- - apparently things don't write themselves? i was so surprised when i woke from my 3 month nap and this wasn't finished! (if you see mistakes just know that im a huge dumbass)

Chapter 11 - Somebody Please Tell Me No

Takeout was obviously not an option.

As she sat at the kitchen table cleaning the (nonexistent) dirt out from under her fingernails, Fleur hoped that her guests didn't expect her to actually prepare any food. Other than the fact that she was a terrible cook, she was simply just not in the mood. Her proficiency in kitchen spells only went so far.

And Bill? He was only good at undercooking steaks. (He put too much peanut butter in his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for Fleur to call them any good either).

She slumped in her chair, propping up her head with a hand. It had been months (eight, to be exact, but who's counting?) since she moved into Shell Cottage. She and Bill had been on standby for the Order, doing this and that — never making any real progress. The change in pace was certainly surprising, and they were terribly ill-prepared.

Fleur fiddled with the tablecloth. Okay, maybe they were prepared, in a sense. Just not emotionally prepared.

Okay, maybe Bill was.

Either way, she assumes that perhaps she wouldn't have ever been ready for any kind of confrontation, even with all the time Fleur's had to imagine how this would go. (She has. So many times. Just not like this.)

Dean came into the kitchen and Fleur straightened in her chair.

"I hear you've got pasta?" he asked, tilting his head a little to the side. Fleur noticed he was considerably more clean since she first saw him.

"Oh. Um — Yes, in that cupboard," she said, pointing behind Dean. Thank fuck someone knew what they were doing. Fleur slumped back into her chair.

"Mum's a muggle, taught me how to cook." he said, voice a little muffled by the cabinet door. Dean was no doubt rifling through the mess of their cupboard — it would have been embarrassing if she had cared. "She always said that cooking —" pulling back successfully with a box of pasta, he turned to face Fleur, "Is the first step in being happy."

Fleur snorted. "Bullshit."

Dean raised his eyebrows.

'Fuck.' Fleur straightened in her chair again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to —"

He shook his head with a laugh. "No, it's fine. I don't know what the fuck it means either."

He continued to rummage through the cabinets, picking out a few cans here and there. Dean frowned as he pulled out a saucepan. With one finger, he slid the pad of his thumb across the bottom, and lifted his finger back to his eyes to inspect it.

"You guys don't cook much, do ya?" he asked while wiping his hand on the front of his shirt.

Fleur blushed in embarrassment. The messy cupboard was okay. Dust littering the pots and pans however, was pushing it too far.

She searched for an excuse. She hesitantly opened her mouth, unsure of what to say.

"No, I guess we don't."

Unfortunately, Bill and Fleur had taken to treating their patients in shifts, which meant equally shared opportunities to be verbally attacked by Griphook.

Which, in relation to their jobs, was more of an annoying inconvenience than anything else.

Opening Bill's bedroom door and stepping through, Fleur found Griphook staring expectantly at her. She tensed at the unsettling feeling running down her spine.

"How many times must we do this?"

Fleur was a little startled at the volume of Griphook's voice, and looked over her shoulder to make sure Ollivander was still sleeping. Fleur returned her gaze to Griphook and back down at the vial in her hand. "It's only one dose."

Griphook narrowed his eyes.

"Still as blind as the rest, I see."

Fleur frowned in confusion. She knew better than to inquire as to what he meant, but his inflection and demeanor practically screamed "I know something you don't, you stupid bitch."

"Well, give it here. I don't have all day."

With profound restraint, Fleur held out the vial to Griphook, only for it to be snatched from her hands.

"You may leave now." he said.

Fleur clenched her jaw to keep from saying anything. The goblins at work were… insensitive, yes. But they would very rarely act so hostile. Deciding his words weren't worth her time, Fleur turned to leave.

"Dinner will be ready soon, if you want." she said over her shoulder.

She didn't wait for a reply before shutting the door.

The kitchen was a mess. In no way did Fleur see the appeal of cooking by hand — muggles must constantly be one messy spill away from throwing the dishes out the window. Bill, thankfully, was thoroughly educated in the art of cleaning spells.

Fleur sat at the kitchen table, her head tilted back to stare at the ceiling while plates and silverware floated past her. The clattering of metal against ceramic played in the background of her bout of dysphoric daydreaming.

Bill broke her trance. "So, did you forget how to function at dinner, or—"

Fleur groaned while covering her face with her hands. "Please don't talk about it."

"I dunno, maybe she's into it." Bill said, dodging a wayward plate that came too close to his head.

Fleur whirled around to face him, her hands gripping the top of the chair. Hard enough to make the tops of her knuckles white.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He laughed and jumped to sit on the island counter.

"You know…" Bill jutted his head forward as if the answer was obvious. "You being in charge."

Fleur's mouth dropped open. "William! I swear one day —"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I've heard it before, you spaz." he interrupted.

Fleur gave a huff and watched as Bill's smile dropped. He looked almost confused for a second. Scared, even. She reached out to shake his arm.

"William? Are you okay?"

Blinking rapidly, the smile returned on Bill's face. "Yeah, sorry, that was — weird. Probably nothing." he said, shaking his head.

Unconvinced, Fleur nodded slowly. "I'll go get the blankets for the couches."

Something just hit her in the face.

Fleur opened her eyes to look over at Bill. His wand was in his mouth, a Lumos spell at the tip to light up the book he was reading.

Without looking up from his book, Bill started talking through the wand held by his teeth. "I think you were having a nightmare."

He turned a page.

Fleur sat up from her position and saw a stray pillow by her couch. "Did you throw that at me?"

Bill hummed in the back of his throat. "Didn't want you to die in your dream."

"You didn't have to throw anything, William." Fleur said.

He responded by holding up his book. "It was getting good."

Fleur fell back on the couch. Her 'nightmare' was exactly the opposite of a nightmare. Or, at least what she remembers of it. She can feel the light sheen of sweat on her skin, the heat between her legs. (She selfishly resents Bill for waking her up.) Fleur shifted uncomfortably, she couldn't even… take care of it, not with Bill there.

"What was it about?" Bill asked, his wand now out from his mouth but his eyes still glued to the pages of his book.

'Hermione.'

"I don't remember."

Fleur needed to change the subject. "We need to talk about what we're going to do with… everyone."

"I imagine we could start a Quidditch team, though I seriously doubt the league would consider us."

She sat up from the couch. "Be serious."

"I am, Fleur. It's just that —" Bill huffed as he set the book down on his chest. He turned his head to look at her. "Our job was never to do anything. It was to wait for something to happen, nothing past that."

"And now what?" Fleur asked.

"We wait some more."

Fleur flopped back down on her couch. "This is a fucking disaster."

Bill was silent for a few moments before he spoke.

"I'm one hundred percent sure Mercutio is gay." He turned to Fleur and flipped the book to its cover for her to see its title.

"Bonne nuit, Bill." Fleur said, rolling her eyes and turning on her side to face the couch.

Bill scoffed. "I'm just stating facts, Delacour."

Chapter title inspired by the music of: Mitski - Thursday Girl

- - Me? Focusing on Bill and Fleur because I love mlm wlw solidarity? It's more likely than you think.