Aucune Defense Pour Toi, ch. 35 PART TWO {Fleur/Hermione} R/Mature

[meingeheimnis]

More polished versions of previous chapters can be found at Fanfiction.net (http://www.fanfiction.net/~dgeheimnis)

So I know what I said. But ...
The last chapter has been broken up into two chapters. This is mostly because I wanted to focus longer on certain aspects without having to rush others. As it is, this chapter has to be posted in two parts. But, have no fear or lack of patience. The actual last chapter is mostly all written at this point. I just need to find time amidst my hectic schedule and such to finish the final scene and edit it. It should be up within the next couple week and then the epilogue shortly thereafter.

also i'm having the shittiest time with lj for whatever infernal reason. i hit delete and it enters. so if the formatting is weird, i'm well aware and i'll fix it later.

THIS IS PART TWO.


(THIS IS PART TWO.)

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 by the time her eyes fully opened, she knew that this was not true. That this could not be true. Even if Hermione had forgiven her for the unspeakable, it would-despite Hermione’s immense magical talent-probably take Hermione days to break down the walls of defense she had placed around her house specifically geared at the Gryffindor. 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. And in days, it would be too late. The brunette would be saved of her.

No, it was not Hermione who sat on a chair besides her bed slumped over asleep. Her mother was snoring slightly (though the older woman would never admit it if Fleur ever brought it up), her head bobbing from the uncomfortable position.

“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? It could not be that comfortable to sleep in a chair for the whole night.

“Fleur,” Apolline lifted her head, awake and regarding her daughter cautiously.

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.

“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 as I was too busy cleaning 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 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 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 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. And maybe, since she would already be at her closet, she could find a change of clothes. It had been two days, after all. And she could not quite concede to the idea of letting her mother 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. A cane, if only she had a cane of sorts. She nearly 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 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 resenting her sickly pale skin.

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. “What a surprise. Do you not have class? My class actually?”

“Didn’t seem like much use when not even the professor chose 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 otherwise. “They are coming up I believe, 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.

“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.”

“No, I am not. 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 flash strike the younger girl’s face. “I only mean that 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 out of time.” But before Parvati could respond, she smiled softly with sadness, pained. 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 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 slowly, helping 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 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 helped to bring 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. “Please, sit. I apologize if I… 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.”

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 does it whenever… well, she did it after the tournament. 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.”

“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. Even Luna knew? Was Wednesday night common knowledge?

“She thinks that it’s linked to your withdrawal from that potion you were taking.”

“The Nun’s Potion.” Fleur corrected, mildly horrified.

“Exactly. Even if 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… anyway. Luna said that sometimes withdrawal causes a rebound where the symptoms of whatever you were trying to treat return worse than before. But only temporarily. 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 herself 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, her decision, her 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 was 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.”

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 sighed. 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. Rationally, logically she had known that her parents were people, were fallible beings. But to see the truth in this in such a raw form, was disturbing. Especially her mother, who she had always looked up to, who was always control. 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 touched you or hurt you in any way…”

“No, Mother,” Fleur responded in French. “I touched her. I hurt her. 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… fine. 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 no. I lost control. I… She had to hit me to…”

Apolline’s face contorted. There clearly written over the worry, the fear was 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?”

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 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 exhausting 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 trying to ruin your own happiness. I have never heard of a veela ruining her own courtship ritual before. Is that what you want to happen? Because 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 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 should have shifted unless you have been repressing yourself with malice and shame. Emotions feed the veela, you should know that. And if you’ve been existing on darkness, feelings of doubt and disgust, hating yourself, what you are, then what form do you expect to take, Fleur? Our veela side is what we make it, unaltered and pure emotion, a reflection of what is in our hearts.” 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.

But when Fleur said nothing, could find no words in French, in English, in Veela her mother… Fleur had rarely ever seen her Mother cry. 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 uncontrollable 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,” 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. Part of her had secretly hoped and dreaded for this. And now she was not sure what reaction won out, but she was horrified at her sudden loss of control. If Hermione came or not, it was now out of her control.

“I should have taken it down immediately,” Apolline had a cutting edge of finality to her voice. “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, 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, 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 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. 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 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 up so completely already. She was scared of herself, scared of her love, scared of tomorrow. And the future, it held so many what ifs that it felt at times as if it would strangle her with the possibilities.

Fleur awoke hours later to a familiar voice shouting downstairs. Darkness shown in through the window alerting Fleur that it was night once again. 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, this now was not a dream.

And if that was indeed true, then it meant that Hermione was downstairs yelling her name.