Liebestraume
Hogwarts, November 28, 1994
Several days had passed since the first task, and Fleur Delacour wandered through the deserted corridors of Hogwarts. As she walked the empty halls, Fleur Delacour couldn't help but feel a sense of relief at the absence of prying eyes. The chilly breeze crept through the empty corridors, caressing her skin, but the ancient walls of Hogwarts embraced her warmly, as if beckoning her to explore further. Her delicate footsteps echoed faintly, a mere whisper, in the stillness, as if the castle itself was holding its breath in reverence of her presence.
Gone were the gawking gazes and envious glares that usually trailed her every move, replaced instead by the tranquil solitude of the vacant corridors. She savored the freedom from the constant scrutiny, the weight of expectations lifted from her shoulders, as she roamed the halls with a carefree spirit. It was as if time had come to a standstill, and the world beyond the castle walls no longer mattered. Here, she was free to wander and explore, to revel in the beauty of Hogwarts without the distractions of the outside world.
Fleur Delacour's footsteps echoed through the abandoned corridors of Hogwarts, each one a thud that resonated through the very walls of the castle. The English weather outside raged with a ferocity that would have made lesser beings quiver, but not Fleur. The chill that crept in through the windows and the stone walls was nothing compared to the warmth she felt within the castle.
It was a warmth that seeped through her very being, like the flames of a hearth that danced and flickered with an eternal flame. Hogwarts was alive, and she could feel its pulse with every step she took. It was a homecoming of sorts, a feeling she had never experienced in Beauxbatons.
In Beauxbatons, everything was ordered, everything symmetrical and perfect, a place where one must always be aligned, consistent, coordinated, and perfect. And Fleur Isabelle Delacour, the Veela, was expected to be perfect.
But in Hogwarts, there was chaos and disorder.
In Hogwarts, there was an apparent attempt to be organized, but ultimately, things appeared messy and cluttered. The students were allowed to make mistakes and learn from them. The freedom to be imperfect was a new concept, one she could not fathom but found herself longing for. Fleur had wondered, would she have been permitted to be anything less than perfect in these hallways?
This question lingered in Fleur's mind like a restless spirit. She pondered it with a furrowed brow and pursed lips, her thoughts racing like the beating of a hummingbird's wings. She imagined seeking out a kindred spirit, one who understood the longing in her heart and the yearning for a place to truly belong.
The castle walls seemed to listen intently to her musings, the echoes of her footsteps reverberating like a solemn choir. And yet, there was a comfort in the solitude. In this space, she was free to let her guard down, to shed the expectations that had weighed so heavily upon her in her youth.
To Fleur Delacour, Hogwarts Castle was a grand masterpiece of English architecture. She had initially judged it poorly, an after-effect of those that surrounded her, but now, as she walked the abandoned corridors at the break of dawn, she felt a sense of wonder and awe.
The Hogwarts students were not all bad, she realized. Some were too busy to notice her, but there were still more that judged her, gawked at her every move and every step that she took. Despite the colossal castle, she could not afford to get lost in it. She sought a place to hide, to admire Hogwarts, a place to remember England by. Here she was, her footsteps soft and barely audible, as she strolled the deserted hallways, marveling at the intricate details of the castle's walls and the grandeur of its architecture.
She persevered in her wanderings, her spirit unyielding in the face of the labyrinthine castle. Her feet were calloused, her body fatigued, but her soul blazed with an unwavering passion to explore every inch of Hogwarts. Every alcove, every passageway, every hidden nook that she had ever set foot in, she yearned to remember them all. The castle had ensnared her, its secrets beckoning to her with a siren's call. She would not rest until she had mapped out every corner of this enchanted realm, until it was indelibly etched in her memory for all time.
And then, all at once, from nowhere and everywhere, Fleur heard it. The first few notes struck her like a wave crashing against the shore. The sound flooded her mind, conjuring memories of a time when she was carefree, running along the beach without a worry, shouting his name into the wind. A name she had not uttered since the last spring she ever saw him.
He was her little prince in the garden, and the music, the melody, the sweet symphony that filled her ears, transported her back to that moment when they were both young and innocent, and the world was theirs to conquer.
The mellifluous notes of the piano unfurled, weaving a warm tapestry of sound that invited Fleur Delacour to an ethereal memory of a rhapsody in spring. She could not take another step, overcome with a sudden stillness that came with her labored breathing. Every note seemed to awaken something in her, something that had long been dormant. Her heart swelled, filled with a longing for the days of her youth, when life seemed simpler and filled with endless possibilities. She closed her eyes, letting the music take her away to a place of pure wonder and joy.
Am I dreaming?
The tune that filled the air was like a melody straight out of a dream. It was a delicate and enchanting piece of music that ebbed and flowed like a gentle stream. The notes danced and twirled, weaving a spellbinding tale that transported Fleur to a magical world of her own. The soft tinkling of the piano keys and the lilting melodies of the woodwind instruments combined to create a symphony. Every note was like a brushstroke, painting a picture of a world long gone but still alive in her mind.
Fleur closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her, a bittersweet reminder of what she had lost and what she had yet to find.
Fleur Delacour, a paragon of poise and grace, held herself with unwavering resolve in Beauxbatons. She was a woman of substance, not swayed by the whims of adolescent fantasies.
She had long since buried the memories of James, the one who had stolen her heart and left with it every spring. But in the depths of her being, those memories remained, held tightly like a precious heirloom. She knew better than to give in to the temptation of recalling those fleeting moments, lest she be overcome by a tempest of emotions and tears. She had learned a harsh lesson, one that had taught her that even with her otherworldly beauty and flawless exterior, she was not immune to the cruelty of life. And so she kept James and their memories locked away, safeguarded in the depths of her heart, lest they stir up a storm she was not ready to weather.
The pavane progressed, and with it, the scent of the garden she once spent every spring enveloped her. It was a field that she had known since she was young, a place where she could lose herself in the beauty of nature. The flowers, the colors, the fragrances, all familiar and comforting. And then he came, and everything changed. She learned to know the garden even more intimately, every bloom and every petal as if to share it with him.
But it was also the field where she almost lost him. The memory still fresh, the pain still raw. Her heart sank to her belly, and it was as if she had lost a part of herself along with him. The feeling was back now as if the music was calling to her, summoning her to the past. The musician playing within these walls held her once-beating heart in his hands, every note pulling her in deeper.
She stood there, her legs weak and trembling, like a leaf caught in a gentle breeze. The music stirred something within her, an unsettling feeling that she could not quite put her finger on. Had the English man in her heart been a part of the magical world all this time?
The thoughts swirled in her mind, like a tumultuous sea that threatened to consume her.
Fleur Delacour had to find out.