Harry Potter :Diamond Heart

The candles, the mistletoe and the chair Fleur had vacated had vanished the moment she left the room. Harry remembered the way the room had changed from Fleur's desire to his. How he had sat alone in a room of silver mirrors, beside the quietly crackling fire that had formed beside him. The thick, holly, logs burning merrily beneath a summer sky blue ceiling.

Sometimes, he decided, the Requirement is too perceptive.

Room

of

He'd left the moment he had realised what Godric and Rowena's masterpiece was doing and only returned to sleep when he was sure he was so tired that the only thing he could possibly want was sleep.

The bed that the room had created for him had been bedecked in blue and silver hangings, and the sheets smelt as if they had been hanging above the very fire that Harry had previously abandoned.

He had been too tired to argue with the room, or to try and change the decor.

Harry had been so tired that he hadn't awoken until mid-afternoon at which point the only thing he really wanted was one of the few things the room could not provide.

He'd come to the Great Hall early in the vague hope that if he was here before usual then the house elves might take pity on him and the food might arrive early too.

So far the tables remained woefully unadorned and Harry had been left to watch the gradual gathering of students as the evening approached.

It also left him rather too much time to think.

Smiling over being kissed by Fleur gradually shifted to the question why. Harry dearly wished she'd appear somewhere so he could speak with her. He'd even considered going to the Beauxbatons carriage, but that felt like a bad idea.

He sat on the very end of the table, spinning his wand round on the surface considering his question as it began to give birth to more and more queries in turn.

Why did she kiss me? Harry could have understood if he'd kissed her, or tried. Fleur had been testing her allure on him. Unless there was some secret about veela kisses he was not privy too then he couldn't see why she would have kissed him.

As a thank you for the evening, perhaps?

It was possible. He'd seen and read, though Harry suspected the word exposed would be more apt, enough romance to know that it happened, at least in fiction, but it did not feel like something Fleur Delacour would do.

She was like him and Harry would never dream of cheapening something that should have such meaning behind it. He had learned how good it felt to know that someone would always stand behind you and he knew how terrible it felt to discover someone you hoped would be beside you had turned away.

Fleur knew this too.

People began to flow in to the hall in earnest. Scattering in small groups from the door to the four tables. Harry watched them in the reflection of the great, stained glass window.

He picked out several faces from the crowd. A cheerful looking Seamus and Neville. Ron and Dean looked a miserable pair, the latter's arm was still in a sling. He spied Ginny with a dirty blond haired Ravenclaw he vaguely recognised, and glimpsed the trio of Gryffindor chasers at the far end of the table to him.

Katie was in the middle of the three for once, and both her friends seemed to be doing their utmost to hold her attention. It was possible she had not enjoyed the rest of her evening as much as Harry had if Roger Davies had abandoned her so early.

He watched curiously in the window as Alicia and Angelina kept dragging her attention back to themselves and found something new to laugh about every time Katie through a regretful look down to his end of the table.

A flash of familiar silver in the window caught his eye and he immediately forgot about Katie Bell.

Fleur Delacour drifted halfway down the hall between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables, her step uncertain and her usual smile fixed upon her face. Harry suppressed the surprisingly fierce urge to change her expression back to the perfect, kind of curving of the lips that he had seen last evening. Her eyes flicked to the end of the table where he was sitting and her smile changed.

It did not shift as Harry had hoped. The polite, cool pride twisted into something bitter and she stopped, mid-stride.

As Fleur turned away to leave the hall the cold grip of a hollow hand returned itself to Harry's heart.

She is avoiding me.

All of a sudden he felt rather sick, food could not have fallen further from his mind. Very slowly and deliberately he spun his wand once more upon the table surface and slipped it back into his sleeve.

The moment he was certain that the french veela must have passed out of sight of the doors to the Great Hall and the staircase he left.

Harry took the steps two at a time, only pausing to dodge the trick step on his way to the Chamber of Secrets.

There were so many reasons that Fleur might have for not wanting to speak to him, but Harry didn't want to think about any of them. He needed something to do, anything that would occupy his hands and mind.

'Harry!' The cheer on Myrtle's face vanished instantly at the expression he was wearing. The ghost girl paled, growing even more translucent. 'What's wrong, Harry?'

Amazingly only one thing came to mind.

'You flooded the bathroom again, Myrtle,' he sighed. The ghost giggled. 'If you slip and break your neck you can stay here with me,' she offered.

'Thanks, Myrtle.' Harry didn't have the heart to tell her that he might have the opportunity to take her up on her offer sooner than she expected, so he simply disappeared down the stairs. Dumbledore would only continue playing with Harry's life for so long before he he lost patience and simply finished him off. The worst part that was it was necessary and the old wizard was right.

'Don't even think about opening that egg,' Salazar snapped the moment he entered the study.

'I have to open it to figure out the clue,' Harry reminded the portrait.

'Maybe the clue is on the outside,' the painting suggested more in hope than knowledge. Harry gave him a flat look. He'd sit in the study and let the egg scream at him for the whole day if it stopped him thinking about whatever mess had been made of his friendship with Fleur Delacour.

'It sounds worse than Godric's singing,' the painting grumbled. 'The only things less bearable than his singing were the months he spent learning Mermish and speaking it constantly above water and Rowena's poetry. She just couldn't grasp that a poem needed more than just a rhythm and some rhyming.'

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