-Hey cuties! i'm writing this while i have the chance. And happy late new year's! Also not to break any sort of immersion but can you guys just… assume the French people are, ya know… speaking French to each other?

Chapter 13 - Please Don't Confront Me With My Failures (I Had Not Forgotten Them)

Carrying in the horde of groceries they had just bought, Bill and Fleur crossed the threshold of Shell Cottage to be caught in the middle of… something in the living room. All of their guests (besides Griphook of course, who had most definitely locked himself in Bill's room) were looking at Ron— who was sitting on the floor along with Hermione, waiting for him to continue whatever he was saying.

Ignoring the start of Ron's words, she watched as Hermione flung a pillow at his head, effectively cutting him off from his sentence and throwing him right into full-bellied laughter. The rest of the group greeted them as Bill chimed in.

Fleur, however, was far from the conversation, instead focusing on the tight grip Hermione had on a blanket. The same blanket she slept with on the couch every night, including the more… impassioned nights in her room alone. (Alone, she reminded herself. Even if the vividness of her imagination was overpowering sometimes.)

After watching Hermione take a (not so subtle) long inhale through her nose and slightly shiver, Fleur realized Hermione was drawn to the pheromones saturating the blanket. The thrill of being wanted (no matter how indirect) shot through her in the most inappropriate of ways and she was surprised she didn't drop everything right there.

Gripping the bags she was holding tighter, Fleur followed Bill into the kitchen, holding down the feeling that crept up from her chest.

"William," Fleur started, quietly enough to not be overheard by her guests in the next room. It wasn't a secret— and really had no business being treated like one, but Fleur couldn't help it. Hushed tones were becoming instinctual.

Bill hummed in question and turned around to face her, leaning his hip a bit on the counter.

"I'll be going to France tomorrow." She said, putting the bags on the counter, carefully minding the glass jars in them.

Bill looked contemplative for a second, then nodded in understanding. "Yeah. Said your mum's got somethin' for 'Mione's arm?"

Fleur stilled. She never told him that.

"Guess we'll just have to have all the fun without you." he continued, giving an over-exaggerated shrug as he crossed the kitchen to unbag the groceries.

Fleur studied the back of Bill's head in thought. Maybe she had mentioned it in passing? She furrowed her brows trying to recount their conversations.

Bill turned and took her rumination as something different. He backtracked, slowing his efforts in shelving the food.

"I'm kidding, Fleur. We'll all sit by the fire all solemn like, waitin' for you to come back. Promise."

Fleur waved him off. His joking tone relieved her minor lapse (in what, she wasn't so sure). The stress of everything (it was much easier categorizing it all into, 'everything ') was getting to her.

"Just be safe."

Bill gave a mock salute. "Aye Aye, Cap'n."

Fleur gave a half-hearted roll of her eyes. It wasn't that she didn't believe he could handle himself— or their guests, without her. No, he was a very talented wizard and had proven that many times over their years at Gringotts.

But it was the fact that Bill had a very loose understanding of what 'safe' meant, and— by their track record, so did the majority of everyone in the cottage.

If her mother saw how she got from Britain to France, she would probably strangle her. The Order had enough people through Europe for a makeshift Floo Network private from the Ministry— she never asked how it worked, but it seemed very illegal. Fleur could only imagine what it would look like on a map, maybe a zigzag constellation from hell. However, once she landed in France, she could use their Ministry's Floo Network without being taken into custody.

The first few places she knew, homes of Order members that she'd made acquaintances with. But the further she got, the more often she had to identify herself using the more… impersonal route.

The code was impressive charm work, really. A simple phrase charmed to ring ever so slightly in the ears of the recipient when spoken. But it sounded ridiculous, and Fleur almost cringed every time the words, 'Jeremy Bearimy,' left her lips. The strangers would nod and direct her to the next checkpoint, seemingly not bothered with it.

Landing at the French Ministry, Fleur charmed the soot off her clothes (which was a lot, apparently after you hit the eighth fireplace, you become more soot than anything else) before stepping onto the last hearth. She would not risk looking like a mess in front of her mother, not while they're having a disagreement.

She scoffed quietly to herself. Three years of arguing was too long to be considered a disagreement.

Carefully reciting her destination, Fleur closed her eyes (she had gotten floo powder in them as a child) and stepped forward.

Once she was out of the green flames, Fleur took in the smell of pure nostalgia as she walked into her family estate. It was odd to feel so at home and yet so far from it. She wondered if they had changed anything from her last visit.

"Maman?" Fleur called out. Her eyes searched the living room, enviously regarding the lavishness that Shell Cottage lacked. The couches, she noticed the most. How their fabric was not tearing at the seams, and how the pattern wasn't ugly faded stripes. She paused, wondering if her materialism was unattractive.

Hearing heels click on stone, Fleur turned around to see her mother.

"Fleur! I've got your letter, is she—"

Fleur sighed, cutting her off.

"Yes, she's okay it's just…" she trailed off, swallowing and closing her eyes briefly.

Apolline raised her eyebrows. "Just what?"

Fleur shook her head. "Nothing, she's fine."

It's hard to watch her bleed so much.

Apolline squinted her eyes in skepticism and motioned for Fleur to follow her into the kitchen.

Fleur scoffed at her mother. "Are you not going to ask how I'm doing?" she asked. They hadn't seen each other for several weeks, maybe even a couple months.

"I already know how you're doing, my Fleur! And I must say it's not fun to think about!"

Apolline reached over the counter to grab an apothecary bag, tsking as she did so. "These will help with the curse."

Fleur reached for the bag, relieved for an answer for once. "Thank you, Maman—"

Swiftly bringing the it to her chest, Apolline wagged her finger in Fleur's face. "Ah ah ah! These are not free."

Fleur raised her eyebrows. Of course, nothing is ever that easy. "Maman, this isn't—"

"You must tell her, Fleur." she said curtly. "That is my price."

She understood why her mother was so adamant. It was all very natural and deeply rooted within herself as a Veela and blah blah blah. She'd heard all the lectures. Fleur herself did not believe in most of them, until…

"This really isn't the time."

Apolline threw her hands up in irritation. "Then there will never be a time!"

Fleur set her jaw and cast her eyes toward the ground. She'd learned over the years that it would be better to ride out her mother's rants silently. (But that was much too hard to do.)

Apolline shook her head and shuffled around the glass vials inside the bag. "Every time! All of these opportunities, and you pass them off!"

Fleur defeatedly threw herself down on a counter stool and ran a hand through her hair. "Are you saying I should have made a pass at her at my own wedding?"

"Why not! It was fake anyway!" Apolline said a little hysterically, picking up a glass bottle and inspecting it before putting it back.

"Maman…"

"Whatever the reason, that wedding was still disrespectful to our culture, Fleur." Apolline shook her head, halting her movements. "Your grandmother is still upset."

Apolline looked up to gauge Fleur's reaction. Fleur wasn't going to give her one. How important could respecting her culture be if there was not a world where it could exist?

Sighing, Apolline pointed to a smaller pocket on the bag. "These three will work the best."

Fleur relaxed. Her mother always relented, one way or another. But for the sake of either time or her own patience, she wasn't sure.

"Where is Gabrielle? It is Easter break, is it not?" Fleur asked.

"Your father and sister are—"

"Fleur!"

Fleur spun around to see her father all but run down the stairs, Gabrielle trailing a bit behind him.

He picked her up in a bone-crushing hug, spinning her around. (Only once, he was not in the same shape as he was in his prime.)

"Fleur! You write letters to your mother for advice, but not me? I am the human one!"

Bertrand Delacour (née Renoir— it was custom to pass on the Veela's surname) was probably the nicest man Fleur knew. Working as a senior research director for the French Ministry (Hermione would quite like that), he would often come home and (enthusiastically) try to teach a (rather uninterested) young Fleur about ancient runes and magical theory.

She could only assume that had been what he and Gabrielle were doing upstairs, given the look of pure relief on her face and the rather worn looking books she was holding when she came down.

"I never ask for advice, Maman's is always unsolicited."

She could hear her mother start to protest before her father waved her off good-naturedly.

"Well here's mine: Do not stare. Your mother wouldn't stop staring after we first met."

Apoline slapped his shoulder lightly. "Bertrand!"

Laughing, Bertrand feigned hurt. "What? It was completely unnerving!"

She'd heard the stories about how they met. Bertrand would go into theatrics, reciting the wonderful color of Apolline's blush when they had first been introduced, the beautiful weather that day (even though they were inside), and the sweetness in the air when they shook hands.

Apolline's version was more condensed and to the point. She worked as a department recruiter and held an interview for him, asking for a coffee date not a minute after. (Fleur noticed that her mother had a knack for disregarding the importance of what was considered appropriate when it came to these things.)

Bringing herself back to the conversation, Fleur then seriously considered if she was staring at Hermione lately. (Yes, quite a lot.) And she wondered if Hermione had noticed, or more importantly, if she had noticed and was unnerved by it.

"Have you kissed Hermione yet?"

Fleur's eye twitched. Gabrielle was relentless. Even when they hadn't seen each other for such a long time, she found a way to completely ruin a moment.

She could see her mother stiffen out of the corner of her eye, obviously interested in her answer.

"And how is that your business?" Fleur asked, rather annoyed.

Gabrielle threw her hands up in exasperation. "You are all boring."

As Bertrand gave an indignant snort (he knew it was a personal attack on their studies), Gabrielle launched herself into Fleur for a hug.

"But don't worry, I still love you."

After making sure they both didn't topple over, Fleur hugged her sister tightly, feeling warmer at her sister's (rather sarcastic) endearment.

Fleur selfishly imagined whisking Hermione away to France, to be with her family. (It was the Veela way, to live closely to one another.) The actual Delacour estate, which was much larger and much more opulent, resided not even a mile away. But Fleur was in no position to face her other family members— more specifically her Grandmother, after the stunt she pulled with Bill.

Her father broke her out of her reverie. "Will you be staying for dinner?"

Fleur's eyes flicked to the wall clock and felt the familiar bubble of anxiety in her throat. "I've been gone for too long."

She could see the disappointment in her father's eyes as he nodded. Bertrand was not Veela, he couldn't truly understand the direness of her situation.

Apolline, however, had already expected her impatience to get back and all but shoved the apothecary bag in Fleur's hands and tightly wrapped her in a hug.

"Do not be afraid to love, my Fleur." she whispered fiercely, kissing her cheek before releasing her.

Fleur nodded to appease her mother, having no more energy to argue with her assertiveness.

Gabrielle appeared seemingly out of nowhere to hand her a seven-inch vinyl. "Can you give this to back to Bill? Tell him I thought it was too much yelling."

Fleur laughed as she took it. Gabrielle and Bill listened to muggle music religiously, swapping songs back and forth only to disagree on every front. It would have been cute if they did not think of themselves as highbrow connoisseurs.

Her father lightly grabbed her elbow, leaning in a bit to speak.

"I'll see you off," he nodded towards the fireplace. Looking back at the rest of her family, she gave her last goodbyes before leaving the kitchen.

Making it (a bit slowly) into the living room, her father turned to her with a smile.

"What is that silly thing they make you say? Jeremy Bearimy?"

Hearing a high-pitched ring in her ears, Fleur opened her mouth in surprise. She blinked quickly and tried to sort her words.

He laughed. "I quite like it!"

Still in shock, Fleur tried speaking. "You… how—"

Her father winked before continuing. "An old dog can still learn new tricks, my Fleur."

Without hesitation she hugged him fiercely as he let out a big 'oof.'

"And the English aren't so bad." He said as they withdrew from their hug. Bertrand looked contemplative for a second. "But their food…"

Fleur's lips twitched up in a smile as he made a shooing gesture.

"Go! Before you mother starts up again!"

Leaving was always so hard.

The trip back to Shell Cottage was considerably easier than to France, as she was already familiar with the route. Fleur pondered over her visit, her father's new membership to The Order of the Phoenix, her mother's incessant pestering, and most of all Gabrielle's teasing. Fleur wondered if she could get away with teasing Gabrielle when she finds herself in the same position.

(Gabrielle wouldn't be in the same position. She did not posses the same cowardice Fleur did.)

Her musings were halted when she heard yelling coming from inside the cottage. Fleur brandished her wand as her heart jumped from fear.

No, no, no, no.

She turned to knob (nearly almost forgetting to) and shoved the hard wood with her shoulder with more force than she intended to. She called out into the Cottage.

"William?"

Fleur neared the living room, her wand still tightly clutched in her hand as she heard rustling. She could feel the adrenaline and the subtle spike of her Veela instincts gnawing at her as she turned the corner.

It was… not what Fleur expected.

She saw Bill clumsily try to hide what looked like a liquor bottle under the couch and everyone's wide eyes looked up at her in surprise.

Fleur's eyes briefly caught Hermione, sitting cross-legged on the floor, with a blush so vibrant and hair so tousled that Fleur had a hard time focusing on the task at hand.

But she was more than distracted by Bill's drunken state. Does he not know how foolish this was?

It was then Fleur noticed her hands shaking from unreleased tension. She pocketed her wand and all but threw the apothecary bag on the ground.

Him struggling to stand enraged her further. Had she not just spent hours crossing borders illegally? And here he was, acting like a child caught in the liquor cabinet.

What if she had been a Death Eater? He could hardly stand straight, much less point his wand straight.

She could hear him trying to speak, trying to placate her anger. It would have worked, if Hermione wasn't sitting right there, looking at her like that.

"Can we talk privately, William?"

She turned to the kitchen before he could reply.

Their fight had been heated but not long (with a few tears on Fleur's part). She knew she had overreacted and Bill was right. In all honesty, she wasn't sure what made her so mad. (She was, but it wasn't something she would like to admit.)

Fleur gave an excuse about her mother, something Bill would understand more than what it is like to be a Veela. She was more or less traumatized by Hermione— and by extension, her group of friends. A moment alone for them meant a moment of self-destruction, no matter how deliberate or dangerous. Fleur would only see the aftermath. The aftermath of the Department of Mysteries, the aftermath of Malfoy Manor. She'd heard the horror stories of what they had gotten themselves into the years before she knew any of them, and she would rather not recount the gruesome details again.

And Bill wasn't exactly the watchful eye that made them shy away from such behavior.

So, being gone— even for those few hours, had triggered thoughts. The what if's and the maybe's had haunted her mind (and body) in the long trip to and from France. Making the tips of her fingers tingle and a pressure form at the forefront of her head.

It was all very stressful.

And to add onto it, Bill just had to say it.

'I don't think you should change her bandages tonight, Fleur.'

She would have been extremely offended if it weren't for the fact that Fleur greatly respected Bill. But how could he tell her what was best for Hermione when Fleur was her—

Fleur absolutely abhorred the word. It seemed animalistic at worst and possessive at best.

'Mate.'

But he was right, it was extremely late. Hermione was, at best, drunk, and Fleur was a little more than off the rails.

She dug through her bag, remembering what Gabrielle had given her, and handed the vinyl to Bill despite the exhaustion in her limbs.

"She said there was too much yelling."

Bill scoffed. "That's the point!"

Fleur could sleep tonight knowing that everything would be there in the morning.

Chapter title inspired by the music of: Nico - These Days

- literally i started this holiday break and finished, then TWO WEEKS passed cause I didn't know what i wanted the chapter title to be askldfnalskdl