Disclaimer: I own nothing, JKR owns everything. Yep, that seems about right.
A/N: This is my first non-humor fic, so please be honest about it. It's not my usual happiness and sunshine--just a warning.
Nobody's Business
Fleur Delacour stretched her long legs along the chair, yawning at her reflection in the shimmering, chlorinated water. She never felt sicker than when she was at her father's estate—she only came because of the pool, though her boyfriend, Mitchell, seemed to think she came because he lived in the expansive estate next door. The "Boy Next Door" thing was appealing to her for all of about five seconds—then she suddenly realized how over the whole idea was. Boy Next Door romances were for movies, not real life.
Clarabelle, the ridiculously incompetent maid, came to the side of the pool, carrying a tray ten times too heavy for her. Stumbling, she sat the tray down on the chair beside Fleur, who only scowled at her: "Your breakfast, Miss."
Fleur picked up the croissant, looking at it with a toxic mixture of disgust, disdain, and fascination as Mitchell joined her by the pool. Seeing Fleur, Mitchell frowned. "I see you're still inhaling your breakfast," he said sardonically, hardly hiding his contempt.
"Almost everything in this world smells better than it tastes," reasoned Fleur, raising her coffee to her nose and taking in the rich smell. The BND thing is très passé, she thought, ignoring the look on Mitchell's face, thinking about his replacement.
"You're crazy," he said, deftly taking her croissant from her and stuffing it artlessly into his mouth.
"I hate that," she said suddenly, unperturbedly removing her sunglasses and sitting up. After all, you don't just take what isn't yours, Mitch, she thought, feeling colder than the Fresca that sat serenely to her left. That is, if you're not a Delacour—if you're a Delacour, that's called divine right.
"Hate what?" said Mitchell—it wasn't a question—he knew exactly what ticked Fleur off, what pushed her buttons, everything that made her who she was—he'd known her that long. "Normal people eat, Fleur—they don't inhale, they eat." Noting her put-out expression—like she was five years old and had just been informed that she couldn't be a tree when she grew up—Mitchell smiled at her, taking her hand. "Hey, I just worry about you," he said, stroking the back of her palm as she replaced her sunglasses, returning to her reclining position.
"I'm just trying to get a tan," she said coldly, callously, hastily snatching her hand away from him and using it to brush her hair away from her face. You already had two strikes, Mitch—what I do and do not eat is nobody's business.
---
When she saw him, Fleur rushed at him, grabbed him by the tie, and pulled him into the deserted cloakroom. Amid a ridiculous amount of kisses, she managed to get it out: "Broke up with Mitch today." She didn't know why she even bothered telling him this—after all, he shouldn't care: Draco Malfoy wasn't stupid—he should have known that as far as Fleur was concerned, he was second-string.
Draco abruptly pulled away, looking Fleur squarely in the eye— "So… what does that mean for us?"
Fleur frowned, wondering what on earth he meant by asking this question, the fact that she knew the implications of his words making her feel like the bottom of her stomach was falling out. Us? There is no us, Draco—this is a meaningless, piss-off-the-parents fling. Fleur took a deep breath—she knew she couldn't handle someone else's feelings, at least not when she could barely handle her own. "It means I've got to go, I'm in Paris tomorrow," she said brusquely, straightening her shirt and taking a step back.
It's getting hot in here, Fleur thought as she pushed through the door, struggling to keep her composure as she raced through the crowded country club—time to get out.
