as the courage, liquid and mustered, came to usher the words from his heart and into open air.
"Well… you ."
"Me?" Fleur asked, incredulous.
"This summer would've been unbearable, what with everything going on," Harry began with a sigh. "But it wasn't, you were there and you made it… just so much better . It's the happiest summer I've ever had."
"Oh Harry…" Fleur started, but he wasn't done just yet.
"Like I said," He continued, "It makes me sound like such an idiot. I—"
"You make me happy too!" Fleur interrupted.
And there it was, the same anxiety he couldn't place. The feeling of lead in his throat, his heart in his mouth, throbbing hard. The desperate hope that, in spite of an empty head, he'd have the right words to make her feel something.
"It's true," Fleur went on softly. "You've been so perfect to me, I know I probably haven't always been the easiest to talk to some days." Her sigh was ragged, "I've got problems too, though I suppose you know that."
"You're amazing," Harry cut the doubt in half. "I'm just not sure there's as much in me as you think."
"No," Fleur agreed in a whisper. "There's so much more."
With her words, there was a brief detente while both tried to put words to their feelings and failed. The desperate gambit to try and still a heart that beat too fast and beat back all the words that would give the game away.
Harry spoke first, "See that bright star in the sky?" he asked, hoping they'd see the same night sky.
"Yeah, I do." Fleur responded, "It's gorgeous."
"That's Sirius," Harry explained, though she probably already knew it. "It's the brightest star in the sky, he never lets me forget that…" Harry gathered his thoughts for a moment, "His is great and all, I'm sure. But I think we should have one of our own."
Her voice had never sounded so full of joy, "I think that's a great idea."
Minutes passed as Harry surveyed the twilight with an intensity he'd never mustered outside of Astronomy class.
"The North Star," Harry decided. "That one's ours."
"Oh?" Fleur sounded intrigued and rolled on her side to face the mirror, "Why's that?"
"It's going to sound stupid and dramatic," Harry warned.
"I love stupid and dramatic."
"The North Star… it helps you find home," His voice was barely a whisper, and every word made him want to stop in his tracks and forget it. "And we're so far away from one other, I just thought that maybe every time we'd look at it, we'd just feel closer."
Harry Potter had never felt like such an idiot.
"Harry," Fleur breathed softly, "look at me."
It took all the courage he had to do so, and soon, he found himself face to face with her.
The words at her lips seemed almost tangible, lingering there for a slow eternity as she debated what would come next.
"Kiss me."
Her words gave rise to a thousand thoughts and one. The culmination of everything he'd felt over the summer and before had been destined to bloom or die in the park in Little Whinging.
The word came to him as he stared at her through the mirror.
Love , Harry realised, this is what it feels like .
It was the wanting her to be here no matter what, wanting to make her happy, to make her smile and to make her days better. To wake up early to say good morning and stay awake for a good night. It was so many things he knew he'd felt and yet, so many things he knew he hadn't yet had the pleasure.
Harry had never known his heart could feel like this, to feel so big and belong to someone at the same time. The thought scared him more than he could ever say. At its core, love was scary.
But even if scared, Harry leapt after a summer of not knowing what he'd felt for her, the leap had never seemed more precarious.
But he leapt all the same, not ruled by the fear he'd fall, but for the hope he'd fly.
The slow dance of immovable infinities swayed above as their lips met together in the middle, separated by the thin layer of magical glass. Despite the distance, he could feel her, remember what she tasted like. It was as intimate as any kiss in spite of their lips being hundreds of miles away.
Because if it was filled with fear for the future, of truths they didn't yet want to confront. It also ushered in their love, their hopes—everything they'd worked for together, even if they didn't know it.
Their kiss was feather-light, and soon, they separated in unison.
Harry laid his eyes upon Fleur—the woman he'd loved and found, in place of her beautiful eyes, they were tear-stained.
"Fleur?" He whispered.
"I'm just being silly," she whispered. "Thank you for a perfect night."
"Thank you," Harry echoed, though with her tears and, despite their kiss and hopes, he knew something was wrong. It had to be.
She pressed her lips to the mirror again, and he followed suit, it was natural in a way he'd never be able to describe.
Together, they stared at the sky and hoped.
Hoped for one another, hoped that it would be different.
Hoped that, in spite of the odds, this would work. That this all being so confusing simply meant it'd be sweeter.
It had to.
The moon continued its arc into the sky, and soon enough, thankful goodbyes were bid, and, with a midnight kiss, the mirror connection closed in the same telltale swirl of smoke.
A flick of her rosewood wand sent a small gust of wind towards the candles that, supplemented with the moon, had provided her light. Extinguished and without the balm of his voice that had taken to easing her soul, Fleur Delacour was alone.
And, in that vacuum, feelings that she'd staved off with laughter and gentle kisses rushed in and settled, heavy and proud on her slender shoulders.
Why does it all have to be so complicated? Fleur thought as she kicked an errant tuft of grass, picnic basket in hand as she made her way home. It sounded cliche, as she'd said before, love wasn't as simple as the romance novels made it out to be.
It didn't mean, however, that she enjoyed feeling the turmoil of not knowing what to do next.
Languid steps led her to the door, each soft footfall another lament she could no longer stow away. Twisting the burnished bronze door handle led her inside, she dropped the picnic basket next to the door, not caring about the contents jumping in its confines.
Fleur headed to the stairs with the desperate hope that she could sleep away what she felt, she reached the top and tiptoed past Gabrielle's room and to the door of her own.
Standing in front of her door, Fleur gave the hallway a sidelong glance and spotted her parents' door was a crack open, a glimmer of the light inside cast against the darkened walls.
She couldn't, could she?
Her hand closed around the knob that would allow her entry to the room, turning it until the lock opened with an audible click.
If she told anyone about how she felt, it'd be real, it'd have its roots in the real world, and she'd have to answer all the questions she was too afraid to ponder.
But then again, anything was better than the tumultuous indecision.
Fleur released her hold on the handle and let it close, before tiptoeing further down the corridor in pursuit of the glimmer of light. Edging closer, Fleur put her ear to the door, careful not to disturb it and reveal her presence behind it.
If she listened close enough, she could hear the scrape of paper against itself—her mother would be reading and, even at this late hour, her father was probably finishing his work in his study.
Opportunity was ripe if she had the courage to seize it. Her hand formed a weak fist and went to knock upon the door before an anxiety-born rigidity kept it from landing, her mind's final gambit to keep her from trying to deal with it all.
Before common sense, or lack thereof could stop her, Fleur's fist fell against the door, loud and obvious, and with it, her fate was sealed.
It took a little moment for the reply to come, "Yes?" her mother called.
"Can I talk to you, maman?" Fleur called, careful not to accidentally wake Gabrielle down the hall.
After a short ruffling, her reply came, "Of course, dear."
With that, Fleur pushed open the door just wide enough to get past and closed it quickly behind her. Her Mother was sitting against the headboard, her legs beneath the covers as she folded the corner of her page and stowed the book beside her.
Apolline's brow furrowed at what, admittedly, must have made for a confusing sight. Fleur had worn her favourite dress, she'd spared no effort for her hair and now, close to midnight, she came to her with red-rimmed eyes and unsteady breaths.
"What's wrong, mon coeur?" Apolline prompted, sitting back further in bed.
Fleur brought both her hands together in front of her and wrung them as she floated slowly to the bed. "If… if I tell you something, promise not to judge me?"
"Fleur!" Her mother began, scandalised, "I would ne—"
" Please , maman," Fleur begged, enunciated by hands unsure of what form to take. "Just promise."
"I'm your mother, Fleur," Apolline sighed and left the words by themselves for a moment, expecting them to explain everything—and they did. "But yes, I promise," she followed, "sit down, sweetheart."
At the invitation, weary legs brought her to the edge of the bed and gently deposited it against the soft mattress. Her mother gave her a few moments to collect her thoughts. Fleur was more thankful for that than she could say.
"I did something— have been doing something," Fleur began in a small voice, her eyes closed shut as to not see the disapproval that was almost certainly soon to follow. "Something you told us as kids wouldn't work out well, that all this usually ended terribly. And… and I always listened to that."
"And now?" Her mother prompted in a gentle voice.
"I stopped listening," Fleur whispered, "I… I've been talking to someone."
Apolline nodded, "I think I'm quite aware."
"How—"
"I'm your mother, Fleur," she said. "And perhaps a lesser one would've missed the signs, you talking more, smiling into your food, sneaking off at night, laughing in your room. I didn't though."
Fleur allowed a small smile, slight and fading, to grace her features as she looked down to her lap.
"That," Apolline continued, "and, despite your hopes to the contrary, your sister isn't quite as quiet as she thinks." The smile turned into a groan, and her mother let out a soft chuckle, "If you need to talk, mon coeur, I'm here."
"I—" Fleur began, and, without the words to do her feelings justice, she just sat.
Her mother's hand found her knee; Apolline looked the same as if that knee was grazed when she was a child. The sort of sympathy and solace only a mother's loving gaze could muster.
Just as it had been when she fell, it was a balm that eased her wounds and for a moment, the world.
"You don't have to say anything," Apolline consoled. "Sometimes the words help, sometimes they don't. Sometimes you've just got to sit with someone who cares, take a breath and try and sort it out."
Armed with that advice and the knowledge that, in spite of her fears, her mother wouldn't care, Fleur Delacour let the wall down. Rapier-like emotions that had long since been vying for chinks in her armour struck home all at once.
And she cried.
"Maman…" Fleur wept. "I'm in love."
The tears were hot and sudden, the strength sapped from her form as the emotions rushed in the breach. Fleur fell against her mother who wrapped her arms around her shoulder.
"Oh, Fleur," her mother whispered and pulled her tighter.
Her feelings for Harry stung her eyes and dripped down to her cheeks, tasting salty and sweet as it met her lips.
Mister Delacour, hearing the commotion from the room across, peeked through the door of his study to survey the situation beyond. Brown-haired and slightly dishevelled, he took a single step into the room before a wordless gesture from Apolline sent him back. Nodding with understanding, he retreated back into the confines of his study silently.
Soon the tears subsided, and Fleur was left being held against her mother's chest like a babe. With how incompetent she felt she was in dealing with her own emotions, she would've called herself one.
"You always used to tell me young love would just get me hurt," Fleur started softly. "That it wasn't like the stories, that people would want me for what I was, not who I was and… and how I should wait until I'm older, until I can tell the difference. I can see the wisdom in that, now anyways."
Apolline pressed her lips into Fleur's hair and gave her a small kiss, "Sometimes a little hurt now can save a lot of hurt later."
Fleur sounded almost on the verge of tears again as her mother stroked her back, "I tried so hard to listen, believe me." She said, "But… but he made me so happy, and I tried. I said no, made sure we could never be that . And I couldn't, I just couldn't . Every time I thought I got too close, I tried to pull back and I just slammed back harder. I fell for him, Maman and… and I'm sorry."
"Don't be, sweet girl," her mother whispered. "The world would be an easier place if we could talk and laugh without giving someone a little piece of ourselves. You're not the first woman to fall when she swore she wouldn't."
That, she supposed, was some comfort. "I'm just confused, Maman." Fleur said, before mumbling, "so confused."
"Does this mystery man have a name?"
Fleur winced and closed her eyes again, "You won't like it, it's complicated."
"It's the most complex and simple thing there is," Apolline assured. "I'm sure I can handle it."
With an exhale that was ragged and hoarse, the name that had changed her life over the course of summer left her lips.
"Harry Potter."
Her mother mimicked her sigh, "I suppose that is complicated, yes."
A watery laugh followed, "Oh Merlin, what will Papa think of me?"
"You silly girl," Apolline said, "If every father thought so little of his daughters when they made a mistake, there wouldn't be many loving fathers in the world, and certainly no smart daughters."
"I—"
"He will love you, as he always has." Apolline continued, "and always will, nothing will change that."
"It's…" Fleur began, "Maman he's a country away, a country that doesn't like me any more than my own. He's younger, he's at the forefront of a war and… and what am I supposed to do?"
Apolline opened her mouth and closed it soon after, "I just want to know what to do." Fleur begged.
Her mother took a moment still before speaking, "I don't know." She said, "I know that's not what you hoped to hear. Life is pain and pleasure in equal parts, you've just got to find something worth risking the former for the latter."
Without something to say in response, Fleur merely ruminated on the words given to her.
"Only you can know what you're really feeling, if he's worth risking, then leap."
"And if I don't know?"
Apolline laughed lightly at that, "I've never met anyone so tenacious and determined," She said. "I think you know exactly what you want to do, you'll just tell yourself you don't because, for now, it makes the future a little less daunting."
Fleur nodded into her chest and breathed rough into the fabric of her nightgown, "Thank you, Maman."
"You'll never have to thank me," Apolline whispered.
With the truths laid bare, or as bare as they could be, for now, Fleur tiptoed back to her room. There was so much to ponder, the future didn't give her the chance to collect her thoughts. It was a coward, it came at her all at once and expected her to sort it all out.
Once Fleur had left her parents' room, Mister Delacour finally poked his head out again.
"I take it you heard that?" Apolline sighed and placed the book from the bed onto the bedside table.
He shrugged, "Not all," he answered. "But enough."
The man shrugged off his slippers and slipped beside his wife under the cover, she turned on her side and turned her lamp off. His arm snaked around her back and brought her closer, nestling against his chest, feeling the dull throb of his heartbeat against her ear.
"Do you think we could've done better?" Apolline said, the sort of broken tone only a parent who thought themselves a detriment to their children could manage.
"I think we gave them all they'll need, taught them all they could," he said after a while. "She'll just have to learn by doing, like her mother."
"It'll hurt her heart," Apolline whispered.
"And so it will," Mister Delacour said. "But she inherited a strong one."
And with the final word, the Delacour household was finally asleep.
Across the channel, Harry Potter faced similar turmoil.
It had to be past midnight, he wasn't even sure this plan would work like last time. Weighing the azure grains of powder in his hand, he debated the merits of just waiting until morning.
But with the courage of someone who desperately needed answers, Harry tossed the powder towards the fireplace and spoke familiar words.
"12 Grimmauld Place!"
Moments passed as the blue flames flared, the unpleasant heat, if nothing else, kept him awake.
Eventually, Sirius stumbled down to greet him.
"Harry?" He groggily moaned before he seemed to sober from slumber instantly. "Is everything okay? Nothing has happened?"
"I'm fine, Sirius." Harry said, "I just… I need your help with something."
Sirius folded his legs beneath him and peered inquisitively into the fire, "Anything, kiddo. I'll do my best."
Harry ran his thumb over the meat of his palm, trying to do something with his hands. "I know you said you weren't Dad and that he should've been the one to help me with this sort of stuff." He swallowed roughly before continuing, "but I need help."
There was a fragility to his voice, a vulnerability in his words he'd been taught to avoid since he could remember. The plea, after all the years, felt as liberating as it did damning.
"Yeah," Sirius nodded, leaning back. His eyes darted away from Harry's for the briefest second, "yeah, kid. I'll do what I can."
Despite sounding tired and unsure, the prospect of guidance was welcome—words had seldom ever seemed so sweet.
With a deep breath, he began. "It's complicated," Harry said, echoing words hundreds of miles away. "I wouldn't really know where, or how, to start it's just…."
"Complicated?" Sirius guessed with a slight smile that earned a nod. "For the how, let's try slowly. For the where? Start with whatever's got you up this late."
"I think I'm in love."
The words were blurted, coming out thick and fast in the hopes speed would dull the harsh throb in his chest or the sudden impact of the revelation spoken aloud.
It didn't, but there was little harm in hoping.
"Huh," Sirius blinked rapidly. "Not what I was expecting."
In spite of the situation's gravity, Harry couldn't help but let out a laugh—clipped and gone before he realised, but a laugh all the same. "I guess it wasn't what I was really expecting either."
"No," Sirius continued with his soft smile, "I wager it wasn't. Well, I don't suppose I need to ask what's confusing you then. Everything?" He asked.
"Everything." Harry confirmed.
Sirius settled himself into the carpet for what had the makings of a long conversation. "You told me you were just friends last time you called." He said, "I didn't really think I needed to follow up in our letters, but I get the feeling you were definitely more than that?"
"I didn't mean to lie. I ju—"
"I'm not worried about you lying," His godfather interrupted. "Trust me, I lied to my dad about girls more times than I could count. I'm just looking to try and figure it out, that's all. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
Shaking his head, "No, no." Harry said, "it's just complicated. Really, really complicated."
"The carpet is pretty comfortable," Sirius commented offhandedly. "I'm sure I could sit here a while if you needed it."
That, even being as simple as it was, set his mind at ease. "I guess it began at Hogwarts—"
"Like most good things do."
Harry continued, "she thought I cheated to get in, like everyone else. Not that I can really blame her." He said, "then the Second Task rolled around and her sister was a hostage and I saved her."
"And I'm guessing things began?"
"That's one word for them," Harry breathed. "She kissed me for the first time then, just the corner of the lips but yeah, I guess it all began there."
"The first time?" Sirius raised a brow.
"I'll get there," Harry promised. "We became friends, good ones too. Ron was still frosty, Hermione wanted to play both sides—it was just good to have someone to myself, as selfish as it sounds."
Sirius nodded as he consumed every word, his own rapt audience.
Harry shrugged, not knowing what else to do, "I guess a lot happened from there on out." He explained, "We met up a lot, neither of us had that many friends, what with everything going on. She taught me little spells and…" A glimmer of upturned lips graced his features. "She was scared of the water, so I helped her learn to swim. Or learn to swim better anyways, and then she kissed me again."
"On the lips?"
"Yeah." Harry nodded, "It was cold, she was happy and excited but yeah. On the lips."
Sirius smiled slyly, and despite it all, Harry rolled his eyes. "Did anything come from the kiss?"
Sighing, Harry continued his explanation, "not really." He said, "After the Third Task and Voldemort, she told me she wasn't really what I needed. She kissed me goodbye and left."
"So it's that simple?"
"It was, yeah." Harry nodded, "Then we started sending letters over the summer—then the mirror. First it was a couple times a week, then a couple times a day. We got a lot closer, I guess. Last night… we kissed again, and I guess that's what has me feeling like this ."
"Kissed? Through the mirror?" Sirius furrowed his brow.
Harry groaned, "Listen, I know it's weird." He said, "Really, really weird. She cried after she did it, then she kissed me again."
It was Sirius's turn to sigh now, leaning closer to the flames. "She's probably just scared, it happens."
"Scared?"
"I won't claim to know much about her," Sirius placated. "But she lives in a different country, until you can apparate and with Voldemort around, that'll bring… complications ."
"Oh."
His voice was dejected and hoarse, Harry supposed he never really put his mind towards her justification, and upon hearing his theory, it made the divide seem that much wider.
"I know it isn't what you want to hear, kiddo," Sirius apologised. "But it's the truth, it doesn't make it impossible. I'd wager you've got a lot to learn though."
Harry squinted in confusion, "what? About Veela?"
Sirius laughed like he was told a joke, from the belly and meaningful. "In part, yeah, probably." He said, "But about yourself. Love is about opening your chest so that someone can get to your heart, you hope they're good to it, sometimes they aren't. That scares people, probably scares her a lot. It probably scares you quite a bit too, you just can't feel it right now."
"Why can't I feel it?"
"Because you're so focused on what could be, you're not focusing on what is. Love'll do that to you." His godfather explained. "I had this same conversation countless times with your dad about your mum, trust me."
"What scares her about it then?" Harry exhaled, "that I'll break her heart? That…" He swallowed, "am I not good enough?"
"Get that thought out of your head." Sirius demanded.
"Just humour me." Harry begged, "she's older, beautiful, intelligent, witty. Me? I'm, well, me ."
"You don't pass or fail at being a person, Harry, you just are . And what you are is right for someone, maybe not the one you always think. Sometimes these feelings just seem final, they don't always have to be." Sirius stopped and inhaled a deep breath, "It sounds terrible and it's definitely not what I should be telling you. I should be telling you she'll love you back, that it'll be a fairy tale. But it might not be. Regardless if you're right or wrong for one another, however, you owe it to yourself to tell her how you feel."
"What am I supposed to do?" Harry whispered. "Sirius, please."
"You know what you're feeling better than everyone ever could." Sirius whispered in return, putting his hand on his shoulder through the flames. "All we can ever really do is try and make them know, even if it's just a little bit."
The advice made him ponder, just for a moment, that maybe Sirius had once been in a situation.
It was not the eloquent advice Fleur had received, but it did stoke something.
For better, or worse.
Harry sat on his bed, toying with the vibrating mirror and pondered.
Every day for the past, however long, he'd lost track, she'd answered without fail.
Then the whirlwind of his birthday had come along and, with the fringes, had sent everything that had made the summer what it was asunder. Now, he was relegated to inordinate silence that passed with the help of hot sun and dull breeze, swirling smoke chewing at his heart.
He debated calling through the mirror again, and again in the hopes that maybe she just hadn't heard him—the naivety felt refreshing against the stale truth.
But they'd kissed, she'd cried, and with it, true feelings had come out.
Those same true feelings left him dazed, confused and staring at the roof in the hopes it would offer solace and reprieve he usually got from the mirror.
It wouldn't, but there was little harm in trying.
Eventually, Harry clutched the mirror to his chest and laid his head against the pillow. Hedwig crooned softly across the room, a gentle song of hoots that roused his attention.
And, with his attention, came an idea.
He couldn't, could he?
Harry threw his legs over the bed and shuffled over to his desk and stilled, for just a moment, wondering if it was the right course.
I guess I can't really know .
With that, he fished out a piece of parchment from his school supplies alongside his inkpot and, with determined fingers, wrote old words.
Dear Fleur,
He ached and second-guessed, crumpled paper in a pile too large for his desk and wondered if he could really do what he felt justice.
Though, with the sun lower in the sky than when he started, the letter was eventually finished. Harry walked to Hedwig's perch, the bird cocking her head inquisitively.
"Hey girl," Harry said softly. "This one's gotta go to Fleur, you remember the way?"
Hedwig bristled in what could only be animalistic indignation.
A small smile appeared, "Right," Harry apologised. "It might be dangerous, you don't have to go if you don't want to. Not after last time."
The owl's wings fluttered and stretched wide as if she was already about to take flight. Taking it as affirmation, Harry tied the letter to her leg after a last drink of water, she took flight, bound to France.
As she disappeared beyond view, his hopes followed soon after. Hope that Hedwig would be safe, hope that the letter wouldn't be the last, rather the first of many more.
He'd become rather fond of his Dear Fleurs .
With a last glance to the mirror's swirling image, Harry stowed it in his pocket. The chances she'd answer were slim. As sad as that fact was, he'd accepted it.
Maybe a walk will do me some good, Harry thought.
Grabbing his shoes, he eventually set off to the park to sit on the swing and relax for the few solitary moments the world granted him.
As he set out, he hadn't yet realised the threat did not lie in the form of another owl hunting his own or the threat of being shot down.
It was in the brewing tempest overhead and the cold it brought, the rolling storm following the behest of wraiths with mouths agape and eyes sewn shut that chased him and his cousin into an empty alleyway.
And it was memories of her that came to the forefront, to his defence when the jolt of icy terror wormed itself into his soul. It was her laughter, her smile, her eyes— her , that mustered the ethereal stag that gored his foes and left him gasping on the ground.
It was later that night that Fleur received not one letter, but three.
The first from Gringotts, of which it brought good tidings and the prospects of a life beyond the channel.
A random chance she'd taken, she didn't think it meant anything in particular. Now with an acceptance letter in her hands, those some awkward questions she'd been so masterful at evading didn't seem so dodgeable.
The second was something all the more complicated.
I love you, Fleur read. Please don't ask me to stop, I don't know if I can.
The exhale that followed the words was rough and hoarse, the sort you could hear across the room that heralded tears yet to come.
Love, Harry.
Your idiot.
What was the correct reaction? Was it happiness? Should she cross the channel and run into his arms?
Or was it fear? Should she worry that with each word, her resolve slowly melted away, and the prospects all didn't seem so bleak?
Life is pain and pleasure in equal parts, she'd been told, You've just to find something worth risking the former for the latter.
Harry Potter was worth it, she'd known that for an age.
There was no one quite like him; no one had ever treated her in such away. Perhaps it was the blissful naivety of her first true romance, maybe it was something more—something unique . She couldn't discern the future, Fleur could only know what she felt now .
And well, she didn't know what she felt.
Fleur Delacour loved Harry Potter, that much had become apparent to her over the course of all these months. The revelation, born fully at the hands of a dance and a cold kiss separated by glass, didn't put her mind at ease as she had hoped.
And then, with the silence of a mind left hollow, her heart's inexorable imperative came once again, kicking and screaming, to the forefront.
Should she continue on the collision course and fall, little-by-little as she had countless times before, saving her sister, each letter, teaching her to swim?
Or should she, in spite of her heart's protest, put an axe through the budding relationship, let it perish in its infancy?
That was the heart's dilemma she faced while laying in bed, her mirror clutched to her chest—the same she hadn't had the courage to answer.
I love him.
"I love Harry Potter." Fleur tested aloud, and then once silence came back and the words faded, she tried it louder. "I love Harry Potter."
The words were sweet, and she so desperately wanted to give into them, but love was not always the be-all, end-all of a relationship. She'd have to move countries, leave her family behind. She'd have to go through two Ministries to even see them, she'd be at the forefront of the war—there'd be no avoiding it.
Somehow that thought didn't scare her as much as it once did, and funnily enough, that scared her more than ever.
And then she opened the third letter, in a vaguely familiar hand. It was short and simple, elegant arches that seemed unsure somehow—frantic. Her eyes traced the address and the first line, and within an instant, the letter was dropped, and she was bound for the door.
The last time she'd gone to her parent's room, it'd been filled with indecisiveness and worry.
Their door wasn't much of an obstacle, surmounted with ease as her mother was, yet again, in bed reading a book.
"Maman," she breathed, and as soon as the words met air, she knew that one way or another, the choice had been made if not by her, for her. "I need to go to Britain."
The knowing smirk that followed cemented the fact that maybe, just maybe, mothers truly did know everything.
Grimmauld Place was even dirtier than looking through the fireplace had led him to believe. Derelict architecture, wallpaper stripped to expose dark wood beneath, creaking floorboards and dark creatures culminated in a holiday destination that was anything but perfect.
"Say the Cannons did win." Ron posed, laying in the bed across from him.
"Oh, this'll be good." Harry laughed and turned towards him, the school book he'd been bored enough to read falling closed.
Headquarters would house him until his trial. At times he was sure he'd much rather be at Privet Drive. It had its saving graces, he supposed, Sirius, Hermione, the Weasleys.
And, above all, it kept his mind from drifting into dangerous territory and pondering the meaning of a mirror left unanswered for days.
Hermione huffed in the corner, "They won't." She said succinctly, Quidditch conversation rarely held her attention or warranted anything beyond succinct responses.
"You don't know anything about Quidditch!" Ron narrowed his eyes.
"And you do?" Harry snorted and drew the other boy's attention back to him, "You do go for the Cannons."
"They're far better than the Tut—" His retort was cut off by a knock to the door, drawing all their eyes upwards.
"Come in!" Hermione called and, the handle twisted, and from around the side, Sirius peeked out.
His smile was bright and wide as his eyes landed on his godson. "Harry," Sirius called, and with a flick of his head towards the stairs, "mind if I borrow you for a moment?"
"Sure," he replied, placing his book properly on the bed. His hand reached beneath his pillow to the mirror, and he stowed it in his pocket.
She probably wouldn't call, it didn't hurt to be safe now, though, did it?
Harry followed him out of the room and down the stairs that led to the first floor. His curiosity couldn't be beaten back for long, "What do you need me for?" He asked.
"Can't a Godfather just spend time with his godson?"
Harry furrowed his brow, "Could you have possibly said anything that sounded more suspicious?"
Sirius laughed, or more aptly, almost bellowed—loud and mirthful. He'd been doing it more and more often since Harry arrived. It made him happy in a way he couldn't quite put words to.
The older man turned to him as they walked, "You know," Sirius began. "I got a letter this morning."
"So that's why we've got an owl."
"Careful now," Sirius warned. "I think you'll like this one."
Harry perked up at that, "Oh?"
He shrugged, "Truthfully, I sent a letter first," Sirius admitted. "Don't suppose it matters too much now."
This, rather than elucidate, simply confused Harry more.
"A school friend," he explained after casting a sidelong glance towards Harry and finding a confused face. "A concerned one too."
"A school friend?' Harry echoed, "Here? At Headquarters?"
"Well it's not like they can tell anyone about it, can they? Professor Dumbledore was quite a big fan of the idea."
They came to the front door, tall and domineering, the exit from the oppressive House of Black.
"Besides," Sirius smiled, reaching for the handle. "You can thank me later."
The door was pulled open, and the sun's first few swords peeking over suburban heights glared through, unadulterated and heavy.
And in front of the sun?
Fleur Delacour was standing there, heart in hand, on the threshold to Number 12.
"Fle—" Harry began, finding himself face-to-face with ocean-blue eyes, and the air freed itself from his lungs.
Her actions were quick, decisive and breathless. Hands with a strength that wasn't entirely her own snaked around his neck and dragged him into her as she took the final step to be on the same level as him.
The river of silver obscured his view, tamed behind her head in a half-bun and yet, still enough to enrapture him.
Be mine , it called. Be mine.
And finally, after so much ache and time, he gave in and slipped his eyes downwards to her lips—plump, generous and demanding.
Her lips pressed against his in an instant, his face erupted in heat, his body with passion and his heart with love.
Without even a second to ponder the revelation or why she was here, his lips moved willingly of their own accord. Ill-practised as he was, their lips pressed together as he dragged her further into him in the hopes she'd never step away.
Sirius closed the door and walked back into Grimmauld Place, unbeknownst to either of them.
The struggle to breathe necessitated separation, and with it, the words they'd only just figured out existed for one another.
"It's really you ," Harry whispered and leant his forehead against hers. She giggled in response, breathless and smiling.
"It's really me ." Fleur confirmed, and he let out a soft exhale. "I did promise, didn't I?"
The dream he'd dreamt was anything but.
"I love you," Harry said.
"I love you too," Fleur returned. "With all my heart."
And then, with mirrors in hand and in the view of most of the street's inhabitants had they dared to look, Fleur Delacour and Harry Potter kissed again.
Love is strange, Harry pondered. So, so strange.
A year ago, he'd never ever considered this as a possibility. Never thought that he could love with all that he was and receive such in return.
Then one day, someone wandered into his life.
She wasn't any different to anyone else until, at some point, she had a piece of his heart. She didn't ask for it, didn't expect it. She just smiled at him, made him laugh, she made every day the best—she simply was .
And then suddenly, he had a piece of her too and then his life wasn't his own anymore.
It was not conventional nor what anyone had expected. It was a battle against the odds and their own hearts.
There'd be hurt yet, likely quite a bit of it. That'd be a battle for a different day, for solid ground and calmer minds.
For now, sometimes different roads truly did lead people to the same place.