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And all of my heart is broken
How does a person function after completing the one purpose in life they thought they had?
With a lot of pain and unreal expectations, that’s how.
He never truly was the same after the war, not that anyone expected him to be. That is not to say that he didn’t try, because he did. He tried so very hard to be happy, to be normal, to be Harry again. But it just was too hard.
There were too many changes, too many differences for it to be the same - for him to be the same.
The first thing he’d noticed after the war was the fact that he didn’t like to be around too many people. Not that he was an active socialite prior to the war, but even gatherings of ten to twenty would start bothering him. It got too loud, too crowded, too happy .
It was worse when people tried to talk to him, or include him in conversations. Funnily enough, he hated being the centre of attention in a room, which was sad because it was practically unavoidable.
Everybody wanted to speak to the man who killed the Dark Lord.
It was difficult to shop or roam in public areas without being recognised. The world noticed, and the world never let him pass through in peace. Still, he had hope for being able to live a fairly normal life after the initial storm blows out. During the interim, he would stick to shopping under glamour charms or getting his necessities delivered to Grimmauld Place - where he was staying.
Basically, he was isolated: trapped in his own home.
He knew that it was better this way, it's not like there was anyone waiting for him on the flip side. After what had happened, his friend group had broken off completely. Whenever he tried to interact with his friends individually, it was always stilted.
The conversations always felt uneasy, tainted by the blood on their hands and the suffering that they went through. While he admitted that the seclusion wasn't uncalled for(he was a rather difficult person to be around, what with all the danger in his life), it still hurt.
And so he spent his days in solitude, speaking to no one, doing nothing, trying to move on. He scoured the house library for any recipe books that may have been, and spent hours memorizing them to his heart. Not all of them made edible food, of course, but it was the work that mattered.
Harry kept on trying to find busy work around the house, be it a cursory cleaning of living quarters, or fixing a busted pipe.
(Or trying to fix a busted pipe only to end up destroying it further.
Either way, he was determined to get his life back on track - water damage and all!)
Regardless, there were days when getting out of bed was difficult. Some days lacked colour, lacked even a semblance of excitement or something that would entice him. The days when it didn’t matter if it was sunny outside, because it was always dark inside his head.
And that was fine, he thought - can’t be in tip-top shape all the time.
And so he continued to busy himself further.
Harry roamed the halls of his house consistently, checking and double-checking the functionality of everything. He randomly knocked on walls, stomped on floors, and tried to punch through doors - all for scientific purposes, he justified in his head.
Upon discovery, he realised that the library in Grimmauld Place was extensive enough to satiate his curiosity for a decent amount of time: though archaic, the knowledge contained inside the leather-bound books was quite interesting.
From runes to dark rituals, Harry immersed himself in various branches of magic that lay on the opposing side of his moral spectrum.
As he gorged himself with ancient literature and theory, he gained power. And as he gained power, he attempted to empathize with the man who’d had it out for him since before he was born. The only blaring difference between the two would’ve been morality and companionship - or lack thereof in Tom’s case.
They were worryingly similar, to the point that Harry wondered what could’ve been had he not chanced upon Ron on his first trip to Hogwarts and instead isolated himself from his peers.
He shook his head of those thoughts, preferring not to open that can of worms just yet.
So he read books.
From dusk till dawn, and back to dusk, he made it his mission to read through the entire library at least twice.
And read he did.
--
Harry had a new hobby/interest thing: ornithology.
He loved to read about birds, how they functioned, their migration patterns, their biology (For some reason, he always read ‘hollow bones’ in the voice of the Beauxbatons headmistress. Well, he knew the reason but it was funny nonetheless). They were relatable, they were free - they were who he wanted to be.
He didn’t actually want to be a bird, but he did really want to fly.
And so he did. Everyday.
It became a routine, and he felt all the better for it. Harry finally had a reason to get out of bed every day, he finally saw the sunrise after god knows how long. He felt free .
--
Until one day he didn’t.
All it took for him to give it up was an owl flying beside him on one of his early morning flights around London.
That was all it took for flying to feel like a punishment to him, rather than an escape.
The experience was all it took for him to acknowledge the possibility that what he was going through may be bigger than he thought it to be.
But what was he to do?
Work, of course.
--
This time I think I’m bound to stay alone.
Interestingly enough, the first visitor to his humble abode was Ginny. They’d had a bit of a falling out after the war: an overall disagreement on the direction their relationship was taking, and had broken up promptly.
He was pretty unclear on whether there were any bad feelings though (Or if he was capable of having any feelings at all).
Anyways, she came over for lunch. The atmosphere was pretty tense, but not the worst that he’d been in, and it got a lot better after the initial few minutes. Ginny was doing well for herself - she’d been scouted for a Quidditch Youth League and was in a pretty serious relationship with Dean Thomas.
Harry expected some kind of reaction from his side when she spoke about the last bit, but to his surprise, there was nothing but genuine happiness for her.
Still, that was another closed chapter in his life.
They wined and dined, and they talked for hours on end. She told him about how the Weasley’s were doing, and how they missed him immensely. Nothing had been the same since Fred’s passing, she lamented, but they were pulling through.
The day passed with the blink of an eye, and before he knew it she was getting up to leave. With her departure came false promises to keep in touch, and an empty request for him to visit The Burrow sometime soon.
She left and closed the door.
Surprisingly, he didn’t seem to mind it all that much.
--
He took to gardening like a moth to an open flame.
There was just something about spending hours in the lawn - he’d made himself a proper lawn - from dawn till noon, all muddy and wet.
There was just something about guiding something into reaching its full potential. To help a plant grow, to see flowers blossom in spring.
Gardening was like a book that didn’t have an end, only a beginning. It welcomed him with open arms even after years of separation. Harry felt (as though he was going to be) okay.
One day, he heard a mother yelling at her son somewhere in their neighbourhood. The stimulus brought him back to his own childhood, and those that shaped it.
He looked up the Dursley’s. They had moved to Central London and were living a decent life from the looks of it. Dudley, much to his shock, had gotten engaged and was set to marry one Sue Terrell eighteen months from then.
A quick visit to their abode showed them to be satisfied and happy, smiling like he’d never seen them do before.
He turned around and left them to their peace.
(And if the youngest Dursley found an emerald coloured package on his doorstep the next morning, well that was no one’s business but his.)
--
Silently, we break our key
After a few months, he’d realised that the days were always going to be better than the nights.
While the sun was up, he’d be able to distract himself and do enough busy work to drown out his own head. Harry could indulge in the simple things, be it spending hours gardening, jogging at the crack of dawn, or reading a book while sitting on the lawn. He could have a little bit of freedom just to himself.
The nights, however, were a different story entirely.
He had initially tried to turn in for the day as quickly as possible, as the old adage goes - early to bed, and early to rise, but was never quite able to sleep.
Most nights were spent in his study pouring through books, aided by liquid courage just enough to dull out the world around him. Subsequent mornings were difficult to adapt to, but he managed to do it eventually.
Maybe it’s time for a change, he thought.
A conveyance deed was signed the very next day, selling a house in Westminster to one Harry James Potter.
He took some time to settle his affairs. A house elf was hired to take care of Grimmauld Place and clean it on a regular basis, as he hoped to keep it preserved for the next generation.
With great attention to detail and each plant’s requirements, Harry meticulously began to shift the quaint, little garden that he had to the backyard of his new home. Though tedious, it needed to be done and so he did it.
The library posed a bit of a moral dilemma to the war-hardened young man. Though he longed to take it with him, to continue to peruse its massive collection, he knew that it wasn’t the right thing to do. He reached a compromise in taking a handful of his favourite books, while leaving the rest for the future Black family. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t pop in and read whatever he wished to, so he didn’t mind all that much.
(Though he immediately placed an order for a copy of every book available in Flourish and Blotts. A man’s gotta read, he claimed.)
Moving into the new house wasn’t as big of a hassle as Harry thought it’d be, as he’d already gotten through with most of the preparations prior to the moving day.
The home in itself was aesthetically pleasing, to say the least, a true pinnacle of victorian architecture, it was relatively large and more than sufficient for his needs.
As he made the final rounds back to Grimmauld Place, the house that had sustained him through more than he could count, he expected to shed a tear or two. (And he did.)
Still, he carried on and walked out the door with a box of his belongings in his hand. Looking through the doorway with a sense of finality in his gaze, Harry bid adieu to the house and the memories attached to it - to the people attached to it.
He closed the door, and walked away.
And so began a new chapter in his life.
--
Can we open doors?
(Not so) Surprisingly, a change of scenery - while refreshing - hadn’t had that big of an impact on the way his days went.
He still toiled away his nights in his study, aided by fire-like nectar, and left the house for a run at the crack of dawn. Harry still spent hours of his day gardening, and the rest of them reading.
Therefore he concluded that a change of scenery is not necessarily equivalent to a change of pace or a reprieve from the normal.
Harry Potter needed an escape from the routine mundanity of it all.
So naturally he took up a job as a barista in a local cafe. Not that he knew how to do ‘barista-ing’, but it wouldn’t take him too much time to get used to it.
There were many statements that Harry held in great regard, yet he forgot about the most important ones:
The universe works in patterns. (And often against him)
Patterns don’t favour the existence of one Harry James Potter. (Not that anyone actually does.)
And the most important of all - when Harry Potter thinks that something will go well, the universe does not allow it to, for it would be considered a transgression against it.
So the bottomline was that being a barista was really fucking difficult and Harry regretted every single moment of it.
First of all, what on god’s green Earth was a ‘decaf’? Wasn’t the entire point of coffee to -y’know- ingest caffeine? Modern day coffee culture was both stressful and very efficient in causing existential crises.
What irked him the most, however, were the customers. The actual nerve of them never ceased to astound the young barista-in-training: one of them even called him Harrid! Not Harry, not Hagrid , but rather Harrid. The customer laughed and said that his name rhymed with horrid, and that Harry’s work ethic was a direct result of his name.
Never had Harry wanted to punch a person more than he did then. It was almost as if there was a force of attraction present between the two, slowly beckoning the barista’s fist to the customers face. Still, by exercising all of his self-control, he managed to avoid a physical altercation and settled for (not so) subtly insulting their entire existence as a whole.
But he was learning, and contrary to what he thought earlier, he loved every minute of the work. For once, his mind was finally off of the ordeals that he had been through, and his attention was fully directed towards the new aspect of his life.
For once, Harry actually believed that things might be more than okay one day.
--
Shyly find me, wine me kindly
It was one of your run-of-the-mill, average Tuesday’s when Harry saw her at the back of the line. In all honesty, Fleur Delacour was one of the last people he had been expecting to bump into at work.
It had been a while since they had last seen each other, however, she looked just as beautiful as she did the first time he saw her. She seemed to have noticed him, as she gave him an inquisitive look from where she stood in the queue. It did not take all that long for the line to reach her.
He smiled at her from behind the counter.
“Good morning,” He said as his eyes twinkled with mischief, as well as memories long forgotten. “What can I get you, miss?” She seemed taken aback by the professional demeanour, and a brief look of confusion flitted across her face as she probably wondered what was going on.
“Harry…?” Her tone of voice was light yet questioning as she tried to make sense of the situation. “Harry Potter?”
Harry grinned.
“It’s good to see you again, Fleur. Been way too long, huh?”
In hindsight, he should’ve known that maybe - just maybe - there might’ve been people that took his reclusivity rather badly. Harry was unaware of such people existing, unaware that anyone cared enough for that to happen.
Well, at least he found out eventually.
Fleur narrowed her eyes, and took a deep breath. A very, very deep breath. “Where have you been?” She asked in a deathly silent voice. He opened his mouth to respond, only to be cut off. Her words were sharp, and clearly enunciated. Anger rolled off her very tongue - manifested through her tonality and words of choice.
“I, uh, was going through some stuff?”
“Are you asking me or are you telling me?” God, was she scary.
“Telling you?”
She snorted derisively, glaring at him. “I’m expecting an actual answer, Harry. You left, and we tried to find you - I tried to find you - but couldn’t.” If he squinted just right, he could probably make out a hint of concern in her angered gaze.
“Where were you?”
“I was home, Fleur,” He said, as he looked her dead straight in the eyes. “I needed time away after what happened, I needed to be far, far away from everyone,” Her gaze visibly softened upon hearing that, and she lost a fair bit of her sternness through that exchange alone. “I still do.”
There was a moment of silence between the two, as they just stared at one another - challenging the other to say something first.
Unsure of what to say, Harry gestured towards the counter and asked her whether she’d like to order anything - he still had a job to do - and she nodded, ordering a cup of hot chocolate.
He gave her the order number, and asked her to take a seat. And so his work resumed. Harry worked in four-hour shifts and worked diligently at that. He serviced with a smile, and silenced the stray thoughts that often ran in his head.
However, on that day, he’d sometimes allow himself to look out the corner of his eye - to see her sitting, completely engrossed in a book and enjoying her beverage. (And if the corner of his lips tugged up ever so slightly, no one ever had to know.)
His shift got over before he knew it, and he started to make his way out of the shop but was grabbed by the arm right before he made it out the door.
“Sit down with me?” Her voice was ever so soft, and he could feel her breath on his skin.
“I really shouldn’t,” He tried to pull away, still resisting the temptation to succumb. “I needed space - I need space - from you, from everyone”
“Am I everyone, Harry?”
“No,” He hung his head in defeat. “You’re not.”
“Then sit down with me? Just this once?”
“Yeah, alright.”
--
Once turned into twice, turned into a regular routine. She asked about his health, and how he had been dealing with everything. He obfuscated and skirted around the topics, yet for each question answered or unanswered, she spoke of her life as well.
Fleur spoke of how she fell in and out of love, and the woes of an inattentive spouse. She talked about how being a Veela affected her life and interaction with others - she spoke of how she longed to be recognised as herself.
He remained quiet and empathized with her sorrows. And after a while, so did she.
They met every Tuesday, and he’d always have her order of hot chocolate ready.
--
“You know, I never actually did get around to thanking you.” She said out of the blue one day.
“For what?”
“Saving us.”
“Think nothing of it. Please.”
Fleur let the topic go. His reply may have been acceptable, if not a little brusque, but one could hear the underlying hints of pain in his voice.
--
Harry had finally started speaking. Not about sensitive issues, but he made conversation nonetheless.
And so they talked.
They talked for hours and hours on end. The pair talked about everything - from preferred coffee and how the weather was like, to terrifying existential thoughts and ideologies. She started dropping by every Friday as well. And If his days started to seem just that little bit more colourful, he didn’t notice. (And if he noticed, he chose not to acknowledge it.)
Fleur had started smiling a lot more often, and he thought to himself that yes, maybe things are looking up.
(For once, he dared to hope.)
--
Kiss me as I drown
“I changed,” He said to her on a Tuesday.
That was the first time Harry truly spoke to someone after the war. He talked about sleepless nights and burnt bridges, martyrdom and the feeling of worthlessness. Harry spoke of preparing to die and accepting death, of having no other option and to do it gracefully.
She listened intently, and empathized with his sorrows.
He told her of the bad days that he sometimes had: the days when it was hard to get out of bed, the days that lacked colour and excitement. When it didn’t matter whether it was sunny outside, as it was always dark inside his head. He even told Fleur about his escape into isolation, about how he attempted to seek solace in mundane routines and activities.
Harry had a small smile on his face as he told her about his garden and the plants that he tended to. He’d given each of them a name, and it was evident from his tone of voice that he loved them immensely. How could he not?
And he continued to talk about anything and everything on his mind.
And he talked.
Oh he
talked
.
He couldn’t, for the life of him, tell you how long he talked for that day. Harry kept talking, and perhaps - for the first time in his life - someone truly listened. His companion was encouraging and responsive and that was a big help in sharing his thoughts.
At some point during his talk with her, Fleur had enveloped him in a tight hug. It made him feel warm inside, and honestly? Harry wasn’t sure if there was anything else in the world that felt so right .
--
Their two days a week turned into five, and they met for much longer than they had been. He took her to explore the Muggle world from time to time, and she expanded his palate by making him taste a new French dish every week. The change in their dynamic was an unspoken one, but a change nonetheless. There were a lot more smiles and lingering touches, and more positivity than he knew what to do with.
He may not have reached the point of happiness, but that was an extreme end of the spectrum. Harry was content and that was more than he had ever expected.
Still, there were bad days.
And that was okay.
--
Winter was a better time for him. He loved the snow, and he loved the cold - having experienced plenty of both at his alma mater.
Fleur, on the other hand, did not.
It was honestly adorable to see her grumbling about, stuffed under too many layers to count, constantly cursing out the country for being unreasonable.
He held his arms open for her every time.
Never once did she hesitate.
He was her source of warmth, and she was his.
--
The two of them were huddled together on the couch in front of the fireplace: she had a book in hand, he had his arms wrapped around her.
He asked her if she’d run away with him were he to do so, and she nodded without a moment’s hesitation.
“Why?” He asked, perplexed.
“I trust you.”
--
“I trust you too,” He said on a random afternoon a few weeks later. They were having lunch at an american diner so as to get Fleur used to greasier food than usual - he had no particular reason for doing so, just wanted to. His eyes displayed a level of intensity that had last been seen only during the war. “I trust you with my life.”
“I know,” She said with a slight smile. “Thank you for saying it.”
He reached out to grab her hand and clasped it tight. Her smile widened just a little, as she squeezed back.
Though things were left unspoken then, they both knew that won’t be the case for too long.
And it wasn’t.
--
Harry might have been in love. Just a (lot) little.
However, that posed the question: how does a person know what love is if they’ve never experienced it? The answer to that conundrum for him was to read a large amount of self-help and relationship guidebooks. Just to arm himself with knowledge for what he might be getting into. (Through the process he learnt that the self-help books weren’t helpful at all.)
--
It was as they were walking back to his house after a nice dinner at a quaint french restaurant that he asked her what she felt about love as a whole.
Fleur narrowed her eyes and contemplated for a moment before answering.
“It’s a chance - a leap of faith if there ever was one. Love can leave you vulnerable, yet so very strong.” She sighed. “I don’t really know how to describe it, but it is distinct.”
Harry mulled her answer over in his head for a few minutes, before asking another question. One that made her halt in her tracks.
“How do you know when to jump?”
She looked at him.
“I think if you need to ask that, you’re already falling.”
(I took the leap, he later said in the security of his home. She merely smiled, and said that she’d fallen a long time ago.
And so the unspoken was verbalised, and two young souls found solace in each other.)
--
Once again, the two of them found themselves huddled together on the couch: she had him in hand, and he had her.
He asked her if she’d stay - with him - were he to do so, and she nodded without hesitation.
“Why?” He asked, already knowing the answer.
“Because I love you.”
Their lips met, united in the love they felt for each other. (I love you too, he said as they pulled apart from their union while smiling like he had never done before. She rolled her eyes and asked while smirking - must you always state what’s known?)
--
They walked down the streets of Paris in April, hand-in-hand. He shook hands with her parents as she introduced them to him, and commented on how lovely their country was. They invited the couple to dinner.
He was enchanted by the small bundle of excitement and joy that was Fleur’s younger sister. She thanked him for saving her, he smiled and accepted the gratitude but only after she knew it wasn’t required. He adored the twelve-year-old, and the feeling extended both ways.
Her mother treated him like one of her own, fussing over him and trying to get him to eat just that little more. Subconsciously, he compared her to a less-overbearing Mrs. Weasley. She made him feel safe and cared for.
The father, however, was a different story. He pulled Harry aside as the evening came to an end and asked him a question.
“Will you make sure she always feels safe around you?”
“Always.”
And so he won the father over. They talked, and the older man sheepishly confessed that he could quite clearly see the love between Fleur and him, and just wanted to make sure that she’d be alright. (As well as the fact that he had a contractual obligation as a father to fulfill)
Spending time with her family made both of them happy.
Right as they were about to leave, her mother slipped him a note with her blessings written on it. He pocketed it with a smile and a near-unnoticeable nod, and bid adieu to the loving family of three.
Fleur took his hand in hers, and they walked off together.
--
Still, there were bad days.
But maybe the world had a little more colour when she was around.
--
I could never swim in sorrows but tomorrow always follows
The worst came at the very start of May.
She found him crying on the bathroom floor right before dawn on the second of May. He didn’t register her presence, lost in his own world of grief. She held him tight, and whispered sweet nothings in his ear. Eventually, he gained enough control over himself to wrap his arms around her as well.
They held each other till noon.
The tears stopped, but he never really calmed down.
He remained quiet for the rest of the day, finding comfort in her arms. She was alright with that.
--
His hand trembled.
The healers discussed and posited theories. Psychosomatic pain that would pass with time, they said. Rest was advised, and so was caution.
Harry’s magic said otherwise.
(It was the blood on his hands, the remnants of a soul.)
She called his place of work to inform them that he was ill, they wished him a speedy recovery. She left her studies for a while, and spent the entire first week of summer by his side.
His hand was just a little less restless when in hers.
--
It was after a month or so that he wrote letters to the people that he lost. Harry wrote five letters that day, all with a shaky hand.
He thanked his mum and dad for loving him right up till the end, and told them to wait for him up there - however long it may take - because he couldn’t wait to get to know them.
He wrote to Sirius about the love of his life, and how she coaxed him out of shell: how she convinced him that he was deserving of love. Harry could picture the pat on the back his Godfather would’ve given him for dating someone like Fleur. He smiled ever so slightly.
To Remus and Tonks, he spoke of how Teddy was a perfect mix of both of them. He had Remus’ hair, and Tonks’ eyes. Their son’s smile was as bright as the sun, and he loved the young tyke immensely.
He told Fred about how Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes went international, having over six locations in four different countries. He spoke of how George married Angelina, and of how they planned to name their firstborn Fred.
And to all of them, he apologised.
He apologised for not being able to help those that perished in the Battle of Hogwarts, for dragging them into his fight. He apologised to them for cutting their lives short, to the Lupin’s for never being able to see their son grow up. He apologised to them for thinking that way, for thinking that it was all his fault.
Harry wrote a final letter addressed to the boy that lived in the cupboard under the stairs in a house in Surrey. He told the boy of how life was more magical than it seemed.
‘You are not a freak,’ he wrote. ‘You are loved, and you’re capable of so much love.’
He wrote about how it took him time to realise that he has value, and how willing he was to throw his life away if it meant even a single friend of his could live another day.
‘It will take time, but you’ll find friends, and you’ll find family. You’ll meet a black dog, a giant, and a haggard man one day who’ll tell you stories upon stories of your parents. They’ll rescue you from inside your own mind, and you’ll love them immensely.
You will find love.
A scrawny ginger-haired kid will stumble upon you in a train compartment, so will a bushy-haired know-it-all. They’ll love you and be your pillars of support when it really matters. A plump matriarch and a kind-hearted father will expand their family of nine into ten just to make room for you. You will laugh, and you’ll cry.
You’ll need them, because you’re going to go through a lot.
But most importantly, one day you’re going to meet this beautiful woman. She’ll have pale, silvery-blonde hair, sharp cerulean eyes, and an ethereal beauty around her. She will ask you for a dish on your table that you couldn’t even think of pronouncing. Keep a note of her, she’s going to be the most important person in your life going forward.
She’s going to love you with all her heart one day, and you will too.’
--
Just whisper my name (I’ll never let you go)
It was the small victories that they celebrated over the next year.
He slept better by her side, more than he had ever. Their sleeping schedules were different, but they made up for it with the time that they shared.
She was interested in learning gardening and so he taught her. They cared for the(ir) garden together, watching the flowers grow, bloom, and wilt over the seasons. He continued to work at the cafe, and she made massive progress in her studies of different branches of magic. They lived a simple, and content lifestyle.
His friends reconnected with him after May, and he gladly caught up with them over what had been going on in their lives. Hermione had been climbing up the Ministry at a pace hitherto undreamt of, while Ron was busy with the shop’s expansion. Their conversations were still awkward and stilted, and things were not the same - but they were on their way to get there.
Sometimes, he’d stumble upon a chit of paper on which the word ‘blessings’ was written in beautiful cursive. He’d chuckle and stash it inside whichever book he was reading.
Until one day he didn’t.
That one day, he allowed himself to not only hope, but give in.
--
It was on a cold November evening that he asked her a question. They were walking back to their home after a delightful dinner. Not that any dinner that they had together was short of being delightful. She clung to his arm, and he relished in her warmth.
Suddenly, he paused in his step and so did she.
“It was right here,” he said, his face adopting a wistful expression. “Last year, do you remember?
And she broke out into a sly grin. “When you asked what love was and waxed poetic about it for five minutes straight to avoid telling me that you like me? I remember.” Harry got red in the face and sputtered, denying that statement wholly. (“Excuse me? You were the poet, not me!”) They had a good laugh about it.
“No but seriously, do you remember what you told me about love?”
“That it was a leap of faith?”
“Do you regret taking that leap?” He asked, slightly hesitant and a bit unsure. Her gaze softened, as it had a lifetime ago in a cafe.
“Never.”
He let go of her arm, and reached into his pocket, only to pull out a small box. Harry got on one knee, and flicked open the box as she used her hands to cover her mouth in shock.
“Take another leap of faith with me? And let me fall everyday?”
It wasn’t an elaborate, fancy affair - rather, it was one of love. She gleefully accepted with tears in her eyes, and he shakily put the ring on her finger.
(While doing so, his hand trembled for an entirely different reason)
--
He woke up the next morning to golden hair fanned across his chest, the love of his life securely held in his arms.
Harry loved the sight of a sleepy Fleur, barely conscious and definitely not wanting to leave the warmth of their embrace. Oh, she made him go crazy, made him melt with just a single half-lidded gaze. He’d keep her close, she was his home.
He still suffered the effects of what they had been through in Hogwarts.
Still, he had bad days. (Maybe he always would)
But with her by his side, they weren’t so tough to deal with.
They had plenty to do that day, but he’d settle for holding her till the sun shined upon them.
(“Come with me?” Fleur later asked as she burrowed deeper into his embrace. Her head rested in the crook of his neck, and her pale locks of hair were cascading along his torso. They had been holding each other for what seemed to be an eternity. She was headed to her parent’s place to inform them of the engagement in person.
Harry’s lips tugged up slightly, a soft, loving smile gracing his face. “Yeah? And do what?”
“Anything,” She looked up at him with a sly smile, almost teasing in nature. The former Beauxbatons student pulled back slightly and began tracing her finger on her make-shift pillow’s chest. “And everything.”)
--
How does a broken man function after completing the one purpose in life they thought they had?
With the help of those that love them.