At exactly eight in the morning, when the ancient cuckoo clock wakes her up with a jolly "Good morning, dear," Gabrielle slowly sits up in bed. She stretches- hands up, up and up, and when she hears the sound of unused muscles cracking, she yawns. Today is a beautiful day, she tells herself. And I am sure as hell going to enjoy every second of it.
She makes faces at herself in the mirror while brushing her teeth. She sings into the expensive perfume bottle her parents gave her for Christmas last year. She pleasantly converses with the wardrobe while tying her shoes and getting herself ready for work. When the small painting sitting in the entryway wishes her a good day, she smiles her best and brightest smile at it and says with finalty, "I will."
'Work' is a small, homely shop around the corner from a local French wizarding village. It is frequented by both Muggles and magical folk alike, and so it is scarce that she uses her wand while at the shop. Gabrielle makes a living on art- there's no other way to put it, really, since it is a little bit of everything and nothing all at once. She preps exquisite flower carnations she grew in the balcony of her flat. She smears paint on canvas with the bud of a broken paintbrush and wandlessly rubs magic into it with her fingertips. She writes bad poems and pastes every single one of them on the walls of her little shop. She makes the best herbal tea in the entire city, and that too in four flavors, no less.
She's quite happy, she would say. Maybe even satisfied. But she is definitely and desperately in love with everything that surrounds her- the pink daisies scattered lazily on the front desk, the small ribbon sheds on the floor near the easel, the smudge of brown paint on her cheek when she catches her reflection in the window while having lunch. When evening arrives, she writes a love poem to the sky: the blue dabs of it amongst endless white, and how pink (her favorite color) eventually comes and swallows it all up, only to be defeated by indigo, darkness, conqueror of all, a special kind of evil. A playful sort, almost. She feels its watchful eyes on her as she locks up and starts walking home, but it's only when she feels a small tap on her shoulder that she turns around, hand instinctively on her wand.
"Fleur!" she exclaims. "What a pleasant surprise!"
Her sister grins. "Isn't it, ma petite soeur? Tell me, what have you been upto lately?" Her accent is a little too careful than she is used to, but it's pretty too- curling around the edges invitingly, as though providing warmth.
"You know," she says. "The usual. How's Bill?"
"Oh, he's alright. More about him later. Mother says that you've not been responding to her owls?"
Gabrielle adjusts her bag on her shoulder and starts walking faster. The pace change isn't large enough to be noticeable, but Fleur grabs her arm and turns her around, surrounding her in a hug.
"Let's go to the flat," she says. "I've got some excellent wine from the Scottish countryside, and maybe you can tell me what's been on your mind while we do that, hmm?"
"Alright then," replies Gabrielle, voice muffled against her sister's coat. She takes Fleur's hand and smiles. "I'm so glad you came."
And when Fleur's face lights up and her eyes start sparkling, she almost says what sat stubbornly on the tip of her tongue.
"So," her sister says brightly, sitting on the living room sofa with a cup of steaming chamomile in her arms. "Tell me."
Gabrielle concentrated on the spot between Fleur's eyebrows. "Tell you what."
"Why you've been so distant lately! You haven't responded to my owls for a long time and I'm worried!"
Gabrielle pulled at the sleeve of her jumper. "You know. I've been busy. The shop takes up an astonishing amount of my time," she said laughing.
Fleur's face softened, and she opened her arms, beckoning Gabrielle forward. "You can never be busy enough to not write to your sister," she said softly.
And when Gabrielle felt a low pang of guilt in the bottom of her stomach, she ignored it.
They slept together on the same bed that night, talking in the gentle light of the tableside lamp till a couple of hours before dawn. And when Fleur took her arm and started drawing circles on its skin, Gabrielle did her best not to cry.
The next morning (or afternoon, really), Gabrielle woke up to find Fleur still sleeping. She gently shrugged off the covers on the bed and made her way to the bathroom, eager to get her morning routine over before her sister woke up.
And that's where the problem started.
When Gabrielle was massaging shampoo onto her scalp, Fleur walked in, yawning. Her hair was still tousled from the bed, but when she locked eyes with Gabrielle, all leftover traces of drowsiness vanished. Gabrielle threw the shampoo bottle at her and yelled for her to get out.
It was an hour and a half later that Gabrielle emerged from the bathroom, eyes red and clothes semi-wet. Fleur was sitting on the bed, and when she patted her thigh, Gabrielle broke down again, "I have blood cancer," she said. "I don't know how, seeing how magical folk are usually immune to Muggle diseases. I have blood cancer and that's why I have not been in contact, because I was scared."
And only when Fleur ran her fingers through her hair, deliberately and slowly, did Gabrielle feel safe for the first time in months.
Word count: 960 words
Written for the following prompts at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (Challenges and Assignments):
Assignment #3, Calligraphy: The Dark Lady: Task #10 - Pureblood Society: Write about trying to keep something hidden/secret