AN: Thanks to DLP for their help on this chapter and for their continued assistance with this story in general. It wouldn't be worth glancing at without them.
Chapter X
There had been a moment, right when Bill arrived at the Burrow, when Harry had hoped that a wedge would be driven between him and Fleur. She was feeling neglected at Hogwarts. Bill wasn't writing enough. He wasn't making her feel wanted.
Harry hated seeing her upset but he couldn't help but be glad for the reason.
Despite her frustration, when Bill's international portkey was supposed to come in Fleur was in the vanguard of those waiting for him by the front of the Burrow. Her arms were crossed and she had on an ambivalent expression. Then Bill appeared soundly on the ground (and he landed on his feet, Harry noted with disappointment), and, seeing Fleur, he ignored everyone else.
Bill walked over to Fleur, pulled her into a hug that she didn't resist, and whispered something in her ear. Harry couldn't see her face, and could only imagine what Bill was saying, but he could recognize the delight in Fleur's posture. She pulled Bill against her tighter and said something back to him.
When Fleur turned around she was smiling as widely as Bill. While Bill greeted the rest of his family Fleur waited, her eyes never leaving him.
After finishing the obligatory greetings and talking to his family for a while, Bill and Fleur retired up to Bill's old room. Ginny rolled her eyes, the twins made ribald cracks, Ron looked jealous, and Harry took a walk, unable to bear being in the same house while they were together.
As he walked, Harry wondered what Bill had said. Maybe it didn't even matter. Was that what love was like? Something that made it that easy to forgive?
A Christmas tree poking the top of the Burrow's high ceiling lorded its dominance over the living room, its thick branches trembling under the weight of the hundreds of decorations that the Weasleys had accumulated over the years. Small family photos, ornaments, miniature instruments that would let out bustling tunes at odd intervals, and toy wands that sparked and flashed through a spectrum of reds and greens adorned the tree's limbs.
In many ways, the tree was like the Burrow itself; loud, colorful, chaotic, and utterly unlike anything else that Harry had ever seen before. In other years, he might have been more impressed by it. This year, however, his attention was drawn with disturbing regularity over to the happy couple sitting in the corner. Bill. With Fleur.
As he looked over again he saw Bill whisper something in Fleur's ear. She laughed and her face colored like a peach. Their sides were pressed against each other and Bill had his arm around Fleur's waist.
They had been acting like a couple on honeymoon ever since Bill had showed up at the Burrow the night after they had arrived from Hogwarts. It made Harry's stomach turn uncomfortably every time he saw them do something together; he had watched as Bill held Fleur's hand, took her close to him, whispered in her ear and made her laugh.
They looked happy together and that just made everything worse. Worse because, for the first time, he felt like the problem. Like his desires were what would cause everyone around him pain.
That didn't stop his jealousy from coloring his entire break though. He couldn't turn away whenever he saw Bill and Fleur engaging in any of their dozens of acts of affection. He watched Bill get to do all of the things he had only dreamt of; the things that he knew he would never get a chance to do. It was as if they were mocking him. But Bill would never do that. He had been nothing but kind and welcoming since he had met Harry.
"I'm sure Harry would know something about that," Bill said. He nudged Fleur and winked at Harry.
Harry hadn't been listening but Fleur took pity on him and said, "We were talking about the different kinds of curses and traps that wizards protect their treasures with."
"Ron told me all about your first year," Bill said.
Just another one of his attempts to draw Harry into the conversation. Bill didn't even know him and yet he had tried half-a-dozen times over the past couple of days to draw Harry into the family's conversations. Harry wasn't sure if Bill thought that he was shy or just strange, but the repeated attempts were becoming irritating.
"Hermione figured out most of those traps," Harry said. He went back to focusing on his feet. Bill gave him up as a lost cause but Harry thought that, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fleur staring at him, before she too turned and away and responded to something Bill said to her.
Harry was spending the vacation in a jealous, dazed gloom, wanting nothing so much as to be back at Hogwarts. Even Privet Drive would be better than the Burrow. At least there he was able to shut himself away from the world without anybody noticing or caring. Whenever he was away from the Weasleys for more than an hour or two Ron or Ginny would appear to drag him back down to the festivities, or to play quidditch in the back yard, or for a game of chess. Harry had no doubt that it was Mrs. Weasley's doing; she wanted him to feel as welcome at the Burrow as he did in his own home (not a difficult task by any means), but instead Harry just felt claustrophobic.
The Burrow wasn't even as crowded as it tended to be most years. Charlie wasn't able to make it back to England, the twins spent most of their time in Diagon Alley on account of their big Christmas sale, and Percy hadn't visited once. With Mr. Weasley at work during the day, that meant the only people at the Burrow were Mrs. Weasley, Ron, Ginny, Fleur, and Bill. And him.
Still, everywhere he turned Fleur and Bill were there. Bill would come out to join them in their impromptu quidditch match and of course Fleur would be there. Harry would play Ron in chess and Bill would pretend to coach him and give him advice while Fleur did the same for Harry.
The brush of her hair or the sound of her voice whispering in his ear would be more than enough to throw him off of his game and Ron flogged him soundly each time. It was nearly impossible to beat Ron at the best of times, but when Fleur was being so distracting and Bill was right there, able to observe his every reaction, it was just a wonder that Harry lasted more than a dozen moves.
Eventually, as an act of desperation, Harry had taken to climbing out of the attic window (past the melancholy ghoul that would beat a sad tune on the pipes whenever he saw Harry) and out onto the roof. It was an oddly sloped roof, and Harry had no doubt that one misplaced step would see him sliding off of it, but even that risk was acceptable in the face of the overly-gregarious Weasley family.
He usually brought out one of the books that Fleur had recommended for him and did some reading. Most of the books she told him about were treatises on either transfiguration or charms, but occasionally she recommended fiction. Harry was starting to notice that every one of the novels she told him about was a slow French drama with a happy ending. Her taste in literature was probably the most mundane thing about her.
Ron had asked him more than once where he disappeared to for hours at a time but Harry always prevaricated until Ron decided to just give up on the line of questioning. He had only one place to be alone in the entirety of the Burrow. He wasn't going to give it up without, at the absolute minimum, a guilt trip from Mrs. Weasley.
There were still certain events that Harry couldn't escape. Christmas morning was one of them. Fleur and Bill were in a delightful mood, exchanging gifts with each other and the rest of the family present (the entire Weasley clan sans Percy and Charlie) while Harry had to put a façade of cheerfulness for Ron and Mrs. Weasley's sake. The entire ordeal was exhausting and not ameliorated in the slightest by the bevy of thoughtful gifts that he received.
There was the classic Weasley sweater, gags from Fred and George's shop, a book on twining animation and transfiguration from Hermione (Harry had taken a quick look and it seemed to be more on McGonagall's level than his own), a broom tuning kit from Ron (who said that Harry would have to be daft not to keep his Firebolt in pristine condition), and a joint gift from Fleur and Bill of a bottle of wine that Harry was willing to bet cost more than most of his possessions.
A joint gift. They weren't even giving gifts separately anymore. Mrs. Weasley looked like she wanted to snatch the bottle from Harry, an admonishment to follow shortly after, but a glance from Bill quelled that impulse.
He had painted a smile on his face and thanked them with enthusiasm. Fleur gave him a look but, clearly not wanting to upset the jovial atmosphere of the Christmas morning, she said nothing.
Harry had gotten gifts for each of the Weasleys and they thanked him in turn. None of them were particularly interesting, just odds and ends that he had picked up without putting much thought into it. Hermione, Ron, and Fleur had been the only ones that he put any real thought into.
For Ron he had gotten tickets to each of the friendlies that the Chudley Cannons would be playing over the summer. Extra incentive to learn how to apparate, Mrs. Weasley had said. The tickets had been, perhaps unsurprisingly, rather cheap. Harry had only been intending to get one at first but when he saw how little demand there was he had gotten the lot, along with a ticket to the first one for himself to go along with Ron.
The gift was met with a great deal of enthusiasm, as Ron swore the game that they would go to together would be more than enough to turn Harry into a Cannons fan for life. Harry thought it was more likely that they would be one of a handful of deluded fans forced to watch the systematic dismantling of the Cannons by an overqualified opposition, but if Ron wanted to get his hopes up then that was his own business.
Hermione's gift was simpler; a revised compilation of some notes that Harry had taken on Fleur's transfiguration and charms techniques. She had been less than enthused about Harry sending off her ideas to Hermione but had eventually relented. For his sake, she said. The notes made no mention of where he had gotten the material but Harry knew Hermione would figure it out.
It was Fleur's gift that had been the hardest to figure out. What could he get someone who had everything she could conceivably want? He didn't know anything about drinks, she probably already knew everything in any book that he could get her, she didn't follow any sports team particularly closely, and he doubted that she would want any clothing that he could pick out. Never before had Harry struggled so much with figuring out what gift to get someone. It had to be something personal, but not so personal that it would seem suspicious to the Weasleys.
In the end, Harry decided to go with something simple and universal; something touching that with any luck wouldn't come off as childishly saccharine. He had asked Colin Creevey to take a picture of the Dueling Club in full swing while Fleur had been occupied and then gotten a nice burnished wooden frame for the picture.
It was a good one, in Harry's opinion. Fleur was a commanding presence in the center of the room, demonstrating a wand movement for an attentive audience, while Harry was doing the same for his students at the end of the room. With the high ceiling that Colin just managed to fit in the frame and the cheerful light coming from the torches, the picture conveyed a sense of unpretentious accomplishment. It was a nice reminder of why Fleur had come back to Hogwarts in the first place. Perhaps it wasn't as expensive as Fleur's gift, but it was a thoughtful gift nonetheless.
Fleur opened the carefully wrapped picture with pinpoint precision, tearing away each fold of the wrapping paper until it fell apart to reveal the picture. She stared at it for a moment, surprise turning up the ends of her eyes, until she looked back up at Harry.
"It doesn't move or anything like that. I asked Colin Creevey to take it and he uses a muggle camera," Harry said. The way she was looking at him was embarrassing, and he felt a sudden need to talk, to say something that would hide his discomfort.
"It's lovely, Harry. Thank you," Fleur said. Bill leaned over her shoulder to glance at it and whistled appreciatively.
Fleur placed the picture on the end table next to her with care and glanced at it every now and then. Harry's eyes tracked her, almost unwillingly, and he noticed that after she had looked at the photo, Fleur's eyes would dart in his direction, just for a moment, before refocusing on whatever she had been doing or saying before.
When the last of the presents had been opened and the obligatory exclamations made, the group moved to breakfast, which left hardly enough room on the table for everyone to fit a plate. Mrs. Weasley seemed to have been competing with Hogwarts' house elves judging by how much food she had made. Harry doubted that three times their number could have finished it all. There were eggs and pies and toast and fruits and beans and steak and ham and an assortment of other foods that Harry thought may as well have been picked out of a hat for how much sense they made in conjunction with the others.
Ron looked delighted with the bevy laid out before him and started before Harry made it to his seat. The rest of the family was more circumspect in their enjoyment of the food, though Harry thought that some of the twins' enjoyment came from the treat they had inserted into a plate of eggs that they passed Ron's way. Harry wasn't sure what that particular shade of green signified but he had no doubt it would be spectacular.
The Burrow was about as quiet as it ever got as they ate; the only sounds that Harry could make out were the clatter of silverware and a sad clanging noise coming from the attic. Harry resolved to bring a plate of food up to his new friend when he was finished. Did ghouls eat? Couldn't hurt to find out. He doubted Mrs. Weasley would even notice one less plate of food. They were going to be eating leftovers for weeks.
Under other, more pleasant, circumstances, Harry might have been pleased with the atmosphere. There weren't any reminders of Voldemort, of the shadow war that was being waged as they sat complacently eating a Christmas breakfast, no stress over school or grades, no worries about anything. But Fleur was there. Next to Bill. What enjoyment could be had in the face of that?
There was nothing to be done. Harry sat and ate his meal in silence. He could at least be grateful for the silence and the good company, if not the exact situation. If he had to be moping at least he could do it around the Weasleys. They were about as forgiving a group of people as he was likely to find. One bad Christmas wouldn't be something that they held against him.
The idyllic scene didn't last. A sudden rushing warmth overtook Harry, growing stronger and almost seeming to produce a physical burn as the seconds passed. The Weasleys looked around the table; most of the younger Weasleys appeared as confused as Harry but Mr. Weasley and Bill were exchanging knowing, worried glances. They didn't make any move to draw their wands so Harry assumed that whatever was coming wasn't dangerous.
Just as the warmth was about to reach a crescendo and become genuinely painful, a pure white phoenix swept into the room, perching on the back of Mr. Weasleys chair. It was the most brilliant patronus Harry had ever seen, making his own stag look crass in comparison. The heat it was giving off wasn't so much heat, Harry realized, as magic so intense that it caused a physical reaction in those near to it.
The phoenix opened its beak, as if to trill, and Dumbledore's voice came out instead. "Arthur, Bill, my apologies, but I must ask that you come to Grimmauld Place at once. There is something that requires our attention."
Mr. Weasley and Bill had begun moving before the patronus had finished talking. Their lack of confusion or alarm made Harry think that it wasn't the first time they had been summoned with such short notice. The Order didn't exactly have a neatly ordered schedule for when its members would be needed.
Neither Fleur nor Mrs. Weasley looked pleased, but Bill and Mr. Weasley spoke in low tones to them, apologizing but saying that they had to go, and then they were out of the room. Harry thought that the scene reminded him of the old pictures he had seen from the Second World War, with men saying goodbye to their wives and girlfriends before being shipped overseas to battle.
Silence descended on the room once again, but this time it was a somber silence; one that carried the hopes and prayers of those who lurked in it. Bill and Mr. Weasley would come back. Harry didn't doubt them for a second.
Mrs. Weasley stood for a moment, before leaving the room. "To check the clock," Ron said, quietly enough that she wouldn't hear him.
Harry had glanced at the clock a few times himself before deciding that it wouldn't do anything but drive him mad. Whenever a member of the family was anywhere but the Burrow, the hand invariably pointed to 'mortal peril.' The hands for Mr. Weasley and Bill would be pointing there right now.
"I'm not concerned," Fleur said. She looked at each member of the table in turn, defiant of their fear.
"Not concerned?" Ginny said. Outwardly she looked fairly calm, but for her hand holding her knife in a vice-like grip. Harry thought that Fleur ought to choose her next words with great care.
"Bill is one of the most talented wizards I know. And the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I would be more worried for whoever is fool enough to cross them," Fleur said.
Ginny loosened her grip on the knife and nodded once. It was curt, but some of her fear seemed assuaged. Ron settled as well, but the twins looked less convinced. They wouldn't do anything to discomfort their siblings though, Harry knew.
Mrs. Weasley bustled back into the room and took her place at the table, trying, and failing, to look as if nothing was the matter. As if everything was ordinary and they could just go on eating the meal.
Harry felt an irrational guilt. He had been wishing for nothing but for Bill to leave, to go away and never come back, so that he wouldn't have to stare at him with Fleur anymore, and now he had. He had gone and thrust himself into danger while Harry sat at a full table enjoying a home-cooked Christmas breakfast. The food in his mouth tasted like blood and death. Harry felt like a coward.
Though he would likely never be able to bury the resentment that he held toward Bill (justified or not), Harry could at least acknowledge that he was a true Weasley. Not a word of complaint as he rushed off to the Order's aid on Christmas morning.
There was the occasional scrap of a utensil on plate, but apart from Fleur, who was eating with more vehemence than Harry had ever seen before, the rest of the table was taking only the most sporadic bite of food.
Christmas seemed all but lost. Then Ron got a strange expression on his face, which cycled through a series of emotions before settling on fear. Pure, unadulterated, fear.
"Fred, George…" Ron said, before he covered his hands over his mouth, his face turned a sickly pale, and he vomited a strange fluorescent green goo over a quarter of the table.
Even Fred and George seemed speechless for a moment. Then they turned to each other, nodded solemnly, and George said, "Reaction time was even faster than we expected. Greater mass expulsed as well."
"It could use a few more test runs but I do think that this one will be a hit," Fred said.
"Perfect for pranking and getting out of school."
"It'll practically sell itself."
To Harry's surprise, it was Fleur who reacted next. She laughed. It wasn't dignified, or forced, or even slightly sarcastic. Harry started laughing as well. He couldn't help himself. Ron looked miserable, Mrs. Weasley was clearly building up to a grand rant, Ginny had her mouth covered, trying not to smile, and he and Fleur weren't even able to somewhat control their laughter.
"Before you say anything, I'd just like to remind you that none of this would have been possible without Harry," Fred said.
"In a way, he's got as much responsibility for Ron throwing up on your delicious breakfast as Ron does," George said.
"You're trying to blame Ron and Harry for this? You're really going to pretend that this wasn't completely your fault? I see that living on your own hasn't made either of you more mature than you were when you left. This is utterly disgraceful behavior, and in front of Harry and Fleur nonetheless. They deserve better than to have their Christmas morning ruined because of one of your juvenile pranks!"
Harry stopped listening once it became clear that Mrs. Weasley wasn't going to stop anytime soon. Her lectures were like boulders going down a hill; once she picked up some momentum the best thing to do was just to get out of her way as soon as possible.
"How're you feeling?" Harry asked Ron.
Ron looked at him, the paleness gone from his face, and said, "Not bad at all. But I thought if I pretended to be feeling sick then she'd ignore me and go for them."
"Smart," Harry said.
"Anyone want some egg?" Ginny asked. She held up a wide plate of egg that had been given a generous dusting of the green goop that the twins had come up with.
"What exactly is this?" Fleur said, poking at a small puddle of the stuff with her wand.
"No idea. It doesn't smell like anything though," Ginny said.
"It tastes absolutely foul though. Like every one of Bertie Bott's beans you hate mixed together," Ron said.
"That's a brilliant idea," George said, having been paying about as much attention to Mrs. Weasley as the rest of them had.
"We'd have to figure out the licensing details with that," Fred said.
"I'm sure there are ways around that sort of thing," George said.
"We'll have to talk to our lawyers."
"I thought that they didn't want to see us again after last time."
"I'm sure they've forgiven us by now. It's now every day you get the honor of testing out a new product from Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes."
"Unless you're Ron," George said.
"Unless you're Ron," Fred said.
"You've been testing your products on your lawyers?" Mrs. Weasley asked. She looked to be near tears. Then she started mumbling something about Azkaban, the Weasley family name, and disowning troublemakers. It was all rather odd, Harry thought.
"I'll clear the plates," Fleur said. Mrs. Weasley was still talking to herself, her heads on the side of her head as she stared at Fred and George like they had crawled out of the darkest pit of hell. For once, even Fred and George looked concerned.
With a few twists of her wand, Fleur sent the dirty plates sailing into the kitchen, where they began the laborious task of emptying themselves into the garbage and scrubbing themselves off. There had to be two dozen objects moving simultaneously; some of which were animated and some of which were being levitated.
"I think I've lost my appetite," Ron said.
"We ate earlier," Fred said.
"I'm not going to let all of this go to waste. Ron only ruined part of it," Ginny said.
Harry was tempted to agree with her, but caution held him back. The last thing he wanted to do was accidentally eat something that Ron's goo had touched. Ginny had a stronger stomach than him if she was willing to risk it.
A deep chime reverberated through the house, loud enough to have woken even Ron if he had been sleeping. The sound remained in the air for a few seconds, not echoing but instead just hanging, as if waiting for the proper moment to disperse, and then the Burrow fell silent again.
"That's the wards. Someone's here," Mrs. Weasley said. Someone who wasn't keyed into the wards went unsaid.
"We'll go look," Fred said. He and George stood before Mrs. Weasley could protest and made their way into the kitchen toward the door, their wands readied at their sides.
They were out of sight but Harry could hear them shuffling along the floor. They stilled near the door, and a minute later George called out, "It's Percy. And he brought the Minister of Magic."
Mrs. Weasley stood so suddenly her chair was flung behind her, as if she had been struck with a bolt of lightning, and she dashed for the door, pulling it open with Ron, Harry, and Ginny following behind her at a more conventional pace.
"Percy," Mrs. Weasley said, pulling him into a hug. He was wearing standard Ministry robes, pressed to perfection, and shot a glance to the Minister as soon as his mother embraced him, as if to see whether or not the Minister deemed that appropriate. The Minister was staring at Harry.
Harry had looked into the eyes of Voldemort. He didn't think of himself as being easily intimidated. That being said, Rufus Scrimgeour had the eyes of a predator. They were tinged a sickly yellow, as if jaundiced, and they took in every detail of Harry with immaculate precision.
"I was wondering if I might be able to speak to Mr. Potter," Scrimgeour said.
Mrs. Weasley pulled back from Percy, taking in Scrimgeour for the first time. "We were having our Christmas breakfast." The reproach in her tone was unmissable.
"So Percy told me. He was working early this morning in the office and I insisted that he come and join his family for Christmas. Today, at least, work can wait. He was kind enough to invite me along and I thought I'd stop by for a moment, to meet the family of one of the Ministry's rising stars."
Every word was pitch perfect. If it all hadn't been so obviously implausible, Harry might have believed him.
"You're welcome to join us for breakfast, Minister Scrimgeour," Mrs. Weasley said. Harry wished that Fleur hadn't been so quick to dispose of the ruined plates.
"That's very kind of you but I've already eaten. I was hoping that someone could give me a tour of the house. Perhaps Mr. Potter? Sometimes an outsiders perspective is best. We notice things that people who live here take for granted," Scrimgeour said.
"I'm not sure," Mrs. Weasley started to say.
"I think the Minister is quite right. In fact, I think that I'll go with them. After all, Harry and I are the only outsiders here," Fleur said. She was leaning against the doorway, her face cold and haughty as she looked at Scrimgeour.
The Minister didn't deny her request but he didn't look pleased either. Harry thought he was likely wishing he had chosen his words with more care. No doubt Percy hadn't told him that Fleur was likely to be there as well. If Percy had even known.
"It would be my pleasure," Scrimgeour said.
Fleur walked up to Scrimgeour, taking Harry's arm as she did so, and inserted herself as a buffer between the two of them, leading them away from the house and toward the far side of the grounds where Harry was sure there was nothing but weeds and the shed.
"Percy looks far too thin. He should be offered some breakfast," Fleur called back over her shoulder to the watching Weasleys. Mrs. Weasley hurried her children inside, and, with one look behind her at Harry, shut the door to the Burrow.
Then, satisfied that the three of them were alone, Fleur launched into the most boring description of the Burrow that Harry had ever seen; she included the genus and species of every flower and weed she knew, speculations as to the type of trees on the grounds, a short theory of the behavior of garden gnomes, and a long digression on the charms that went into keeping the Burrow habitable.
After spending months studying with Fleur, Harry wasn't sure that he understood more than half of what she was saying. At first, Scrimgeour tried feigning interest, asking polite questions that Harry knew were designed to move the conversation more toward what he was looking for. Fleur misinterpreted every question and led Scrimgeour even further down conversational dead ends. If Harry hadn't been pretending to take Fleur seriously, hanging on every word and nodding at the appropriate moments, he wouldn't have been able to contain his laughter.
"If I may interject, Ms. Delacour, none of that is exactly why I'm here," Scrimgeour said, after being subjected to a fifteen minute lecture on the rumored healing properties of a common household shrub.
"Oh. I thought you wanted a tour," Fleur said. There was a cutting edge to her tone and Harry couldn't stifle a short snort. Scrimgeour's eyes flickered over to him for a moment before returning to meet Fleur's.
"Actually, I came to speak with Harry. Reuniting estranged family members was only a bonus," Scrimgeour said.
"What did you want to talk about?" Harry asked.
"You, and your role in this war," Scrimgeour said.
"He's a student at Hogwarts. He doesn't have a role in this war," Fleur said.
Harry was going to object, but Scrimgeour spoke first. "Not a combat role, to be sure. But his title carries great weight in this country. The-Boy-Who-Lived. The only person to ever survive the Killing Curse. The infant who vanquished Voldemort. So far Harry has been silent and the people of this country have been running scared. The Dark Lord is unopposed except by the Ministry and Dumbledore's vigilante group."
"And you want me to do what, support the Ministry? After how you had me slandered in the paper, called me mad and turned most of my schoolmates against me?" Harry said.
"Grow up," Scrimgeour said. Harry stopped walking. He glared at Scrimgeour and the Minister met his gaze without flinching. "This is about more than you and your ego. Fudge was an incompetent and a buffoon and he caused irreparable damage to this country. Your bruised self-esteem is nothing to what the war against the Dark Lord is going to cost this country. The support that you give the Ministry will save lives, lend us credibility in the fight."
"If the Ministry is relying on Harry's support then that has to mean things aren't going well," Fleur said.
"You're in Dumbledore's vigilante group, so you likely already know that unless things change, and soon, then the Ministry will fall within the year," Scrimgeour said. He was ostensibly talking to Fleur but his eyes were on Harry.
Not letting his reaction show, Harry said, "What could I possibly do to change that?"
"Recruitment for the aurors is at an all-time low. People are cowering instead of fighting back. The Dark Lord has already regained nearly all the strength he had at his peak during the First War, and we have only a fraction of our former strength. Our most capable duelists are either dead or retired, and those that aren't are having enough trouble just getting the few recruits that we have mustered up to speed. You could change that."
"How?" Harry asked.
Fleur spoke. "By being a figurehead. By lending your credibility, your reputation as the one who vanquished You-Know-Who, to the Ministry."
"I'm not that important. My reputation was ruined after the smear campaign they ran against me," Harry said.
"You are and it wasn't. Once you were proven right your reputation was restored and the Ministry's sank to the lowest it's been in decades. That's part of the reason we're having so much trouble recruiting. People don't trust us anymore. Who would want to fight for an incompetent bureaucracy?"
"I don't," Harry said.
Scrimgeour moved forward, putting himself only a few inches away from Harry. It was meant to be intimidating and it was working. Harry saw Fleur's fingers tense toward her wand. "Let me put it this way. How many people do you think will die if the Dark Lord wins? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? How many muggles tortured in their homes, or muggleborns attacked by dementors, before the number is high enough for you to regret not helping when you could?"
Harry took an involuntary step back. Scrimgeour was right. In the face of war, who was he to be petty over his reputation, or even over ideals. If Voldemort wasn't stopped then people, both those he cared about and those he didn't even know, would die. Countless lives lost. There was no chance that he could live with himself if he stood by and let that happen.
There was also a more selfish, practical reason to help the Ministry. If Dumbledore was right, and it really was going to be a battle between him and Voldemort, then Harry thought that having the Ministry around might tilt the odds in his favor.
"What do you want me to do?" Harry asked.
"The first thing would be to write a letter. I'll have it published by the Daily Prophet. In it you'll lay out your support for the Ministry, write some inspiring things about the fight against the Dark Lord, and then declare your intention to become an auror to help fight the Dark Lord after you graduate from Hogwarts. It'll be printed on the front page. Then we'll bring you into the Ministry to meet the aurors, hold some publicized training sessions with them. Those will get put into the Daily Prophet as well. Hopefully that'll be enough to start up a new recruitment drive."
"Harry isn't going to do this for nothing," Fleur said.
"Saving lives is nothing now?" Scrimgeour said.
Fleur just looked at him, less than moved. "No more interfering with the Order of the Phoenix," Fleur said.
"You're a vigilante group. The optics of the Ministry being unable to control its own citizens is terrible. I can't just let your group run rampant," Scrimgeour said.
"Then change how it looks. I don't care. The fact of the matter is you're overwhelmed and understaffed and the Order can help with that, but only if you don't get in our way."
Scrimgeour closed his eyes for a second, let out a long breath, and then said, "Acceptable."
"I want to be exempt from the restriction for underage magic," Harry said.
Without even hesitating, Scrimgeour said, "Done."
Harry looked at Fleur to see if she had any more suggestions but she shook her head. She looked pleased so Harry figured they had done about as well as they possibly could.
Scrimgeour stuck out his hand and Harry gave it a quick, unenthusiastic shake. Despite the necessity of the agreement it still struck him as somehow being dirty. Scrimgeour wasn't the sort of person that Harry was willing to trust.
"I'll forward a letter to you with further instructions and dates for your visits," Scrimgeour said. "Your other requests will be implemented starting tomorrow."
"Thank you, Minister," Harry said.
"I hope you enjoyed your tour of the Burrow, Minister," Fleur said, her voice sweet and lilting.
Scrimgeour just grunted and walked back to the Burrow, letting himself back into the house without knocking.
"I don't think he liked your tour," Harry said.
"I got the same impression, though I can't imagine why. Some people just don't appreciate the smaller details that go into maintaining a house," Fleur said.
"The part about the weeds that are growing around here was a nice touch. I didn't know you knew so much about flowers."
"I know nothing about flowers. I was making all of that up. Scrimgeour lasted longer than I thought he would."
"Ah."
Scrimgeour strode out of the Burrow, the door walloping the side of the house in his wake, while Percy hurried behind him, clutching a stack of parcels that rose to his head, each cloaked in Mrs. Weasleys sharp red wrapping paper.
"I think Percy got more presents than I did," Harry said.
"Just do something incredibly rash and stupid, like estranging yourself from the Weasleys, and the presents will come rolling in," Fleur said.
"If only I had thought of that," Harry said.
Percy and Scrimgeour disapparated with a final crack. Fleur and Harry lazed their way over to the Burrow.
"No role in the war, huh?" Harry said.
"I don't think Scrimgeour would have liked it if I suggested putting our precious Boy-Who-Lived on the front lines. Sometimes you have to say exactly what they're expecting you to say; what they want you to say," Fleur said.
"You'll help me read over Scrimgeour's letter when it comes then?" Harry asked.
"Of course."
"Thanks, Fleur. For helping me out there. Something about Scrimgeour just seems…off."
"He's a dangerous kind of person. From what I've heard he's a talented duelist and a political animal, all in one. You're right to be wary of him," Fleur said.
The Weasleys seemed to have mixed feelings about Percy's return. Sitting back down at the table, Harry saw that Ron looked guarded, Ginny tentatively optimistic, the twins as if they had just managed to restrain themselves from hexing him, and Harry hadn't seen Mrs. Weasley so happy since they had found out Mr. Weasley was going to pull through after Nagini attacked him.
"How's Percy doing?" Harry asked. It would be better to be polite than to ignore what had just happened, he thought.
"Just as much of a git as ever," Fred said. George nodded.
"Your brother is under a tremendous amount of stress and still managed to find time to visit," Mrs. Weasley said. Her rejoinder lacked its usual flair, sounding instead like a forced obligation. She may have been happy to see Percy but she wasn't fooling herself about him.
Ron looked disgusted at the idea of defending him. "He showed up because Scrimgeour needed an alibi to talk to Harry," he said.
"What did the Minster want to talk about?" Ginny asked.
Harry looked to Fleur but she had a blank expression on. "He wanted my support. To write something in the Daily Prophet supporting the Ministry, to make a couple of visits to the Ministry, and a few other small things. Just to show people that I'm on the Ministry's side and that there aren't any hard feelings."
"And you told him where he could stick that idea, right?" George said.
"Not exactly…" Harry said.
"The Minister made a persuasive argument for Harry's support. He also agreed to multiple concessions in regard to the Order's role in the fight against You-Know-Who," Fleur said. She cast a meaningful glance at Mrs. Weasley whose evident disappointment in Harry's decision abated somewhat.
"Concessions? Like what?" Ron asked.
"That's nothing to concern yourself with, Ronald. It's official Order business," Mrs. Weasley said.
Ron mumbled something that sounded like, "It's not like Harry won't just tell me later anyway."
"What did Scrimgeour say to make you change your mind?" Ginny asked.
Harry didn't want to answer that question. It was Christmas. Scrimgeour had brought a storm into the Weasley household but it had, so far, been contained by Harry and Fleur. To tell them the danger that the Ministry was in, the precipitous balance they were treading, would be to shatter any hope of a peaceful Christmas that they had left.
But lying wasn't an option either. After being left in the dark for years, told only scraps of what he wanted to know, needed to know, Harry wasn't about to do that to the others. Ron and Ginny deserved to know about the war that their family was fighting. In the long run, they weren't any safer than Bill or Mr. Weasley.
"He said that without help, the Ministry will fall within the year. He reminded me of how many people would die if I chose to be petty and not help. He said that this was about more than just me. He was right. If I withhold all the help that I can give just because I'm bitter about the way I was treated, or afraid of associating with these kinds of people, then I'm no better than Fudge or anyone else who tried to hide from the truth instead of confronting it."
Mrs. Weasley and the twins didn't look surprised. No doubt all of the Order members were well aware of how fragile the situation was. Ron and Ginny didn't maintain their composure. Ron's face whitened and he gripped his fork with tremendous force, while Ginny's eyes widened with panic. The Ministry was a bedrock for them. It had been around for their whole lives, survived countless wars, persevered through hundreds of years of history; and now it was being brought down by a single man. Even the Minister of Magic thought it was only a matter of time.
"That's…bad," Ron said.
"What happens when the Ministry falls?" Ginny asked. She looked toward her mother, then to the twins, and then even to Fleur. No one said anything.
"The Ministry isn't going to fall. The Order is going to be able to work freely now and I'm going to help the Ministry to stay afloat, get some more people into their training programs, make people want to fight back against Voldemort. We're not losing this war anytime soon," Harry said.
"And there have been some promising responses from abroad. It's not inconceivable that the Ministry or the Order could be receiving support from the continent at some point soon," Fleur said.
"The point is there's nothing to worry about," Mrs. Weasley said. "Let's just try to enjoy our Christmas breakfast; or what's left of it, after Ron decided to undo all the hard work I put into it." She squinted an eye at Ron who shrugged, as if he was fine with being blamed but wanted everyone to know it was out of his control.
"Politics makes me lose my appetite," Harry said.
Fleur scoffed and pushed a bowl of porridge to him. "You barely touched your breakfast. Eat something. You wouldn't want to waste any of the food that Molly spent hours preparing for you," she said.
"You just like toying with people," Harry said, covering his mouth with a spoonful of porridge so that Mrs. Weasley wouldn't hear him.
"Everything I do, I do for you," Fleur said. She took a dainty bite out of a piece of generously buttered toast.
The rest of the Weasleys turned back to the food and tried to turn back the wave of creeping anxiety that Scrimgeour's visit had provoked. Light conversation spouted up every now and then but none were under the illusion that breakfast could really be salvaged.
The moon was bleak. It cast a reluctant light on the Burrow, illuminating a pair of garden gnomes wrestling in a thicket of weeds, and spared a harsh beam for Harry, giving his skin a sallow, almost translucent appearance. He took another swig from the wine bottle.
Bill and Mr. Weasley hadn't returned from whatever Dumbledore had asked them to do. There hadn't been any word from them. Two days of nothing. Mrs. Weasley didn't say it but everyone in the house could tell that she was on edge.
Fleur told him that it was standard procedure for Order members to send their families some word if it looked like their mission was going to go longer than originally expected. It was unusual for the two of them to have sent nothing.
Despite the odd circumstances, Fleur clung tenaciously to her faith in Bill's skills. She professed to be unconcerned and said that she knew that they were fine. It was a façade, of course, but it was an effective one. Harry could see that it made Mrs. Weasley feel better and the two of them were spending more time together than ever before, bonding through their mutual concealed worries. Fleur had told him that they had written Dumbledore asking him when the two would be home but that he had simply sent a short reply back saying that he couldn't tell them anything and that he was sorry, but that he was positive they were both alright.
With most of the Weasleys out of the house, the Burrow had become quite depressing. Harry spent most of his time talking to Fleur, their easy repartee settling back into its usual pace since Bill was gone. But those conversations had lost their charm for Harry. He felt fettered by having to spend all of his time in the Burrow. Talking to Fleur, desiring her, when she was worried about Bill made him feel filthy, like he was unworthy to be around her or any of the other Weasleys. He felt selfish, and cruel, and mean, and so he ran away and spent as much time on his own as he could.
The roof of the Burrow had become his point of voluntary exile. When the feelings grew too powerful, and too mystifying, Harry could ascend to the roof and leave the buzzing confusions behind him.
There wasn't enough moonlight to read. Harry let the novel next to him sit forgotten. He wasn't able to focus on it anyway.
Instead he sat and imagined taking his broom and flying away from the Burrow. On his Firebolt he doubted that Voldemort or any of his Death Eaters would be able to catch him. He could spend his life a flying fugitive, a vagabond sailing over oceans and cities and letting time, and the world, pass him by with a studious indifference.
If Harry was being honest with himself, he was never alone in those fantasies. Fleur would confront him before he left; somehow she would have figured out what he was planning to do and she wouldn't let him go through with it unless he took her along. They would fly away at night together, and she would have to hold on to him while they soared, and neither of them would mention Bill.
They were pleasant daydreams, but Harry shook them off as soon as he found himself slipping into them. He left Fleur and the Weasleys so that he could avoid thinking about them. The roof was a place to center himself, not dawdle in idle dreams.
Harry sighed. The garden gnomes finished their impromptu duel and fell asleep propped up against a side of the worn wooden fence. Harry didn't know what time it was. Judging from the moon's position it was late. The Burrow had fallen silent hours ago.
The sound of a door opening came from the attic, and then the soulful hammering from the ghoul. Harry wondered if Ron had finally figured out where he was hiding and had come to drag him down to bed.
The window opened and Fleur pulled herself through it, looked at Harry, and then sat down next to him.
"So this is where you've been disappearing to," she said.
"It's quiet up here. And peaceful," Harry said.
Fleur had a haunting loveliness in the moonlight; where it reflected harshly on Harry, it only served to accentuate the otherworldliness of her beauty. Her hair seemed to shine as if it had been spun from beams of moonlight and her eyes were lively even in the dim night. She was wearing a thick black robe and Harry could see her breath in the air.
"You've got to be freezing," Fleur said.
Harry had been cold hours ago. Eventually that had left him and he only had to tolerate a dull numbness. He could have cast a warming spell on himself but he never did; not out of any masochistic desire to punish himself, but rather out of a general sense of apathy toward the cold. As long as he didn't get frostbite he didn't care.
"I'm alright," Harry said. He didn't look at Fleur. The more he looked at her the harder it was to prevent himself from thinking about her. The more he looked at her the more she would figure in his dreams, both waking and not.
He could hear her fumbling with her wand and a pleasant warmth chased away the chill in Harry's body. Most variants of warming spells were initially unpleasant, either casting away the cold with unpleasant force and heat, or doing so in a slow, simmering burn that felt like Firewhiskey throughout the body. Fleur's wasn't like that. It was an indulgent embrace of heat.
"You won't be able to single-handedly save Britain if you die of hypothermia," Fleur said.
"I suppose not," Harry said. He wanted Fleur to go away. The more time she spent around him the more of an ingrate he felt. It had been different before he had seen her with Bill. Her engagement was an abstraction then, as insubstantial as one of his fantasies; but now that Harry had seen them together it was like watching a prefiguration of their future, and he could no longer casually brush off the thoughts and desires that seemed so much more harmless at Hogwarts.
Fleur poked his cheek. Harry started, and nearly went tumbling from the roof. His foot lashed out and knocked his bottle of wine off of the roof. It shattered with a tinkling noise on the lawn below.
"You poked me," he said, with a childlike disbelief.
"You're being moody. Stop. It's boring," Fleur said.
Harry settled back against the roof. He huffed and then waved a hand through the cloud that it produced.
"I've got my next assignment from Dumbledore," Fleur said. "He sent an owl. Wants me to rendezvous with the German ministry. He thinks that they might be amenable to some support. Financial if nothing else. Grindelwald isn't a distant memory there, apparently."
"When are you leaving?" Harry asked.
"The end of break," Fleur said.
They had a week left before their return to Hogwarts. A week he would have to spend near her. A week that he would spend pretending.
"You could at least act like you're upset," Fleur said.
"Why would I be upset? You're doing exactly what I wish I could be doing. You're being helpful, doing work for the Order, fighting back against Voldemort. I'm just sitting here," Harry said.
Fleur laid her head back on the roof. "Is this what you were like last year? Now I know why people avoided you."
"How would you know anything about that?" Harry asked.
"I talk to people at Hogwarts other than you. I like to get a feel for what's going on, even if you don't. And this moping, self-pitying act is painful to be around. Stop acting like you're not doing anything. Most of the older students at Hogwarts are on par with adult witches and wizards when it comes to defending themselves now. They would have never gotten to that point without you. And when I'm gone you'll be taking over the Dueling Club. So stop acting like you're not helping. There are only a handful of people who are doing more than you are right now."
She had rolled over, forcing eye contact with Harry while she spoke. He was blushing but he doubted she could tell. His cheeks had gone red hours ago.
"I know that's not what's bothering you, Harry. Because I know you. And if not being involved was what was really bothering you then you'd be battering down Dumbledore's door or tripling the hours of the Dueling Club or obsessively learning the spells from the notebooks. Anything to make yourself feel useful. You haven't moped once since I've met you. Which means that this is something where you don't know what to do. This has nothing to do with You-Know-Who."
He wasn't apparating, yet he felt the same constriction pressing down all around him. Why was Fleur pushing so hard? She had to know. She couldn't not know. He knew he had been too obvious.
"Stop, Fleur," Harry said.
"Why are you upset, Harry?" Quiet, cajoling, bright blue eyes. Soft pursed lips. Unblemished skin. A moonlit vision.
"Because of you," Harry said. He didn't look at her, turning his eyes to the night sky. He could almost count the stars. One, two, three…
"Why am I upsetting you, Harry?" Fleur asked. Same soft tone. But decisive. Fearless. He envied her and hated her and wanted her in that moment, a confusing miasma of emotion that made his extremities tingle, like a panicked flight-or-fight response.
"Because I love you," Harry said.
There was a second where it seemed that the entire night had gone still, the stars had been extinguished, and the world reduced to their small shared space on the top of the Burrow. Harry turned on his side to look at Fleur. He didn't want to, but he had to know what she was thinking.
Harry wasn't sure what he had been expecting. Surprise, perhaps. Discomfort. Maybe, if this were a dream, happiness.
There was nothing but a unobtrusive sadness. Not exactly pity, but close enough that Harry felt the slightest pang of frustration. Pity was the worst of it. He could stand for anything but Fleur's pity.
"I'm engaged, Harry," Fleur said.
(Fleur was engaged. Fleur was engaged to his best friend's brother.)
He hadn't revealed the whole of himself, the most vulnerable, terrible, inner thoughts he had only to be turned away by such an insufficient statement. A true statement, but too clunky and meaningless to stop him.
"That doesn't mean anything," Harry said. He kept calm, divorced himself from any petulance or fear. He wasn't a child. He could talk to Fleur without sounding like one.
"Engagement doesn't mean anything?" Fleur asked.
"You've teased me, flirted with me. Nothing you do is unintentional. You drank with me, stripped in front of me, taught me, learned from me; we've spent more time together in the last couple of months than with anyone else. You've told me things about yourself that you've never told anyone and asked me things I've never told anyone before. So you can't just say, 'I'm engaged,' as if that settles things. It doesn't mean anything."
Fleur was meeting his gaze, but Harry thought he saw some indecision. Some hesitance which prevented her from saying what she thought she should say.
"We're friends, Harry. Friends share things with each other; even tease each other sometimes," Fleur said.
"Not like you did with me. You can't just pretend that any of that was trivial," Harry said.
"Why are you pushing this?" Fleur asked.
"Because you haven't said that you don't care about me," Harry said.
He found her hands wrapped up in the sleeves of her robes, extracting them with a coaxing gentleness and brushing his fingertips against the knuckles, and then down to the tips. He threaded his fingers through hers and she complied. His hand was freezing, even to him, but she accepted it.
He gained strength and courage through pushing forward. "I love you, Fleur. And I can't pretend that I know exactly what you feel for me, but you wouldn't have done all of that with me, trusted me like you did, if you felt nothing," Harry said.
It hurt her not to be in control. She was as shaken as he had ever seen, like a ship that was slowing being tilted on its axis until it would crash into the deafening waves below. She was cracking and he was watching her and helping to push her closer to the edge.
Theirs was not an equal relationship. Harry knew that. She was older, beautiful, smarter, even more articulate than he was. He needed her more than she needed him. But that didn't mean she didn't need him.
"Look where we are, Harry. Look what you're trying to get me to say," Fleur said.
"I love you," Harry said. She didn't say anything so he repeated himself.
A pause.
"I can't say that back, Harry. But I love being around you. I love spending time with you," Fleur said.
Harry squeezed her hand. It wasn't what he wished for, but it was more than he had any right to expect
Fleur made up the distance between them, letting herself rest against him, her body tangling carelessly with his.
"You're a bastard," Fleur said.
Harry tilted her head up. He didn't have to hide his delight in her anymore. When he kissed her, she kissed him back.
It was better than he had expected. The softness, the warmth, that he had been able to anticipate.
The feeling behind it, the tenderness of emotion, was something he couldn't have imagined. It had to be experienced.
"Guess I'm not as bad as you keep saying," Harry said.
"Just stop talking," Fleur said. Her voice was muffled as she leaned her face against Harry's chest. He could feel her breath against his robes.
Harry knew they would have to talk soon. Things needed to be said, boundaries established, their relationship elaborated upon. But for the moment he was content.
He hadn't ever thought it possible that he would have Fleur curled up against him. It had never been more than a painful dream and now that it was a reality Harry could say that he had never been happier. It was a cliché, a phrase that had been trammeled to death before he was even born, but now Harry understood why it was used. A cliché that came close to expressing the ineffability of love was a precious thing.
Though he had always worried about his reaction to Fleur, his inevitable response to her beauty, laying next to her he could ignore the part of his mind that was pushing for him to press his luck, to touch her more deliberately. There wasn't anything sexual about the way she was laying against him. It was a mutual expression of comfort, the realization of months of shared daydreams and hopes.
It was late before Fleur spoke again. Her Warming Charm had worn off hours earlier but Harry hadn't been willing to shift to reach his wand. The feel of her against him was worth the sting of the cold. He had almost thought that she was asleep, and that he would need to wake her. There was something about the idea that appealed to him.
"How long have you loved me?" Fleur asked.
"Since I told you about Dumbledore's notebooks," Harry said. There wasn't any hesitation on his part; he had thought through that moment dozens of times since it happened. Even dreamed about it.
"Not so long then," Fleur said. She didn't sound upset, merely interested.
"I think it's been longer than that. I just wasn't willing to think about it. To think about us like that," Harry said.
"Why?" Fleur asked.
Harry knew better than to give that the first answer that sprang to mind. He didn't want to sway her. Because it's wrong, he thought? Because you're engaged? Because there's a war going on? There were more reasons for them to be apart than together. Other than the fact that he loved her.
"I've never been in love before. It was strange at first," Harry said.
Fleur shifted until her lips were brushing against the crook of his neck, her legs intertwined with his, her chest pressing hard against his. It was entirely more pleasant and intimate than their last position had been.
When she spoke her breath was hot against his ear. "It never gets less strange. Not if you stop to think about it."
"So I should stop thinking about it?" Harry asked. He let a hand touch down on the small of her back, hovering just for a moment, and then, when she said nothing, didn't shift at all, he let it rest there. His other hand remained loose at his side. He still hadn't decided where it was supposed to go.
"I wouldn't say that. Sometimes thinking about love is the best part. It can be addictive," Fleur said.
He didn't want to say it. It would ruin everything. Like knocking a star out of its orbit, sending it crashing to a catastrophic and ignoble death.
"What about Bill? Do you love him?" Harry asked.
"Yes," Fleur said.
Harry waited for her to go on. She sighed, but did.
"I love him in a different way than I feel about you. He's different than you are. More confident, more experienced, less thoughtful, less concerned about the people around him," Fleur said.
Harry could ignore how that made him feel. He was in pursuit of something more important than ego gratification. And he would never expect Fleur to hold back on what she was thinking for his sake.
"What about your engagement?" Harry asked.
There was a long pause. The longest pause Harry had ever felt. The castle had shifted on the sand below and he was waiting to see if it would tumble to pieces.
"Let me give you a headline, Harry. Boy-Who-Lives seduced by French veela. Or another one? Boy-Who-Lived seduces engaged woman."
"The Daily Prophet wouldn't run that. They're on our side now," Harry said. He was lying. If they wouldn't run it someone else would. Someone would find out. His reputation, the reputation buoying the Ministry, would be broken. Fleur would be disgraced.
"I'm sorry, Harry," Fleur said.
"So what are we?" Harry asked. His voice was strange. Fleur's presence on his chest had gone from an arousing warmth to an almost crushing sensation. He wanted anything but to have this laid out in front of him so coldly.
"We're friends. Friends who comfort each other. Friends who care deeply for each other," Fleur said. If Harry hadn't known her so well he would have missed the melancholy.
"I don't give a damn about the Daily Prophet," Harry said suddenly. It was true. He could already see it. They would leave Britain. Perhaps for France, or for America. New identities, new looks. It wouldn't be hard. There weren't many people who were better at charms and transfiguration than Fleur. And he still had Dumbledore's notebooks. There was bound to be something about human transfiguration in them.
"We could leave, Britain," Harry said. His mind continued to flash through the possibilities, like a film reel in his brain. Each scene was fraught with dangers but, tinging every moment was a sepia-hued dreamy happiness.
It would hurt the Weasleys, hurt Hermione, but he could do that. For once, he could be selfish. For Fleur.
"We can't leave," Fleur said. Her hand was rubbing his chest now, like she was soothing a beast caught in a trap.
"Why not?" Harry asked.
"Because you're a hero," Fleur said.
What could he say to that? Deny it? He didn't even understand what she was saying. He wasn't a hero. He was a Hogwarts student who had gotten lucky when so many better witches and wizards hadn't.
Fleur continued. "You could never leave people who needed your help behind, no matter how much you think you could right now. The guilt would destroy you one day."
"What then? What do we do?" Harry asked.
"We enjoy being with each other. Quietly. For as long as we can," Fleur said.
"That's so little," Harry said. So little when compared to his new dreams.
"It's better than nothing," Fleur said. She laid her head back down on his chest and they stayed like that for hours. Until the sun rose a bloody red in the sky.