Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition:
Position: Beater 1 for the Holyhead Harpies
Prompts:
Harpy. word count 1501-1750.
8 (colour) lilac
9 (emotion) surprise
14 (quote) 'Try to be a rainbow in someone's cloud' - Maya Angelou
Word Count: 1,709

Thanks to Lizzie and Ever for beta'ing (and Mel andDrakness for offering)!

Fleur heard the crunch under her feet before she saw it. Shards of glass carpeted the floor, with blood splattered across the occasional fragment. She scanned the overturned furniture and the torn up papers until her eyes settled on the figure hunched over in the corner.

"Merde, Bill! What 'ave you done?" She ran to his huddled form and reached out her hand to his arm.

He recoiled from her touch.

She brushed aside the glass fragments and sat next to her fiancé. Suddenly a hiss of pain escaped her lips, and she looked down to see blood start to trickle down her finger.

Bill's head snapped up. His red and bloodshot eyes focused on her bleeding finger. His hand twitched as though it wanted to reach out and touch her, but it remained clamped around his elbow—he had his arms folded across each other as if he were trying to hold himself together.

"It is fine. It is only small." Fleur didn't know if Bill could hear her in this state, but she had always hated silences, and it had become a habit for her to voice her thoughts when Bill was in one of his quiet moods. "I will get a brush, so I will not 'urt myself again. Maman always said I was too clumsy—not graceful enough for a someone with Veela blood. I am sure it will not leave a scar, at least." She clamped a hand over her mouth, silently cursing herself for her thoughtlessness.

Part of her was relieved to see his eyes narrow and his hands ball themselves into fists. Even anger was better than the far-away look he'd had before.

"Would it be that awful," Bill said in a low voice, "a tiny mark on your skin? The perfect Fleur, with a tiny little cut on her finger. Is it that you can't cope with anything less than perfection, or is it that the ugly scar would remind you too much of me?" Bill's voice rose as he spoke, getting louder and hoarser and cracking as tears began to flow over his scarred face.

"Bill, zat is of course not what I meant. You are not ugly. Not to me!"

"I am ugly, Fleur. You've always been so pretty, so beautiful, so perfect. Don't you see people look at us wondering why you would ever be with someone like me? I don't even know why you're with me. You don't know what it feels like, to look in the mirror and feel sick at your own reflection." His whole body—which had been tense and shaking—went limp; his shoulders hunched over and his eyes dropped from Fleur to the floor once more. "You should have left me after the attack. No one would blame you."

"Bill, I do not care 'ow you look. You are still the same person I fell in love with." She took a hesitant step closer towards him.

"No, I'm not." He took a deep breath. "When you cut your finger, the first thing I thought about was the smell of your blood. My first instinct wasn't to help you; it was—"

"But I know zat you will never 'urt me."

Bill's head snapped up. His eyes shone with tears. "But I don't know that, Fleur. I might hurt you one day. And what if we have kids, and I hurt them, too? I can't control myself when I get angry. My own reflection sets me off. I saw my face, and suddenly I was smashing every mirror in the house. I can't bear to look at myself anymore."

Fleur glanced down, looking properly for the first time at the debris surrounding them. In amongst the shards of glass she saw her face reflected back at her a hundred times, each one a different part at a different angle. The anger in the blue eyes glaring back at her took her by surprise.

She ran into their bedroom, flinging the door open so hard she knew it would dent the wall. The ornate mirror that had stood on her dresser was gone. She found the same thing in the bathroom. Even the little mirror she used for her makeup was smashed into shards. She felt panic begin to build up inside her.

Fleur spun to find herself face-to-face with Bill. His expression was twisted in disgust.

"Are you more upset about me or the mirrors?" He spat the words at her and lifted his hands in front of her face, forcing her to look at the deep slashes across his knuckles, which were crusted with drying blood. "Does it hurt more seeing this, or knowing that you can't gaze at your perfect reflection?"

Fleur felt her cheeks turn red, her always-perfect composure faltering. She'd always tried to brighten people's days with her smile or a compliment—always tried to be a rainbow in their cloud. But she was sick of pretending.

She started to shake as pain tore through her fingers and face. She didn't need a mirror to tell her what she looked like now. The look of shock on Bill's face confirmed what she already knew was happening. She screamed as the pain rippled through her back, and wings tore through the fabric of her dress.

She lifted her hands slowly to her face, tears spilling over when she saw the long claws that had replaced her beautiful, lilac-painted nails. They sprouted out of scales that spread from her hands up to her elbows. Her eyes stung as the salty tears washed over them; her yellow harpy eyes were not used to human tears.

She took deep, shaking breaths as she desperately tried to calm herself the way her grandmother had taught her. She sighed in relief as she felt her wings fold into her back once more. She looked at her hands, turning them over to check that each scale had faded back to porcelain skin. She was still inspecting them when she felt Bill's arms wrap around her, pulling her into a hug.

Fleur melted into his chest, her tears mixing with the blood that already stained his t-shirt. She felt his tears soaking through her hair to her scalp. For a second she considered pulling away—worried about how the moisture might frizz her hair—but then she pushed herself further into him instead.

When both of their tears had slowed, the picked their way through the glass and swept off the shards that lay on the sofa before settling themselves on it.

"Fleur. . . . " Bill looked lost as he tried to work out how to phrase his next question.

"It is a Veela trait," she said. "We—well, full Veela at least—turn into 'arpies when we get angry. It doesn't 'appen so much to me because I am only a quarter Veela, which is why it 'urts so much."

"Did you not think to ever mention this before?" Bill's mouth curved into a faint smile.

She smiled back at him. "Well, you are normally very good at keeping me calm."

"It's pretty cool, really, that you have wings."

"It's not ze wings I mind so much as the eyes. Zey are so round and yellow and 'orrible." She paused as a thought struck her. "But I did not 'ave to look at them this time, thanks to you."

Bill looked down at the sea of broken glass that surrounded them.

"I'm so sorry, Fleur. I should never have gotten so carried away, but I'll fix—"

"No, Bill, I am the one 'oo should be sorry. You were right. I was upset zat I wouldn't be able to check 'ow I looked. I am so used to people telling that I am beautiful zat I am afraid of my 'air being a mess or 'aving lipstick on my teeth. But I did not think about 'ow you would feel, so I am sorry. I know I did not want to look at myself when I changed."

"That's how I feel all the time—"

"I know, Bill." She sighed. "I know." She took out her wand and began to reassemble the pieces of glass back into the vases and bottles they had been before. She saved the mirrors until last, not quite wanting to look at herself just yet.

When she had finished one mirror, Bill lifted it and headed towards the bedroom.

"Bill, where are you going?"

He raised his eyebrows at her, a questioning look in his eyes.

"Put it down, and help me put zese ones together again." Fleur turned back to the dwindling pile of glass.

Once they were done, she lifted them all into a box and grabbed hold of Bill. She barely gave him time to register what was happening before she'd spun on the spot and their apartment disappeared.

The two arrived a second later at a rubbish dump. Fleur picked up the mirror that she used for her makeup each morning and flung it as hard as she could into the container marked 'glass.' The sound of glass smashing echoed around them as she grinned at Bill. He watched her, smiling, as she threw every last mirror that they owned away.

"You didn't have to do that, Fleur. I didn't deserve that."

"Yes, you do."

"I don't really. A lot of the smashing was just that I was jealous of you." He wouldn't quite meet her eyes.

"Jealous?"

"You always look so perfect, while I—well—I look like this." He gestured to his face.

"Well, now you know I do not always look like zis."

He took hold of her hand. "I know. Don't take this the wrong way, but today was the first time I didn't feel like the ugly one in the relationship. It felt a little bit more balanced for once."

She laughed. "Are you calling me ugly? Am I 'ideous to you, Bill Weasley?"

He pulled her in for a kiss. "Of course not. You're always beautiful to me, Fleur Weasley."

"Bill, will you promise me something?"

"Anything."

"Now that we do not 'ave any mirrors, will you tell me if I ever 'ave lipstick on my teeth?"

"I promise."