Chapter Twenty-Nine
Days that are Numbered
For the entirety of six years, I was the center of attention. I was Papa's little princess, Mama's little girl. Every birthday and holiday, I was showered with gifts and treats, kissed and fawned over, allowed to stand alone in the light of my parents' love. I played with Mama every day, helping her cook and dressing myself up in her clothes, dancing with her and playing games, and Papa put me up on a pedestal and treated me like some kind of precious gemstone. They kept me from the cruelty of the world. Voldemort was a distant figure I need not worry about. Being part veela didn't make me any less human- would never turn people against me. The world consisted of me, and anything that branched outward from me, that was it. And so, by the time I was six, I was spoiled rotten and too sheltered for my own good.
And then Mama and Papa told me I would have a baby brother or sister in a little less than six months. I couldn't comprehend it- couldn't appreciate what that meant- and so I figured I would have a sibling that adored me and looked up to me, and it would be wonderful.
But then, with just a few months left until the baby's birth, I went to Papa's study with a broken doll in my hands and said, "Papa, my doll needs to be fixed."
Instead of picking me up and giving me a kiss, and fixing my doll with a wave of his wand, he said, "I'll get to it in a little, Fleur," and he hardly looked up from the writing he was doing.
"Papa," I said again, questioning him weakly, but he didn't look over. I marched over to him and pulled at his sleeve, thrusting my doll at him. "Papa, it's broken!"
"Fleur, please, I have things to do to get ready for the baby," he said, his voice harsh and stern, and he turned away from me with finality.
It shocked me, because he had never used a stern voice with me- had never denied me of anything or used a harsh word with me. And then I realized. It was the baby's fault. This baby wasn't even here yet and already it was taking my parents from me.
I decided then and there that I hated the baby.
My distaste for my sibling only grew when she was born. Everyone suddenly turned from me in favor of the bundle of baby- all glowing pink and gurgles- and it made me physically sick. Did no one care about me? Did I mean so little?
Gabrielle was almost a year old when the aching for more attention grew to be too much. It wasn't like my parents neglected me, but it wasn't like it had been before. And there was something inside of me that was desperate for that never-ending love and adoration. So, while my parents were downstairs, Gabrielle was napping, and her nurse was taking her afternoon tea, I snuck into the nursery.
At first I stood against the far wall, catching glimpses of my still, sleeping sister from the other side of the room, feeling a wretched guilt for sneaking in and watching her. But, as the minutes passed, I crept closer to her, until I was standing beside the crib, looking over the bars and staring at her sweet, deep breathing. And that's when the idea struck me- a way for me to get my parents attention. So, I lowered the bars of the crib like I had seen the nurse do, and I scooped Gabrielle up into my tiny, seven-year-old arms. I was startled by the confused sounds my sister made upon waking up, but I held her to me and she didn't cry, only gurgled and cooed.
Carefully, I moved out of the room, figuring my parents would be in the downstairs drawing room having Sunday brunch. I intended to bring the baby down to them. It would make them smile at me- even for a moment, even because I had brought them the daughter I thought they loved more- and I would feel that glow of love from them once again.
But when I was on the landing, a sudden commotion erupted in the kitchen- my father's dogs knocking over the cook for a piece of steak and tipping over a rack of pots in the process- and the sounds burst through the air like gunshots, so jarring that I fumbled with Gabrielle's heavy body in surprise.
I watched in horror as my sister's flailing body fell to the carpet of the upstairs hall. All sounds seemed to drain from my ears- gone were the dogs barking in the kitchen and the clanging of pots- all I could see and hear was Gabrielle falling to the floor with a distinct thud. And just as the noises in the kitchen began to decrease, Gabrielle began screaming. Her tiny face grew bright red and a small pool of blood seeped through the carpet from a cut on the carpet rollers. The sight of the blood made me freeze. I didn't know what to do, standing over my sister's screaming, bleeding fragile body.
Then, another sound punctured the world around me- my mother's earsplitting scream.
"What did you do?" she yelled, running up the stairs and scooping Gabrielle up in her arms. She looked at her, horrified at the dark liquid matting her soft, golden hair. "What did you do to the baby?"
My father bounded up the stairs next, "What is this?" he demanded, his eyes darting from Mama, to Gabrielle, to me.
"I didn't mean to- I-"
"What do we do?" Mama pleaded of Papa as tears streamed down her face.
Papa led her down the stairs with the baby in her arms, before they descended the stairs he looked back and shot a look at me.
Is she going to die? I wanted to ask. Have I killed my little sister?
But I didn't say a thing.
Of course, Gabrielle was okay. The healers took care of her and she was able to come home within the week, but I was never able to get over it. I was always paranoid of my sister's well-being after that- with this underlying guilt that I had permanently damaged her. I would sometimes just break down into tears as a child because I feared for her so much, even when nothing was wrong.
"Fleur, what is the matter?" my parents would ask, exasperatedly. "Everything's fine."
And they started referring to me as delicate, sensitive, and they treaded carefully around me- afraid the littlest things would set me off. And while I grew out of it- the crying and the gut-wrenching anxiety- my parents still think I'm the delicate one- easily hurt and upset- and I'm still always protective of my sister... to a point where I can get panicked.
Such was the case with Gabrielle being my hostage in the lake. It was more than just the fact that she was held hostage by merpeople at the bottom of a black lake- the whole time I had rapid-fire flashbacks. Seeing my sister's blood on the carpet. Watching my parents leave to take her to the hospital, with me left standing on the landing. Throwing up in the entrance hall right after they left, terrified to a point of sickness, thinking she was going to die and it was all my fault, feeling powerless to do anything about it. Feeling too powerless to save her and make a difference. They were mirror instances- me putting Gabrielle in danger, and being terrified I would lose her.
I'm only grateful my desire to be in this tournament didn't kill her.
Angele and Laure don't let my inability to complete the second task go unappreciated. They congratulate me on my failure, ask me how my pathetic grindylow cuts were, and coo about how brave fourteen year old Harry Potter was to have fetched my sister for me. And while I refuse to dignify their words by reminding them that Harry Potter had defeated the Dark Lord as an infant, and that a water demon had lacerated a major artery, their reminders still get to me. It makes me that much more determined to do the third task well- to utilize this last chance to really prove myself.
So, I begin running around the lake every day before breakfast, pushing myself harder than ever before. And, while I run, I mentally thumb through various charms and spells, cataloguing wrist movements and pronunciations as I breathe in and out through my nose.
Sometimes I run into Viktor. Karkaroff has him training every day, before breakfast and after classes. He swims in the frigid lake, runs, does all kinds of strength exercises, and those are only the things I can see for myself. Sometimes we run together, silent and pensive, thinking our own thoughts while our breathing synchronizes and our steps fall together. And there doesn't have to be any words between us. Just being with Viktor- running alongside him, walking silently back up to the castle- makes me feel less alone, in a way I have never felt with any friend before. He has a way of being there for me, and relying on me, that I have never known before. We talk and joke about being foreign visitors at Hogwarts, discuss tournament mistakes we made, strategies we wish we had used, we comfort each other when we realize how far from home we were. And it's nice.
And several months with Viktor has made up for all those years of being 'friends' with Laure.
I'm just finishing a run around the lake- alone- in early March, when I head back to the castle to get ready and get breakfast. Perched atop a rock on the beach's edge, sits Viktor, and seeing him makes me pause. He's slumped over, his shoulders hunched and his head down, a magazine of some kind in his lap.
Approaching him carefully, I say, "Viktor?"
He looks up and I see the fallen expression on his face.
"Qu'est-ce que c'est?" I ask. "What?"
"Somevun left this for to me to be finding this morning," he says, thrusting the magazine at me without meeting my eyes.
Looking down at it- which turns out to be a glossy and colorful spread called Witch Weekly- I see a photograph of Harry Potter. Knotting my eyebrows, I read the title of an article beside it that reads: Harry Potter's Secret Heartache.
I shake my head. "Viktor, what does-?"
"Read the whole of it," he says.
I do- though I'm sure my translation is very, very rough- and I realize why he is so upset. According to the article, Hermione Granger- one of Harry Potter's friends- has been stringing along both Harry and Viktor. I remember how fondly Viktor talked of her- how excited he was when they were going to the Yule Ball together- and I suddenly want to throw this little wench into the lake by her bushy hair.
"Per'aps eet eez not zee trooz?" I offer, handing him back the magazine.
He shakes his head, rolling the magazine up in his tensing hands. "She is alvays being vith him- she is alvays talking about him."
I frown, "Ask 'eem. Talk to 'Arry and ask 'eem."
"I liked her!" Viktor says angrily, loudly, looking up. I see the hopeless expression in his face and I feel another flash of protectiveness towards him. I want to wring Hermione Granger's neck. "And she is just vanting famous vizards?"
"You know zat not," I remind him.
He lets out a frustrated breath through his nose. "I voz to be thinking that as a fellow champion Harry Potter vould be better than that," he grumbles.
"Talk wiz 'eem, Viktor," I command. "Tell 'eem 'ee eez wrong."
Viktor looks skeptical, and he stares at the pebbly beach.
"Is it bothering you?" he asks suddenly, looking up at me.
I knit my eyebrows together and shake my head. "Quoi?"
"Cedric," he says. "Vith that Hogvarts girl."
It's like being punched in the stomach, the reminder and the frankness with which he says it- the image of Cedric and Cho holding hands in the corridors- and I swallow, shaking my hair out behind me.
"Some of ze time," I reply, trying to keep my voice from biting.
Viktor frowns. "I am sorry, Fleur."
Clearing my throat, I shake ny head once more and wave away his words. "D'accord. Eet eez nuzzing."
He looks at me sadly, and I almost think he wants to say something more, but I'm not sure if I want to let him.
"We go take le petit dejeuner, yes?" I offer, before he can say anything further, and I set off toward the castle. After a beat, Viktor is at my side, the magazine still clutched angrily in his hand.
A week or so after Viktor shows me the article in Witch Weekly, my Muggle Studies class is canceled. It's the same time as Cedric's free period, so we meet by Franz Lichsten the Intolerable and escape into our favorite hidden passageways once more.
"What do you zink ze final task will be?" I ask Cedric as we climb an iron staircase and come out onto a hidden landing, lined with dusty old tapestries.
Cedric takes my hand in his as we continue walking, and he says, "Don't know. Don't care right now."
I look at him in surprise.
"We just finished the second task," he explains, laughing a little. "I don't want to even think about the third one for a good couple of weeks."
This is true. After the stress that the second task brought on, it's nice to not have anything to worry about until June. But, I'm not so nervous about the third task as I am excited right now. The third task is my final chance to prove myself- to win this tournament and show everyone what I'm really made of. And while that scared me before, I'm looking forward to it now.
"Peut-etre eet weel be tunnels," I say, looking around at the hidden passageway around us. "Comme- uh- comme- like ze catacombs en France."
Cedric turns to me and smiles.
"Quoi?" I counter. "C'est possible! Peut-etre zey weel 'ave us look for treasure or somezing."
Laughing some more, Cedric grabs me around the waist and backs me up against the nearest tapestried wall. "C'est possible," he whispers, and the look on his face- the tone of his voice- sends shivers down my spine.
"Cedric..."
He bends down slowly and kisses me hard, making my breath catch in my throat without warning.
"You're beautiful," he says a moment later, when he finally pulls away.
I kiss him again, quickly, and say, "Je t'aime."
"Je t'aime," he agrees, and cups my face in his warm hands, pulling my lips to his once more.
And as he's kissing me- applying the most delicious pressure to my lips- I have a horrible thought. I don't think of Cho Chang or his feelings for her, I don't think of the Tournament or the fact that we're competitors, I don't even think about our relationship being secret. No, the thought that runs through my mind- that makes me very nearly pull away from Cedric right away- is about the future, the world following the Tournament.
What will happen when I go back to France? Will I ever see Cedric again? Will he want to see me? Or is he planning on sending me off, knowing full-well that I was just a short-time thing? Will he stay here, in Britain, and find a life here for himself- with Cho? Are my days with Cedric numbered?
And while I long to ask him, I don't want to hear the answer. How likely is it that we will be able to continue our relationship after this year?
I can just imagine the look on his face- the sorry expression that he'd wear as he let me down gently.
Fleur, I thought you understood this was just a fling while you were here...
It makes me pull away from him abruptly and turn to the wall.
"Fleur?" he says, sounding concerned.
Be reasonable, Fleur, I tell myself.
Breathing deeply, and pulling up every ounce of Veela strength I have, I say, "Eet eez nuzzing- Dust."
And I manage to kiss him again, as if nothing is wrong at all.
