Erm. Hello. It's been a while for this story, I guess. Anyway, here at long last is chapter seven! It's not the longest chapter ever, but et me know what you think! :)
Don't make my mistake
There's no time to delay
Take my hand and learn from my heartache
~Mistakes, by Kutless
It's so hard to comprehend how times passes. I can remember the feeling of never-ending hours, days that dragged on long enough that they seemed more like years, and yet in retrospect it's all gone by in one big blur, fast enough that I have to squint to pick out any distinguishing aspects. Sometimes it feels like only yesterday, I stood in the Great Hall, waiting for someone, anyone, to deal the final blow. Other times, it's all a lifetime away.
Today is the last day I would have expected the sudden nostalgia. When I close my eyes, I'm there, hearing Voldemort's (it's only proper to use his name now; if you don't, it's like saying you don't think our victory was good enough) proclamation that he won.
Everyone talks about the war like it's a story. They paint a grand picture of two sides, good and evil, fighting for the rights to the wizarding world. They speak the names of prominent fighters with reverence, setting them up as untouchable characters in a legend. They make the details vague, so when they relate it to their young children, the reaction is pure awe and little horror.
Maybe that's how they see it now, after all these years. Maybe they look back on it unfeelingly, so it no longer causes a sense of discomfort. I wish I could put it in the past so effectively, but the truth is, I don't think back on it as an outsider. I remember living it, the fear and the panic and the uncertainty. I remember three sides - the ones who sought to own the world, the ones who sought to leave it unclaimed, and the ones who only wanted to make it out alive.
We were never untouchable characters. That day was a day of real people, people I knew and passed on Diagon Alley sometimes, who were afraid and imperfect, who didn't know what to do but did it anyway because it was either that or give in. No one there was a shining hero from a storybook. No one suddenly discovered a power greater than that of Merlin himself and struck Voldemort down like they would a fly. Not even Harry could claim that much, not that he ever would; from what I gathered during the conversation that took place between the Chosen One and the Dark Lord, Voldemort's death was caused by a series of actions that began a long time ago, and only some of which Harry did himself.
Although I still wonder once in a while how he supposedly came back from the dead that night. That's another thing no one ever talks about.
Today when I close my eyes, even to blink, I can see flashes of what happened then. Lights that scorched the air, blood and sweat and too many tears, ugly faces, one after another, scrunched in a thousand different ways, twisted in expressions I never thought possible.
There are sounds with the pictures. Screaming, explosions, shrieking laughter so out of place. Sometimes, Bill stops and just looks at me for a moment or two, stares at me, running his eyes up and down like there's something off. He's no entitlement to think there's something not right with how I look.
But then, maybe he's just worried. And he most certainly has a right to that.
I'm sitting up in bed, staring out the window at the raindrops disturbing the sea. Bill slides up next to me, his arms encircling my waist gently, his lips gliding over my cheek and eventually catching my own. He stops when he realizes I'm not responding, and takes my hand in his.
"You can't change what happened five years ago," he tells me, and there's something sharp in his voice. My stomach clenches; what if he's tired of seeing me like this? What if he's tired of seeing me at all? He deserves more than an apathetic wife. He deserves the girl he thought he was marrying. "Five years and nine months, even. It's your daughter's birthday, Fleur. I've made her pancakes, and there's some for us, too, but I need to know you can let yourself be happy today of all days. If you won't do it for her, then at least do it for me."
"I was not going to simply ignore my daughter's birthday!" I reply indignantly. "I am coming, I promise. Go on and be with her, I will get dressed."
He runs a hand trough his hair - which he keeps shorter now, though not by much - and kisses my forehead once before leaving. I move to my feet and don the same pale, silky robes I wore in Beauxbatons. They're Victoire's favorites, I know, and I shrank some last year to fit her.
It's no surprise when I enter the kitchen and see that she's wearing her own set this morning. Her golden curls fall perfectly against the cornflower blue. She's my daughter in every way, and that's the very thing I've always dreaded.
We never meant it to happen. At least, I didn't, and when it did anyway, I knew the consequences. There's one more monster in the world, and it's entirely my fault.
"Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione are coming today," I announce, more to make my presence known than because I feel she needs to know. Victoire looks up at me with a crinkled nose.
"Do they have to, Maman? Uncle Ron hurts my eyes, and Aunt Hermione-"
"Victoire!" I interrupt sharply. "That is no way to speak of your family!" Bill looks like he's trying hard to hide his laughter, but he doesn't understand. It's not the same as when he's making fun of his brother. She means it.
Because she's like me. And I have to teach her how to stop showing it.
Victoire shrugs and takes a bite of her pancakes. "It's true, though," she says, blinking at me with wide blue eyes that should be innocent but aren't. Not in this child. It's not as bad for her; it doesn't hurt her. She can look at Bill, she can accept the scars, but she sees them, in the way only a Veela - part-Veela - can. And when she sees things, she comments on them, in typical five-year-old fashion.
So although everything in me agrees with her, I kneel down and grip her shoulders firmly. "There is no such thing as ugly," I tell her, hoping desperately that I don't choke. "It is all in your head."
And it is, really. But it's not her fault.
She shrugs again and pushes herself away from the table, an empty plate in front of her. Bill hastily sets it in the sink, which he fills with water from a wave of his wand. Victoire chirps, "When do I get to open my presents?" Bill leads her to the den and casts a questioning look back my way.
"I will come in a moment," I say, waving him on with my hands. I gesture vaguely to the sink, the perfect excuse to delay the moment when I have to face again the monster I created. I just can't bear the thought that she will have to do what I've done all my life. I look at her, and all I see is guilt.
Bill tries to understand, but I think he thinks I hate her. I love her, more than I ever imagined I could, but if she were anyone else's daughter she wouldn't be damned.
I pour soap into the water and use a rag to wipe each dish clean. Magic would be quicker, more efficient, but that's the last thing I want. It's almost soothing, and it makes me wonder if the Muggles aren't better off. The water prunes my fingers: proof that I'm not quite perfect.
I close my eyes and see Hogwarts as I saw it last, with fighting everywhere and the sense of reality so distorted that nothing seemed impossible anymore.
Those were happier times.