(Untitled)
Fleur is.
Well.
She hasn't cried yet.
It's been almost two days.
She remembered to eat because the babies started kicking, and she has to. She has other things and. She really wishes she could smoke or drink right about now.
Well.
She hasn't cried yet.
It's been almost two days.
She remembered to eat because the babies started kicking, and she has to. She has other things and. She really wishes she could smoke or drink right about now.
It's not knowing that gnaws at him and he's certain it gnaws at his wife with twice as much force. "Come. Let's do this."
They can't even pack: they've not been back to their flat since that night. They've their wands and the clothes on their backs and the few belongings they threw together. A sum of Galleons will be exchanged at Gringott's for Muggle Euros so they might travel as quickly as possible.
Putting quill to parchment, Bill pens a hasty note for Albus, or for whomever finds it: his mum, his dad, Remus. It matters not who reads it, so long as they know where they've gone. That done, he props it on the kitchen table and leads Fleur as quietly as possible out into Grimmauld Place. If one believes in good omens, it might be construed as such when Mrs Black's portrait doesn't even stir at the click of the door as they leave.
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She decides she doesn't like cabs. They smell like last night's bad curry, stale beer and sweat. At least there is no stale sex! Or fresh sex. Ew.
In the tube, she stands with her belly pressed against Bill, and lets him hold her steady in the rush hour crowd. She only has on her delicate, white, mini-dress, and just this once, she really doesn't want the attention her looks and her fashion sense draw to her.
She wants to hug her baby sister, who is supposed to start school in the fall. And hug her mother, and tell her, really tell, finally. That she and Bill are going to have two babies, and they were both going to be perfect and beautiful and wonderful.
They both have to put their heads together to count out the right amount of money for the Funnel thing, since it has been a while for both of them. Fleur passes out in an exhausted sleep, her head on Bill's shoulder, in the first hour.
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The trip itself is hugely uneventful and no owls greet them when they depart the train at the Gare du Nord. He knows he's filled with dread at the prospect of what they might find; he can only imagine what this has to be like for Fleur.
"It's your city," he whispers to her as they make their way out into the Parisian afternoon. "You lead and I'll follow."
We'll find them struggles to be heard, but he can't make that reassurance. Not until they've got to the Delacour home and seen what it looks like. He hopes it won't live up to his worst fears.
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It isn't as easy as she thought it would be. The police are saying it was a night of riots by students. The Latin Quarter is entirely closed off. Most public transportation is closed, but there are still a few good people in Paris that have a soft spot for a beautiful, very pregnant woman.
A polite university student lets her ride on the back of his scooter up the hill to Montmartre, chatting with Bill about his earring and long hair. There are police still scattered through out the village district, and Fleur has to convince and almost beg to let them through so they can search.
They are barely a block from her mother's shop, it's just around the corner, and Fleur is shaking from head to toe. She squats down and sits on the curb.
"Bill. What if... Bill.."
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What else can he say to her? What if it's terrible news? What if it's no news at all? There's always the chance it could be good news, though. They could walk in and see Madame Delacour in all her prim propriety lording it over whomever dares come into her presence.
He knows, though, that won't be the case.
"But at least we'll know more than we do now, love. You tell me when you're ready: not till then." This is not a happy reason for visiting Paris. Not at all.
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They round the corner and.
"Mon dieu."
Her mother's shop is still smoldering. The iron gate that blocks the path up to the apartment above is hanging off its hinges. The apartment windows are blown out from the inside, and even from the street, she can see that the bright colors of her mother's studio are darkened with smoke and soot. Beyond, several neighboring shops and wizards' homes are burned or broken into, and the path of destruction leads further up the hill.
She can't. She can't breath. Her breath is stuck in her throat. She can't. Oh Merlin, oh god. Her hands are over her mouth and she can feel wetness on her face.
It isn't real. It isn't.
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They're this far: they can't not go the rest of the way but no matter what, he doesn't want Fleur in there.
"Let me go look. You stay here... no, that's not safe. You come with me... no, that's not safe either." There has to be a way. "If I bring a policeman round... no. No. Never mind that. Come: let's go together." He can take better care of her than some stranger. "If there's anything untoward in there, Fleur, I'll Apparate us away. Let me..."
...do what I know? This isn't curse-breaking, but it's similar. It's clue-finding, and he's always been good at that.
When he opens what's left of the door, the smell of smoke is nearly overpowering; he casts a quick Clearing Charm round Fleur. Nothing toxic for her or their children on his watch. There's very little left of the shop but a quick Tracing Spell shows that the stair leading up to the flat is still navigable; he thanks his Gringotts training every minute of the way. There are no glamours and no hidden spells here. Slowly, with great caution, they make their way to the stair and up into the flat.
It's absolutely destroyed, as if a series of bombs were set off inside. He knows from the reports coming in to Order Headquarters that in so many instances, the dead were either left behind or messages scrawled on the walls in blood. Here, there are no signs of bodies (thankfully or not) and no messages on the walls (thankfully or not).
Once they know they're alone inside, Bill sends out a series of Probe Spells from his wand; they're designed to seek out life forms in unexpected places. All return to him intact.
"There's no sign of them, Fleur." After all this, they don't know any more than they did before they got here. "The only thing we know is that they didn't die here." Bill swallows with difficulty: the image of Gabrielle, eyes wide with fear, hit with a Killing Curse, is difficult to shake. "And if they left a note... it's either been taken or destroyed."
Fuck.
"I'm sorry." He's not sure why he's apologising, but it seems the thing to do.
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"Papa."
She runs into her old room, and really, what does she expect to find? All of the old bits of poetry and doodles her father had made for her since she was a little girl, some of the few things she had left him, smoldered and ash.
Everything, all gone. All she has left are the few keepsakes she took with her last time she was home, but she always thought. She always thought she would have this place to come back to, even with everything. And her baby sister, her little Gabbie. She never thought.
Fleur sits down on her old, half burnt bed and cries.
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It doesn't matter: it's all gone and he can't imagine what it would be like to go back to the Burrow and see the whole place destroyed. Their whole lives... gone. Sitting heavily next to Fleur, he rests his arm lightly round her shoulder, coaxing her head to his shoulder. He's no forensic investigatory wizard; he can't determine what happened here. He only knows what is and isn't here.
"Maybe they got out just before."
It's the only thing he has to offer.
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It's unthinkable, actually.
"But we won't know till we know. Sitting here amidst the rubble isn't helping: we have to go back home. In case they're trying to reach us, right?" It's a feeble offer, but it's at least a glimmer of hope.
Already, though, his mind is playing games. If one of the twins is a girl, he thinks, they might be naming her Gabrielle in memoriam.
No. "We'll find them, love. We just won't find them here."
The walk back to the main street is slow and depressing; the smell of smoke lingers on their clothes despite subtle Scourgify spells and eventually Bill insists on hiring a car to take them to the train station: the day has taken its toll on Fleur and her well-being and her health is not up for grabs. He'll see to it that she sits, if not relaxes, all the way back to London.
It's a grim and silent ride, though, with very little conversation. There will be time for that later: in a few days, or a few weeks. But not now.
Not yet.
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