CHAPTER 30: A PROPOSAL IN RUINS
Later that night...
Monsieur Delacour, with his usual warm and welcoming demeanor, insisted that Harry stay for the night. A guest room had already been prepared for him. Harry hesitated, feeling slightly uncomfortable about imposing, but the Delacour patriarch was insistent.
"I have already arranged everything for you, mon ami," Monsieur Delacour said with a smile, his thick French accent making the words sound even more genuine. "You will stay here for the night. The room is ready, and we can discuss your departure in the morning."
Harry, a little embarrassed, glanced down at his clothes. "I didn't bring any extra clothing," he admitted.
Monsieur Delacour chuckled and waved it off. "No matter. The house elves have already taken care of your belongings. Everything has been brought to your room. You need not worry about a thing." He gestured to the grand hallway. "You can return the hotel keys tomorrow, before you head back to England. For now, enjoy your stay."
They began walking down the corridor toward the guest room. As they passed the entrance to the kitchen, Monsieur Delacour paused, turning to Harry with a knowing smile. "Wait here for a moment," he said. "I need to speak with my wife."
Harry nodded and stood still, glancing around the spacious hallway. The faint sounds of laughter and conversation drifted from the kitchen. He watched as Monsieur Delacour entered the room, his figure disappearing through the doorway.
Harry, standing at the threshold, couldn't help but watch the family dynamic unfold. Inside, he saw Monsieur Delacour walk straight up to his wife, who was busy at the sink, washing dishes. Fleur's mother, her two sisters, and several house elves were also working in the kitchen, tidying up after the evening's meal. It was a small moment of domestic tranquility—one that Harry couldn't help but find oddly comforting.
Monsieur Delacour greeted his wife with a warm embrace and a kiss on the cheek. "Ah, ma chère," he said, his voice full of affection, "you are always the heart of this house."
Fleur, who was still in the elegant dress she had worn earlier, flashed a radiant smile, despite the task at hand. Her sisters teased her, laughing as they passed plates to one of the house elves, who hurriedly took them to be cleaned. The house elves, clearly used to doing the bulk of the work, watched in mild dismay as the Delacour women insisted on washing the dishes themselves.
Harry couldn't help but smile to himself, observing the scene. He realized something that had previously eluded him: Fleur had never complained about doing chores at Shell Cottage, even though her family owned multiple house elves. It was clear now that she had been trained to do these tasks herself, no matter how many magical creatures were available to help. It made sense—her sense of responsibility and discipline were part of her upbringing.
He also understood why Fleur had seemed so restless during her time at the Burrow. There, in the Weasley home, Mrs. Weasley had taken charge of everything. Fleur, used to handling things herself, had found it difficult to adjust.
As Harry continued to watch, he felt a sense of peace settle over him. The Delacour family was clearly close-knit, filled with love, laughter, and lighthearted teasing. Though he couldn't understand their rapid French conversation, he could sense the warmth and camaraderie in the room. It was a reminder of the normalcy and joy that could still exist in the world, despite everything Harry had been through.
Fleur caught his gaze from across the kitchen. She smiled widely, her eyes sparkling, and Harry returned the gesture with a soft, genuine smile. It was a brief exchange, but it spoke volumes. She was happy, surrounded by family, and Harry was grateful for that.
What Fleur didn't know, however, was the turmoil that was brewing deep within him. Harry had been wrestling with a decision for months now, and though he had promised Monsieur Delacour that he would consider it, he still wasn't sure. He was afraid that if he went through with it, it might ruin everything.
A few months later...
The days had passed slowly, with Harry taking his time to think through his decision. He spent the first few months mulling over the question that had been haunting him: should he proceed with what Monsieur Delacour had asked of him? The idea had seemed simple enough at first, but Harry's doubts kept growing. He was terrified of making the wrong choice, of damaging something beautiful, something he didn't fully understand.
Meanwhile, his relationship with Fleur had continued to evolve. They had both taken a step into the world of Muggles, something that had initially seemed foreign to Harry. They'd each gotten smartphones, marveling at the convenience they offered. No longer did they have to wait days for an owl to deliver a letter or worry about the slow, unreliable pace of communication. With a text, they could connect instantly.
At first, Harry had been skeptical. His first attempt at using the phone had been disastrous, especially when he tried to bring it into his home. The magic in his house had interfered with the Muggle technology, causing the phone to glitch and malfunction. But Harry had taken it as a challenge. He worked on modifying the wards around his house, ensuring that Muggle devices could function properly. It took time, but eventually, it became second nature.
Now, it was normal to see Harry and Fleur texting each other late into the night, sending messages back and forth. Their conversations were always lighthearted, never venturing into anything romantic. Fleur had no idea that Harry was even considering proposing—he hadn't dropped a single hint.
But still, something lingered in the back of his mind. Despite the ease with which they communicated, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that he was holding back, that something was missing. He hadn't made up his mind about the decision Monsieur Delacour had asked him to make, and it weighed heavily on him, even in the midst of their seemingly carefree exchanges.
The Proposal...
In early May of the same year, Harry found himself once again in Grenoble. The weather was perfect, with the sun shining brightly in the sky and a warm breeze rustling through the trees. He and Fleur were walking along a jogging path beside the River Isère, the calm water reflecting the clear blue sky. Harry was dressed casually in a grey t-shirt and worn blue jeans, while Fleur wore a light-colored sleeveless dress that reached just below her knees. A cream-colored scarf covered the lower half of her face, a small but effective attempt to shield herself from the prying eyes of the public. Despite her efforts, however, it was clear that her beauty still drew the attention of many men in the park.
One of the benefits of walking beside her, though, was that no one dared approach. Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of pride, though it was tempered with the weight of his own internal turmoil.
They continued along the path, walking in comfortable silence. The peaceful sound of the river and the soft rustling of leaves around them provided a serene backdrop to the thoughts racing through Harry's mind. He had been thinking about this moment for weeks now, and as they neared a quiet, secluded bridge that arched over the Isère, he knew there was no turning back. This was it.
Harry suddenly stopped in his tracks, causing Fleur to glance at him curiously. Without a word, he dropped to one knee, pulling out a small velvet box from his pocket. His heart pounded in his chest as he looked up at Fleur, the woman who had captivated him for so long, the woman he had come to love more than he could ever put into words.
"Fleur Isabelle Delacour," Harry said, his voice shaky but full of sincerity. "Will you marry me?"
Fleur froze. Her eyes widened in shock, her breath catching in her throat. For a moment, Harry thought she might burst into tears of joy. But instead, her expression shifted, and a frown began to form on her face. The shock turned into something else—something darker, something angry.
"How could you!" Fleur exclaimed, her voice rising in fury. The words hit Harry like a physical blow, and he flinched, the ring still held tightly in his hand. Before he could say anything, Fleur turned on her heel and began walking briskly away, heading straight for the car parked a short distance away.
"Fleur, wait!" Harry called out, his voice desperate. He scrambled to his feet and tried to catch up with her, but she was already too far ahead. "Look, I'm sorry! I really am. I didn't mean to hurt you or anything. It's just—"
But Fleur didn't stop. She didn't even glance back at him. She continued walking with purpose, her pace quickening as she reached the car. Without a second's hesitation, she climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine, and sped off, leaving Harry standing there in stunned silence.
Harry stood frozen for a long moment, watching as her car disappeared into the traffic. His heart sank as the reality of the situation set in. He had just ruined everything. He had ruined what they had. He had ruined her.
He had been foolish, so foolish. He should have known that Fleur would never accept him. To her, he was just "that little boy," the one who could never measure up to the grandeur of her world. How could he have thought for even a moment that the most beautiful Veela in all of France would ever love him back?
He turned slowly, feeling like the weight of the world was pressing down on him. He walked back to the spot where he had proposed, his steps slow and heavy, as if each one took all the strength he had left. Reaching a vacant bench nearby, he sat down heavily, his gaze drifting toward the distant skyline of Grenoble. The city lights were just beginning to twinkle as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a soft orange glow over the landscape.
Harry stared at the ground, his mind swirling with regret. He had been so sure of himself, so convinced that this was the right thing to do. But now, all he felt was the crushing weight of failure. He had destroyed it all. What they had, what he thought they could have—gone in an instant.
Dusk settled over the park, and Harry knew it was time to leave. He didn't belong here anymore, not with the mess he had made. He stood up, feeling the cold air of the evening settling in around him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the ring, the symbol of his shattered hopes.
For a long moment, he just stared at it, the diamond glinting faintly in the fading light. It seemed so insignificant now, so meaningless.
With a heavy heart, Harry walked to the edge of the river. He looked out at the dark water, then at the ring one last time before he tossed it into the Isère. The ring sank quickly, disappearing into the depths below.
Harry stood there for a while longer, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his mind numb. The sound of the river flowing gently was the only thing that broke the silence. The world around him felt distant, out of reach. He had no idea what would come next, or if anything would ever be the same again.
All he knew was that he had tried, and now he had to face the consequences of his actions.
August, the Same Year...
For the next few months, Harry tried everything he could think of to reach Fleur. At first, he called her repeatedly, but the phone just rang and rang, unanswered. He sent text after text, but there was no reply. Each message he sent felt like a hollow attempt, the silence that followed more deafening than words could ever be. When that failed, he resorted to the traditional method—sending owls, hoping that the old-fashioned way might finally get through to her. But still, nothing. It was as if she had vanished from his life entirely.
By the time August arrived, Harry had long accepted that Fleur was done with him. His attempts to apologize, to explain himself, had all been in vain. He had made his mistakes, and now he had to live with the consequences. The hope that she might respond had all but died.
It was a Friday when Harry found himself at a crossroads. He was supposed to leave for Moscow on an unscheduled mission, a task that had come up unexpectedly. But before he departed, he knew he had one final thing to do. He couldn't leave without sending Fleur one last letter, one last attempt to put his feelings to rest.
He sat at his desk, staring at the blank sheet of parchment before him, his quill hovering in midair. He didn't know what to say, but the words came eventually, spilling out in a quiet rush as he wrote.
Dear Fleur,
I hope you will read this. I've tried to reach you through every means I know. I don't know if you've been avoiding me on purpose, or if you simply didn't want to hear from me again. But we both know how it went.
I am sorry. I'm sorry for what I did. I know it was wrong. I know it was foolish of me to try. I should have known that you would still love Bill, that it would be foolish of me to try to replace him. It was totally uncalled for. Nobody is going to replace him. I know that now.
The truth is, Fleur, I've been in love with you for quite some time. But I never knew if you would feel the same. I know that now. There won't be any place for me in your heart, and I've finally come to terms with that. I suppose, since this will be the last letter I send you, I should tell you the truth.
I will forever cherish what we had before. I'll always remember our friendship, and I'll carry that with me. I pray and hope that someday, somewhere, you'll find the person who will love you as much as you deserve to be loved. I promise that I won't stand in your way, and I promise I won't disturb you anymore.
Thank you for everything. Goodbye.
Harry James Potter.
Harry reread the letter several times, each time feeling the weight of the words settle deeper into his chest. He couldn't take back the past, but he could at least offer this final piece of closure. He folded the letter carefully, sliding it into an envelope.
Next, he reached for the picture Fleur had given him during his visit to Grenoble. It was a simple photo of her smiling, her hair blowing gently in the breeze, a moment of peace that felt so far removed from everything that had happened since. Harry hesitated, his fingers brushing over the edges of the frame before he placed the picture inside the envelope with the letter. He wouldn't need it anymore. He had to let go.
Taking a deep breath, he pulled his phone from his pocket. He had held onto it for far too long, the last connection to her that he had been unwilling to sever. But it was time. He popped out the SIM card, snapping it in two with a finality that felt both liberating and painful. He threw the phone on the floor, watching as it shattered into pieces. The sound of it hitting the floor was like a release—an end to something that had been lingering for far too long. He ignored the mess, focusing only on the task at hand.
He placed the envelope in front of his owl, watching as it took the letter in its beak, ready to fly off into the distance. Harry stood there for a moment longer, taking in the weight of what he had just done.
And then, with one last look at the empty space around him, he turned and left for the Ministry, his mind already shifting to the next task at hand. Moscow was waiting for him, and he knew he couldn't afford to linger on the past any longer.
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