It is sad when it ends.
They'd known they could never be together; not the way they wanted to be, really. Not only were they the Dark Lord's first lieutenant and the eldest daughter of one of the Lightest Ministers France had ever had; the sister in law to part of the Golden Trio, not only were they a couple whose feelings for one another would shock all those around them if they so much as suspected, but even their very elements fought against each other. She, the blonde, younger by far, yet just as powerful in her own right, thanked water and air for her allure. Fire would burn her; kill her magic, render her no better than a Squib.
Yet she couldn't help it. She kept turning to her dark avenging deity or demi-deity anyway. To her raven Samodiva.
And now? Now it was too late; too late to change a single instant of it.
How far they'd come. From that very first moment, when they'd first locked eyes in the heat of battle the year Fleur had been but nineteen; the year her lover had first been sent to try to take her hostage for the sake of the Cause. Then there had been nothing but hate between them; hate fuelled by the violent clashings of the ideologies they both espoused so feverishly. Now, however, there was so much more. The chemistry between them was so potent it was explosive. Water and fire mixing to create the most potent of steams; the deepest burns, the most painful wounds.
The most addictive drug in all of Wizarding History.
And it was suddenly ripped away from her with no warning whatsoever.
With one lethal strike – a strike cast by one of Fleur's so called nearest and dearest too - Fleur's Samodiva was torn from her.
Their eyes bulged. For an instant, they knew what had happened. For an instant, they sought Fleur's grey orbs in the crowd. They let their feelings – their complete, smouldering, overwhelming feelings – pour out of her onyx eyes and scorch Fleur's very soul. For an instant, they stopped being careful. They had been careful for so very long. Too careful.
And Fleur didn't care. She'd never care. Returning their gaze, she nodded, imperceptibly. She let her lips form the words she had never afforded her dying lover in life.
And then they toppled. Toppled backwards and crumpled, lifeless, to Hogwarts' flagstoned floor.
Watching them go was like breaking a glass knife on her own throat. To know she could have stepped in; could have turned against her family and fought on her lover's behalf, yet chose to stand back and fight with her husband, because of her own cowardice; her own desire to live, hurt her more than any of her lover's careless, hungry, bruising kisses ever had.
Fleur knew in that moment that she'd never be able to let them go. That she'd always carry the memories of what was, and the regrets of what could have been, could never be, now, under her skin, like one of those hair shirts the Muggle pilgrims Hermione was telling her about used to wear.
So, as the rest of the watching crowd roared with jubilation, Fleur threw back her head and roared with anguish. Anguish, pain and grief.
Grief for the person she'd never see again; but never be able to let go. For her Amazon Warrior, her Raven Samodiva.
For Bellatrix Lestrange nee Black – the Dark Lord's Most Faithful.