A light drizzle fell against the grey sky, misting the grounds of Hogwarts in a gentle veil of rain.
Harry shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, head bowed slightly as he walked beside Fleur.
The wind was cool against his damp fringe, but he hardly noticed; his thoughts spiralled in an endless loop around the memory of first-year Ron's crooked smile.
How many times had they strolled the very grounds he was walking on together—laughing about Quidditch, grumbling about homework, or complaining about Malfoy's latest jibe?
Now, every step Harry took along the gravel path felt like a betrayal, as if, in moving forward, he was leaving Ron behind.
Fleur brushed her delicate fingers against his shoulder, and he glanced sideways.
Even through the gloom, her silvery-blonde hair seemed to shimmer, damp though it was.
She offered him a tentative smile. "Harry... are you all right?" Her French accent was softer now, nearly blending with a British lilt.
Harry hesitated, swallowing the knot in his throat.
It had been three months since they'd started seeing each other, and Fleur had been gentle—almost reverent—with his grief.
Still, he struggled to find the words that could convey the weight he felt.
"I'm okay," he whispered eventually, but they both knew it wasn't true.
They passed a cluster of elm trees near the lake.
Harry paused to stare at the tranquil surface, droplets of rain distorting the reflection of the castle's towers.
A swirl of memory played in his mind: he and Ron fishing for plimpies with Hagrid near the shallows, joking about how Hermione would scold them for skiving off homework.
That had been back at the beginning of their second year—so long ago now that it felt like someone else's life.
Fleur slipped her arm around his.
"You do not 'ave to pretend with me," she said gently.
The sincerity in her tone made Harry's chest tighten.
He closed his eyes, letting the patter of rain wash over him.
The funeral had been just a few days ago—a blur of eulogies, tearful goodbyes, and raw sorrow.
He'd stood in the back, separated from the Weasley family by his own sense of guilt and shame.
In truth, he couldn't remember any of the words spoken.
All he remembered was the crushing finality of the casket.
"I keep thinking… maybe if I'd just handled things differently, if I'd tried harder to make Ron understand—" He broke off, voice catching. "We never made up, Fleur. We never got to fix things."
The drizzle intensified, and Fleur raised her wand to cast a subtle charm to shield them from the rain, letting the raindrops roll away from them in soft arcs. "Ron was stubborn," she said softly.
"It was not entirely your fault."
Personally, she thought that Harry was more than generous with his late best mate but she kept that thought to herself.
It wouldn't do any good to Harry now, not when he was already drowning in his own guilt.
Harry's hand clenched around his wand in his pocket. "I know," he said, though self-reproach gnawed at him.
"I know we were both at fault. But it just… it feels like I lost him long before he actually—" He couldn't finish the sentence.
They walked on in silence, the path crunching softly beneath their feet.
Every so often, a gust of wind swept through the courtyard, rattling the branches overhead.
Harry recalled how he and Ron used to race through that path, returning from Quidditch practice.
At the base of an ancient oak, Harry paused.
Nestled among the roots was a small patch of daisies—simple, white petals that shivered under the rain.
He knelt down and gently touched one of the blossoms, thinking back to the time Ron had tried to impress Hermione by picking random wildflowers, only to realise too late they were full of stinging nettles.
How red Ron's ears had been that day, how Hermione had teased him, how Harry had stood by, struggling not to laugh.
"I wish we could've had one more conversation," Harry sighed. "A real one. Where he wasn't being his… stubborn self."
Fleur rested a comforting hand on his shoulder.
She didn't speak right away, letting the rain fill the gap.
Sometimes silence was kinder than empty reassurances.
When she did speak, her voice was low. "Despite what happened between you two, I think he knew—deep down—that you still cared."
Harry gave a faint, sad nod.
Perhaps Ron had known, even though he hadn't realised it himself at the time.
Perhaps he hadn't.
The not-knowing was worse than anything else.
And it was a question that would forever remain unanswered…
He stood up, wiping his damp hands against his jacket.
The sky rumbled softly, and the rain continued its lazy descent.
The gloom of the afternoon pressed in, but there was something faintly comforting in how the weather matched his mood.
As though the world itself understood his grief.
They continued their walk past the greenhouses, the glass walls fogged with condensation.
Inside, Harry could just make out the silhouettes of swaying plants—Herbology lessons that Ron used to dread, preferring to daydream about playing for the Chudley Cannons.
He recalled how they'd once stayed up half the night drafting Quidditch strategies, even though Harry was rubbish at actual planning.
That naive excitement felt like another lifetime.
Fleur's hand slipped down to clasp his, and for a moment Harry's chest loosened.
He found a shard of comfort in that small gesture.
Fleur leaned her head against his shoulder. "You will feel better with time," she murmured.
Harry felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes.
He inhaled the damp air, letting the scent of wet grass and the hush of the rain ground him.
Eventually, they reached a small wooden bench near a cluster of lilac bushes.
The blooms drooped with the weight of rainwater, a subdued purple in the dim light.
Harry sank onto the bench, gazing across the rolling lawns.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder mumbled, echoing the quiet storm roiling inside him.
Fleur sat beside him, resting a comforting hand on his arm. "We cannot change the past," she said gently. "But we have the present. And we can make sure we live it in a way Ron would be proud of."
Harry mulled over her words.
He could almost imagine Ron rolling his eyes at the sentiment, telling him to stop being so sappy—and maybe adding a biting remark about preferring a good sandwich to philosophical talk.
The corners of Harry's lips twitched in what almost could've been a smile.
"Maybe," he finally murmured. "I just… I don't want to forget him. Even the bad parts."
Fleur wrapped her arm around him, letting his head rest against her shoulder as the rain continued its gentle descent.
"You won't forget him," she assured, her voice soft but firm. "Nothing is going to change that."
For a long time, they sat there in the drizzle, neither speaking.
Harry still hurt.
He still regretted.
But maybe Fleur was right.
Maybe memories—good and bad—were all he had now, and they were worth holding on to.
The rain grew heavier, but Fleur's spell kept them relatively dry as they sat in silence.
"What will you do about Dumbledore?" Fleur asked, studying his face in the dim light.She Harry's jaw tense on her shoulder, and his fingers curl into fists at his sides.
"It's high time he started paying."
.
.
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