Title: Broken Flowers
Rating: PG
Genre: Self-discovery
Spoilers: Philosopher's Stone to Half-Blood Prince
Period: 1996 (after HBP)
Pairings: Fleur Delacour-Weasley/Bill Weasley
Summary: The night before The Order of the Phoenix wages war against Lord Voldemort and his faction of pawns, Fleur Delacour-Weasley realises that what had meant most in her life is dead, and she can no longer consider herself veela.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The plot, however, is created by the writer and is not to be replicated by another.
Writer's Notes: This was written as part of (Miss) A's multi-part writing challenge on the HPDC. The requirements include the character of Fleur Delacour, the genre of self-discovery, the third PoV, a length of 700 to 1200 words, and a quote said by a famous actress. The quote, in bold, is Angelina Jolie's.
Is it possible to be my own inspiration? I don't think I meant that the way it probably sounded. I borrowed the not-veela!fleur from Losing Faith. I actually have her locked in my closet at the moment, along with evil!percy.
Broken Flowers
a fleur delacour tainted
. . . cold shivers of death . . . edged along her spine . . . wore ebony robes . . .
-
Fleur collapsed onto her four-poster bed, her head jostling against the baby-down pillow. She screamed and kicked at the wall, her fists pounding against the firm mattress with a hollow, melodic sound. With a deep breath, she calmed, and jostled to her feet, slamming the door to her bedroom.
Fleur's bedroom in the Delacour manor was black and a silvery shade of blue; the furniture and hardwood floor were both ebony-stained oak and the bed sheets light blue with silver threading. A photo of Fleur and Bill embraced into a passionate kiss hung on the white wall. Fleur was wearing her grandmother's wedding robes, and the picture was less than a week old.
-
. . . decayed blood . . . coloured her tongue . . .
. . . opaque tears . . . Water fell from drained eyes . . . splashing . . .
. . . on white-blue skin of redheaded girls and younger sisters . . .
-
Heaving a sigh, Fleur removed her finger jewellery, placed it inside the magically locking box on her dresser, and sat heavily on the edge of her bed. She stretched her hands to her knees, cracked her knuckles, and screamed again, the sound piercing the hallway outside of Fleur's room. Momentarily, a silver ragdoll stalled, meowed, but kept meandering past the bedroom.
-
. . . veela . . . magnificence without apprehension . . .
. . . of worldly matters . . . death, disease, war, famine . . .
. . . that touched every other race . . .
. . . human, werewolf, troll, centaur, goblin, merfolk . . .
Fleur Delacour was veela . . . but she no longer felt it
-
Fleur's throat was raw and dry and her ears were ringing when Bill burst through her door. Bill Weasley's crimson hair was damp, dripping onto Fleur's hardwood, and the white towel he tied around his war-toned waist fell mid-thigh and left him shivering in the cool air of Fleur's room. Wide eyes stared at the beautiful woman staring back at him, watched closely as her trembling hands fumbled with white robes, clasped the phoenix to the left lapel.
-
. . . the tintinnabulation of church bells . . .
. . . serve as The Order's symbolic trumpets . . .
. . . they would soon be called to arms . . .
-
"You truly are veela," Bill whispered in a broken voice, his apple green eyes focussing on the mythical creature standing in front of him. "As intelligent and intuitive as the ancient Greek philosophers and physicians, and as beautiful as winter in the Irish folktales."
A small smile danced over Fleur's painted lips. "Bill, do you love me despite my flaws?"
Bill pressed his lips to the back of her pale hand. "Miss Delacour," he began, using her maiden name. "I love you because of your flaws, your choleric temperament most of all"--he chuckled--"with it, we will surely win this war."
"But at what cost? Who have we already lost in war? Meaningless death and rot and pain!" With a feather-touch, she traced the battle scars Bill received last spring when Death Eaters had infiltrated the stone walls of the Hogwarts castle. Remus had been wrong, and had gained a monthly companion.
Bill's mind abruptly drifted to his youngest sister who was killed before Harry could begin the search for the horcruxes. The tears brimmed his eyes but he quickly blinked them away. "I cannot explain the ways of the world, but my mum once told me she read that 'Without pain, there would be no suffering, without suffering we would never learn from our mistakes.' There is wisdom with those words."
But Fleur screamed, and loved how the high-pitched sound hurt her throat, made her bleed. Bill took his wife into his arms, pushing her head against his shoulder. Her agonistic cries were muffled, and tears and drool stained Bill's freckled skin. Fleur raised her head, and tears ran down her cheeks. She quickly wiped them away and ran the sleeve of her Order of the Phoenix robes across her wet nose.
And Fleur erupted in tears and screamed once more when reality sunk in.
-
. . . to fight . . . to die . . .
. . . for the right cause is there before them, in the eyes of the newlyweds . . .
. . . no one would give them medals for their sacrifices . . .
. . . they would be lucky if they were remembered . . .
. . . if they lost, no one could console them . .
. . . pat them on their backs . . . tell them that they could succeed . . .
. . . next time . . .
For The Order of the Phoenix, a next time can't exist.
Fleur and Bill realise this.
And that was why they fight.
Why hair, nails, and who is seeing whom, no longer matter to Fleur.
Fleur Delacour is no longer veela.
But she didn't have the heart to correct her husband.
-
And Fleur smiled when Bill joined her.