Harry was in France on behalf of the Department of International Magical Security—a task he hadn't asked for but accepted just to escape, even if only for a few days, from the familiar streets of London. The French Ministry was elegant, far more ornate than the British one, and during a formal dinner with magical ambassadors, a familiar figure appeared among the guests: Gabrielle Delacour—now an adult, with a serene presence and a beauty that overflowed effortlessly.
"Mr. Potter," she said with a subtle smile, though her eyes sparkled with something warmer than courtesy. "I didn't expect to see you like this again."
Harry stood up, somewhat awkwardly. There was something in her gaze that made him feel as though time had stopped, as if the years hadn't passed at all.
"Gabrielle… I barely recognized you. You've grown up so much," he said, and felt ridiculous the moment the words left his mouth.
She laughed softly. "It's been over ten years. I think I had the right to change a little, no?"
"Yeah… of course," Harry replied, lowering his gaze, uncomfortable with the blush creeping up his neck.
"Would you like to go out for a drink after this?" she asked suddenly. "These diplomatic events bore me even more than they do you—I can see it in your face."
Harry let out a genuine laugh and nodded.
"Gladly. Only if you'll let me buy you one."
She raised an eyebrow playfully, and with a shared smile, they left the hall together. What neither of them knew yet was that this night would change far more than just their evening plans.
The little magical bar tucked into the back alleys of Paris had no name, but it did have a warm atmosphere. The lights were dim, the wooden tables dark, and glasses floated slowly from one table to another. Gabrielle picked a quiet corner, near a window fogged up by the rain.
"So…" she said, spinning her wineglass between her fingers, "is it true what they say about you?"
"What do they say about me?" Harry asked with a half-smile.
"That after saving the world, you decided to live like a ghost."
Harry gave a dry laugh. His eyes met hers directly, unguarded.
"Maybe. Or maybe I just didn't know how to live after it."
Gabrielle nodded in silent understanding. She didn't need to say anything; her eyes said it for her. Then she shifted the conversation effortlessly, drawing him into laughter, absurd anecdotes from her work as a magical translator, stories from her youth at Beauxbatons. The night passed unnoticed, and when they realized it, they were closer, sharing a comfortable silence—the kind of silence you only share with someone who feels like they've known you forever.
"I don't know why I feel so… at ease with you," Harry whispered.
"Because I don't need you to be a hero," Gabrielle replied.
The distance between them vanished as if by magic. Their lips met with unexpected tenderness—almost shy. It was a slow kiss, charged with restrained tension, desire, and a yearning they hadn't even known was there.
They ended up in Gabrielle's small apartment, on the fourth floor of an old building overlooking the Paris rooftops. There, between trembling touches and long glances, they let the world fade away for a few hours. It was a deep connection—beyond desire—a need to be seen, touched, understood.
Gabrielle guided him gently, tenderly. Harry responded with quiet surrender, as if every touch was a word he didn't know how to speak. They made love with no promises or planned futures—only the urgency of two souls who understood that the most powerful magic happens between bodies that choose each other.
When dawn began to color the sky gray, Harry lay beside her, watching her breathe.
"I don't know what this is," he murmured, "but I don't want to forget it."
Half-asleep, Gabrielle smiled.
"Then don't forget it. Just… keep it with you. As a happy memory."
And so he did. Not as a story of eternal love, but as a spark in the middle of chaos—a night where two tired souls found refuge in each other, even if just once.
The day Harry returned to London, the city was gray. The streets, wet from recent rain, reflected the glow of magical lampposts, and the cold wind reminded him that while the city remained the same, he no longer was.
A day passed. Then three weeks since Paris.
He returned to work at the Ministry, feigned normalcy with his colleagues, even accepted an invitation for drinks with Ron and Hermione. But inside, something stirred. A quiet ache. A hunger—or maybe an absence.
She had said she didn't want promises. And he had respected that.
But a part of him wanted more.
One Saturday morning, while walking, something stopped him in his tracks: a figure in front of the bookshop, wrapped in a sky-blue scarf. Silver-blonde hair danced in the wind, and when she turned, her eyes met his.
It was Gabrielle. She smiled, as if she'd been waiting for him. Without a word, she stepped closer. The world went quiet for Harry.
"Are you here for work?" he asked, though his heart already beat with clumsy hope.
"No," Gabrielle replied. "This time… I came for you."
And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Harry embraced her. Not with urgency, but with the certainty that maybe—just maybe—that spark they thought was fleeting… was still burning.
They didn't know what tomorrow would bring.
But that morning, beneath the leaden London sky, they decided the story wasn't over.
Thank you for reading!
The characters and universe of Harry Potter belong to J.K. Rowling and their respective rights holders. This story is a work of fiction written by a fan, with no official connection to the creators of the original material.
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