AN: I acknowledge that this is not the most light hearted chapter to phrase it light. I tried to realistically as possible depict the cruel cycles we sometimes allow our minds to get trapped in when we are struggling with something tough. This is something I believe we have all experienced before or seen other people experience and it is not always the easiest to break free from despite how much love and support we receive. Bearing that in mind, I hope you enjoy the second to last chapter. Thank you for reading so patiently.
Ch. 36: Bruised.
Just as she had done countless times since waking up, Fleur reached up and tentatively touched her face, finding the exact location just below her eye where the bruise was forming. As so many times before, she pressed slightly at first and then with more and more pressure until she could no longer withstand the pain. She did not repeat this action because she believed or expected a different outcome. No. She knew full well it was going to hurt; she knew how and why. Nor was it about endurance.
It was about what it, the bruise, the pain meant. They were all that she felt she had left. A parting gift from her lover, a reminder. A remainder. And touching it, testing it was the only thing she could think to do. Could manage to do. She focused on the tangible pain because she did not know how to fix what happened the night before.
The truth was that Fleur did not know exactly what happened the night before. She knew that she had gone too far, that Hermione had said stop and wait and no. That Hermione had said no repeatedly. But what Fleur did not know is why she only heard, only registered her girlfriend's words in hindsight. And what had caused the shift into veela form? (Heightened emotions, a physical overload after so long being repressed.)
The unwelcome and uncontrolled change in her body, frightened her. Even more so than her body's sudden rapid deterioration. The growing weakness, that, at least, she could understand. But the now obvious fact that she could not control her veela form?
No.
It wasn't safe. She could not control herself and therefore was not to be trusted. This much was clear, Fleur knew.
Fleur knew that this too was another thing that could be traced back down to her inherent weakness. It went far past her dependency on potions to survive, how she bruised easily, or the constant exhaustion. The weakness she understood within herself surpassed mere physicality. It lived not within her muscles, but within her heart, deep in the thick (or thin) of her. Deep inside she always knew that she could never be the perfection people believed her to be.
Her life was ripe with examples of this unpleasant truth. The Triwizard Tournament when she had performed so poorly and failed to even save her little sister. Her little sister who looked up to her, who idolized her, who should have never forgave Fleur but did so readily, so earnestly that it broke Fleur's heart. And then the years wasted devising reasons, rationalizations to avoid Hermione, denying the truth of the situation, trying to solve matters on her own. Not to mention her half-hearted seduction of Bill Weasley that never went anywhere. Or her inability to tell Hermione everything, anything right away for no real reason except for her own fear. All it, examples of her weakness.
It frightened her, how much she wanted, needed, craved, desired, longed for, and loved Hermione Jean Granger. Part of her wondered if this veela form of love was healthy. Couldn't there be some safer, more equal way to love? And did she truly love Hermione or was it some idea of Hermione, some image—similar to the faux-infatuation people felt under her thrall?
And so she ran away. Telling herself Hermione wasn't ready when really it was Fleur all along who wasn't ready. Who couldn't accept herself or her love.
But she was right, wasn't she, to run away? Even if she did so for the wrong reason, the fact remained that she couldn't control the veela within her. Though why control eluded remained a painful mystery. Perhaps she was too diluted with human blood (with doubt and insecurities). Where was it when she needed it during the Tournament, in the maze or at the bottom of the lake? Even as a human, Harry Potter, a fourteen year old wizard, was able to save Gabrielle when Fleur, part veela and three years his elder, could not. And was it not her strength, her power as a veela that was supposed to entice, to lure in a lover? And was it not exactly those parts of her that began to recede, to slip away the minute she fell in love and needed them the most? What did she have to offer Hermione, besides her weakening body and her insecurities? (Oh, the fickle veela.) Even her beauty, in a way, was an illusion. A glamour concealing the monster, the veela that only came out seemingly to strike disaster in Fleur's human life.
Last night. The shock, the horror etched into Hermione's face, the footsteps echoing, the slamming of the door…
Had Fleur ever truly deserved Hermione?
She brought her hand back up to her face and pressed, harder this time, pushing back the tears but only causing more to come to the surface. And she knew as one knew so many things when twisted with fear and doubt that she had failed.
"By your age most people have learned that touching a bruise only makes it hurt more. If I didn't know any better, luv, I'd say you rather liked the pain," Rosmerta appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, face covered in worry, breaking Fleur's train of thought.
"Rosmerta," Fleur swallowed in surprise, struggled to sit up higher in bed, her arms trembling a bit under her own weight. Perhaps she didn't have the strength or the awareness (or the care), but Fleur did nothing to fix her slightly astray nightgown. "What a… surprise. And so early."
"Fleur it's nearly two. I thought you would be teaching by now. Or at all today."
Fleur looked out the window, avoiding her gaze. "Stalking me, are we, Rosmerta? I had thought you mostly immune to my thrall. All this time, you hid it so well."
"Worried actually, luv. I just received an owl from your girlfriend about how you didn't show up to morning classes. She said you weren't in the hospital wing and not responding to any forms of communication. She sounded well frantic." Rosmerta crossed into the room. "Is everything alright?"
Fleur crossed her arms and continued to stare out the window. "I am taking a personal day." There was nothing to say beyond her poor excuse. She wanted Rosmerta to leave but hoped that the astute woman would pick it up on her own.
"Fleur, she didn't tell me much but she told me you had a bit of a… miscommunication last night." As Rosmerta spoke, Fleur seemed to almost choke on the sound of her friend's words. "Fleur, you should talk to her. She's desperately trying to get a hold of you." Rosmerta pulled up a chair by Fleur's bedside. "Whatever happened last night can be—"
"No. It cannot." Fleur's tone expressed a harsh finality that startled even herself. Fleur knew what happened last night was something she could never allow to happen again. But as she could not guarantee or trust herself to prevent it from happening again, this was the only solution she could find. She didn't know how else. But, even so, as she continued to speak there was a wavering, a trembling in her voice just below the finality. "There is… no getting past it. It is over." And while she had this thought countless times since that morning, it was first time she had said it out loud and it nearly crushed her.
"Over?" Rosmerta struggled, the French woman's words, her tone taking her completely by surprise.
Fleur fought to control her voice, to push down the emotions grasping, clawing at the edges of her, to ignore the overall sense of loss consuming her. "There is nothing to be done. I'm not strong enough." The last bit near a whisper, spoken towards her own left shoulder, resting just above her heart.
"Look, I don't know what happened between you two last night, but it can be worked out. She wants to work it out, to try at least."
"Perhaps I do not want to try, Rosmerta. Perhaps I am too tired, too exhausted from it all. Did anyone ever consider that?" Fleur sighed, shaking her head, fighting back her rising frustration. Why must Rosmerta push her? Didn't she realize that Fleur was doing the right thing and didn't she realize how hard it was? "She deserves better."
"So what if she does? She loves you. She wants you. And I think she has a say in the matter. She deserves that at least."
"She will get over me." And even the idea of that was crushing.
"No. She won't. Fleur, don't be a fool. Just because we're human and don't have a magical biology predisposing us towards some epic and all consuming love doesn't mean we can't love just as strongly as you. Don't you dare think that because we can and we do. We do every day. So don't you ever underestimate her love for you." Rosmerta exhaled, slowly trying to calm herself. "Maybe it's easier for you to think otherwise right now but it's complete bollocks. And you know it."
"She should not love a…" Fleur struggled with the words, swallowing the truth back down her vocal chords. As often as she had said it in her mind, she could not quite bring the words to life out in the air. She had said too much already.
"Fleur…" Rosmerta's tone softened and she reached out to touch Fleur's shoulder. Fleur jerked away from the touch violently.
"This bruise… She had to hit me before I stopped." Fleur's breath hitched, the memory coming back to her. Her eyes glazed over distantly as she spoke, her hand instinctually gravitating back up towards her face, towards the bruise. For a moment she paused, recovering, coming back into herself, finding some ounce of composure. "She will move on. I trust that in her. She's strong. And loving. She will find happiness. She deserves that." Rosmerta opened her mouth to respond, but the words seemed stuck on her tongue and before she could dislodge them, Fleur continued, "But no one finds happiness with a monster. And that is exactly what I am." And as if that was all she had left to say, Fleur rolled over onto her side away from Rosmerta.
"Sometimes I wonder if you enjoy being impossible." Rosmerta groaned as she stood up, taking the not so subtle hint that the conversation was over. "Look, please take care of yourself. luv. I don't know what happened last night or what is going on with you but… promise me that you'll take care of yourself." And when Fleur did not respond, Rosmerta sighed. "I am going to take your silence as a promise unless you say otherwise."
Fleur waved her hand, waving goodbye to her friend. The barmaid could interpret matters however she chose, but it did not change the truth of the situation. Rosmerta stood there for a few moments longer before finally walking out of the room, leaving Fleur alone in the deafening silence of her own misery.
Once alone Fleur slid her hand underneath her pillow. Hermione's pillow, infused with the smell of the brunette's shampoo, had been pushed to the floor long ago where it was supposed to lie forgotten, but remained constantly remembered. The spot, the 'this was where Hermione's pillow once was' haunted her even in her sleep when she would reach out to find a warmth and comfort that was no longer lying beside her.
Under her own pillow lay the small piece of Hermione's shirt along with the charmed piece of parchment—one of the last connections, along with her bruise, she held to her (ex) lover. While she had meant solely to retrieve the cloth, her fingers brushed up against the parchment. It warmed to her touch, alerting her that Hermione was once again trying to contact her. Until that morning, the sensation had always a brought a smile to Fleur's face, an eager anticipation over what the girl had written her. But now… Fleur did not know if she could face Hermione. If she could read what Hermione had to say.
For what if Hermione hated her? What if her words were laced with rage and pain? Or worse: what if Rosmerta was right? What if Hermione still loved her? Fleur knew she would not stand on her resolve if this was so. No matter what, even if Fleur would not survive, Hermione would. And that was the important part, right?
The parchment warmed to her touch again and Fleur pulled it out from under her pillow. For a moment, she was tempted to open it—her weakness coming to the surface again. Her fingers traced along the edges, the folds as she eyed it guardedly. Again and again, it warmed. And she realized that, no longer in the heat of the moment, she was unable to destroy it even if she had no intention of reading it. In the end she placed it in her nightstand's drawer with firm resolve. Out of sight, out of mind. (Like the pillow, like the half of the bed that still smelled like Hermione's shampoo.) It would be better that way. And then, before reaching back under her pillow for the last shred of Hermione, Fleur found her wand and checked the barriers she had placed around her home the night before. It had drained most of her energy to create the person-specific barrier, but at least now Hermione was safe from her. And that was what mattered, after all.
Fleur fell asleep, cradling her body around her fist that tightly gripped the piece of cloth. Unconsciousness seemed so much easier than being awake. But the dreams, the nightmares, remained.
When Fleur awoke, her father was sitting at the edge of her bed, smiling sadly as he tucked a stray hair behind her ear. Fleur silently regarded him, surprised at his sudden arrival but mostly ashamed. There was some part of her that had always let herself believe that her parents could make everything better, that they were infallible and could save her in the end if need be. But now she was faced with the realization that this was not actually true—they could not save her. And worse, she had failed them, like she had failed so many others. However her father, he looked down at her with such loving, understanding eyes. It was almost too much for Fleur to bear.
"Papa, I…" How did they know to come? It had to have been the same as with Rosmerta: Hermione.
"Sssh. Save your strength. I did not mean to wake you. Your mother and sister are downstairs getting settled. Apolline, I believe, is trying to remember how to make soup and your sister is pretending to help." Oh Merlin, Gabrielle was here too… "Should I bring some up for you when it is done?" He spoke softly. And Fleur wondered why he was not enraged, frustrated, disappointed. She wondered how he could still love her, look her in the eye, how he could still use that loving tone he had used with all her all those years ago when she was still innocent, when she had not yet fallen prey to her own weakness.
But then maybe he didn't know the truth of the situation. What had Hermione told them exactly?
"I…" Fleur opened her mouth, wishing to protest, to understand, to say something but failing. Shocked, unable to handle the kindness, the warmth of the situation at hand.
"I am not taking no for an answer," Tristan's tone was still loving, but there was that undertone of finality. It was rare for the man to insist on something, but when he did, despite his warmth and love, or perhaps in a way because of it, he was not a man to be easily refused. "You need your strength. The nurse, Madame Pomfrey I believe, will be down in an hour or so to check up on your condition. This is also not an option."
Fleur opened her mouth but quickly closed it. She looked down, unable to say what was hanging in the air in front of them. Her condition was past questionable. She was past check ups. Past potions. She knew this and she was sure they knew as well. But for the moment it seemed that they were going to pretend that they didn't know. Who was it for, at this point, this game of pretend? Fleur was not sure she had the strength to keep this for much longer, but for their sake she would try.
"We love you very much," he sighed and stood up. "Now, please, excuse me for waking you. I know you need your sleep and that you must be incredibly exhausted. I merely wanted to let you know we were here. We can talk, when your strength is up. If you want." And then he left the room closing the door gently behind him.
Despite her attempts, her eyes soon closed to the familiar yet strange noises of her family rustling downstairs. What were they doing downstairs in her house (their house)? In the moments before sleep overtook her, Fleur remembered the kitchen, destroyed. Littered with overturned table and chairs. Broken dishes. The spilled tea had no doubt dried by now, staining the floorboards and leaving behind soggy crumbs that would now cling stubbornly to the floor. What had they thought upon seeing the kitchen, the burnt book in the fireplace? (Part of her realized Hermione would be enraged upon learning that Fleur had destroyed Hogwarts, A History. However it wasn't the brunette's only copy. This copy, she had explained, had been her back up. A back up in case of what, Fleur had always wanted to know but never asked. Perhaps now she did.)
It was still light outside her window when her father placed a warm bowl of soup in front of her and woke up her with a kiss on her forehead. The smell of food wafting up nearly nauseated her. Under her father's watchful eye, Fleur sipped the soup more for his well being than her own. She wished he did not have to see her like this, bruised, ashamed, hands trembling under the weight of the spoon. No sooner had the soup been finished—an exhausting task in itself—than Tristan stood up, taking the bowl with him, and led Pomfrey in. Tristan excused himself to give his daughter privacy.
And this is where Fleur lost her hold on her good behavior.
She was exhausted in ways she had never experienced before and in her tiredness she only wanted to be left alone. She had conceded to her family, to her father's sad warmth, yes. But to be poked and prodded at with eternally cold hands, to suffer under the disapproving, worried eyes, when they all knew that it would no longer do any good? Could she not have dignity? They must know what monstrosity she had committed, they must, and still, and yet… why?
At the end of the examination, which she suffered through with stubborn indigence, not allowing herself to slip into the normal well-practiced routine of before, she felt the familiar weight of the potion in her hand. Even before she brought it to her lips she knew what it would taste like. She could recall it all so clearly it did not even feel like a memory, how it would feel in her mouth, how it would coat her throat and teeth. The chalky aftertaste. And she did not want that taste in her mouth. Hesitating centimeters from her lips, she brought the vial down and regarded it for a moment longer before shaking her head slowly. No. She never wanted to taste this form of weakness ever again. Even if ever again was a week at best. A week without potions, it seemed so glorious, so lovely, so refreshing. Perhaps there was some silver lining to admitting defeat and failure in the only thing that truly mattered.
Pomfrey did not have time to react before Fleur flung the vial weakly. As most of Fleur's physical strength had dwindled, it did not make it across the room nor did it not shatter on impact like she had hoped. Instead it flew in a lazy arc leading a trail of liquid before landing on its side and spilling the rest of the contents on the carpet. The anti-climatic result was followed by the smell of the potion slowly began to fill the room.
"Fleur!" Pomfrey gasped.
"The potion is lacking in point. I do not have time for useless actions," Fleur stated simply. "I do not have time, period."
"Fleur, this is utterly ridiculous!"
Fleur shook her head, taking a motherly tone in response to Pomfrey's more frantic. "Let us not delude ourselves now."
"I don't know what is going on with you. And I don't know what barriers you've put up around the house preventing—"
"Please," her tone was holding a desperate pleading. "Let me have my choice in this. I demand dignity."
"Dignity? This is dignity? You call being more melodramatic than a teenager dignified?"
Fleur glared at the woman before sighing in exhaustion. "Please, Pomfrey. I do not have enough strength as it is. This game of pretend will only render matters worse." Fleur exhaled slowly, gaining comfort in her new resolution. "You have done all that you can and I am thankful for that. But now I kindly request that you leave my bedroom."
"At least talk to her, for Merlin's sake!"
"I thank you deeply and sincerely for your efforts and your professional opinion. Doctor's orders, I imagine, hm? However it is to my own regret that I was not, am not a better patient. Now please. I would escort you out myself, however I seem to be lacking in the ability to stand currently. Please forgive my rudeness and show yourself out."
Pomfrey opened her mouth only to close it. "Fleur. This isn't as hopeless as you make it out to be. You can still—"
"Good bye Pomfrey." Fleur rolled over on to her side away from the older woman. This was all she could do, lacking the ability to stand up and walk away. Somewhere she knew that this was not how she wished to leave it with the older woman but she only wanted the conversation to end. And when Pomfrey finally left, Fleur was granted a momentary, shallow relief.
Fleur awoke to the morning light shining in through the window. She felt a familiar weight and the warmth of a familiar hand on top of her own. By the time her eyes fully opened, her entire world came crashing down on her yet again. The sick feeling returned to her heart, her stomach. Her dry mouth, her exhausted muscles. In the groggy haze of the morning, she had thought it was Hermione. But even before her eyes fully opened, she knew that this was not true.
Even if Hermione had truly forgiven her, there was no getting past the barriers around her house. Protection spells and barriers had always been Fleur's specialty, a skill she had only refined after spending a year observing and studying the goblins at Gringotts. And it would undoubtedly take days to discover the source, the remedy for her type of magic, even for someone of Hermione's immense ability and knowledge.
Her sat on a chair besides her, slumped over partly onto the bed and snored lightly in her sleep (though the older woman would never admit it if Fleur ever brought it up).
"Mother?" Fleur spoke quietly as if afraid to actually wake the other woman. Since her family's arrival yesterday, she had only seen her father. Her mother and her sister seemingly avoiding her and Fleur couldn't blame them. She'd avoid herself if she had the chance. But how long had she been there, the entire night?
"Fleur," Apolline lifted her head, awake and regarding her daughter cautiously as she sat up.
In that moment Apolline seemed much older. Wrinkles never before noticed seemed to line her face far past the age of her own mother Agnes. The two women were silent, unsure of what to say. A strange, unspoken tension filled the room. Fleur could easily read the worry, the fear, the anxiety etched deeply in her mother's face and felt immediately ashamed for causing it. Her mother didn't deserve this. Neither did Tristan or Gabrielle. (Or Hermione.) She knew this. She just didn't know how to fix it, she didn't know if she had it in her.
"I thought you were," her mother began and then corrected herself. "I thought you would…"
"Would what?" Fleur sat up, herself, adjusting her body, her clothes to the best of her ability. "Be smarter than this? Be better, maybe, or stronger?" There was bitterness, a defensive quality in her tone that startled even her. "What did you think, Mother?"
Apolline looked away, biting her lip and swallowing back something. Fleur instantly regretted causing that reaction in her mother. "I was—I am worried about you."
"I was sleeping, Mother. I do it nearly every night and have been for twenty years," Fleur exhaled. "I do not think there is much to worry about in that regard."
"Anuk," Apolline started, her breath hitching.
Fleur opened and closed her mouth, holding back a myriad, a flood, a deluge of comments that should never pass her lips before finally settling on, "May she rest in peace."
"Died in her sleep," Apolline stood up, straightening her skirt slightly. "I am going to make breakfast. That is, if you haven't smashed all the breakfast utensils as well. I admit that I did not check the extensiveness of the damage you caused in your apparent tantrum as I was too busy cleaning up after it. Honestly, I had always thought you liked that tea set." And with that, she left the room, not waiting for a reply.
Fleur could hear movements and shuffling in the kitchen. Soon she could make out her father's and sister's voices. But through the floor, she could not make out distinct words. Fleur strained as she heard another voice and followed by another, one male and one female, both familiar and distinguished, but before she could fully make out their voices she drifted back asleep. And when she woke, it was once again silent downstairs.
Tentatively, Fleur once again pressed her fingers against the bruise, trying to see if it was still there. And then, upon establishing through the pain that yes, it was still there, she slowly, carefully began exploring her face, trying to determine, to map out its exact size and shape. But no matter how hard she pressed, she could not get a clear sense of the bruise except that it hurt and that half her face was now sore from her ministrations. She wanted, longed to see her bruise clearly, how it inhabited her face, how it marred her features.
But she had no mirror by her bed—why would she when she had a full length mirror in her closest door? After all, she was never as vain as many supposed. However now, with the closest door closed, it posed a problem. But her bedroom was not large after all and surely the distance between her bed and her closet was still surmountable.
Fleur sat up, carefully plotting a way from here to there. If she was careful there would only be a few steps she would have to take unaided. She was still strong enough to manage that surely. And maybe, since she would already be at her closet, she could find a change of clothes. It had been two days after all. Clean clothes seemed a marvel, but she could not quite concede to the idea of letting someone else dress her. At least not yet.
She pulled herself out from underneath her duvet and slid herself down to the edge of the bed. Resting heavily on the banister of her bed frame, Fleur pulled herself up into a standing position. Her legs trembled underneath the weight and she felt slightly lightheaded. She closed her eyes and waited for it to pass as she clung tightly to her bed, trying to keep her mind blank. When her eyes opened, it was with a strengthened resolve.
She would make it to the closest.
Her hand remained on the post for support as she took two small, tentative steps. She felt the carpet underneath her toes with quiet pleasure. Removing her hand, she took the few steps unaided, her legs shaking more and more with each step. She practically lunged for the closest door, and leaned up against it for support, catching her breath, before pushing it open, the mirror exposed. This action nearly knocking herself off balance, but she recovered before pulling herself in front of the mirror.
And what she saw, she wished she hadn't. Her face, while not dominated by the bruise… A dark black eye, clothing askew, hair a tangled mess, greatly in need of a shower. Eyes puffy, she did not remember crying but looking back, she was sure she had. (How could she have not?) If possible it appeared as if she had lost more weight. Always on the skinny side, her bones no longer seemed shy about revealing themselves, jutting out brashly and seemingly resenting her sickly pale skin for containing them.
And what she saw caused her to slide down to her knees, to knock the wind out of her, to knock her off balance. To the ground. Staring transfixed at what she had let herself become. Never had the phrase looking like death felt so fitting. Desperately she tugged at a few clothes hanging in the closest, the action a distraction. They fell down by the fistfuls until she was panting and most of her closet was bare. She began shifting, tearing through the piles of clothes trying to find something to cover herself up in, something clean, something decent. Finally settling on a garment, she ripped her old one off with trembling fingers and struggled to shimmy into the new nightgown. The buttons lent focus to her life, gave purpose to her shaking fingers.
Once clothed, a harder task than she had anticipated, Fleur was faced with returning to bed. And this was when Fleur learned that even the proud must crawl back to their beds sometimes.
She was leaning up against the bed frame, catching her ragged breath before figuring out how to pull herself back into bed, when the door opened. Expecting her Mother with breakfast, she was surprised to see Parvati.
"Fleur, I…" Parvati started, her eyes betraying her shock and surprise. And knowing what she knew now, not just about her actions but her appearance, Fleur knew why and could barely blame her. (But blame herself, Fleur could.)
"Parvati," Fleur tried to smile, trying to hide her bruised face with her hair. "What a surprise. Do you not have class? My class actually?"
"Didn't seem like much use when not even the professor bothered to show up." The girl shrugged. "Snape has been substituting for you, at least he did yesterday. But today it's a free period to study for the NEWTs," Parvati's eyes danced back and forth from Fleur, not sure if it was ok to look at her, not comfortable with what she saw when she did.
"Seems like a good use of time," Fleur stated, trying to seem some semblance of fine but knowing full well she looked otherwise. "They are coming up, are they not, and not the easiest of tests if I remember accurately."
"Fleur, are you… are you alright? Hermione said…"
"Hermione said what?"
"She told us, me and Lav, what happened."
Fleur looked away, biting her lip, accidentally showing the full bruise to Parvati. "Then why are you here, if you know?"
"Look, Fleur, she said—"
"Parvati," Fleur interrupted. "If you are here solely as her messenger then…" She shook her head. "It was, I am unforgivable in my actions. I know this. Please, I just want some peace."
"I'm not, I swear. She doesn't even know I'm here. I came to see you. On my own."
"I wish you had not," Fleur spoke quietly, instantly regretting her words the moment she saw the hurt strike across the younger girl's face. "This is not the state I prefer to receive visitors."
"How… how are you?" Parvati took a step into the room.
"Not well," Fleur leaned her head back, her eyes roaming upwards towards the ceiling. "I have been not well for some time, as I am sure you are aware. And I am mostly out of time." But before Parvati could respond, she smiled softly with a pained sadness. And this smile, for whatever reason, whisked the words from Parvati. And it was not the silence Fleur had been hoping for, but it was silence just the same.
Torn, Fleur wanted to get back into bed, into her comfort zone, but she knew doing so would be a struggle, something she did not want the other girl to see. But did not sitting on the floor draped at the edge of one's bed also appear odd and unequally unsettling? Finally, her need to return to bed won. She struggled, shakily, grasping at the frame, the sheets, what strength she had left to pull herself up and on to her bed.
Silently Parvati crossed the room and with a warm, steady hand helped Fleur to stand. An unspoken trust and understanding passed between them. Fleur was suddenly overcome with feeling grateful for the chance to become Parvati's friend and saddened that the friendship would apparently be so short-lived.
Short-lived like her.
Still leaning heavily against the younger girl, Fleur took the step needed to make it to the bed before allowing herself to slide as gracefully as possible back down onto her bed. (Which was not graceful in the slightest.) Maneuvering her body underneath the duvet, Fleur watched as Parvati pulled the duvet back over her.
"Is there anything I can…" Parvati started.
"No, thank you. Despite this awful state… I am happy you came." Fleur patted the bed beside her. "Please, sit. I apologize if I… am less than presentable. Showering has been a bit difficult." She smiled embarrassed.
Parvati nodded before sitting down. "I can't stay long. I have Transfiguration next and McGonagall is a stickler about tardiness, especially with Gryffindors. But I was worried. We all are."
To this Fleur nodded and the two friends returned to silence, unsure of what to say next.
"Your sister is sitting outside, but she won't come in," Parvati started. "She doesn't seem the most friendly…"
"I know she is. I doubt she will come in, at least not until… It is something she does. She did it after the tournament as well. I did not return to my country in the most favorable condition, I am afraid. Perhaps a bit similar to this." But not so similar. Now was worse, far worse. "She is actually a rather sweet girl when you get past the bravado and pride."
"Similar to you then." Parvati nodded gravely. "What happened with Hermione?" The question jumped from Parvati's lips abruptly, as if she had been thinking it but had promised, had been trying her best to not actually ask it.
Fleur slowly inhaled and exhaled, showing no sign of wishing to speak.
"I mean, I know what happened. Hermione told us. I meant more like, why. You see, look, I know you probably don't want to hear it but Luna has this theory."
"Luna?" Fleur looked at Parvati, her tone sounding just as surprised and confused as she felt. Was Wednesday night common knowledge to the entire school?
"She thinks that it's linked to your withdrawal from that elixir you were taking."
"The Nun's Potion." Fleur corrected, mildly horrified.
"Exactly. She supposes that even though you were only taking it for a short time, in your weakened state, well, considering your condition… Hermione said that you were experiencing some withdrawal symptoms earlier. And Luna thinks that what happened was part of that."
Fleur reddened. How much of her private life with Hermione had been actually private?
"We're her friends, Fleur. She doesn't tell us everything, but it helps, you know, to talk to someone, especially after… She was in a right state when she came back the other night. You can't keep that stuff in, you know. And we wouldn't let her. Anyway, Luna said that sometimes withdrawal causes a rebound so that whatever symptoms you were trying to treat temporarily actually come back worse than before. More heightened I think she said. And since you were taking the Nun's Potion to, well, curb your desires, it sort of makes sense that that happened, you know?" Parvati started out slowly, her words picking up speed and nervousness, before finally reaching to a halt.
Fleur opened her mouth to respond and found that there were no words.
"Fleur, she's not mad. But she's worried. We are all."
"I…" Fleur opened her mouth to protest, but even found herself wavering slightly. Was it really just part of her withdrawal? But blaming her actions on the Nun's Potion would only be avoiding taking responsibilities for her own actions. (Forcing her self to realize the serious consequences of her poor decision.)
"Look, Fleur, she loves you. She loves you a lot. She's hasn't gone to class since… she's barely eaten, and I doubt she's been sleeping. All she does is try to get in touch with you. And she won't leave the library until they kick her out. I think she borrowed Harry's cloak last night though and returned when no one was there. She says you put this barrier around the house, she can't figure it out but she's trying. She won't stop trying. She needs to see you. Please, Fleur."
After Parvati left, Fleur was lost to her thoughts with her decision and resolve shaken. But she was not left alone long before the door handle turned, the nauseating smell of breakfast already wafting in ahead of her mother. Quickly Fleur closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep.
"Fleur," her Mother whispered softly.
Feigning slowly awaking, Fleur peeked her eye open to see that the breakfast tray perched on her nightstand and her mother once again sitting by her bedside.
"Mother," Fleur tried to smile, tried to perch herself up. Her arms trembled though and before she could protest, Apolline helped to prop a pillow behind her to help her remain upright. "I go months at a time without seeing you and then, behold my luck, I wake up twice this morning and both times to your face." She tried to remain cheery and pleasant, the stubborn pride of the sick. (The stubborn pride of Fleur.)
"Can you eat?" Apolline motioned her head to the tray of food. Fleur regarded it with hesitation. "Towards the end, Anuk was not…"
"Mother," Fleur forced a smile. "A few minutes, perhaps, to wake up."
Apolline reached for the second cup on the tray and blew on it, quietly watchful on her firstborn. "Fleur, what happened?" Apolline spoke after a moment. "Hermione was vague, at best, in her owl. Which frankly is quite frightening in itself."
Fleur rolled her head away, not sure what to say. The truth, would it really help at a time like this? Weren't they past the truth? "I did not hear her." As she spoke, Fleur reached up again and gently pressed the bruise on her face. It was tender, more so than she remembered. But then everything was starting to become hazy around the edges.
"Fleur," Apolline placed her teacup down with a click and exhaled. There was a large strain to her voice as if she did not know what to say or where to begin, as if every syllable, every second was painful to her. Her words shifted into Veela as the pain became unbearable to Fleur's ears. It was from watching her mother, after all, where Fleur learned to smile dazzling, winningly no matter the situation. But now her mother's words sounded as if they verged on breaking in half. Her composure gone. And it was Fleur who had done to that to her, who had brought her mother to such a state.
"I have been trying so hard to figure out how…" Apolline exhaled. "It feels like before, like yesterday, sitting here, literally waiting and hoping as Anuk, and now you… I cannot comprehend how this happens. Laurent, perhaps, the war… but not now. Fleur. How is it happening now? What happened? You have a bruise on your face, a barrier around the house specifically geared towards Hermione. I never thought her to be like Laurent, she seemed so sweet but I suppose so did he at first. If she hurt you or abused the ritual in any way…"
"No, Mother," Fleur responded in French. "I hurt her. I abused the ritual. I shifted, I failed to hear, I went too… I am protecting her. From me."
For a moment, Apolline was silent, her face churning through several levels of confusion. "But…" Apolline struggled. "From you? When I saw her, she seemed… What did, what are you talking about?"
"I shifted, the other night, when we were together," Fleur dropped her gaze, unable to look at her mother in the eyes she spoke. "I did not hear her when she said wait, when she said no. I lost control. I… She had to hit me to…"
Apolline's face contorted with fear that clearly wrote over the worry, a fear marked with a great level of displeasure, sadness. And when she spoke, it was again in Veela, anger and frustration crackling through her words. "I do not understand you. Have I failed so much as a Mother that you would do this?" Fleur opened her mouth, but Apolline shot her a look. "Are you really that ashamed of being a veela that this would happen?"
Fleur bit her lip and looked down, not sure how to respond, whatever she had been planning to say was now lost.
"Please tell me, Fleur, how has your courtship ritual become this difficult? What delicate complications are we not seeing?" The hurt and anger suddenly burst forth, cascading down Fleur's ear. Her words almost begging despite it all. "Anuk died, Fleur. She's dead. She's dead because Laurent was an abusive… constantly almost completing the ritual and then… I lost my sister because of the war and what it does to people. And my ritual?" Fleur opened her mouth again. "No. You let me finish. Tristan was with Isabelle. There was a war. That weakness you have been feeling? I felt it too. But you have only felt it while running through a maze, not running through a battlefield. I am truly sorry that you could not save your sister in the Second Task. I know how much that still tears you up inside. But what you fail to acknowledge is that no matter how that Diggory boy was killed, it was a game. In the end it was all just game. A horrible, inhumane game. But this is no game, Fleur. This is your life you're throwing away and I don't understand… I cannot understand why you are doing this. You are infuriating to watch, you know that?"
Fleur gripped the sheets in her hand, the piece of Hermione's shirt balled up in her fist, resigned to her mother's words.
"Fleur, I do not understand. I just do not understand." Apolline's words, her desperation taking a softer edge. "Here, you have a beautiful, wonderful woman who loves you, who wants to be with you despite how exhaustingly impossible you've been for months. And you continually push her away and find new mistakes to make as if you enjoy it, as if you're actively trying to ruin your own happiness. I have never heard of a veela ruining her own courtship ritual before. Right now you are throwing your life away for absolutely nothing. That girl still loves you. She wants to be with you."
"I went too far, I…" Fleur started, once again in French to her mother's Veela, both women stubborn in their chosen language.
"You did, you did go too far, but only because you've been repressing yourself for so damn long. Unforgivable as such things are, especially to veela, it is still nothing you cannot fix if your chosen wishes it and Hermione seems like she does," Apolline pinched her nose, trying to breathe in such a way that might soothe her temper. "I have no idea why you would have shifted unless you have been repressing yourself with shame. Emotions fuels the veela within, you should know that. And if you've existed on feelings of doubt with what and who you are, then what form do you expect to take, Fleur? Our veela side is what we make it, a reflection of what is in our hearts but also what we see our hearts to be." Apolline swallowed, her voice trembling. "Did I ever give you a reason to feel that being veela is something to be ashamed of? Is that what caused you to take that form?"
"No, I…"
"Then why, Fleur, why all of this?" And when Apolline's voice broke again, it was not in anger but in tears. "You deny the ritual, you deny yourself, you deny your family, you deny who you are to the point of… you won't even speak in Veela to me now! You only repress yourself, voluntarily making yourself sicker and sicker with that useless and foolish potion. No wonder you shifted. Don't look so surprised and don't deny it. I found that tome of family spells while cleaning your kitchen and the page with that potion was dog-eared." There was a quiet violence to her voice, as if daring her daughter to protest further. "Why? Have I failed you so much that this is what it's come to? What am I missing here Fleur?"
But when Fleur said nothing, could find no words in French, in English, in Veela her mother… Fleur had rarely ever seen a tear in her Mother's eye. But now the older woman was sobbing, her chest heaving in and out with ragged breaths.
"Apolline," Tristan opened the door. "I heard…" But whatever Tristan heard, what he saw was his wife hunched in a ball, crying uncontrollably and his daughter looking on with a pained and confused expression. He crossed the room and gathered Apolline up in his arms. "Falling in love with someone, needing them and letting them into your life completely is not a sign of weakness, Fleur. Loving someone and letting them love you is one of the scariest things in life but ultimately it can also be one of the most rewarding. It is a form of bravery to love someone and let them in completely," Tristan spoke softly, trying to soothe both women. "Come on, Apolline. Let's make you a fresh cup of tea. Fleur needs some time."
"She doesn't have any," Apolline whispered as her husband helped her to her feet and started to leave the stunned and silent Fleur behind. At the door, Apolline turned around. "Maybe you think you are protecting Hermione. But I am no longer tolerating this self-destructive and spoiled behavior. I am taking down your barrier. If Hermione comes again, it will be up to her, it will be her decision as much as yours. She deserves that much."
Fleur looked down, unable to protest, unable to speak as Apolline's words reverberating throughout her body.
"I should have taken it down immediately," Apolline had a cutting edge of finality to her voice. "But I admit, it was only until this morning that Dumbledore and I were able to figure out exactly what barrier you had put up. I would say that I was proud of your magical ability and cunning, but… not like this, no. It is only devastating."
And as the door shut, Fleur was left alone to her mother's words still hanging in the air, taking turns dive-bombing her mind, the truth of them cutting into her. And Fleur ducked, still just as scared as she ever was before. Scared of so many things. Of being weak. Of not being good enough for Hermione. Of just how much she loved Hermione, as if it was the love itself, and not being (ashamed of being a) veela, that was killing her. She was scared of what it meant to be veela. Of what it meant to love someone for the rest of your life. Of what it meant to be gay. She was only twenty, what did she know about long-term relationships, of commitment? But Fleur did not, would never want to be with anyone else. This she knew, it was part and parcel of being a veela.
But would Hermione? What if Hermione could never trust her again? What if Hermione stopped loving her, what if her eyes roamed towards another? What if when they finished growing up they were different people than they thought they were and Hermione resented her for the commitment she was forced into at such a young age. She and Hermione, they were only children after all.
And she was so spoiled and had messed everything up so completely already. And the future, it held so many what ifs that it felt at times as if it would strangle her with all the possibilities.
Darkness shown in through the window alerting Fleur that it was night once more. After the episode with her mother, her family had left her alone to sleep, to marinate, to soak and suffer through all their words spoken to her in the last forty-eight hours. But then she woke to the din downstairs. At first she was sure that she was still dreaming, she wouldn't let herself believe otherwise. She pressed her fingers to her bruise, the familiar pain washed across her face. She was awake. This moment was not a dream.
And if that was indeed true, then it meant that Hermione was downstairs calling her name.