Thank you to Michal and Raph.
Under the warm light of the evening, the shore of Nice seemed eternal, sand and sea stretching seemingly endlessly; the French seaside a painting of gold and the purest blue cast yet more bright by the setting sun.
Yet, even if one were to sit atop any of the city's hills and survey the gorgeous infinity that was, there would still be one place that even the clearest sight would not see. As, hidden away at the furthest reach of the golden ribbon of the beach, there was a slight alcove cut into the hillside and, most importantly, obscured by the shimmering light of magic.
And, within that alcove, Harry Potter and Fleur Delacour sat, the tips of their fingers gently overlapping as they bathed in the last light of the day. If pressed, neither would've been quite able to say exactly how long they'd laid there beside one another. Though, if pressed, neither would care.
A bonfire burned lowly in front of them, its light swimming within the sun's. Early in the afternoon, it began as a great plume of heat and warmth, yet by then all it could do was flicker within the smouldering wood.
Fleur rolled slowly toward Harry, her cheek resting against his chest. "'Arry?" she asked, her voice sleepy. "Could you get the fire going again?"
Were he in any mood to move Harry would've likely teased her, but he wasn't in any mood to move. All he truly wished to do was lay with her.
"Of course," he said instead, rising up upon his elbows, pausing only to press his lips against her forehead, earning a weary grin.
With a lazy flick of his palm, Harry drew heat back into the fire, his palm emanating flame and warmth. Where once only dwindling flickers stood, a great tower of heat then exploded into life.
Satisfied, he fell back down to the blanket that they shared. Harry drew his arm around Fleur's waist, drawing her as close to him as they both always wished that they were. Fleur laughed musically; her voice the only sound for miles, save for the sweeping of the sea inward and outward.
"Have you heard from Ron?" Fleur asked, pressing her hand against his abs for a moment so that she could turn within his arms to look into Harry's stunning eyes. "Isn't he supposed to be in Bulgaria?"
"Got there yesterday, apparently," Harry replied, before laughing to himself. "Said he's been trying to get half the national team to sign for the Cannons."
"And Viktor?"
"He's already signed. Think he called it a passion project," Harry said. Fleur offered him a sharp look. "Oh, you meant how is he. Fine I think. The ego's still sprained, but nothing more."
Their decision to share the Triwizard Tournament victory was one met with minor grumblings, many decrying the unfairness of allowing a couple to compete together , rather than all four of them against each other. That might well have had a point too, had both Harry and Fleur not, until the very moment they found the Cup at the end of the maze, been throwing spells and fire at one another.
"I'm not so sure why yours remains wholly intact, mon cheri ," Fleur commented. "Had I not let you take the cup with me, you'd be right beside him on the loser's podium."
"You didn't let me do anything," Harry returned. "If I hadn't saved us from the acromantula, you'd still be in the maze now."
"And if I didn't help you up afterwards, you would be too."
"Aragog had stabbed me."
"That's your own fault," Fleur told him. "That beast of Hagrid's did not stab me."
Harry just shook his head.
"How is Hagrid?" he asked, shifting focus. "Didn't they write to you?"
Fleur's eyes narrowed, ready to argue further, though she did not. "He's wonderful," she said, already beginning to smile. "Olympe and he are loving the Alps; they are both thinking of staying there forever."
For a moment, Harry thought of his first friend, surrounded by wilderness and wild beasts, Fang and Aragog and all else with him, Maxime in her study, free to discover the mysteries of life, and the universe and, well, everything.
Harry hoped if they did leave for good, they would at the very least leave behind a few of the skrewts. He'd grown fond of them since the winter.
From behind them, a voice broke his reverie.
"Papa says that dinner is nearly ready," Gabrielle called out, rousing the pair of them in a hurry, their stomachs chorusing expectant groans at the thought. They'd spent a month there in Nice with her family, together, and it cemented a desire for Harry to eat their cooking on every possible occasion that he could.
Either that , or for him to learn just how they made everything so wonderful. Hopefully both.
They had time, after all.
Harry was first to his feet, offering an outstretched palm for Fleur to take. Yet, such was her hurry to sample her family's culinary delights, that she fell into his arms, his hands instinctively coming to hold her waist. Just as he had in those first moments, dancing and not dancing.
For a moment, they met eyes under the evening sun and their fire. Only a moment, and yet it was enough for Harry to be utterly lost. Lost to her eyes, her gaze, her everything.
Yet, deep within every fibre of himself, he knew that with her in his arms, he couldn't be anywhere other than exactly where he was supposed to be. Found.
"I love you, Fleur," he said, as easily as breathing.
"I love you too, 'Arry," she said, equally at ease.
Their eyes dipped closed and their lips met. Harry had never felt as complete as he did then, in that moment, with Fleur. Fleur had never felt as content as she did then, held by Harry.
"Not that I'm not happy or anything for you mate, but really, I just want to eat," spoke the voice of Sirius Black, slicing through their moment. "You've been hyping up Marcel's cooking for ages."
They didn't leave one another's arms. "I'm sorry that our moment isn't appeasing your appetite."
"It's making me lose mine," Gabrielle muttered. She folded her arms. "I'm going, and you're coming with me."
Without a single glance backwards, she walked into the alcove which as she walked into, transported her directly onto the patio in the Delacour's back garden where her parents awaited.
"Are you two coming then?" Sirius asked, his hands resting at his hips. "I'm all for young love, but there's a time and a place, and that time isn't when we could be having Cordon Bleu and Boeuf Bourguignon and Bouillabaisse."
They shared a grin at 'Bouillabaisse'.
"Come on," Sirius hurried on. "I went twelve years without the finer things. I'm not going without them now."
With a shrug, Harry and Fleur made twin tracks in the golden sand, their hands linked together as they walked. Sirius attempted to offer a stern frown, yet as they drew closer all that his face seemed able to do was smile fondly.
Sirius ruffled Harry's hair as they walked past him, and the three followed Gabrielle back into Delacour's house upon the Nice hillside to retire for the evening. One of the many, wonderful evenings they'd spent together.
Harry didn't need to hope that they would continue, either. With Fleur at his side, he knew they would.
The fire upon the golden beach burned long after they left; long into the night, burning away the mild chill that held the coast. In truth, the fire was still waiting for Harry and Fleur the morning after, still burning though dimly, as they greeted the day together, anew.
There was no place they would rather be. And no person they would rather be with.
Thanks for reading!