TITLE: A Dream of Spring

SUMMARY: Why did she keep coming back? That was a question Fleur Delacour could not answer. Harry Potter had been dead for four years, the ink had dried, and her love was lost. Now, all she could cling to was a hope that love could transcend even death.

PAIRINGS: Harry/Fleur

RATING: M

A/N: Hey all! Here's my submission for the Harry/Fleur server's Autumn Drabble Collection, the link to the discord can be found on my profile.

I had the idea a while ago, put something together, dismantled it and then did it all again. I put a few good hours into it, so hopefully, it's worth something.

A big shoutout to Nauze, NerdDragonVoid and x102reddragon for beta reading the work.

Until next time, enjoy and stay safe!

Autumn had arrived as it did every year, the dull passage into the new season heralded by litters of leaves decorating the damp ground and the songbirds fleeing for warmer lands.

If she had been smart, she would have followed suit. Lingering in the cold and dreary embrace of the Isles did her a disservice - or so her family kept telling her.

But there was a calling for Fleur Delacour, a magnetism not of any metal, but one from the pain in her breast - the ache in the heart beneath.

"I was wondering if I'd see you here today."

Gabrielle's voice was soft; a forlorn whisper almost lost to the wind.

It was a voice that had been many things over the years. Once scornful, angry at the world as Fleur once was; it had been sorrowful, full of desperate longing.

Now? It was full of the resignation of duty, a tone that seemed to disapprove having to appear before her once more.

"Did you really expect me to be anywhere else?" Fleur said.

The breath of hot air through barely parted lips behind Fleur was audible, a sigh that signalled the beginning of a conversation they'd had more times than she cared to count.

"I had hoped, I suppose."

"So did I."

Gabrielle relented for the moment, a gift Fleur was eternally grateful for. There were no words to be said that hadn't already been spoken, no arguments that hadn't been had, and no thoughts that hadn't already crossed her mind.

Now there was little left to do but stare at the dark depths below and wonder. Every year she felt like a widow waiting at the seaside, a lover crashed far from shore that she had hoped to glimpse once more.

He had left her, he had sworn never to leave, and yet, here she stood.

"You know, I miss him just as much as anyone."

But not me, Fleur thought.

No matter how many times they had wielded that same line as if to repair a broken heart by guilt alone, no matter how many times Gabrielle found her here, the words never worked.

Maybe this time they will, Fleur mused sadly, just maybe.

Gabrielle tried once more, "But looking as if you'll jump in to try and greet him would be a poor consolation prize for everyone."

"Well," Fleur sighed, a sharp frown ruining once beautiful features. "Maman always said I'd get myself killed going back to this dreary island." The last phrase spoken in a way that parroted the perpetually stern tone of their mother, an effort to coax a familiar, soft smile.

In any other circumstances, any other place, any other day, Fleur's poor imitation of Apolline Delacour would elicit a laugh from the smaller girl. Though not in this instance, only a thick silence that gouged a hole in her chest to sting the heart beneath once more.

"You are brave, I suppose." Gabrielle said, "Between the winter and the slop they eat, I definitely would've run home."

"For all the good it'd do me." Fleur said, unable to keep the bitterness from seeping into her voice, "That's a lecture I can do without."

"I'm starting to think she might be right, you know." Gabrielle muttered, "Every time I come to see you, I'm never really sure what I'll see."

It sounded like a voice already prepared to deal with loss, a tone she'd seldom heard since before the war had finished. As if she had already written Fleur off as a lost cause for another year.

"Not you too." Fleur demanded, "Don't try and start this again; I think we've both had enough of it."

"Start what?" Gabrielle returned, her tone standoffish. "Start speaking the truth again? Or would you prefer I start lying to you? Would that make your wallowing easier?"

"No." Fleur rebuked, "But I could do without the pretences, I could do without you pretending like you understand. I just want to be alone, is that really too much to ask?"

Fleur's words were perhaps harsher than intended, but the words that found life breathed into them were nothing less than the truth. Everyone had an idea of what she should do, what path should walk.

And they all got to return home, to find their love waiting.

Except for Gabrielle, who despite Beauxbatons being in session, came every few months without fail.

"Maybe it is too much," Gabrielle said, though Fleur did not offer an answer. The smaller girl continued speaking where her sister did not.

"You're right. I don't get it." Gabrielle said, "And I'm not sure you do anymore, not really anyway."

The gentle, rolling waters of the Black Lake beneath them seemed to think differently. A siren's song that refuted whatever Gabrielle hoped to convince her of.

Fleur continued to neglect the duty of responding, instead, hoping to find solace in the sable expanse below that words alone could not grant her.

"Why come back?" Gabrielle persisted, "Why do this to yourself? Year after year?"

That was a question Fleur Delacour could not answer, no matter how many times she was asked, her mind yielded no simple answer.

She, in reality, had no reason to come here anymore, not really. It had been four years since Harry Potter had died. Minerva McGonagall allowed her to return if only to sit with him sometimes and every time she came, she was greeted by the same reception.

Fleur had seen the same look in different faces, sorrowful gazes and hushed whispers of the widow of Potter, hidden behind the veneer of congeniality - a front that did not hold against any scrutiny.

It was suffocating, they regarded her as if she was little but glass shattered upon the floor, passing judgement if only to ensure they did not step it in themselves.

It was suffocating indeed, but bearable.

But why?

The ink had dried, Harry Potter had died with Voldemort. There was no altering history, no attempting to wet dead ink.

Harry Potter, her love, was dead.

So why do I keep returning?

It had been four years. Every hour passed with a dull monotony, the acute awareness that a presence at her side had been irrevocably stripped from her. Made to relive memories of a dark night illuminated by flames and motley curses, and how viridian eyes were forced closed, to ensure crimson did not open once more.

Now, instead of holding him as she would have liked to, she was relegated to sitting upon the hill that overlooked the lake.

Here, Harry had convinced her to see the lake from a different side. Of the beauty below, not the oppressive suffocation of cold depths. Here, they had eaten and laughed, danced and learned.

It was here they had loved where she had discovered that there was more to Harry Potter than sharp green eyes and a forehead marred with scar tissue.

It was here he was buried.

Beneath the willow tree she had planted, laid her lover, the budding sapling the only babe they would ever bear. Though even now, the foliage seemed to flee with the season, abandoning her to melancholy solitude.

And now, cherished memories tasted bitter. There was no sweetness of joy that once lingered, no way she could look back fondly when her sorrow was a knife in the breast.

So why come back?

Maybe, it was the foolish hope that he would return, someway, somehow, that he would transcend death to be here once more. Or perhaps it was guilt for having survived where he had not.

She couldn't place it, not even after all these years.

Fleur broke the pregnant pause; she had hoped words would come to her lips, justification as to why she subjected herself to this every year.

But they did not and she couldn't.

"I don't know." Fleur offered dejectedly, folding her skirt beneath her to sit on dew-coated grass. The wetness nipped at her heels and likely dirtied the fabric; it was nothing she had not done before. "If that's what you came to hear, have it — I don't know.."

Fleur Delacour was no longer clad in her armour of intelligence, armed with excuses and rapier wit. The truth had struck true, and it had made her cave.

Gabrielle followed alongside her, sitting as she had to observe the view below.

Even if she asked too many questions, forced her to confront too many hard truths, she was glad Gabrielle was here, despite her saying otherwise. Facing the oppressive weight of the world seemed easier when her slender shoulders shared the weight.

"I don't ever want to be the one to tell you what you should and shouldn't feel, Fleur," Gabrielle spoke again after allowing another piece of silent reprieve, careful not to push too hard, too quickly. "I don't know what you're feeling, not really anyway. I don't want to be the one to get you to move on, but there has to be more to life than this."

"Gabr-" Fleur tried to stop the younger shade of herself from delving too deep where she ought not to.

"There has to be, Fleur," Gabrielle echoed her own words, "You're living book-to-book, Maman hardly sees you except when she forces you, you're thinner than a post."

"And do you ever wonder what might happen if one of those books held an answer?" Fleur posed, optimism long since forged and lost reignited at the forefront of her mind. "If I found something that could bring him back?"

"I'd remind you that witches and wizards lose themselves in trying to overcome death, trying to reverse time," Gabrielle pointed out softly, and like every year, Fleur could sense the truth coming once more. "And they never find it. Not once. Let's say you could do it, would it be right to bring him back? Would he really want a Voldemort by another name?"

She left the sentence in the air, but Fleur did not rise to the bait, did not wish to think those thoughts. Not this time.

"We all get a lifetime, Fleur, no more, no less."

"Harry didn't get his," Fleur pointed out.

"No," Gabrielle agreed, "He didn't, and not a day goes by we don't thank him for what he did and regret that loss."

"Then why try and persuade me otherwise?" Fleur responded, crossing her arms over her chest as Gabrielle moved closer. "Could you not just leave me be?"

"You're my sister," Gabrielle said as if her words explained all - and to some degree, they did. "And I don't want to see this lifetime of yours wasted in search of what might come after. I think there's been enough loss for all of us."

Fleur's stomach felt like a tempest, one she could not calm as Gabrielle continued to push harder and harder.

Though she did not dare to stop her.

"Your life is painful. I get that. But there's nothing to be gained by pretending that adversity doesn't exist, nothing to be gained by submitting to it and allowing yourself to be dragged back here, day after day."

It was not a decision Fleur came to easily; in fact, she'd have thought she sat there for hours if her thoughts weren't dated by the rising sun.

"The world has moved on," Gabrielle whispered the addendum as if a harsher voice would scare Fleur away. "Maybe it's about time you do too."

But Gabrielle made a point; the same one made every year. As she got older, the truths got harsher — the arguments got more persuasive.

The war of attrition between them had waged for years, and each time Fleur returned, she thought she could rebuke her with greater fervour.

But this year she had come up against a greater foe, and with a single thought, her concession was made.

I have to go on.

To breathe life into the thought seemed treasonous as if the idea wounded Harry as much as it did her.

Could she live without her love? What could fill empty hours and days turned long?

Could she go on?

I have to.

Gabrielle was right; the world had moved on. There were statues, events held in fanciful ballrooms with lip service speeches, but the memory of what led them there was lost in the mirage of greater prospects ahead.

It was infuriating.

Would I be here forever?

Necessity didn't breed easy choices; the cold seemed to remind her of such.

But a choice still had to be made, for better, or for worse.

"A week," Fleur said, her voice ragged and her ocean eyes shone with unbridled emotion.

"A week?" Gabrielle asked.

"I'll wait one more week, I'll try one last time," Fleur answered, "And then… then I'll move on."

She wanted to scream, to cry in anguish and rage. She wanted the world to feel as she felt at this very moment.

Though she was not a child, not anymore, screaming at the world would not change it. Crying to the heavens would not return to her what she lost.

"Move onto what?"

"Living," Fleur said, her breath ragged and coarse, "I guess I'll have to learn to live again."

Gabrielle smiled a real smile, the first in quite some time, and hugged her sister tightly, though Fleur had not yet finished.

"But I need you to help me, just one last time," Fleur said, "One last time, please."

"Anything," Gabrielle said.

The question had changed over the years, now it was no longer 'could she do it?' rather, 'should she?'

Eyes drifted from the peaceful scenery below to the austere grave, tall and imposing, that sat as the centrepiece of the hill.

She did not deign to glance at the epitaph, she had read it enough, ran her fingers over each manicured letter until it had become a permanent affixture to her memory. The words did not give her solace from her thoughts; few things did.

But she had decided - she owed it to herself to try, just one final time.

"Could you get me Harry's wand?"

Gabrielle's lips made to frown, to be pulled downwards under the gravity of what she was asked.

His wand had remained with the Weasleys. Fleur could not muster the courage to look them in the eye once more, to raise a ghost before them and ask for a favour.

Fleur felt a craven, asking her sister to do what she could not - forcing her to confront memories she should have the courage to face herself.

I'll be far too busy. Fleur rationalised to herself, there were tomes yet to be found, pages to be scoured, and knowledge to be gathered.

The week was her crucible, the heat nipped at her heels even now, beating away the coldness of the world around her.

Fleur remembered all those years ago when Abraxans delivered them to Hogwarts and into her life beyond.

But there would be no winged horse to land at her feet and carry her away from things not to be born.

That was something she had to do all on her own.

Her bed was too soft.

There are worse problems to have, I suppose. Fleur mused, nuzzling her head into the pillow as if to invite the waning remnants of sleep back to claim her.

Truthfully, few places offered solace, sleeping not counting itself amongst their ranks.

Fleur Delacour could never sleep easily, not since the war, though she supposed few could. The gentle embrace of slumber had turned callous; most nights were fitful at best, while other nights, Fleur leapt from the bed, swinging fists at enemies she left behind years ago.

She needed peace.

Truth be told, her mother had been telling her that for years. Barging into her apartment with the intention to dissect her life, scrutinising gazes spying any sign of unorthodoxy, any tell that she was wasting away beneath the surface.

But now she felt like she had the answer, or maybe she didn't, it was too early to tell. Though her form bubbled with an eager alacrity that made even laying in bed a mammoth task.

She had chased solution after solution, old tomes and axioms, splashing whatever meagre earnings the Goblins saw fit to give her, pursuing any source she could find.

And finally, this time felt different.

Now, Fleur had his wand; she had the best materials available; she had a chance.

She had hope.

Yet, despite the leaps and bounds, there was a persistent reminder that tickled the back of her mind. Lingering to shout sense to her.

Would it be right to bring him back?

Would he want it?

The dead want for little, Fleur rationalised.

In times like these, she didn't know. Fleur doubted she'd ever really know the answer. All she could do was remember, to use the past as justification for what she was bound to do.

There had been a time where they had danced at Grimmauld Place, the patchy signal of the wireless playing a soft tune.

I wonder if he'll ever stop being the boy that stepped on my toes and stumbled over his own feet.

Fleur had loved to dance, and Harry had obliged. The Horcrux hunt had taken everything from them, the attrition of trekking across the country amidst rain, sleet, spring and snow had more than taken its toll.

Yet the moment could not be taken from them, they had twisted and turned, spun the night away amidst the haze of a war long-forgotten until the hardwood floor met them in a lover's embrace.

There was nothing like sore toes in the right company, nothing like laughter to turn the night short.

And there was no one like him, and she wanted him back.

Did she not deserve to be selfish? She had given it all to the cause, wasted away chasing artefacts and fighting foes.

Could she not do this, for her? Did all her sacrifices not merit wanting him back?

Fleur knew her answer. Truth be told, she'd always known it.

But she'd never know if it was the right one.

The man who had professed his love beneath the stars in the countryside, the one who, with wine-laden stomach, sung her ineloquent poetry deserved to be here.

Fleur threw her legs from the side of the bed, her anxious patience wearing into nothingness. A reaching hand groped under the pillow to grab the object that had held her mind.

Harry's wand.

It had never truly been repaired, despite Ollivander doing his best to return the once magnificent piece back to former glory. There was no more warmth to it, a dull cold billowed beneath the surface, mirroring its owner.

Cradling it in her hands with the tenderness of a newborn, she carried it gently to her desk. Placing it upon a silk mat, Fleur gently pulled the chair from its confines and sat down.

The wand deserved a closer eye, tracing the cracks down the holly length until she came across the invisible seam that Ollivander had done his best to meld.

Though like most war-borne wounds, sewing it closed seldom fixed the problem beneath.

Fleur dragged the silk cloth towards her, the darkened fabric glittering in the soft light of the candelabra above, inviting further action, begging her to do as she wished.

One more step and the path before her would be cemented, that was all it would take.

If Fleur succumbed to the temptation to leap despite the fall, that would be all there was. There would be no take-backs, no do-overs, no fixing the mistake.

This is all it will take, Fleur repeated, as she had a thousand times over the past week.

The chance she'd always searched for had arrived, there could be no missteps.

In a single action, Fleur seized the silk cloth beneath the wand, ensnaring holly in its grasp as she held it tightly between two hands.

And she snapped it.

Old cracks became new once more, and the phoenix feather within protruded obscenely. Scarlet edges atrophied with darkened sludge, a byproduct of fighting magic so dark not even a Phoenix could withstand the barrage.

Plucking the feather from its home in the core with the silk cloth, Fleur revelled in the marred beauty.

Ron had received the cloak, and assorted Quidditch items, Hermione the books and whatever were left.

And Fleur had received nought but memories. - it had felt wrong to deprive them of their own connection to Harry.

Now? This was hers, a connection to a time since past - a remnant of a love once shared.

The feather found itself sat on the desk while she procured another item, this one hidden beneath a charmed, false panel in the largest desk drawer she owned.

A book.

The front cover looked as if it was an artisan's tapestry, as enfeebled by time as it was, four corners protruding with elegant, pastel blue knotwork.

It was the title, however, that garnered the eye of the reader, argent and admittedly worn by the years; there could be no mistaking it for another.

Vila.

Proscribed by every country the ICW had treaties ratified, it amongst tens of others, stricken from history in hopes their contents would fade further into the depths of obscurity.

Yet, Albus Dumbledore held a copy.

The portrait of the man had been hung in the Headmistress's office, surrounded by his predecessors to counsel their successor.

And to offer wisdom to Fleur Delacour, when she mustered the courage to make the climb.

Wizened witches and wizards stared down their noses at her, humming disapprovingly, escalating into shouts whenever the truth of Fleur's plan left her lips.

But not Albus Dumbledore.

The garishly dressed, portrait-bound Professor merely nodded along with her words, offering pearls of wisdom in place of the disapproval she had received anywhere else when she dared to utter her thoughts.

Even if Dumbledore was reluctant to begin with, his resolute standing slowly morphed into acquiescence as the hours waned on.

It felt like a charlatan's trick on her part, a manipulation even if it was subtle.

Dumbledore shared her guilt, bearing the burden for far longer than she had. Every action he took, every plan he designed had caused Harry hurt and in turn, paining the man who was forced to exist with such knowledge forevermore.

Once, she had been enraged at the man; the great Albus Dumbledore had failed and expected a child to bear the banner he could not. Fleur had screamed long into the night, of how she would have done it all differently had she been the man. Blaming him for all that had befallen them.

And now, when she sat before his portrait, she didn't know — couldn't know if she would have done anything else.

Fleur forgave what she could.

Now, the former Headmaster was the only one who saw something behind tired rantings and desperate hope. He had lost enough to share the sentiment, even if only via lip-service most days.

Then, he had given her the book.

Perhaps, he was simply content to let her make her own mistakes, to learn first hand the impossible was just that.

Fleur pried the cover open with gentle fingers, tracing her fingers over the gentle, shaky indents of quill marks and words written in distress.

To Ariana, in memoriam.

Beneath it, a much deeper, harsher indent. Words that had been scribbled out with force, seeming to snap and tear the paper in an effort to free the page from the words. But they were visible, even if only just.

Fleur traced lines, held the parchment up to the lights until she could see what was once written.

For the Greater Good.

Whatever the sentiment meant to the man, it was in the past, her love, however, did not have to be.

Soul magic is a blade with no hilt. The man had forewarned her, though warnings fell on deaf ears content to hope. No matter how you grasp it, how carefully you approach the edge, expect to come away with a hand bloodied.

It was his final counsel, the last parting wisdom Fleur hoped to ever hear on the matter. She did not know if she could face the man should she fail. Fleur had dreamt old dreams of returning to the man, Harry by her side, to tell him of how their plan worked, of how it had all gone so well.

She rarely pondered the inverse; all she had was hope and her plan.

Happiness is a duty to oneself, Miss Delacour, Dumbledore had said, Triumph or defeat, we must move on all the same.

Fleur would bloody her hands, she would triumph — she'd do all she needed to ensure a lifetime lost was restored.

Harry Potter deserved to live.

And grasp the blade she did.

With the suppressive sensation of apparition skewing equilibrium and a crack that imitated a muggle gunshot, Fleur arrived at the hill above the Black Lake. A single, beating heart forced to halt the cold austerity of the Scottish night.

Harry's grave looked particularly sombre this time of night, cast in pale shadows from growing gibbous that shone brightly down from above, the full moon soon set to arrive.

The time was nigh; the crucible that threatened to melt her was here.

But she remained stalwart against the heat, hardy in the face of the trials ahead. Fleur had learnt the magic, she had sourced the materials, and she had rallied the hope once more.

Fleur tucked her neck into her chest, shielding her face from the harsh, persistent wind that tore through the hillside, careening loudly off the water below.

Her rosewood wand came into her hand, and with an act that tore at her heart, a spell collided with the grave of Harry Potter, tearing through protective charms and sending the lid of the tomb careening into the distance.

It took more courage than she would ever be able to muster, but her feet dragged her to the coffin's edge.

With emotion-ridden, tear-laden eyes, Fleur peered downwards into the insurmountable depths below.

Harry Potter was dead.

Fleur had known that of course, she had seen him in the Great Hall and again at the funeral, though no matter how many times she looked, the knife of sorrow in her breast would never be shaken.

Preservation charms continued their duty and upheld his body. There was a silver lining amongst it all, she supposed.

Then, her next actions flew by in a flurry.

Potions from a satchel at her side were procured, the stopper freed from the vial and poured around the grave — magical ingredients saturating soil, and permeating the atmosphere with the foul smell of burnt ozone.

Fleur drew odd patterns with the liquid, most born from a culture she had never encountered. She had known some, tracing the familiar runes on parchment to try and decipher meaning, though it continued to evade her.

More ingredients were yet to come, her wand carving deep trenches into the dirt, chanting softly as she did so, in words she laboured away, day and night, to commit perfectly to memory.

Once the wounds in the earth surface were fully entrenched, the magic continued to reach its crescendo. Dragon blood ran from a decanter in a broad stream, the inherent heat of the substance singing grass and soil as it landed.

Powdered Chimaera Heartstring sprinkled in the opposite direction, pale powder floating in the wind as it fell. All manner of esoterica, both ingredients and instructions followed. Fleur paced for an age, enacting the precise minutiae of the ritual.

The ingredients were the best she could buy, bartered, and bargaining with apothecaries dotted across the country. The remainder of her savings spent to ensure the one chance would be all she needed.

With the ingredients dispersed, the magic cast and the instructions followed, the time had finally arrived.

With a gentle shrug, her robe had fallen from her shoulders, pooling at her feet, leaving nothing but the pale, naked skin beneath.

A silver blade wiggled its way into her hand before being dragged across her palm in a quick action, splitting skin to expose crimson ichor beneath. A warmth in her palm that seemed to draw her attention from the cold wind beating against her breasts.

The phoenix feather was next, dragged along the wound channel, coated in her own blood. She leant next to Harry, peering into the coffin proper.

Fleur dragged the blade against his own hand, preservation charms ensuring blood did not coagulate, allowing it to flow freely in soft rivulets.

The scarlet feather was thrust into his hand, as was her own, sealing the union in magic as much as love.

And then, she sang.

The words were lost in the gentle sway of life around her, hummed, screamed, and whispered in an attempt to convey all she had lost. To beat back high tides and rescue her lover from the depths.

Veela were fire made flesh, beauty made ethereally and love made magic.

This was her domain.

Harry's wand core crumbled to ash beneath the union of blood, magic and love and her singing fell silent, as did the wind. The atmosphere seemed to still by virtue of having witnessed such magic.

There was just one final thing.

Fleur leant to capture cold lips with her own, loosing all she had into her love before her.

And then, she left his lips and released his hand as the winds around them resumed.

An eternity seemed to have passed; Fleur would have thought she had lived her own lifetime had the moon above not dated her actions.

There was nothing.

Fleur Delacour had failed.

Death had come up against her heritage, her magic, her love.

And death had won.

Despite her strength, her stalwart resolution in the face of loss, she could not help the tears that fell.

She wept for him, she wept for her, for the life they lost and the love they might've shared had it all been so very different.

Harry Potter was dead, and Fleur Delacour could not change that.

And as the moon shirked its duty and hid behind clouds, Fleur leant down once more to place her lips on his own.

Fleur closed her eyes and met his lips once more in a tentative kiss, the last they would ever share. Tears leapt from her face and struck cold skin as she slowly parted her eyelids to greet her own teary gaze.

The wind began again, the buffeting gale turned soft caress, this time turning the cold to a gentle warmth. The barren willow tree swayed, whistling wind singing its own song as she pulled away.

A final songbird, not smart enough to flee the coming winter remained behind, perched in the tree to supplement the sight of mourning.

Then eyes awakened, one emerald as he was born, the other the rolling ocean blue of her own.

And love defied death.