Dear Reader,
Well. Damn. It's been a long time since the last update. I apologise for the delay and I honestly am sorry. Despite the fact that I'd be very happy to sit and write stories all day, life has other ideas. I'd like to thank the people that sent me messages asking about this story. They were all very kind and wonderful to read though they did make me feel guilty. But that's my fault for not updating sooner.
I just want to make it clear that this story will be finished. But life shows no signs of behaving itself for the next couple of months so I warn you that there might be a delay in the rest of the chapters. It'll take a while, but I'll get there.
As always, thanks to the people who've sent me messages about the story and especially those who've sent messages asking about its future. And ESPECIALLY that one person (who shall remain nameless) who sent magnificent, random and hilarious messages for the sake of it.
Well, enough blather! Let's get on with it. It's a long one, so equip yourself with a beverage.
Once again, a fair dawn greeted Hermione when she woke. On this particular day, however, she was refreshed and well-rested for what felt like the first time in several years. She stood before the sink in her dormitory bathroom and carefully brushed her teeth. Lost in the familiar and comforting ritual, her mind wandered lazily as she watched water swirl over the hairline cracks in the porcelain and down the tarnished drain. Her eyes flicked up and she met her own gaze somewhat reluctantly.
She felt she should have been embarrassed about the dream, that glorious escape. She had conjured a haven for her battered heart and she felt no guilt for seeking refuge, though she supposed she should have done. Her dreams were her own, she mused, one of the few corners of herself she still owned. If she could not be happy when awake then at least she could find solace in the soft corners of her psyche. She could not help smiling around the toothbrush jammed into her mouth, caught in the memory of a soft mouth and firm hands.
"Ardent caresses and such," she muttered unintelligibly through foam. But she couldn't stop smiling.
It had been so real. She could still feel Fleur's hair under her hand and taste her hot breath. Still smell the sand beneath them and the scent of Fleur's skin. Still remember the words Fleur had whispered to her and the surety of her touch. But her lover was nothing if not sure when offering affection. She'd never shown hesitance or reluctance in her embrace and if ever she'd fumbled, it had been eagerness that betrayed her.
Covered in spittle, Hermione did not feel desirable or beautiful. She felt, as she usually did, vaguely uncomfortable under her own scrutiny. But she'd never felt uncomfortable under Fleur's gaze and, though it had been nothing more than a dream, she certainly hadn't the previous night. She could still remember the excitement, the exuberance and the carefree joy beside the little stream. She'd felt playful and flirtatious, apparently more daring while asleep than she ever would be when awake.
She rinsed her mouth and stared sternly at herself. "You're supposed to be angry with her," she muttered, trying her best to remember the precise reasons for her ire. After a night of decent sleep, she could admit that her greatest source of frustration was her own inability to decipher what was going on. She shouldn't have had to rely on an external explanation to understand the situation; she should have solved the riddle for herself. She was, after all, Hermione Granger.
Her pride was slightly wounded, she knew, and it irked her that she could be so vain at such a time. But perhaps the fact that such awful things awaited downstairs was precisely the reason why she was tackling this puzzle instead. The scope of the tragedy, and the victory which was becoming more tangible as good news trickled in, was beyond her. She would remain, indeed, but seeing and comprehending did not demand reflection. That would come later, when the sting was lessened and wounds somewhat healed.
She moved back into the empty dormitory and noticed that some kind person (perhaps Fay, who had stayed in Hogwarts and was being quite solicitous to the one member of the so-called Golden Trio she felt able to approach) had left a pot of tea on the stove. She poured herself a mug and curled into a seat beneath the window, breathing deeply of the fresh air flooding in through the open panes. The sky was still ruddy with dawn's recent appearance, high wisps of cloud promising another beautiful day.
Such time alone was, she felt, essential for the day ahead. She knew that her attention would be pulled in three dozen directions and she greedily savoured the time by herself as she'd savoured the memory of her dream. She let her mind clear itself of the sorrow below her and the frustration in blonde awaiting her. She moved away from memories and worries, letting herself exist in the moment as best she could.
Unforetunately, she'd never had a talent for meditation. Her mind was a busy and purposeful place. Normal service was resuming after extended disruption and it was eager to get back to work. It was as if the destruction suffered by the school was mirrored in herself; an orderly library or office in tatters. But it was open for business again. There were still corners where rubble lay, to be sure, but the form was familiar and sturdy.
So instead of trying to escape those thoughts, she let her mind wander between them, touching briefly on different moments. She closed her eyes, images dancing behind her eyes. She was blessed with a clear memory and found the past easy to call to mind.
She thought back to the evening before, to the firm embrace between the fire and the dark forest. Clearly, Bill didn't hate her and had even offered her comfort. He held no anger towards her and she marvelled at the fact. How was it, she pondered, that he could feel no resentment towards her?
Fleur had implied that it was because she was a woman and the notion both angered and humiliated her. If their bond meant less because of her sex, then what opinion did Bill hold of relationships between women? Beyond Bill, what did their world think of the same? Was their society still seeped in Victorian sensibilities? The anger she felt at this injustice burned hot within her breast and she knew that she had to leave it, that there were many other things to consider.
She took a deep breath and tried to raise herself beyond emotion; to see the past with eyes clear of love or hate or fear or sorrow. To remember what had happened and to see if there were clues there. Her mind was slow to co-operate at first, reluctant to leave behind the emotion of those moments. Eventually, though, she began to move through the annals of her memory.
She remembered Shell Cottage and the cold sea before it. She remembered the rolling dunes and the barrier. How something perceived only at the very edge of her vision had become clear and solid as time had passed. She thought of all the conversations she'd had while close to that barrier. What was it that had drawn from the depths of her there? The knowledge that she was standing at the edge of her world? Or the knowledge that she was bounded now by someone else's magic?
The boundary had been a place of transition; a shimmering demarkation between here and there. Safety and danger. Us and them. It had been placed quite arbitrarily by Bill and Fleur, perhaps even thoughtlessly. It had never seemed confining to her, though she knew Harry had sometimes felt suffocated by the restriction of his movement. The reminder of being bound by their friends' worry and concern.
Her mind drifted again, to another boundary. Herself and Fleur within a much smaller spell, surrounded by flame. She felt her heart skip and though she tried to leave emotion behind, it was impossible to remember those hours with nothing more than bald logic. So she put them behind her, steeling herself to move away from them. Her mind snapped to work, speeding between memories and thought at the very limits of her perception.
She remembered a casual kiss pressed to the corner of her mouth. And now, with hindsight, she saw the frustration in Fleur's eyes, and the sadness, at the loneliness the other witch had perceived in her. The urge to soothe and calm overriding common sense and disregarding borders and niceties between them.
Fleur blue and desperate with fear as she'd been bodily restrained from leaping into the Black Lake. She, along with Cedric Diggory, had been fighting to return to that icy water and Hermione had been amazed, wondering how anyone could willingly face those frigid depths again. Surprise at Fleur's heartfelt tears as she'd wrapped her little sister in a towel and kissed her brow.
Realisation that Fleur was more than an aloof and somewhat snobbish girl from Beauxbatons. Seeing her courage and her curiosity. Her easy acceptance of the additions to her household and her quick friendships. The desire to get to know her properly. To fathom her blithe joy, an unfamiliar and enticing creature that shimmered before her.
Remembering a childish infatuation with Tonks with great embarrassment. Remembering the way that sunlight lit Ms Teller's long hair as she stood writing on the blackboard. Remembering the panic the first time Lavender had changed in front of her.
Reading The Viminal Enchantment with eager eyes. An elicit thrill as she huddled in the quiet, late night pouring through that strange new world. Wondering if there were other tales like them and who was this Sappho woman. The thrill when she'd found the answer watching television with her parents. Yearning for more knowledge and being sorely disappointed when she failed to find any.
Luna's sad expression as they'd spoken about her jumbled emotions. The wisdom in those strange grey eyes hard earned and full of sadness. The loss of her mother. The tiny shadow of hope that mention of her uncle had provided. A hope Hermione dared not name or even face.
Ron's eyes hard as he grumbled about Fleur. Had he seen something? Was she really, as he'd put it, a sly one? Had she herself been blind in her vulnerability and infatuation? Or had he merely projected his guilt and frustration onto their hostess?
Ron turning his hunched back to her. Laying his heavy arm over her and asking her why his brother was dead. His blush and hopeful eyes when she'd kissed his cheek. His rough stubble had seemed so strange compared to Fleur's smooth skin. His hands had fluttered around her then, not knowing quite what to do and settling on patting her shoulder awkwardly. Relief that he hadn't pressed forward.
A moment when she almost stepped forward and pressed herself to Fleur, when she longed to answer the call. Longed to dive into the current between them.
The moment when Fleur had proposed the plan or rather the moment prior to that, when hope and queasy excitement had flared in Hermione's chest. She'd known what Fleur was going to say before she opened her mouth and part of her had almost flown apart in glee.
"It could hurt you."
"I am not what you think I am. Who you think I am."
"Taking away your choice."
Fleur giving her the new wand. Herself handing Fleur the branch of May Blossom. Fleur's hair left in exchange for the wood. Some other thing left in exchange for her grandmother's hair. A debt yet to be paid. Many gifts given.
Disappointment and guilt warring at Fleur's withdrawal. Part of her had cried out, a wounded animal perversely longing to pursue this source of pain rather than flee it. Her confusion had muddled her and she'd been unable to bring her intellect to bear on the conversation. Logic had fled her, chased by frustration and bitter loss.
"Other moments I could give or other sacrifices to make…"
"Not even the most important thing in a relationship."
"A gift that can only be given once."
Seeing finally Fleur's worry and her anguish. Her pain and her own longing. She'd not understood it then but could see now, in the light from the parlour firelight, how desire and want had burned beneath Fleur's tears. Chasing her own torment as well. Her frightening anguish after Hermione had joked about changing her mind.
"I was going to lie to you."
"I lied."
"Anything I say will make a traitor of me."
Duelling on the beach and constantly aware of the still, stiff figures watching them. Had they spoken, then, about Fleur's plan? She'd almost taken Dean's head off with a rending hex when they'd walked off, arms around each other.
"I promise you, I will tell you."
Providing comfort. Offering succour. Feeling strange and proud that she was able to soothe Fleur's pain, if only for a moment. The desperation as Fleur had held her but the restraint, too. It had felt as though she'd been in a vice at the time but she knew now the true strength of Fleur's embrace. Knew that she'd been holding back.
The relief after a nightmare. The urge to press Fleur into her bed and indulge her envy of Bill by kissing her there and then, tangled in their sheets. Horror that such an impulse could grip her. The dryness of her mouth as Fleur had gasped her name as she writhed beneath her. The thumping of her heart and throbbing between her legs when Fleur had awoken and showered her with affection, obviously painfully glad to see her. Frustration that she couldn't solve the mystery. Desire unlike anything she'd ever felt before, pounding through her as she perched there. Worry that Fleur would know how excited she was and…
Cautiously imagining a future between them. Knowing that she had no future with deep and utter certainty. Bemused now that she obviously did.
Teddy in her arms. Fleur's daughter in her arms. The aching sadness that threatened when she thought about the possibility that the little girl would never be born. Amusement at the older child's precise accent.
"This is between you and her."
"This is life and death."
"If you love her, don't let this pass by."
"You can't help who you love."
"The damage is done."
Knowing what had to be done. Knowing what her heart and soul demanded. The urgency and confusion in the parlour.
"There is so much I would have you know."
"You shouldn't trust me."
Fire within a circle. Bound by blood. Bare skin beneath the stars on Beltaine. Sand shifting beneath her.
Only love
Overwhelming sensation. Heat and pressure. The cool sea air and the crackle of the fire. Stars wheeling as shining eyes held her own. The surf pounding. The wetness of Fleur's mouth. Between their legs.
"Don't stop, please."
"Go inside me."
"Together through the circle."
Promises made on the beach. Playful as they returned to the cottage. Fleur as pleased with herself as she was.
A pair of otters.
Opening the Chamber of Secrets and destroying the cup. Surprised at how easily it had been pierced by the great fang.
"Now is not the time or place, Hermione."
"I love you."
"Hermione? Are you all right?"
Startled, she almost spilled the dregs of her tea. She turned and say Fay standing nearby, polite concern written on her face. Taking a short breath, Hermione nodded, blinking slowly to clear her mind and return to the present. Despite the fact that she'd been sitting still, she felt as though she'd just run a race. She felt uneasy too, unnerved and anxious. Fay eyed her curiously but did not enquire again about her state.
"You wanted to be called at eight, to go down?" she asked, obviously unsure and reluctant to disturb her.
"Ah," Hermione sighed. "Yes. Thank you. I'll head down now."
She frowned and suspected that a scowl twisted her face. She felt as though the answer was just beyond her grasp; her fingers brushing the edge in vain. The answer was there, she was sure of it, if only she could see it.
Regretfully, she laid her mug down on a tray and ran her fingers through her hair. Life, it appeared, was not keen to give her the time to work though this mystery. She cast a last, longing glance back at the window seat before turning to leave.
Fleur slowed to a sedate and dignified walk as she entered Hogwarts. Much to her chagrin, she'd slept all of the previous night away. She'd only intended to lay her head down for an hour or two but had woken to the dawn's chorus. Her mother and sister had been sound asleep so she'd dressed quickly and quietly before heading off at a trot to the school.
She'd berated herself on the walk over and felt properly chastised as she slid through the great doors. The hall was relatively quiet at that early hour despite the numerous people contained therein. Most were asleep beside the biers of their loved ones, or waking reluctantly as dusty beams of sunlight stretched over the flagstones. United to mourn their loved ones, they presented identical faces; drawn and grey. Dressed in black, dishevelled and sporting the same lost expression, there was little to distinguish one from another. Sadness tightened Fleur's chest. Had they not lost enough of their humanity already?
Fleur felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth, though, as her eyes drifted to the top of the room. Madame Maxime tended to stand out in a crowd and this occasion was no different. The tall woman was speaking quietly with a pair of wizards and Fleur moved towards them, standing at a polite distance. Her former headmistress spied her and excused herself from the men. She turned to face Fleur, a wistful look softening her broad face.
"Fleur, my dear," she sighed, embracing her former student with immense but gentle arms. "I am so very glad to see you."
"The feeling is entirely mutual," Fleur whispered, her arms barely able to meet around the waist of the woman holding her. She drew backwards and smiled wanly. "Thank you for bringing Gabrielle. How is she doing in school?"
The giantess shook her head. "She is bright and very talented. Sadly, she is also one of the most baffling dreamers I have ever encountered. She delights in fantasy and finds school work a chore. Having known both yourself and your mother at her age, and seeing no resemblance, I have no choice but to blame your father."
Fleur laughed at that. "She is largely harmless."
"Largely. But she is a mystery to me. She lives within her own mind more than other children. Where is she?"
"With my mother. She secured a room in the Three Broomsticks, though it is a squash with we four and Bill," Fleur said, immediately regretting her words. She saw the other witch's face cloud over and she cursed herself for mentioning her husband. The only angry words they'd ever shared had been on his account and Fleur was in no mood revisit an old argument.
"His brother was killed during the battle," Fleur said, quietly, hoping that such information would temper Maxime's treatment of the man. "Fred. One of the twins."
Maxime's face folded in sorrow for a moment, evidently sparing a quick thought for the boy. It had become such a familiar sight over the last several days, Fleur mused. The respectful pause to honour the dead and compose oneself. It was strange seeing it cross Madame Maxime's face, though. It seemed exaggerated on her wide features and though it was not in the slightest insincere, there was something surreal about the sight.
But what was real, anymore? The world around them existed, certainly. There was no denying what one could see and touch, after all. But it was almost illusory, like catching a glimpse of an unwelcome intruder in waving curtain. This new world had been draped over what they knew, hanging and snagging awkwardly on familiar features as the shrouds in the dungeon had.
As unreal as it was, Fleur felt that it was not truly transient. The vestments and wreaths would be removed but the memories would linger, haunting and bubbling through the souls of those who'd stood witness. They could peel back this shroud to find their world changed utterly. Part of Fleur was desperate to see this, to rush from this necropolis and see how their world had reformed. To witness the promised phoenix.
Another part of her, though, was terrified to leave. What if there was nothing there but burnt bones and scorched feathers? What if the world was not reborn, despite their efforts? What if nothing had truly changed? The phoenix had been Dumbledore's dream but he had not lived to see it.
If he ever believed in it at all, Fleur thought, bitterly. She felt a brief flare of anger but dismissed it. Now was not the time to revisit that particular memory. Besides, it seemed a most ungracious time to think ill of the dead.
Maxime sighed and Fleur canted her head upwards, feeling as though she was a tiny child again. It was not a wholly unpleasant experience.
"This… I have never seen such a thing," she said, as softly as she could. They were shielded by their language to a certain degree but several mourners turned tired eyes to them. "I…" she drew a deep breath and clenched a fist the size of a Christmas ham. "Those filthy bastards. I hope to heaven that I never find myself with one of them for I will snap their necks, Fleur."
Fleur heard rocky knuckles creak and laid her hand on Maxime's mighty hand. Her headmistress had been blessed with a most wicked temper and these poor people did not need to be exposed to her rage. More eyes flitted over them, comprehension lacking, and Fleur felt like a foreigner again, alien in the grey sea of quiet British despair. All the same, she agreed with her former headmistress and for a savage moment wished she'd been there, too. The thought entered her mind and was chased by the memory of Fenrir Greyback's pungent blood rolling over her. Her throat leapt with the image and she clenched a hand as she felt the blood drain from her face. Maxime must have sensed her distress for she turned to fix her with a firm gaze and Fleur was a child again; waiting to be punished for her transgressions.
Thankfully, Minerva McGonagall approached Maxime with a solemn bow and Fleur took the opportunity to leave, sketching a polite nod to the pair of witches. She found herself close to Fred's coffin and moved softly towards the dozing Weasleys. Molly, her face ashen and slack in fitful sleep, was rumpled and wan as she lay against Arthur's shoulder in the morning light. George was sprawled in a chair, his tired eyes unfocused as he held a mug of steaming tea. Harry and Ron were between Fred and Tonk's coffin, bleary eyed and a touch unsteady in their seats. Fleur smiled and approached them, the least intimidating choice available to her.
Harry blinked at her, taking his glasses off and pressing the heel of one hand into an eye socket. His hair was greasy and limp, curling over his ears and the loosened collar of his handsome robes.
"Morning," he muttered. Ron somehow managed to turn a yawn into a greeting. Molly's youngest son was equally exhausted and despite the fact that his robes were brand new and fashionably cut, he appeared somewhat shabby.
"Good morning," she replied, folding her arms in front of her chest. She tired not to look at the remains of her friends, focusing on the young men before her. "Did you sleep?"
"Maybe for a quarter of an hour," Harry said, catching Ron's yawn. "At least, I think we did."
Fleur felt her face fold into a sad smile as fondness overcame her. Despite his hard won maturity, there was something boyish about Harry in that moment. Charming and sympathetic. The image of a little boy trying to wipe the smudges from his wand with the corner of his robes flashed before her eyes. She would have given almost anything to stand in that moment again.
"Perhaps it might be time to sleep for a while." She suggested as kindly as she could manage. "Why not retire now and come back in the afternoon or evening?"
Harry and Ron shared a glance, simultaneously optimistic and guilty. Clearly, they were in need of sleep but entirely reluctant to leave. Fleur drew herself to her full height and lifted her eyebrows.
"You won't be any good to anyone if you fall asleep while standing up. Go to bed. We will stand with them," she said, nodding towards Lupin's coffin. The boys left, Harry throwing a grateful nod her way. Exhaustion was written into every step they took and Fleur grimaced on their behalf. She hoped they'd be sensible and take a lengthy nap. She took Harry's seat between Fred and Tonks and drew a deep breath, ready for another day.
Hermione quickly ate several slices of toast slathered in marmalade in the common room, tugging her robes into some semblance of order around her. She flicked her hair back from her face and took another sip of coffee, trying to finish her cup. She was more or less alone this morning, one of the few who'd slept more than a few hours and felt able to face the day. Even the portraits were catching up on lost sleep.
She set her mug down and flicked her hair back from her face again, striding for the portrait hole. Beyond, the school was deserted. Her footsteps echoed in the dusty air and the gentle swish of her hems still sent clouds of dust swirling, suspended in the airless corridors. It was disconcerting, the silence and the dancing motes. She ducked her head and hurried onwards. Her journey came to an abrupt end, however, when she swung around a corner and straight into another student.
Hermione struggled to regain her balance, arms flung out as she bounced back from the solid body she'd flown into.
"I'm sorry!" she squeaked, "I'm awfully sorry, I wasn't paying attention to where I was going."
"'S'all right, Hermione," said solid body sighed and Hermione realised that she'd ploughed into Neville. She blinked and peered up at him, his flat tone earning her anxious attention. She saw that her friend was dressed in grand dark robes, mournful and solemn but beautifully tailored. She tilted her head to better see him and realised that there was nothing but sorrow written into his face. Hermione reached out to him and realised just how big Neville was now. There'd been a time when she'd been taller than him, for goodness sake. For all that, he looked so young. Young and heart broken.
"Neville?" she asked softly, "are you all right?"
The tall wizard sighed, his round shoulders more hunched than they had been in years. After some effort, he lifted his eyes to meet hers and gave a helpless little shrug.
"It's nothing, only something stupid," he said bravely. She resisted the urge to shake her head at him. Didn't he realise that it was all right now? That it was their time to be sad and unsure and generally a bit crap?
"Neville?" she coaxed, causing him to drop his eyes. She took his arm and swivelled her head in an effort to catch his eye. "What's going on?"
He was silent for a long time, unmoving and morose in the morning light. Finally, he lifted teary eyes and shook his head.
"I thought they'd be better," he said, his voice breaking at the end.
Hermione's heart broke for him. Her mind, burdened and cluttered with a million and ten things, emptied. It was akin to the sharp crack of apparition, this sudden psychic vacancy. But nature is said to abhor a vacuum and she filled with pity for her friend. Overwhelmed with pathos, she hugged him tightly. Desperate arms embraced her and she felt tremors wrack his lanky body.
"Hermione," he sniffled, "I thought that, you know, if they were gone then mam and dad would be better."
She gripped him fiercely, unwilling to look her friend in the eye. There was no recovery from the kind of evil inflicted on the Longbottoms. Alice and Frank would spend the rest of their days helpless guests of St Mungo's. And Neville would spend those days visiting them, always hoping for a miracle. Waiting for their shattered sanity to rebuild itself. For the parents he'd never known but had heard so much about.
Hermione was gripped with a sudden and intense desire to see her own parents. It robbed her breath again and left her bare before that awful clarity. She desperately wished that Neville's heavy arms were those of her father. She wished that the heart beating under her ear was her mother's. She wished that they were still in Oxford, patiently waiting for her to return. She felt tears well and never had she regretted her actions more. Never had she felt their absence so keenly, not even in the woods. What had she been thinking, to willingly send them away?
Her chest ached, as though her ribs had once again been broken as she realised the full implications of her actions. She'd completely removed her parents from her life. She'd planned and schemed before calmly and with great calculation removing their memories! She was as much an orphan as Neville now for if she were to stand face to face with them, they'd see a stranger. No recognition would light their eyes.
Rita Skeeter was right. She was nothing but heartless to have erased their memories and send them away. To have tampered with such precious parts of them simply because it was the most expedient way to get them out of her hair. She'd seen them as something to worry about; something to be managed.
And by God, she'd managed them. Where was reason, then? Where was her prized rationality and good sense? She'd never even tried to explain the situation to them, always fobbing them off or dissembling if the conversation turned to darker themes. What arrogance! To presume that she knew best! That she could make that decision for them.
Her breath started to come more quickly and she clenched her fists in Neville's robes, tears burned from her wide eyes. What kind of person was she?
Heartless.
"Hermione?" Neville murmured. "Are you all right?"
She screwed her eyes closed and pulled back, teeth clenched against her shame. She nodded to him and he was either perceptive enough to realise that she needed to be left alone or oblivious to her upset.
The gentle, and somewhat awkward, pat he gave her shoulder hinted at the former, though. He stepped past her and paused, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Thanks, Hermione. Sorry to be all…"
"No," Hermione bit, clearing her throat. "No," she said more normally, "it's all right. Don't apologise, please."
Neville nodded and turned to leave. He seemed to think better of it and frowned at her, making a clear attempt to marshall himself.
"I'm coming back. I want to do research in a couple of fields in Herbology and I need my NEWTS for that. I don't know if the school will still be the same," he said, a little hollow bark of a laugh ending his sentence, "but I'll be here."
The question was implicit and the thought flashed through her mind that, all else aside, if her mother and father found out she hadn't even finished secondary school they'd likely disown her. But could she return here? As much as she yearned to, as much as she craved it, something in her told her that it would be impossible.
That once you leave, you can never go home.
"He was my favourite teacher," a young man said, eyes downcast and voice soft. "He was always fair and he didn't put up with any bullying."
"He was a good man," Fleur agreed. Lupin's face was solemn as he lay in repose, scarred and thin. Worn down by the many burdens he had borne.
"Are you his family?" the boy asked, turning slightly from the coffin.
"No," Fleur replied. "He had no family save his son, who is having a bath at the minute." Andromeda knew that Teddy was far to young to understand anything aside from milk and warmth but she still felt the need to have her grandson close to his parents, for as long as possible. She'd been greatly relieved when Fleur had offered to sit with Lupin and Tonks, hurrying off with Teddy dozing in her embrace.
The boy flushed and folded his arms. "Yeah. It's awful. I mean, wasn't he only a few days old?"
Fleur nodded and cast herself back to that evening in the kitchen. The wonderful news had cut through the pall enveloping their spirits, not to mention the dreadful awkwardness between herself and Hermione. They'd seemed invincible for a moment; as though their victory was assured. Everyone had accepted that they'd be around to see Teddy grow up. That they were all embarking on a grand adventure with him at the centre.
The boy excused himself and Fleur nodded, distracted. Who would watch Teddy grow now? His grandmother? Harry? How dreadful it must be to not have the love of your parents. Teddy would know that his mother and father had loved him enough to lay their lives down for his future but how would a child understand that? When she'd been young, she'd known she was loved because no matter what else was going on, if she'd been in need, her parents showered affection upon her. Love hadn't been something that one could have explained to her then, it had been the backdrop to her existence. A constant buffer against the ills and hardships of the world. A barrier of kinds.
It was strange, how love changed. She still loved her parents but she liked to think she wasn't a child anymore. She no longer needed to hide herself in their robes to escape the difficult parts of life. She understood now their pride in her and how they'd exposed themselves to great pain by giving her their blessing to compete in the Tournament. How they'd trusted her to remain in Britain despite the danger. A small part of her had been dismissive of this sentiment. She was a grown woman and did not need her parents' permission to live her life.
But that was a childish part of her. No matter how old she grew, no matter that her parents interacted with her as an adult, she knew that part of them would always see her as the screaming, helpless infant placed on her mother's chest. She could accept this, though, because it mean that no matter what she did or how she acted, they would still love her. She would always have a home with them.
Fleur sighed and ran a hand through her hair. The hall was getting busier as the morning wore on. She felt a small amount of guilt at her relief that few approached her, leaving her mind free to wander.
She thought about Shell Cottage. About the quiet, peaceful days with Bill when they'd poured their energy into fixing and shaping the little house. What a shock it had been, that evening so long ago when her wards been breached and she'd been sure that death was waiting on the beach. She'd understood that there was an urgent need to help those that arrived and had thrown herself into their care, with only fleeting worry about what this would mean for herself and Bill.
Her heart warmed with the memories and she ached to return to that home they'd all created. She would always be welcomed with open arms into her mother and father's home but she'd had her own. Or rather, she'd had a share in one.
She turned and saw Bill, his broad back to her. He was across the hall, speaking to a group of witches and wizards roughly his own age. Her lips twitched and she knew that building their cosy home would have been impossible without him. When they'd arrived, Shell Cottage had been a damp, musty, cold place. They'd made it habitable and very comfortable; a refuge from the world and the war. It had been peaceful at a time when her heart had needed peace and it was only after the arrival of their guests that she'd realised how much she'd missed living in a lively house.
Growing up, she'd always imagined living in a house like her own; chaotic, cheerful and warm. The reality of Shell Cottage had been somewhat different, as there was only a limited amount of chaos that herself and Bill could generate. As different as it had been from her upbringing, it had soothed her heart. What would it be like to return there, just herself and Bill?
Quiet, she supposed. She found the thought quite lonesome and wondered if it wouldn't be possible to bring Gabrielle with her for a while.
Or Hermione.
What a thought! Her heart lurched in her chest and she clenched her fist. It was so tempting, so glorious a notion, that she couldn't bear to face it in this charnel house. She couldn't dwell on it because if she did, she was quite likely to lose whatever bit of self-control she'd managed to piece together and throw herself at her lover's feet, begging her to stay.
She felt her eye twitch. Her grandmother would have hexed her if she'd been privy to such nonsense. She turned her attention back to the crowd, trying to spot Bill, and was quite surprised when a lean, pale young man approached her. Surprise turned to shock when she realised that the haggard man before her was none other than Roger Davies.
"Roger," she said, standing and embracing him for a long moment. He was gaunt, the bones of his shoulders sharp beneath her hands. She drew back and took in the dark rings beneath his eyes, feeling something within her creak. He'd been so handsome.
"Hello Fleur," he said, his voice hoarse and low. "You're with poor old Lupin, eh?"
His eyes moved to the still figure and Fleur stepped away from him, allowing him a moment to pay his respects. She couldn't recall having seen him in Hogwarts during the battle and she suspected, by the shaky, nervous way he edged towards the coffins, that he'd only just arrived at the wake. That said, the last time she'd seen him, his hair had shone in the sunlight and an easy smile had crowded his face. She could have passed him ten times and not recognised him.
"Poor bastard," he said, quietly.
"Indeed," Fleur agreed. "He left behind a son, days old."
Roger swirled to gawk at her, mouth hanging open. "Really?"
Fleur nodded. "This is Nympadora Tonks. She was his wife."
Roger turned to cast a quick eye over Tonks and something darkened his face. "He got married. Seems to be catching."
Fleur frowned, catching the hint of anger in the man's voice. "Roger-"
"No, shit. I'm sorry," he sighed, deflating at the touch of her sharp rebuke. He sank onto a stool beside Lupin's coffin, his face lowered. "Sorry."
Fleur sighed and sat beside him, unable to remain too angry with him. After all, it wasn't as if he didn't have something to be annoyed about.
"Bill Weasley," he snorted, turning to fix his bleary eyes on her. "Now there's one I didn't see coming. Would have been worth sticking around for that."
Fleur felt her face flush and shook her head, feeling her ire rise again. "But you didn't. You left without a word. I never took you for a coward, Roger, to run away," she snapped. For the second time that morning, she regretted her words the second they'd left her mouth and she bit her lip, wondering how to apologise.
Roger's face fell and he ran his hand through his lanky hair. "Well. I was never brave, you know that. Ravenclaw, not Gryffindor."
She was silent for a long moment, old wounds opening as she sat beside the young man. Memories of a broken heart collided with those of a time of optimism and hope. She frowned, a dim memory flitting to her mind.
"You never wrote to me, after the tournament. You promised you would."
He laughed, a humourless bark, and shrugged. "I made lots of promises. Never was good at keeping them. I… when I heard about Bill and all that, I left."
Fleur drew in a long breath and was shocked to realise that tears were welling in her eyes at the memory of that awful time. She frowned and shook her head, unwilling to dwell on it.
"I don't blame you," she said, quietly. "If I'd been wise, I would have done the same."
Roger chuckled. "For someone so intelligent, you were completely witless back then. You didn't have a shred of common sense. I… I think it was better, though."
Fleur shook her head. "Perhaps. Good sense is always hard earned. Where did you go?"
"About," he shrugged. "I ended up in South Africa, on the coast. Not many wizards, happily."
Fleur bit her tongue at the unkind remark that attempted to escape from behind her teeth. Roger and herself had not parted on the best of terms and she was surprised at the anger she still felt towards him. And the pity.
"But enough," he said, very softly. "I'm from an old family, pure blood. They came for me and I had to run."
Fleur knew enough to know that she did not want to delve any deeper into this conversation, not in the middle of the Great Hall with ears sprouting from every surface like mushrooms after rain.
"We should talk later, Roger," she said, firmly. "In a better place."
He nodded and stood up, wiping at moist eyes. "We will. I'll… I'll send you an owl, if that's all right."
Fleur smiled. "Please do."
He took a deep breath, casting one last look at Lupin and seemed to shrink into his formal robes, small and fragile in their heavy folds.
"I want… I mean, I never meant to be such a coward," he said quietly. "I wanted to come back but," an agonised expression crossed his face, "I heard about Bill and… and god, I just couldn't. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Fleur felt her heart reach out to him, as lost as he'd been when she'd first met him. But at least he'd been happy then, still ignorant of the trials ahead of them all.
"It's all right," she said, as kindly as she could. "We can't all be brave, all the time."
"No," he agreed, eyes meeting her own, filled with disappointment, "but I thought you could be."
Hermione watched Molly stumble from the hall, supported by Arthur and Percy. Her family had finally persuaded her to take a break and get some proper sleep. Exhausted, the poor woman had grudgingly promised to spend a couple of hours in Gryffindor Tower but only after a combined assault by Arthur, Percy, Charlie, George and Ginny.
George couldn't be moved. He refused to leave Fred's side for more than a toilet break or to change his clothes. While there'd been a concerted effort to persuade the Weasley matriarch to rest, none had so much as suggested the same to George. He was sound asleep, though, lying on a thick blanket on the floor, his head cradled in Angelina Johnson's lap. Sharing the blanket with them was Hermione herself, Charlie, Ginny and Lee Evans, who was also sound asleep though without as pleasant a pillow as George.
Sitting on the ground, tucked into an alcove beneath one of the immense hall windows, they had managed to gain some semblance of privacy. Seated low, they were beneath the dome of a muffling charm that Alicia Spinnet had cast the evening before when their singing had continued after many others had succumbed to sleep, slumped in chairs beside their loved ones.
Angelina ran her fingers fondly through George's hair, her movement soft and careful. She looked tired but not sleepy as she leaned against the cool stone of the wall.
"Do you remember the time they put a boggart in the Slytherin ball chest?" Ginny asked, smiling broadly. "I thought Flint was going to wet himself."
Charlie laughed at that and Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Ha! Where'd they get a bloody boggart from?"
"Well, they never said but this was when Moody was teaching Defence so…" Angelina replied.
"Moody who was Crouch, right?" Charlie asked, his freckled brow folded as he tried to recall. "Some bloody weird stuff went on in this school after I left, didn't it?"
"You don't know the half of it," Ginny muttered.
And neither do you! Hermione mused, trying not to smile to herself.
"Do you think we'll ever hear the full story?" Angelina asked. "You know, about all the things that went on?"
All eyes swung to Hermione and she shrugged. "I don't know. I honestly don't. I don't think anybody ever knew the full story, really. Perhaps not even Dumbledore."
"What about Harry?" Charlie asked, incredulous. "I mean, he won. Surely he was in the know."
Hermione found herself reluctant to comment on such things and shrugged as eloquently as she could. Lee snorted in his sleep and turned onto his back, earning a round of quiet laughter. Angelina and Ginny started talking about quidditch and Charlie took a leather gauntlet out of his robes, continuing his repairs on a frayed seam.
Hermione leaned her chin on her knee and watched Charlie's large, dextrous hands push the needle through the holes he'd punched the previous evening. He worked slowly but at a very even pace and Hermione found it oddly soothing to watch him. It was refreshing to see someone do something by hand, for once.
She thought back to poor Neville and felt tears begin to well. The desire that had filled her to find her mother and father had not waned and she found herself imaging how they'd fit in here, amongst this broken wizarding world. After all, the wards around Hogwarts were in disarray, having been utterly destroyed by Voldemort and his army. There were temporary measures in place but they were a stop gap at best. If a muggle really wanted to enter Hogwarts, she suspected they would do so with little trouble.
She smiled sadly. She knew how her parents would act. They'd offer their condolences and assistance, in that order. They'd quietly help with tea or other small tasks, unobtrusive and purposeful. Perhaps they'd have been able to offer comfort to Molly.
But they were thousands of miles away and they didn't have a clue about the magical world or about her. Maybe they were better off without her, she mused. Maybe this was the right time to free them from the secrets that producing a witch demanded. At least they'd be able to tell the truth, albeit a false version of the truth.
She knew she wouldn't leave them, though. She'd use the last of her savings, galleon and sterling, to get to Australia and undo the enchantments. What ever happened, she'd give her parents back their proper identity.
And then be disowned.
She scowled to herself. Surely they wouldn't; she was being entirely melodramatic. They'd be annoyed and angry, no doubt there, but they'd come around.
Eventually.
Hopefully.
Charlie put his bracer away and rubbed a tired hand across his face. He smiled crookedly at her and she replied in kind.
"You arrived with Victor Krum," she said, leaning towards the stocky man. "How come?"
"Well, we both got the message at the same time. We were sitting in a pub with the lads, having some dinner, when the call came through."
Angelina and Ginny's quidditch sensitised ears pricked up and wide eyes focused on Charlie. "You pal about with Victor Krum?"
Hermione listened with half an ear as Charlie described how he'd gotten to know Victor after the tournament. The young man had been told by Dumbledore to seek Charlie if he wanted to do better, should he ever encounter another dragon. They'd formed a small cell of the Order, quietly recruiting from isolated communities in Eastern Europe who did not hold truck with the idea of some silly gang of English wizards threatening to expose their world.
Hermione looked out over the hall, watching people come and go, though her view was obscured by the biers to either side. The sounds of the Great Hall were muffled but not inaudible and she heard a familiar voice, singing nearby. Closing her eyes, she listened with every bit of her aural prowess. Fleur was singing a low, light song in a quiet voice. It sounded like a lullaby though Hermione couldn't understand the words. Straightening her spine, she peered over the top of Tonk's coffin, seeing Fleur cradling Teddy to her chest, singing as she rubbed his back.
The baby jerked, startling himself and Fleur stopped singing, congratulating him for his ability to belch instead. The beautiful witch hadn't happened to look her way and was unaware of Hermione's keen scrutiny. She adjusted her grip and stroked his blue hair, smiling softly at him.
She's much better at that than I am. She looks so comfortable with him.
Hermione remembered that Fleur had once told her that while she did want children, the time hadn't been right for her. That had been during the most hopeless point of the war and Hermione realised that many would now think the time perfect for having babies. Hadn't a lot of muggle wars been followed by baby booms?
A sick feeling spread through her belly at the notion. Whatever about having an affair with someone's wife you could absolutely not have an affair with someone's mum. Hermione's moral compass may have been somewhat off-centre recently but there were some lines one did not cross under any circumstances.
Aside from that, what if Fleur's future no longer included children at all? What if that had been the cost of the spell? Hermione felt her throat tighten and turned her face away, shame and despair swelling within her.
What sort of wretch was she? She'd thought she was a good person but her actions had shown otherwise. She wrapped her arms around herself as disgust at her behaviour welled up, choking her. Ginny must have noticed something, for she raised an inquisitive eyebrow but before she had a chance to speak, Hermione's field of vision was filled with light blonde hair.
"Do you mind if I sit?" Luna asked, sitting cross-legged before Hermione had a chance to reply. She smiled serenely at the rest of the group, who greeted her before returning to their conversation. Ginny's eyes stayed fixed on her for a long moment, curious and shrewd, before she nodded minutely and looked away.
"That looks incredibly comfy, doesn't it?" she asked, nodding towards George with her chin.
"I suppose," Hermione muttered half-heartedly. With no warning, she found herself tugged down, spilling into Luna's lap before she could catch her balance. She struggled to sit up but Luna's hand held her head onto a cushion she'd conjured in a spare half second.
"Be careful," she said, unusually firmly. Hermione froze, not quite knowing what to do when Luna used that tone of voice. "Your swarming with Praecox Imps."
"I'm what?"
"Shh," Luna said, combing her thing hands through her hair. "Just stay still, I'll get rid of them."
Angelina and Ginny smiled indulgently and Hermione, heart sore, let herself be calmed by Luna's gentle attention. She closed her eyes and where she'd been unable earlier to leave thought, she found herself content to concentrate on the sensation. On the friendly affection.
And though it made her angry with her own weakness, she couldn't help but wish that she was resting against Fleur.
Several members of the Order shook Fleur's hand, Kingsley bowing to Mrs Tonks. The little space had become crowded so Fleur took her leave, glancing to one side as she went. Hermione was curled in Luna's lap, apparently asleep, and Fleur smiled somewhat sadly.
Well, at least there's someone there to look after her.
She continued on, eyes scanning for Bill. It was late in the afternoon and she hadn't spoken to him all day. His absence struck her as slightly unusual and she wondered if he'd headed to the lake shore to assist in the grim task being undertaken there. She found herself wanting to see him, still disturbed after speaking to Roger.
Roger. She hadn't thought about him in so long. They'd parted on bad terms but she'd still extracted a promise that he keep in touch. It annoyed her that he'd left them all at such an important time but part of her understood why he'd done so. She was surprised at how agitated she was and deduced that since she'd known Roger when she was a teenager, she was now acting like a teenager again.
Sighing, she headed for the door, hoping to take in some fresh air. The courtyard was full and she found herself wandering away from it, enjoying the golden evening sun on her skin. It was wonderfully quiet away from the crowd, the lack of human chatter a balm on her frayed nerves. She headed for a spot she remembered as particularly pleasant, hoping that she could kill two birds with one stone.
She stood on a little terrace surrounded by raised beds. In better times, they'd been filled with kitchen herbs for the pot but now sported dandelions and an impressively large thistle. The main attraction, however, was the spectacular view afforded of the lake and its closest shore.
She spent a minute enjoying the play of slanted light, the grey water burnished and still. Trees whispered and birds called. Summer was heaving around her and her heart was momentarily lightened.
The sight of clusters of figures surrounding dark voids and piles of earth undid this with impressive rapidity. She saw several flashes of red hair, one of which was attached to a Bill-shaped body. She looked away, back over the cold waters of the lake.
"Good evening, Fleur."
Fleur started and whirled, her hand reaching for her wand in the moment before she recognised the queen. Feeling quite silly, she laid her hand on her heart and sighed, shaking her head. The queen tipped her head to one side but seemed quite unrepentant about scaring her. She smiled brightly from her seat on the raised bed, one hand on her bent knee.
"Good evening, your-"
"Senka."
Fleur's mouth snapped shut and she nodded. "Senka. What brings you here?" she asked, as politely as she could manage. "Are you here to join the wake?"
"It is not my place," she said, smiling sadly. "There isn't anyone there I know. Besides, do you think I'd be allowed in on my own? It would cause a fuss to appear with a dozen warriors, don't you think?"
Fleur nodded and sat beside the queen, the pair of them looking out over the lake in companionable silence for a moment. "Did you know, I failed the second task down there."
"In the Tournament?" Senka asked, curious. The queen loved hearing stories and she leaned forward, silver eyes keen.
"Yes. We were bid swim down and rescue something precious from the bottom of the lake. We weren't told what it was but I was determined to gain the lead, to make up for the ridiculous marks awarded me in the first task. So I swam as quickly as I could, racing faster than prudent, and I was the first to meet the grindylows."
Senka grimaced. "Those are horrible little things. Nasty."
"I should have let Victor take the lead. After all, he was quite fearsome at the time, what with being half shark."
"Indeed." The queen agreed. She waited for the rest but Fleur had told the tale many times and couldn't bring herself to go into her shameful performance again. Senka nodded, letting the topic drop with good grace (because she too knew how it ended) then grinned in a conspiratorial manner and wrinkled her nose. "I have taken care of one of your problems."
Fleur blinked, trying for a moment to remember which problems she'd told the queen about. The other woman seemed proud of herself and was eager to talk, not waiting for Fleur to hazard a guess.
"That noxious woman, the animagus. Well, she's trapped now for an entire month. She won't be able to change her form."
Fleur's eyes widened and she turned incredulous eyes to the other witch. "But, how?"
Senka tutted with mock disappointment. "Ah, Fleur! How many of our youngsters learn how to take other forms? If we couldn't control them, we'd be overrun with adolescents in the shapes of wild animals! The binding is not simple but when you've done it as often as I have…"
The implication was clear. Skeeter was no longer a worry and she could finally talk to Hermione. She was quite tempted to leap off the wall and get Bill but she was fully cognisant of the fact that interrupting someone while they were digging a grave would not do. She bit her lip, hope lighting in her chest. Perhaps they could sort all this out, after all.
"Fleur," Senka said, interrupting her train of thought, "have you ever thought about exploring that part of you? Are you curious to discover what form you would take?"
Disappointed to have to move along another track, Fleur shrugged ruefully. "I don't think that an otter would be much use to the veela, somehow."
"An otter? My. How adorable."
"But not the most useful of creatures, especially not in a battle." The veela tended to be quite fierce, often taking the form of bears or wolves when changed. Many, especially those of the royal line, transformed into great eagles and it was not unusual for a band of warriors to make use of the animagus forms of its members.
It was difficult magic but since those abilities had proven life saving many times during the course of veela history, it was given very high priority. After all, who needed to turn a matchstick into a needle when being pursued by an enemy?
"No," Senka allowed, "but how do you know?"
"You're familiar with the Patronus charm?" Fleur said, watching the queen's eyes widen. Dementors hadn't been seen in veela lands for a thousand years or more and so, they had almost no use for the charm. That said, it was useful against several other dark creatures occasionally seen in their lands and, given that the veela had driven the Dementors away, one or two must have been familiar with the spell.
It all comes down to what's useful in your own situation, doesn't it?
"Of course. Don't tell me you learned how to summon a corporeal Patronus?"
"I did. It was necessary, Britain has been swarming with Dementors recently."
"I see. Well, that's very impressive. But not unexpected, for a witch of your talents."
Fleur accepted the compliment gracefully and they once again lapsed into silence. Birds called as the quality of light changed with the slow descent of the sun. It was starting to get a bit cold and Fleur wished she'd brought her cloak with her.
She folded her arms over her chest, gazing down again to the spot by the lake where small, indistinct figures milled around brown mounds. For every spot of motion, there was a scatter of still watchers. Smoke rose from a small fire, above which a copper kettle caught the waning sunlight.
"Harry didn't use magic, either," she said, quietly, almost to herself. Senka lifted an eyebrow in gentle inquisition and Fleur sighed. "He buried a house elf beside Shell Cottage. The elf had saved their lives and received a dagger to the heart for his trouble.
Senka said nothing but turned to follow Fleur's gaze. She was silent for a long moment before she spoke. "Most find it unseemly to closely ally death and magic. You know that only the most wretched use magic to kill. This is another facet of that. The graves are dug by hand, the dead are laid out in the same manner.
"It reminds us that we yet live. That despite what we have seen befall those we've lost, that a vital, mysterious spark remains within us. These things can only be seen in contrast; a hazy shadow that must be projected onto a blank wall to be understood. Magic, by its nature, distorts and creates illusions. And if we forget that we die, that despite our wisdom and our tricks we are mortal… It doesn't end well."
Fleur turned to her queen, away from the distant work. "What of your flame?"
The queen shrugged. "It was real, as though struck from flint. If that pyre had been heaped with our people, it would have honoured them."
"But it was not."
Senka lifted silver eyes, sad and much older than Fleur had expected. "It was also very hot. It burned quickly."
Fleur nodded. Part of her wished to, once again, speak freely to her queen. To tell the tale of the battle and the sickening feeling of Fenrir Greyback's blood on her hands. To describe the residual warmth of corpses in a dark dungeon. To recount how she'd fallen in love despite being married. But though they were afforded privacy by virtue of the language they spoke and their isolation, Fleur worried that if she opened her mouth, she would be unable to close it.
"I found a fairy tree beside a river," she said, instead, "and a bough was broken. I took it for her wand. Beneath the roots of the tree lies a family of otters whom I had the privilege of watching play in the sun. Part of me, right now, wishes to learn how to take that form and escape these next few days."
She felt a touch on her shoulder and turned to face Senka. The short witch's face was gentle with sympathy and lit with a rueful, wistful smile.
"Oh, Fleur," she sighed. "You're as adept at finding trouble as ever you have been."
Fleur ducked her face, unable to face that empathy. She felt like a muddy child once again and wished that Senka would berate or scold her. But the queen merely brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with a light touch.
"But you're not a child anymore," she sighed. "What a pity, that we must grow up! If only we could be lost in childhood, or its memory, for longer. If only the world allowed it." She sighed. "All that we can do is forge a world for our children. To ensure that their childhood is longer than ours was. I watched you grow from a blithe girl and now I see you bent double with grief. You will stand tall once again, in time, but you will carry the memory of these days forever. Knowing you, however, you'll carry them with ease and grace. With perfect aplomb."
Fleur felt herself frown at the queen's words, the sweet memory of days long passed soothing her for a moment. It was bitter too, though.
"Don't worry," Senka murmured. "Just because you're not a child anymore doesn't mean you have to worry about being an adult."
"I'm a bit beyond my teenage years," she replied, wryly.
"A heartbeat," the queen scoffed. "Just… I understand, Fleur. The things that you've seen, you shouldn't have. It ages you, make you feel positively ancient, but sadly it doesn't make you any wiser. Or anymore you."
Fleur turned to her, confused and weary. "No, it certainly doesn't. I promise, I don't feel at all wise right now."
"Good," Senka chirped. "Any wisdom gained so soon after an event such as this would have very flimsy legs." She hopped down from the flower bed and stretched. "I must return to the forest. As always, come and seek me out if you wish."
She stepped onto a narrow path that ran towards the woods and took several steps before she turned.
"I was told that you gained victory against that cur Greyback, with your own hands. Do you understand what that means?"
Fleur's eyes widened and she swallowed thickly. She nodded and clenched her hands into fists, stifling their tremor. Senka regarded her solemnly.
"If the skin of an otter won't prove fearsome, Fleur, wings and talons shall."
"I know this is an awful thing to say," Harry whispered, "but I'll be glad when this is over."
Hermione agreed wholeheartedly. "After the funeral, Harry. Just one more day. One more night."
"Biggest night," Ron muttered, still exhausted despite a long nap. "I saw Ab rolling casks of whiskey through the corridor."
Harry groaned. Hermione's heart dropped.
"Hermione, I don't suppose you know a spell that will render alcohol… well, without?"
She shook her head. "It never occurred to me that I'd need such a thing."
Ron sighed. "Well, Ginny did show me a decent hangover cure-"
"Ginny?" Hermione gasped, scandalised. Harry had spoken in the same moment, but his voice held a touch of awe.
"Excuse me," a voice called. An ancient wizard shuffled forward, extending his hand to Harry. "Mr Potter, I must thank you."
He was bent with age, his joints swollen and gnarled. He leaned his weight on a staff, his free hand trembling as Harry shook it. Hermione stood, offering her seat, and helped the old man sit. She stretched and looked around, ignoring the conversation that had started. The Hall was busy now, dozens of people milling about in the central isle. It was very warm, too, stuffy and stale.
She told Ron that she was going to go for a quick walk and made her way out, seeking out the quiet and cool passages and secret parts of Hogwarts. The portraits were silent; the ghosts elsewhere. Candles lit the corridors, burning brighter than they normally did.
She wandered for a while, content in her own company. The silence was dense and strange, otherworldly somehow. She spied a tapestry on the wall ahead that hid a passage that she'd often used as a short cut to get to the astronomy tower and was gripped with an impulse to sit beneath the stars for a while, to see if they'd finally decided to share their wisdom.
She ducked behind the tapestry and was plunged into complete darkness. Shaking her wand to life, she carefully picked her way across the uneven floor, careful to not trip over any debris. She neared the end of the passageway and paused, waiting to hear if anyone was outside. She'd once almost broken her ankle after rushing from behind a tapestry and over a very tall boy's leg. She could hear voices close by and listened to see if they were coming or going.
"-avoiding me?" Hermione started. It couldn't be.
"No, for goodness sake," a man's voice, familiar and low. Bill's voice trailed off before fading back in. "-to think about."
Fleur did not appear to have moved and was silent for a long moment. Her voice was muffled, but quite close and Hermione was frozen to the spot, unable to move forwards or backwards. "Thinking about what?"
"Look, I heard you!" Bill snapped, plainly audible to Hermione, evidently closer than Fleur. She clamped her hand over her mouth, urging herself to be silent. To not allow her gasps to betray her presence. Of all the damned silly bloody coincidences! She was about to tiptoe away, to give Bill them the privacy they deserved when she heard Fleur's voice, closer now and clearer.
"Heard me?" Fleur said, sounding thoroughly confused.
"Last night. I heard you talking to her," Bill sighed. Hermione's heart thumped in her chest as her mind raced to a terrifying conclusion. Bill had been in the tower when they'd spoken? But what had he heard? She cast her mind back over their conversation and bit her lip. Those last few words exchanged between them could easily have been misconstrued.
"Oh," Fleur said, not her normal, confident self. "I see."
"And maybe you'd be right to go," he sighed. "To leave." Bill's voice sounded hollow and Hermione's heart broke for him.
"No!" Fleur cried, shock apparent. "No!" she repeated, firmly, speaking rapidly. Her accent thickened, betraying her upset. "Do not be ridiculous. I am not going to leave you, you, silly man!"
Hermione's heart sank and as she listened to clothes rustle, she felt tears fill her eyes.
"You can't go," he said, dolefully. "It's not right, Fleur. I know that things are so bloody hard right now but we can't just abandon it all. You can't walk away from this, just because it's hard!"
Fleur was quiet for a long moment. "Though it might be better in the long run," she said, her voice low.
"Oh no! Oh no you don't!" he scolded. "You're not getting off so easily, Fleur. You made promises, didn't you? And it's not going to be easy but you have to try. I've been a fool so far, Fleur." His voice softened. "I've been blind! I didn't see how hard this was for you. I didn't see how much it was hurting you. But I want to make it better. So please, stay. Stay and let me help."
"Bill…" Fleur spoke softly then, too low for Hermione's disbelieving ears to hear.
"I know. I know. It's going to be an uphill struggle but I don't care anymore. I've seen what the alternative is! I've seen it and I don't want it. I want you to… No, I need you. I need you with me."
Fleur laughed shortly. "Do you? What good have I ever done for you, Bill?"
"You made me happy," he said, sincerely. "You gave me hope. If you leave, I'll stumble on but it won't be the same. And I know, though you're too proud to admit it, that you'll regret it! You'll regret it for the rest of your life."
There was a long, pregnant silence and Hermione found herself holding her breath, heart pounding in her chest at what was to come next.
"Bill," Fleur sighed. "Did you really think I'd leave? Honestly?"
Bill let out a long, loud breath of relief. "Well, no. But… Well, I was a bit worried there."
Hermione was trembling, tears rolling over her cheeks. It was strange to realise that one could still hold onto hope, even in the face of incredible adversity. She hadn't realised that despite her rationalisation, there'd still been a spark within her that had been waiting for that moment when she could go to Fleur and open her heart to her. What a fool she'd been! How could she have ever for a moment thought that Fleur would give up her life with Bill?
"I'm still worried," Fleur sighed. "Hermione…"
"Will understand," Bill said, softly. "She's a bright girl. She'll understand."
Fleur laughed, though it was choked. "Will she? Bill…" the rest of Fleur's words were too low for Hermione to hear and her hands weren't steady enough to attempt any kind of spell to amplify her voice.
"It's the funny thing," Bill said, softly but clearly, "about love. When it seems like it's broken or hopeless, you realise that you can't break it. That it won't abandon you to despair. You just have to plough on, do your best."
They were quiet for a long moment before Fleur drew a sobbing breath. "Je t'aime, Bill."
"Love you too."
Hermione stumbled from the tapestry, tripping on her robes and barely catching herself from falling headfirst into the opposite wall. She was gasping for air, tears blurring her vision so badly that she found it difficult to stand up. She leaned against the wall and wrapped her arms around herself, drawing huge, sobbing breaths.
What a stupid, silly, inane little girl she'd been! To have thought that she was special to Fleur. Whatever had been special about her was probably nothing more than the novelty of her! Her chest ached and she drew a handkerchief from her pockets, sobbing into it.
Her mind was in tatters, the library a pile of rubble. She scrambled around, searching for clues that could explain what she'd heard, that could rationalise it all. That would make sense of it all. But the answer was plain before her. Fleur loved Bill and was married to him. She'd slept with Hermione to confer protection upon her and while she was fond of her, would not be leaving her husband any time soon.
It was too much! It was more than she could comprehend. Or rather, it was something that could comprehend but not accept.
But she said she loved me…
She'd been a fool to believe it.
She was ripped from her pit of misery by a rough, cruel grip.
"You little bitch!"
She blinked, disorientated and completely taken aback. Rita Skeeter has grabbed her by the arm, pulling her close to her seething face. She was purple with rage, her teeth bared in an awful snarl.
"You nasty little meddling cow!" she hissed. "Undo it right now or I will ruin you!"
Hermione could do nothing more than gape, her mind completely blank. Pain registered as lime green talons sank into the flesh of her arm and she jerked her arm, attempting to free it.
"Let me go!"
"Not until you get rid of it, you spiteful little trollop!"
"Get rid of what?" Hermione demanded, pulling herself together somewhat. "I have no idea what you're talking about." She reached for her wand but froze when Skeeter shoved the tip of her own into the limited space between them.
"I'll cast the imperius curse on you! I'll make you!"
"You'll do no such thing!"
Both witches froze, Hermione's heart beating faster than it ever had done before. She saw Harry standing with his wand raised and a very cold expression on his face.
"Get out of here," he said. "Let go of Hermione and leave."
Skeeter was still, well-aware that the scrawny young man before her had recently killed the Dark Lord with nothing more than a simple disarming jinx. Hatred boiled in her eyes but she was not a courageous woman. She released her bruising grip on Hermione's arm and took a step back, her eyes fixed on her.
"I'll ruin you," she swore, "I'll drag your name through so much mud that they'll rename the plough. I'll have everyone in this country believe every horrible little rumour about you."
"Shut up!" Harry called.
Skeeter was undeterred, fixing Hermione with a cold and pitiless gaze; hatred and anger boiling there. "You're the most conniving little bitch I've ever met. You're a miserable, sneaky little shit who thinks she's better than everyone else. Mark my words," she vowed, "I'll expose you for the heartless, miserable, loathsome little mudblood-"
"Enough!"
"I will," Skeeter roared, "find your muggle parents and show the whole world what you did to them!"
With that, Harry had clearly had enough and marched forward, shoving Skeeter aside and grabbing Hermione. After all of two steps, she felt a nauseating weakness in her legs and sped forward, dragging Harry after her. She threw them into the first classroom she could find and locked the door.
What just happened?
Her heart was pounding in her ears. Her stomach was sitting in her mouth and her heart was screaming at her. She was dimly aware of Harry coming to her side and she met his bright green eyes, seeing confusion clearly written.
"Hermione, what the bloody hell was that about?"
She closed her eyes, feeling as though she was torn apart. She felt something bubbling in her chest and realised that she wanted nothing more than to scream. She was trembling and sweating, cold and tingling.
When she spoke, it was without fore thought. She surprised herself but knew that it was the only possible course of action available to her.
"Harry, as soon as the funeral's over, I need to go to Australia."
Please don't kill me. If you kill me, you won't find out what happens next.