Chapter 73 Wisdom From Beyond

Hermione Granger had been described by more than witch or wizard to be "the brightest witch of her age." Sirius Black had said so, Remus Lupin, last of the Marauders had said so. Many others had believed that her knowledge would one day surpass that of even the great Albus Dumbledore.

Those that knew her, however, would have agreed that her intelligence was only a portion of who she really was. They would remember a friend, a witch who was kind, generous, loyal, loving. Her compassion knew no bounds or limits. She made no distinction between different magical races as all were equal in her eyes. Fleur would have been one of the first to admit that the rest of the world only saw a witch with a genius-level intellect - something which scared many of them.

While the dead do not and cannot interfere in the affairs of the living, it has not prevented them from communicating with the living. Indeed, the ghosts of Hogwarts are just one example of the dead interacting directly with the living. For those who had not opted to stay behind as ghosts, they could communicate with those who were near death with ease. It was such an opportunity that Hermione had been waiting for, having watched the battle from a place beyond time and space as we know it. It is not quite Purgatory, not quite a place for lost souls, neither is in heaven and hell. The most accurate description would be to call it a "place between all the realms, known and forgotten."

Fleur only found herself there, given the severity of her wounds. The last thing she truly remembered was the sound, the feeling of her bones actually breaking as the curse collided with her lower back, shattering a number of her ribs and puncturing a lung. The wounds could have killed her and had only failed to do so thanks to Winky who had shifted their destination from arriving in the Travel Room to the Infirmary directly. Needless to say, the medical staff had quickly induced a coma to block most of the pain while they removed the shattered bones to re-grow them. The rest of her injuries were not as severe but there were a number of them that they also took the liberty of beginning to heal.

While magic is capable of working many miracles that would leave even the most cutting edge and advanced of modern medicine green with envy, the healing arts were something of a double-edged sword: Heal too much too quickly and the patient could go into shock, or worse yet suffer a backlash effect caused by too much foreign magic, be it spell or potion that could destabilize their magical core. It was the main reason why even St. Mungo's had wards full of patients at any given time as many patients required multiple rounds of healing before they could be discharged, including time under observation to ensure that there were adverse side effects to the treatments themselves. Indeed, it was the main reason why Mad-Eye Moody had lived much of his life with a prosthetic leg: His body and his magic had refused to accept both the potions and magic to regrow his leg.

In the real world, Fleur was in a coma. In the magical world, her body was in a coma, but her mind was fully awake and aware. She was conscious of this fact given that she was standing along the shores of what appeared to be the Black Lake, on the grounds of Hogwarts itself. The sun shone down and she could feel the warmth of its touch upon her skin. She could feel the grass between her toes and her robes were a simple greyish white. Her long tresses of honey gold hair were pulled back in a simple ponytail, but that was nothing compared to the person standing before her: Hermione Jane Granger, "Hello Fleur."

To say that Fleur was completely speechless would have been the understatement of the decade. She stared at the young witch, trying to process, everything, "I know you have questions, but before we go any further, yes you are still alive. Second, the healers put you to sleep so that you could rest while they healed your injuries. Third," she paused having ticked off her points on her fingers, "This is real and you are not hallucinating. Fourth, I am Hermione, the same Hermione you knew, or rather know." She smiled, "It gets a little confusing being well… dead and all. But you can trust me: It was a banishing charm that revealed the strength of the walls of Hogwarts about two years ago."

Fleur nodded warily, "More than one person, saw and can recall that particular incident. Perhaps you have something else that could convince me?"

"The dead can watch the living, though we cannot interfere in your affairs – at least directly. There was a great deal of firewhiskey consumed in the residence after the events of the third task. That, and you and Harry didn't as much as date, as fall together."

Fleur looked more than a little stricken at the thought of Hermione having seen… well… everything. The brown-haired witch laughed. It sounded just like the laugh she remembered, "We can see, does not mean we choose to see Fleur. Some things, we should never see at all. But I did see enough to know that you two will be enough for each other."

"Then you also know, what that has already cost me."

"Aimee, and now your parents," replied Hermione, "And they are just the most recent victims of this war. The squibs continue to die. The muggles have certainly not felt the last of Voldemort's hatred for them. But, I'm not here to convince you to do or say anything you don't want to do. I'm just here, to ask you one question: Would you listen to the opinion of someone you gave life to?"

"Non...c'est impossible," whispered Fleur, "Aimee?" her voice trembled, whether, in fear or anticipation, even Fleur herself could not really say.

"Bonjour mama." She seemed to step out from Hermione's shadow and the look of longing in the young girls' eyes was all it took to break Fleur's resistance as she ran forward and swept the child up in a hug. There was the high-pitched squeal of laughter as Fleur spun her daughter around in a circle before pulling her close and simply holding her tight.

"How is this..." she whispered, into her daughter's hair, "I...I... Je suis..."

"Death himself, walks hand in hand with Destiny," replied Aimee, "Mama, I don't have much time. But you must, listen to me, si'l vous plait."

Fleur knelt down, staring into the eyes of her daughter, the child she should have given birth to, and raised, who was now beyond her reach. She was four, or five years old. Shoulder-length deep golden hair like her mother, but with her father's striking emerald eyes. It seemed that she had inherited the best of both of them. If only, she didn't look so serious. The expression just did not suit the countenance of any four-year child. "Mama, you did not deserve what happened," Aimee smiled, "I didn't deserve what happened to me, but to blame Papa, my Papa," she emphasized, "is not fair to him. He needs you, just as you need him. I have watched both of you. And all you have done is suffer alone in the darkness for what happened to me."

Fleur shook her head, "you must know what I am ma petit, just as you probably would… are… Veela… even half Veela…"

"Ma mere, you are still human, and so you must understand that you are human as well as Veela and that you have always been more human than Veela. It is not easy for our kind, but you made a choice. It is not fair that you punish him, or punish yourself."

"Listen to her Fleur," whispered Hermione from the side, "She's right. What has happened, happened and there is no understanding or explaining it. But you've pushed away from the one person who would help you. If only you'd let him."

"If he had helped me, been there for me, as he should have been…" Fleur began bitterly, "I would almost be a mother." She still hadn't let go of Aimee, "I would…"

"Be complete?" whispered Aimee, "I know what the Death Eaters took from you, mama. I know. I can understand, and feel your pain. But you have forgotten something important, that there are other ways." Fleur's gaze asked the question that her daughter already had the answer to, "Adoption... magical or mundane."

"Do you think that Harry, would for an instant look down upon any child that wasn't directly his own flesh and blood? He probably considered it, but with you gone," Hermione shrugged, "He had no reason to think any further on it. But I know him, and you know him better than I do: He would welcome any child and take a while to get used to them but it would not take long before they call him "daddy."" She smiled and for a moment there was a trace of the tongue-in-cheek Hermione that Fleur had known for so short a while, "He is Harry James Potter after all." Fleur felt something shift within her, not really within her, but more to do with the animalistic Veela side of her.

The downward spiral for a Veela was often a one-way trip from which there was no recovery. Any man however can enter a similar downward spiral. Harry and Fleur's situation was a complicated one, given that they had arrested the momentum of the other when together. Their mutual friends – The Legion Core – had stayed in touch with her, as she had charted and followed the events of the British Wizarding World. Her dual nature had made it extraordinarily difficult to cope, even after she had invoked the magic of her Veela blood and shattered the bond. Ironically, shattering the bond had set her back on her downward spiral. Harry had used the pain of the moment to push himself onwards, making a silent promise to himself, those few months ago, on that London street that he would do his best to ensure nobody else would suffer as he had, as Fleur had. In many ways, it was his anger and rage that sustained him, his hatred of everything that Voldemort, Dumbledore, their followers, and to a lesser extent, the Ministry had done to screw up his life. In truth, Harry had not given a single thought to what he would do once his war was over.

"His choice cost you, Aimee," said Hermione, "But he saved you. And he never knew what happened while you were held captive. Nobody but you knows what truly happened. You never told him, but he is no fool. He can guess. And he has guessed correctly."

"You tore apart his life when you left him, mama," said Aimee, "and I would not have lived long… if I had lived at all through what they had done to you."

Fleur sat in quiet contemplation of everything she had heard, from both Hermione and Aimee in companionable silence. Wordlessly, the mother and daughter had shifted so that Aimee was sitting on Fleur's lap, arms wrapped around her mother's neck as she was gently rocked back and forth. The solution was less than ideal, and far from perfect. But did it give her a chance at the happiness, the means to complete her life, in many ways, give it meaning, the only question that remained was one that she had no way of answering: Would Harry be glad to see her? More specifically, could he stand the sight of her, know what she had done?

She didn't have the answers, perhaps Hermione… she looked around and to her surprise, found that Hermione was gone. Just gone, "She's ok mama," whispered Aimee, "She left us alone. So it's just us now. Perfect, non?"

"It's… almost perfect," whispered Fleur, "If only your father could be here." For the first time, the thought of Harry brought only a sense of pain, of loneliness. That was in itself, enough to make her smile, to believe that there was hope: The spear of hatred that normally accompanied such thoughts did not lance and make her forget her pain.

There is no halting the inexorable march of time, but within that twilight realm, between sleep and wakefulness, between life and death, perhaps time slows its march to a pitiful crawl, giving mother and daughter time together that they could never have in the real world. It was time that Fleur would treasure greatly for the rest of her life, no matter what other trials, tribulations, happiness, and sadness would grace her life. They did what mothers and children did together, playing "house," having a tea party, chasing each other in a playground, riding the swings, and building sandcastles along the beach. They spent what felt like days, if not weeks or even months. But no happiness can truly last forever.

"Mama," said Aimee, "I have… to go."

"D'accord ma Cherie," she replied. They exchanged a final hug, and Fleur found herself unwilling to let go, simply, somehow knowing that after this, she would never see her daughter in this life again. But she finally let go of her daughter who began to walk across the playground. Fleur contented herself to watch as her daughter began to fade away, becoming a shadow that eventually faded away completely. A sigh escaped her, "Au revoir."

Left alone, she contemplated the setting sun in the distance for a while only turning her attention to the sound of footsteps, someone approaching across the grass, "Time for you to go, Fleur," said Hermione.

"I suppose so," she agreed, "How do I…. leave?"

"Just close your eyes. You'll wake up where you need to be," replied Hermione, staring at the sunset.

"Can I just ask," Fleur asked suddenly, "What is this place?"

"It is a place where the dead and living can meet: In the mind of one who has come closest to death, or died and brought back to life." Hermione smiled, "A simpler answer would be that this is all in your head. And no, that doesn't make it any less real. I know you're wondering if this is real or a dream. Ask Harry. Ask him about going forwards when being stuck in neutral is a nice place to be. He'll know what it means."

"Hermione… merci, pour… pour," Fleur gestured, trying to find the right words, and came up blank.

"You're welcome. Now go. The dead and the living shouldn't linger too long together."

Fleur nodded and lay back upon the grass. This place was quiet and peaceful. There was no war, no death, and no carnage. It was everything the world should be. But then, perhaps with Harry, with the Legion, she could help build such a world. She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun, a tingling sensation in her fingers and toes, and fell asleep. Her last thought was that perhaps, she could build a life in such a world, with Harry.

She awoke, and sat up, very slowly. her movements were stiff and jerky. She breathed a sigh of relief as Gabrielle slept, sprawled out on the bed next to her. Quietly, she slipped from beneath the sheets and made her way to a small table. There was food under warming charms which she ignored, reaching for the butterbeer instead. The bottle was still cool to the touch, though dripping slightly with condensation. "I have done so much wrong," she thought, "Perhaps... I have to make it right if he will let me."

Unsurprisingly, the layout of the manor had not changed. But then, it shouldn't have changed at all. She found that she could wind her way through the maze-like interior with ease. She was searching for him and had quickly realized that she had no idea where he was as she wandered farther into a wing of the mansion she had never been to. Something told her that he was here, in this wing, fifth room on the left side of the corridor. True, the bond between them was broken, but there was still a tendril of magic, that was almost lost amidst the ambient background magic. But she clung to that strand with both hands. In many ways, it was her lifeline.

To her complete surprise, she found the room right where magic told her it would be, and there was no mistaking the prostrate form lying atop the bed. He had somehow pulled a blanket partly over himself. But there was no mistaking his war gear. She knew the equipment almost as intimately as she knew, had known their bearer.

He twitched in his sleep, hand curling and becoming almost claw-like as he dragged them along the mattress. She sighed as he twitched and rolled over. She recognized the signs, that a nightmare had a vice-like grip upon him. He was a deep sleeper in many ways, and there had been very little she could do, but hold him and comfort him. Her touch had always lessened the pain before. She hesitated, standing in the doorway watching him some more.

He had already been through so much. He was not even twenty years old, but he had been on the receiving end of pain and abuse for his whole life. The Dursleys, then the events of the Philosopher's Stone, then the Chamber of Secrets, then the debacle involving Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew. The Triwizard, Hermione, and then Aimee, "Dieu," she whispered. He has bled and suffered for a cause, for a war that was never truly his own - at least until he had been forced to make it his own. It was a war, she realized that he fought even now, in his sleep.

She still didn't understand it, understand him. How it was that someone who had been through so much had such an incredible capacity for kindness, willing to help an in need with compassion and understanding, and above all that a willingness to take on burdens placed upon him. In so many ways, he would have, could still be... was a perfect father. But for all the good he could and did do, it seemed that he had forgotten what it was like to have someone else do those things for him, to him for any reason. It was an epiphany: Harry Potter feared it. And who could blame him?

The bed creaked, breaking her train of thought as she stared at him. He was deeply asleep, trashing in the throes of something.... calling it a dream would be a lie but calling it a nightmare would be a kindness. It gripped him with a savage ferocity as he rolled over, onto his back, an arm folded over his head and face. He jerked from invisible blows, the sound of tearing fabric as his nails ripped through the sheets, clenching them in a white-knuckled fist. For the first time, sound escaped him, syllables and fragments, "No... No... so many... too ...young... fight... me... should be me..."

As she watched, he arched his mouth wide in a silent scream of agony. She crossed the threshold, shut the door behind her, and sat next to him. She ran her fingers down his face, from his forehead, down his cheek, "'Mione," his voice seemed to have cracked. It came out, almost a croak, "Forgive me." Fleur stiffened at that name, "I'm sorry... so... sorry..." he was sleep talking, "Me... not you. Me."

Suddenly, whatever it was that haunted him and tormented his sleep released him, apparently satisfied that it had made Harry James Potter suffer sufficiently for one night. He lay still for a moment, then turned on to his side, facing her, right arm outstretched, as his right left hand groped across the bed in search of something that was not there. "Fleur..." it was the last word he spoke as his hand settled on to the emptiness of the bed, making a final, almost pathetic twitch, grasping in mid-air.

A tear rolled down her cheek. His life had been one of pain interspersed with a few moments of joy and happiness, not the other way round, as it should be. The memory came back, something she had said, and something that Harry and Fleur had both agreed to on a different night, not so long ago: There was no going back. But then, had they ever gone backwards? Hermione's last words took on a new meaning. Had they just been stuck in neutral together these past few months spent apart?

She took his hand, and for a moment, everything was suddenly alright with the world, or at least, their world. She felt his hand tighten its hold upon hers. He may have been asleep, unable to consciously process that she was with him but the request was unmistakable. She slipped her hand from his, drew her legs onto the bed, under the covers, and stretched out next to him. Her head rested comfortably on the pillow while his arm seemed to support her neck. She took his hand in both of hers and like any person lost in sleep, and perhaps weaving a path between dreams, he did the most natural thing in the world; leaning back against the source of warmth like a cat purring with arched back against a heater on a chilly winter morning. There was no resistance as she wrapped her arms around him and pulled them close together.

It was like, they had never been apart. They still, fit together, perfectly. The past was the past, and the immediate present would be her greatest challenge. The future would have to wait.

Hours later, he woke and stretched ever so slightly. He didn't recall taking off his glasses, but in all fairness, he did not really recall having gone to sleep either. He'd only meant to take a nap and then head back to Hogwarts, and then come back to sort... manages... arrange...resolve the whole situation with Fleur.

His eyes snapped open. Partly because of the warm body snuggled against him, more because he recognized that maddening scent: Honey, apples, and that something else he had always thought of as the freshness of spring rain. "Fleur?" he whispered.

One whispered word and she somehow turned to face him, but words failed them both at that moment. As they just stared into each other eyes, reading each other souls, seemingly catching up and what they had missed of each other. There are no words that can do justice to the moment. He leaned in closer, the barest few millimeters. She wasn't sure if he had moved or if she had imagined it. To be honest with herself, she just didn't care whether he had or had not. She kissed him gently, "I'm real," she whispered throatily, "I'm here," she kissed him again, "I never, ever should have left." Her composure cracked, tears running down her cheeks, "Je suis..." she automatically switched to French, saying so many things that were afraid to say in English, because she didn't know how.

He certainly didn't understand the words but he could understand the raw emotion: The pain, the guilt, the agony she had lived through the past few months. In many ways, he had felt the pain, but never dealt with it - at least not as she had - he had simply bottled it, along with the rage and hatred at himself, at the situation, at fate, destiny, and just about everyone he could realistically blame, with the sole exception of her to use as a weapon to empower his magic whenever he faced down the enemy.

He hesitated, not sure what he should or could do. He knew that no matter what had happened, no matter he had been through, there was no way that he was going to push her away. He had continued to fight after she had left him, only because it was displacement activity, like the smoking, and the drinking binges. Well, the drinking binges helped him deal with the pain that was a part of the burden of being the commander and leader of the Legion. In many ways, she was the closest thing he had to family, and perhaps more importantly, she was all he had to make life worth living. No. He decided. He was never going to let her go ever again. Ever.

Fleur's emotions had cycled between sadness, pain, hope, and fear in no particular order for several long minutes as she had poured out her heart and soul to him. She finally came to a stop. All she could do was now wait, hope, and pray that she could the man she had spent nights dreaming of, agonizing over. She remembered the words spoken by Hermione. It was the only thing she had not spoken about because she was not sure just how he would take it, especially if she was the one to bring up memories, or perhaps more accurately a specter that haunted his dreams. But then again, there was no turning back. "We've been going nowhere Harry, stuck in neutral these past few months. I was, am wrong. It's because of me, that we have both had to suffer through this alone, instead of having one another to help and support each other. There is nothing nice about being stuck in neutral, Hermione told me that. And she's right. We should be going forward together instead of trying to find our own, separate paths."

"Hermione...." Harry took a breath, "She's... gone, Fleur."

"I spoke to her, saw her," he whispered, "I saw... was with, Aimee" she whispered the name, still wondering if everything she had seen, done, experienced, even if it was inside her head, had been real or just a dream.... a really, amazing dream. "Hermione, she told me... to tell you, "going forwards when a neutral is a nice place." The expression on Harry's face was priceless, "She said... you would know what it means."

He did. He knew exactly what that meant. He had been the one to say those very words to Hermione in the first place. He nodded carefully, "She's right," he said quietly, "Both of us, made mistakes. We have a chance... to correct that. I know that I want, that chance." He took both her hands in his, "There only two questions left to ask: The first is can you forgive me? The second is whether you want to..."

Her lips came close to his, the same lips that had brought countless smiles to his face. The distance that separated them, was infinitesimally minuscule and she had no more thoughts, except for one, and that was to take the offered chance.

Their lips touched, and she breathed in his scent, letting it flood her senses. Musk, sweat, the hint of copper, and something like peppermint. Her heart skidded to a halt as he froze beneath the touch of her lips, but started to beat. Fleur felt her knees go weak as his fingers slid up her arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps as she melted into him. The most natural thing in the world as their tongues dueled, like soft moist sabers.

There was a spark of heat, and somewhere within her, something smolders with unbridled passion, the kind of passion that only her Veela half could ignite. Her face was a flaming red as emotions ran through her, emotions that both of them had locked away for so many months finally rushed to the surface. She was lost as his fingers crept up, across her shoulder, his fingers entwined in her hair as he deepened the kiss. It was at that moment that she knew without a doubt that she had regained all that she had lost. And she knew that it was a mistake she would never be able to repeat again.

When their bond had formed the first time, it was one that she had willingly committed herself to. In many ways, she had bonded herself to him – something he had not done before. It was only the Veela who could initiate such a bond. Their partner, Veela or otherwise, always has the choice to bond, or not to bond. With a partner who was not like her, only marriage could complete the bond. She knew that Harry was not yet ready to make such a commitment, and would possibly never be ready for such a commitment. She had hope that would change with time, but that mattered little: She had the wizard she had always loved and never been able to let forget. The Veela had the best mate imaginable. She was truly at peace.

Harry hesitated for a moment, "I'm dreaming?" he whispered. "I've got to be dreaming."

She smiled, and pinched him gently, "If this is a dream Harry, I hope that you never wake up, because I would disappear. He hadn't let go, "I know you've wanted me back. I know you've missed me, as much, if not more than I've missed you." Tears trailed their way down her cheeks, "I was wrong, mon amour, je suis…. I do not know what to say to…"

The old grandfather clock in some corner of the room ticked away the seconds, each as loud as a gunshot in the occupied room. Suddenly, he realized something important: He didn't need to hear it. He didn't need to hear her apologize, beg for his forgiveness, beg for her to take him back. None of that mattered because she was back. He kissed her hard, crushing his lips against hers, fingers tightening their grip upon her hair. She moaned through the kiss, a sound that was partly pleasure, partly satisfaction. She was back where she had always belonged.

It started raining, or perhaps it had been raining for hours and neither of them had noticed the sound of water dribbling off the windows like a car grinding its way slowly over gravel. It would have been cold outside, but the reunited couple didn't notice. Or care. She worked her allure, and charm, gently, and Harry responded in the way only a man who knows the sheer carnal delights of making love to Veela. He was suddenly on top of her, her legs coiled around his hips. She pushed him back, until he was upright, looking down at her with predatory hunger. She arched her arms over her head, gripping the wrought iron headboard with both hands. He recognized that gesture of hers, of submission.

He could not take his eyes off her. The thin blouse she wore, hid nothing from his wandering eyes: The rapid rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, the taut perkiness of her nipples, which threatened to tear their way out of her clothing. The smoldering passion that quite literally threatened to set her clothes, the bed, and perhaps the entire room ablaze. He grabbed the neckline of her blouse and separated her from the flimsy garment.

As clichéd as it was, it felt like time was moving in slow motion for them both. It took only a whisper for Harry's armor and war gear to simply vanish, reappearing in a neat pile in a corner of the room. The form-fitting body glove did little to hide his well-muscled yet not overly buff form that implied power and strength. She tore through the fabric her nails raking across his flesh. He didn't care about the pain. He felt it, loved it, and embraced the goodness of a pain that made him feel alive again.

He worked his way lower, leaving trails of kisses that burned every exposed inch of skin that they touched. "Harry," she pleaded, "I can't… control it… if you keep teasing me!"

He looked up at her, a small smile on his face, his eyes almost twinkling with amusement, "Who said I wanted you to keep control?" She was denied the opportunity to answer his he worked a finger into her with agonizing slowness as his tongue grazed her clit. Her hands gripped the sheets. His digits continued to caress her as he gave his tongue a momentary rest, "Propagoiucunditas solvo quis est intus,"

She was barely able to nod, as she arched off the bed as he nipped at her pert nipples that ached with unmitigated desire, amplified a thousandfold as his tongue teased its way back and forth across it. It took nearly all of her concentration to block out the feeling of pleasure as she echoed the incantation and released the Veela that had spent months in hunger and hatred of him. Now, only the hunger remained. It was ravenous, and it had to be sated.

Hours later, the rain continued to fall. Inside, the covers were twisted around their waists. They both smelled of sex, a light sheen of sweat covering them both. The rain was falling as it had never fallen before, rattling off everything it touch from the windows to the stone walls of the mansion. Even the very plants and trees that decorated the gardens were not immune to the pelting rain that churned the ground beneath flowerbeds into mud.

The couple rested against each other, her head upon his shoulder, waiting for their breath to slow and return to normal after their fourth round. The first had been raw, passionate, and animalistic in its ferocity: The bite marks on Harry's collarbone would take days to heal if it were not for magic as Fleur had ridden Harry for all that he was worth. Their second round had Fleur almost submissively on her hands and knees as he had plowed her hard and fast. She had screamed her pleasure several times before he had sated his own need, cumming deep within her. Their third and fourth times together had been gentler, more intimate, slow, and incredibly sensuous. It was not sex. It was the act of making love that only a couple who are truly together can experience.

Cradling each other in a cocoon of comfort, he could feel her chest, rising and falling as she breathed against him. She made to move, but his fingers tightened on her waist and she stilled for a moment before snuggling even more against him. Neither of them knew how long they lay like that. They didn't care as neither wanted to move, to just stay, and seemingly watch each other, seeing the energy leave each other, waiting perhaps for the other to fall asleep first. She opened her eyes to find him staring at her. "You look good," she whispered with what took more effort than it should have as she ran her fingers through his mused black hair, "scruffy, messy."

He smiled back at her and dipped his head and placed a long, deep kiss upon her mouth. They moved together seamlessly as he protectively curled himself around her, the duvet and bedsheets wrapped around them both. It was safe and warm and she drifted into a heavy sleep. Sleep was the last thing Harry wanted. He was exhausted, but he didn't want to take his eyes off her or even risk relaxing his hold upon her, just in case this was all some incredibly real dream. In the end, however, he dropped off, lulled to sleep by the steady pitter-patter of falling rain.

He dreamt heavily, slept badly as images of the devil, his parents, Sirius flashed and swirled at random, in demonic patterns. He stumbled from the darkness into the Ministry of Magic, the Department of Mysteries. The veil. Images of battles fought and won, fought and lost warred for dominance in his mind with a clashing of metal with the sick scent of blood and sweat. He saw Voldemort brandishing a wand; he saw the sickly green of the killing curse flash towards him. He fell backward, over an abyss he had somehow missed, and plunged into the darkness, only to slam into the black ground hundreds of feet below. He opened his eyes, only to see Fleur lying next to him, with blue lips and a wide-eyed, vacant stare, dead.

Harry bolted upright, his wand in his hand, chest heaving, cold all over like he'd been shoved back in to the cupboard under the stairs at Privet Drive for several hours with nothing but dry ice for company.

"Harry?" Fleur whispered, her eyes awake and perhaps most importantly, alive, "Ne peut pas peur," she whispered, "I am here." He just stared, almost as if he didn't dare believe she was real. "With you. Are you alright?"

He wasn't sure. He didn't feel alright. The fear, the terror of those last few moments had been all-consuming. A blanket of darkness and despair he had not known how to escape or cope with, "Harry? What's wrong?" He swallowed to find that his mouth was suddenly mysteriously bone dry.

It took him several attempts to muster the courage, to speak of what he had seen, "You… died," he choked, "For real… and there was nothing I could do…"

She sighed, and rested her head on his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his waist, "A dream, love. A bad, terrible nightmare. I am not going anywhere. Never again." He nodded stiffly as she tried to soothe him, and coax him into laying down with her. "No need to go back to sleep, just lie with me a while."

He turned suddenly, catching her hands in his, "Marry me."

The silence was like the screeching halt of the knight bus in the middle of Piccadilly Circus at noon, on a Sunday, complete with gawking, pointing muggles.

"I… quoi?"

"Marry me, Fleur."

She looked at him, "You are serious?" she said, staring at him. He met her gaze and matched it.

"I've never been more serious about anything in my life." He kissed her forehead gently, "I never want to lose you. Not like before, not ever again. Fleur Delacour: Will you, marry me?"

She was stunned, left sitting with her mouth agape, hair mussed, alternating between sticking up wildly at incomprehensible angles or stuck to her skin. It took her several tries before she could speak. In the end, she gave up, and abruptly went to the bathroom for several minutes. When she returned, her hair had been tamed into a ponytail. He had not moved, except to put his feet on the ground.

She knelt down in from of him, and took both of his hands in hers, "Harry, non."

He blinked. "What?"

She shook her head. "I can't marry you, not now."

"W—" he looked around as if the confusion and fear within his head had exploded out of his head to find answers in the darkness of the room. "Why… why not?"

She somehow shuffled closer, a slight smile on her lips. "Harry, I know what you must do. I know what you have just dreamt. But you must know, that I will only leave this life behind me, is if you leave it with me. Marriage… it's too much too fast. We've just… reconnected… I want some time to get used to having you back in my life, to being back in your life."

"But you love me," he said quietly. "Why not?"

"I do love you. I just need some time. You are vulnerable now, vulnerable again in a way. I know you fear history repeating itself, or worse. You don't want me to suddenly leave and hurt you all over again. I can't." she ran her hand gently across the trio of bites on his collar bone. "When I bit you, my saliva… the magic in it, in me, would recognize you as my life mate. I can never leave unless you want me to leave your life. There is so much that we both have to do, must accept before we can get married, or simply run away and get married somewhere."

Slowly, Harry nodded, though he could not meet her eyes. She laughed, throwing her arms around him and pulling him back under the covers to snuggle against him, "I'm not saying never," she mumbled sleepily, resting her head on his shoulder and wrapping her arm around his waist. "Just not right now… I… we are not ready for such a commitment."

Despite the heat of embarrassment in his cheeks and the coolness in his stomach, he could understand her reasoning and logic. "I do love you," she whispered, "J'taime, always," she hesitated, "Even when we were...apart... I could not stop thinking about you."

"I know," he replied softly, stroking her hair, "I was... I don't…I didn't know what I was."

He could feel her smile, "We are all slaves to love and passion, mon amour. Always. Now, hold me," she commanded, "and never let me go."