In the early morning in Vienna, the sunlight streamed through the French windows like molten gold, spilling onto the handmade carpet of the Sacher Hotel’s top-tier suite.
Harry woke up.
But he didn’t sleep until he “woke up naturally” as Fleur had commanded.
In fact, he had woken up before the sun rose.
The feather bed, soft as a cloud, made him feel as though he were sitting on pins and needles.
Last night’s madness—the racing, gambling, dueling, opera, and cake—felt like a dazzling high fever.
Now that the fever had broken, cold reality reoccupied the high ground of his mind.
He touched the scar on his forehead.
It didn’t hurt, but its very existence was a massive alarm bell.
Voldemort had returned.
Cedric Diggory was dead.
Death Eaters were gathering.
Albus Dumbledore was running around trying to deal with it.
The Weasleys might be in danger.
And he, the so-called “Savior,” was lying in a five-star hotel in Austria, having just agonized over whether to have croissants or Eggs Benedict for breakfast.
A massive, sickening wave of guilt washed over him.
“What am I doing…” Harry sat up, covering his face with his hands, his voice hoarse.
“What on earth am I doing?” He was a deserter.
While he was enjoying life, perhaps someone was dying because of his absence.
Harry flung off the covers.
Not even bothering to put on shoes, he walked barefoot to the wardrobe and began stuffing the expensive forest-green dress robe haphazardly into his bag.
His movements were hurried and frantic, like someone escaping a fire.
“You want to go back.” A calm voice drifted in from the balcony.
Harry froze.
Fleur, wearing a silk morning gown and holding a cup of black coffee, was leaning against the balcony railing.
The morning breeze blew through her silver hair.
She looked as calm as a statue, entirely devoid of any morning drowsiness.
“I…
I have to go back.” Harry turned around, not daring to look her in the eyes, staring instead at the patterns on the carpet.
“Last night was a mistake.
I shouldn’t be here.
Voldemort is back, Fleur.
He’s a lunatic, a murderer.
I’m the only one who can stop him.” “The only one who can stop him?” Fleur repeated, her lips curving into a faint, unreadable smile.
“On what grounds?
Because you can speak Parseltongue?
Or because you beat up three street thugs last night?” “Because I’m Harry Potter!” Harry roared, his voice trembling.
“Because I defeated him thirteen years ago!
This is my destiny!” “To hell with fate.” Fleur interrupted him.
She wasn’t angry and she didn’t shout.
She simply took a small sip of her coffee and walked into the room.
“If you want to leave, you can.
The door is over there, and the keys to the Citroën are on the table.
You can drive off.
I won’t stop you.” She walked up to Harry, reached out, and straightened his collar, which had flipped up from his agitation.
“But before you step out of this door and return to that dark, damp, death-filled battlefield, Harry, please use that hot-headed little brain of yours to think about one question.” Fleur’s deep blue eyes stared straight into Harry’s emerald green ones, her gaze as sharp as a blade.
“On that Halloween night thirteen years ago, in Godric’s Hollow…
was it really you, a baby still in diapers, who defeated the most powerful Dark wizard of all time?” Harry froze.
“I…” “Don’t give me any of that Dumbledore-style nonsense about ‘the power of love,'” Fleur’s voice grew solemn and grave.
“That was an ancient sacrificial magic paid for with a life.
That was a mother, a witch named Lily Evans, standing in front of a deadly curse.” Fleur stepped closer, her sheer presence forcing Harry to instinctively step back.
“She didn’t draw her wand to try and duel Voldemort—because she knew she couldn’t win.
She chose to use her own flesh and soul as a shield.
It was her rebounding curse that blew Voldemort away.
It is her blood running beneath your skin that protects you from harm to this day.” “That night, there was no ‘Boy Who Lived,'” Fleur said, enunciating every word.
“There was only a ‘dead mother.'” Harry felt as though a heavy sledgehammer had struck his chest.
His eyes welled with tears instantly.
“I know…” he choked out.
“I know she saved me.
Which is why I can’t—” “Which is why you can’t what?” Fleur retorted sharply.
“So you have to rush back and throw your life away?
To make your mother’s sacrifice completely meaningless?” She pulled Harry to the large full-length mirror, pressing down on his shoulders and forcing him to look at his reflection.
“Look at yourself, Harry.
You’re only fifteen.
You’re as skinny as a beanpole, your magic hasn’t fully matured yet, and you don’t even know a single Unforgivable Curse.
What can you do if you go back?
Be a mascot?
Or charge in front of Voldemort, yell ‘Expelliarmus,’ and pray that your mother’s ghost jumps out to save you again?” Harry stared at his reflection: a pale teenager wearing ill-fitting pajamas.
He suddenly felt incredibly small.
“Then what do you want me to do?!” Harry shouted at Fleur’s reflection.
“Hide here and eat cake?
Pretend the world is at peace?
That’s selfish!
That’s—” “That’s life!” For the first time, Fleur’s voice carried real anger.
She suddenly whipped Harry’s body around, cupping his face in her hands and forcing him to look at her.
“Harry Potter, listen to me.
If I were Lily Evans, and if I willingly took a Killing Curse to save my child, willingly giving up my future at the ‘Spire,’ giving up everything…” Fleur’s eyes also reddened slightly, her voice trembling with an empathy born of being a woman, and perhaps a future mother.
“In the very last second before I died, I certainly wouldn’t have been thinking, ‘Oh, I hope my son becomes a great warrior in the future to avenge me and save the world.'” “I would have been thinking: live.” “Even if he lives like a coward.
Even if he lives an ordinary life.
I would want him to eat well, stay warm, see the sunrise over the Alps, eat Viennese cake, love a girl, grow old until his hair turns white, and tell stories to his grandchildren by the fireplace.” Two lines of silent tears rolled down Harry’s cheeks.
He had never thought of it that way.
At Hogwarts, everyone told him: you must be brave, you must be like your father, you are the pride of Gryffindor, you were born to defeat the Dark Lord.
No one had ever told him: your mother died simply so you could have the chance to eat a delicious piece of cake.
“She gave you life, Harry.” Fleur released him, gently wiping away his tears, her tone softening to one of immense tenderness.
“That is the most precious gift she left you.
Not that scar, not the title of Savior, but life itself.” “If you go back now, rushing to your death with that unprepared heroism, that would be the ultimate betrayal of her.” A long silence fell over the room.
The only sound was the flapping of pigeon wings outside the window.
After a long while, Harry sniffed.
He glanced at the messy duffel bag, then at the car keys on the table.
“I don’t want to be a coward,” Harry whispered.
“No one is calling you a coward.
This is called ‘strategic growth.'” Fleur picked up the coffee pot on the table and poured a cup for Harry.
“Our current ‘gap year’ isn’t an escape; it’s a catch-up.
Catching up on the life you’ve missed out on, on your understanding of the essence of magic, on expanding your horizons.” She handed the coffee to Harry.
“So that when the day comes that you return to face Voldemort, it won’t be because ‘I have to,’ nor because ‘I am the Savior,’ but because ‘I am Harry Potter.
I’ve lived the good life, I’ve seen the world, and now I’m going to clean up this eyesore of an old man so I can get back to living my life.'” “That will be the true victory.” Harry took the coffee, the steam rising and fogging up his glasses, blurring his vision.
He remembered the moment yesterday when the frost wyvern bowed its head for its young.
He remembered Gellert Grindelwald’s words: “The tapestry of fate is torn.” He remembered Lily Evans, who never got to attend a magical university.
“Alright.” Harry took a sip of the bitter coffee, feeling his heart finally settle back into his chest.
“You’re right.
If I go back now, I probably couldn’t even beat Severus Snape.” “Knowing your limits is a virtue.” Fleur smiled, her teasing tone returning.
“So, since you’re not leaving, hang your clothes back up.
That dress robe is very expensive; don’t let it wrinkle.” “Where are we going next, then?” Harry asked, his voice thick with a nasality from crying.
“To spend money.” Fleur walked to the window and drew back all the curtains, letting the sunlight completely flood the room.
“I’m going to buy some books on truly advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts—not those child’s play textbooks they use at Hogwarts.
And then, we’re off to Hungary.” “To do what?” “To find something genuinely dangerous to practice on.” Fleur turned back, her eyes sparkling.
“If you’re going to live like an Evans, you at least have to learn how to master the skills your mother possessed.
I don’t want to be your human shield forever.” Harry smiled.
This time, there was no shadow in his smile.
“Yes, sister.” He set down his coffee cup and walked toward his duffel bag.
But instead of continuing to pack, he pulled out his vine wood wand and held it gently in his hand.
*Mother,* he murmured in his heart, *I will live.
I will live wonderfully and passionately.* *And then, when I’m ready, I will bring you justice.* “Let’s go, Fleur.” Harry looked up, his eyes bright.
“I hear Hungarian goulash is quite good.” “Don’t bring that up, that’s Muggle food.”