Summary: and for winter, and for spring...
Character(s): Charlie Weasley, Gabrielle Delacour, Fleur Delacour
Genre: Romance, Tragedy
Note: First fic of 2011. Woot :)
Pour L'automne
"He is outside of everything, and alien everywhere. He is an
aesthetic solitary. His beautiful, light imagination is the wing that
on the autumn evening just brushes the dusky window."
~~Henry James
|automne|
There is something about her. Something far from tame, something wild that immediately catches his attention. He could care less about her looks, about her walk and hair; no, he focuses on her voice, on the brazen edges its sultry tones take as its own.
Her sister is smitten with him in that – (how do you say it?) – divin kind of way, worshiping his very being, hanging onto every word that passes his lips. And yet she pushes him towards her sprite of a sister, all silver hair and long limbs even at only eight years old.
"Somezing great comes."
She's tiny. The only thing he can ever describe her as is 'leaf', a little figue on the tip of his tongue as she runs around him as he tries to do his job.
He's not even supposed to be there, not yet, it's much too early. But he needs them prepared – he needs everything to be perfect.
Those dragons are his life, and he refuses to let them be destroyed on his watch.
"Go along," he finally tells her one, "this isn't a place for children." But she puffs out her chest, tells him, "Monsieur, do not mock me."
But her sister is a completely different story. She's more golden, more of an ange than anything remotely normal.
And that's saying something.
She is sneers and scoffs when her sister comes to her, brimming with his tales of what they believe is happiness when the most she has ever known is to be desired and adored.
(Never loved though.)
"Zere ees nusing to be 'ad weez zat man, Gabrielle," she says, and he thinks only of her accent and the sound of her voice in the dead of the night, "you know zere ees so much more someplace else."
Finally, after she has relaxed enough after the dragons to confront him, she seeks him out.
"Just what," she demands, hair floating around her like an auréole, her tone exasperated, "are you do-eeng weez Gabrielle?"
For a moment he allows her pronunciation of Gabrielle to ring in his ears—the roll of her tongue, the flow of her 'l's—all, he realizes with muted horror, beautiful.
"Nothing," he answers her, confused by both her and her question. "She's just curious about the dragons."
Raising one well-shaped eye-brow, Fleur says, voice finalizing, "Do not try anyseeng zat weel take 'er away."
She'd be perfect for Bill, he notes surly as he sips his firewhiskey, occasionally looking up to see if there are any familiar faces in the tavern. Despite all odds, he is alone, and he sighs in annoyance before settling down to enjoy his drink in silence.
"Monsieur!" comes the shrill voice he is now accustomed to, and he nearly falls as Gabrielle hurtles into him.
"Gabrielle? How'd you—what're you doing in here?"
"Eet ees Fleur!" she cries, and at once he is on his feet.
"What, what?"
"We must 'elp 'er weez ze egg!"
He slumps; of course.
It is all for her; when the young fille smiles, it's because of what Fleur said to her once. When she laughs, it's recalling a joke she had told. She is the light in her little sister's eyes, and Charlie can't help but feel a bit sickened by it all.
"Ees zat not somezing common 'ere?" she asks him after finally noticing his many winces.
"No, it's just not…us, I suppose."
Her eyes are large and hazel-pale—he sees very little resemblance to Fleur, excluding the hair.
"Oh…but Monsieur, as long as you love zem, eet does not matter."
A/N: Love it? Hate it? Questions, comments, concerns, or insults? Press the review button and lay it on me.