Witnessed here in Time and Blood
When Shell Cottage receives a motley group, Fleur and Bill do their best to ensure their safety. In the weeks that follow, wounds are healed and plans are concocted. Fleur and Hermione find themselves coming to a new understanding of one another.
Part Seven: Your Invincible Defeat
Dear Reader,
Well, here's the next chapter, for your enjoyment. I felt that since the it's so long, the night should be put to good use! The shortest day of the year is behind us. Once again, thank you to everyone who has left a review. They're utterly wonderful and very thought provoking. They certainly make me think and that will, undoubtedly, mean a better story.
So make yourself comfy and please enjoy. And enjoy the solstice, if you're in a part of the world where weather permits.
Fleur woke suddenly, disorientated and groggy. She wiped a hand over her eyes, squirming from her uncomfortable position. Her neck was stiff, the consequences of nodding off in the parlour armchair. She blinked and stood, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
What woke her so rudely, she wondered, thoroughly muddled. She gestured towards a lamp, squinting as it flared to life. The mantle clock read almost a quarter past four and she was baffled as to what could have disturbed her. She stood for a moment, gathering her scattered wits and after several moments, she heard a noise from the kitchen.
Fear rippled down her spine and she drew her wand, shoving a hand through her hair, batting it back from around her face. She listened closely, alert and anxious. Something was knocking erratically, tapping and pricking against the glass in the back door.
I lit the lamp. They know someone's awake… Shit
She stood still, unsure of how to proceed. A doleful, and familiar, hoot floated faintly through the gloom and her eyes widened. She listened for a long moment, frowning suspiciously. It sounded just like Andromeda Tonk's owl, Otis. He'd visited on rare occasions, sometimes bearing second hand news as he was one of the few birds who could find the cottage. What on earth was he doing rapping at the back door at such a ridiculous hour, though? Was everything all right with the Lupin family?
She listened carefully, for any fear or hint of foul play. The bird sounded tired and annoyed, more than anything else. She shielded herself and crouched, slipping through the door and into the hall. She inched through the corridor, low and tighter than a bow string. Her wand was held before her, clenched tightly in white knuckles. The kitchen door lay slightly ajar and she peered through the gap. Otis was sitting on the sill beneath the window over the sink, pecking impatiently with his hard beak. She closed her eyes and extended her awareness, as she'd once been taught.
Life thrummed behind her. A mass, a glorious riot of pulse, breath and dream lit the night behind her back. They were all indistinguishable; an amorphous and shifting explosion of vital force. Before her, amongst the shadows of this shifting light, sat the stern and unimaginative form of an owl. He was by himself and appeared thoroughly miserable.
Fleur breathed in relief but still approached him stealthily. When she was sure that he was alone, she opened the back door and he burst in, an angry snap of feathers and grasping talons. He settled on the back of a kitchen chair, swivelling his head truculently and glaring at her from beneath a thick, feathery brow.
"Welcome," she said, taking several pieces of dried meat from a pot beside the door. "Thank you for your efforts, my friend."
He made sure to nip her fingers as he took his treat and only reluctantly raised his leg. She forgave him quickly; she wouldn't have been at her best if she'd been left outside at four o'clock in the morning.
She lifted the letter, seeing Kingsley's seal beneath Bill's name in the dim light. She frowned. So Kingsley had visited Lupin in order to contact Bill, then. What was so urgent what it required attention at such a time? She left Otis with several treats and hurried upstairs, as quietly as she could manage.
Bill was curled beneath the duvet, only the top of his head visible. She rocked him gently, whispering to him. He woke with a jerk, turning onto his back and blinking in the dim light of her wand.
"Fleur? What? What's happened?"
"I don't know," she said, "cover your eyes, I will light the lamps."
He obeyed and after several moments, he lowered his hands from his face. He inhaled deeply, groaning.
"What time is it?"
"After four. Otis came. Here."
She handed him the message and watched as he woke, his face loosing the last traces of sleep and wakening fully. A grim and worried expression sat on his face.
"Kingsley. He's asked for us to come and help him."
She nodded, heading for her wardrobe, grabbing a pair of jeans off the back of a chair. Bill threw back the duvet and stood, shaking his head.
"Fleur, no."
"He asked for both of us," she said, stubbornly.
"And if he knew who was here, he wouldn't have asked for either of us." He put his hands on her shoulders. "Don't be daft, come on. One of us has to stay."
"Then you stay," she said, glaring up at him. Given that Bill was dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, she felt his argument was somewhat invalidated. He shook his head ruefully.
"I'd love to. But I know what this is about." He frowned, eyes darkening at the memory. "When I went out the other day, this is what we were working on. We need to act quickly and they won't have time to give you all the details. You'd waste time."
Fleur fumed. "I am a quick learner!"
"I know you are," he said, whispering as best he could, "but you need to stay here! If you leave, your defences leave. Everyone here will be left incredibly vulnerable. The Fidelus won't be affected by me going."
"Unless you're captured and tortured," she said, tears welling. She couldn't bear the thought of him leaving, when there was so much anger and hurt between them. He lifted one side of his mouth in a sad grin and shrugged.
"So be it. You'll know, though, won't you? If they get me?" He swallowed once, pale in the dim lamp light. "And you'll get them out of here."
She nodded, a great lump in her throat. He lifted his own jeans off the back of the bed stand and hopped into them, hunting around for warm socks. She delved into the dresser, trying to find something decent for him to wear. She found a plain, warm, soft knitted jumper with a hood. It had been given to her by a friend of her grandmother's, though she'd never worn it. With a wave of her wand, the forest green wool seemed to take a deep breath, stretching to a size that would accommodate Bill's broad chest.
He smiled as he took it, evidently charmed. He slid it on and lifted his wand from the bedside, grasping it closely.
"Ready to go?" he asked cheekily, opening the door.
Fleur was tempted to tell him to piss off, but refrained. They tip-toed to the kitchen, soft on the creaky old floor boards. Bills kicked his feet into his battered boots and tugged a mossy, grey cloak around him. As moth-eaten as it was, it was almost impossible to see in dim light. He pulled on a pair of dragon hide gloves and nodded once at his wife.
"I'm off."
Fleur nodded, breath stuttering unevenly. "Don't die, please."
"I won't," he promised, drawing her into a quick, tight embrace. "Fucking hell, I won't. Don't you go doing anything mad, either."
Fleur laughed, tears welling in her eyes. "I cannot imagine what you're talking about."
They drew apart and their eyes met. There was a calm, surreal moment of understanding between the pair. On the edge of battle, they found a moment of peace with one another. There was so much Fleur wanted to say to Bill; to apologise for the last few days, to insist on going with him, to tell him how proud she was of his vast courage.
"My brave Bill," she managed.
He ducked his head, opening the back door. "Don't know about that, love."
"Well, I do," she said, firmly. He smiled back at her once and then ran out into the night, sprinting to the first point where he could safely apparate.
It wasn't until Otis chattered, annoyed by the chill, that she closed the back door and buried her face in her hands.
Please, let him be all right.
"They're in bed late," Ron grumbled around a mouthful of sausage.
"Newly weds and all, mate," Dean said, cheekily. Ron's ears reddened while Harry choked on a sip of tea. Hermione resisted the urge to glare at the three of them, concentrating intently on the book before her.
"Well, your brother's a lucky man, is all I'll say," Dean sighed, "Fleur's ace."
"Not another one," Harry teased, apparently recovered. Hermione felt herself frowning mightily behind the safety of her book.
"It's contagious," Ron said, solemnly. "Must be veela thrall or summit. It doesn't work on me anymore because I'm used to her."
Hermione actually peered over the top of her book, at that, to properly glare at Ron. She felt such an idiotic remark deserved no less.
Bollocks. The only thrall affecting you took its origins in your scrotum.
The boys laughed and Hermione slumped grumpily back down into her chair. She always hated when the boys forgot the fact that she was a girl and so was never too happy to listen to their inane babble regarding other members of her gender. It had taken her a long time to realise that it bothered her because it left her wondering how they spoke about her when she wasn't around them. She'd probably been a bit hurt, too, and perhaps a bit jealous. Above that, she'd gotten so sick of the fact that they never saw her. They had an idea of her, she knew, but she often felt almost invisible to them and never more so that at times like these.
It had been frustrating and had scared her more than she'd care to admit. They were her best friends, after all. If they didn't known her, who would? Was she such an uninteresting, bland know-it-all that she wasn't worth the effort? In moments of fragility she still sometimes felt like that despite having realised it was all a matter of maturity. She was older than the boys and it was merely a matter of waiting for them to catch up with her. In fact, after their winter together, she felt that Harry had done so. She felt as if he really knew her. As she knew him.
Does he indeed? He doesn't have a clue about you being…
She stood abruptly. The three boys, who'd been wittering on the entire time, turned wide eyes to her, guilt written on their faces. She cleared her throat, feeling a slight blush build.
"I'm going to go and make sure everything's packed. Make sure you do the dishes, don't leave a mess for Bill and Fleur."
She bustled up the stairs, moving softly. Despite herself, despite the fact that she didn't want to know, she paused, holding her breath. She heard a small noise behind the crooked door; an urgent and high gasp. Heart pounding, she drew back and rushed towards her own room, mortified at her nosiness and gall.
Luna was sitting cross-legged on the bed, sewing a patch onto one of her pairs of jeans, humming softly to herself. She nodded in greeting, her face folding into a frown when she saw Hermione, presumably confused by her blush.
"There's sausages, Luna," she said, fiddling around in an effort to forget what she'd just heard. Her heart was thumping in her chest, drowning her hearing and scorching her skin with heat.
"Thanks, I ate already," she replied, placidly. "Is Bill back yet?"
"What?" Hermione asked, almost skidding to a stop as she whirled around. "What do you mean?"
"Well, when I went down this morning, his cloak and boots were gone. I can't imagine where he went at such an early hour."
Hermione frowned mightily, glancing back at the door.
If Bill's not here, then what on earth is going on in there?
Fleur found herself standing on a muddy path over a moor beneath a flat grey sky. She couldn't tell where the sun hung hidden or where in the world she was. The grass around the path was brown and dead, winter stripped and sodden with recent rain.
Rain? Or sleet? she wondered, the smell of ice sharp in the air. The heather and bog-myrtle were black and awkward in the desolation, brittle spiders against the iridescent blades of grass. No wind moved the scene and the mud was hard underfoot, as though preparing to freeze. She turned, seeing a wide pool of water drowning the narrow path behind her. Before her, the path led up a hill and so she followed it.
Time moved strangely and when she crested the hill, she found she couldn't remember the journey. The smell of smoke tickled her nose and she saw a miserable little cottage slumped at the top of the hill. The mean hovel appeared thatched, although it could have equally have been the creep of the moor onto its roof. A fence led away from it, wire strung between the trunks of felled trees. As she neared, she saw the stumps, cut much lower, of their twins on the opposite side of the path. A couple of dark trunks lay rotting in the long grass, collapsing in the damp air.
It had probably been lovely, she decided, before neglect and the wind took their toll. She hurried her steps, for it was cold and exposed on the hill side. Dread filled her, too, nameless and formless. A shadow between thought and all else. Fear danced along her spine and she went to draw her wand.
She was not armed.
She stopped dead in her tracks. Where was she going, unarmed and alone? She turned, gazing out over the desolate hills. No other life stirred in sight and no other paths broke the monotomy of the scene.
What ever is waiting, it is in there.
She drew a deep breath and stepped forward, though more cautiously. As she neared, she focused her attention on the fence. It served not as a boundary nor to corral livestock. She held the back of her hand over her mouth, feeling her gorge rise. Spread out along the wire, the bodies of various animals hung for the world to see.
She'd seen gamekeeper's gibbets before, when she was younger. She'd even added to them, when she'd spent time with the veela. But those had served as collection points halfway between the branch and belly, as her friends had said. They'd saved time for hunters and cooks both. Others she'd seen, in France and Germany, had been a testament to the keeper's skill and sometimes the basis for pay.
But this was none of those things. The tattered, rotting remains of animals hung pathetically from the wire. They'd lost their eyes in most cases and many sported writhing mantles of maggots. Some were little more than bone and sinew with a small overlay of fur or feather.
Some were recognisable. A rat. A cat. Two large creatures that might have once been dogs. A lanky hare. A hen. A large bird of prey. A tiny weasel. Another dog, this one a handsome german shepherd. There were others, too many to take in at once. Further along the hedge, a shrike hopped along, cheerfully bobbing through the macabre scene.
This was not a display of skill nor a time saving device. This was something else; much more malicious and mocking in its intent. As she drew close to the cottage, the path widened to a filthy yard. Puddles in the mud were rimmed with a thick glaze of frost which cracked sharply beneath her boots. To one side of the hovel, a stack of firewood had been dumped. Several long branches sat in the chaos and she lifted the stoutest one she could find.
Fleur, a voice echoed from her teenage years, if all else fails, make sure you've got a big stick.
The memory brought a brief spark of happiness to her, easing her dread long enough for her to marshall her courage. Whatever was happening, it was occurring within this place and her presence was required.
She pushed the door open with the end of her impromptu staff, peering into the noisome gloom. She couldn't make out any details and reluctantly moved in. The door creaked shut behind her, robbing her of the small benefit of the grey daylight. After several moments, shapes resolved themselves in the dim and fluctuating light of the fire.
The fire… She frowned. She'd expected to see the wet logs from outside but instead, multicoloured flames danced over narrow, delicate sticks. They lay jumbled in the hearth, oddly resistant to combustion. As she watched, one exploded with a ferocious pop, something within it catching alight and flaring briefly.
Wands
Her mouth felt dry and terror froze her innards. Her felt her breath come quickly, little gusts leaving mist before her face. What an act! What a hateful thing this was! Shock froze her and she dragged her gaze away, wondering numbly what kind of a place could permit such a thing. What kind of person could allow such an act to take place beneath their roof?
She turned to take in the rest of the little room and was shocked to see a huge, grey dog lying on its side, rheumy yellow eyes fixed coldly on her. He was horribly thin; mangy and covered in wounds. His eyes oozed yellow pus, coating the fur beneath those hungry, savage eyes.
No pity welled in her, for she knew who lay gazing up at her. He panted, a cut tongue lolling from between broken teeth and bleeding gums.
"He's precious, isn't he?" asked a silky, amused voice. Fleur whirled, bringing her stick up between them. Almost unseen in a nook opposite the fireplace sat Bellatrix Lestrange. She leaned forward, her hooded eyes regarding Fleur with curiosity and wary care.
"I like him better this way. I like them all better like this."
Fleur frowned. "Unable to respond? I am not surprised to hear you prefer such company."
"One must choose ones companions carefully, especially if one wishes for privacy."
Bellatrix made no move. She had not drawn her wand nor lifted a finger. Her gaze was languid, for the moment, appraising and as hungry as the beast that lay at her feet. Her mouth was painted, a bold stripe of red against the chalky pallor of her cheeks and neck. She shifted, lifting her face and raising an eyebrow.
Fleur felt quite off-balance. What was she waiting for? What did she expect?
"I saw your little display out side," Fleur said, feeling awkward.
Bellatrix threw her head back as she cackled, standing and placing a hand over her bony chest. "Oh, my vermin! Weren't they awful?" she asked, pitching her voice low and breathy. "Filthy beasts."
"I hardly think a hare or a hen are vermin," Fleur countered, narrowing her eyes. This had gone on long enough. It was time to find out why she was there. "What do you want from me? Why have you summoned me here?"
Lestrange shrieked with laughter again. "Summon you? Why would I ever want to invite such an unappreciative audience? Why, I imagine you think you can hit me with your little stick," she said, in her cruel and mocking tone. "You're a trespasser."
Fleur supposed that was true enough and pursed her lips. Bellatrix cocked her head to one side, parroting her expression. Her waves of dark hair were wild and tangled but her clothes rich and well maintained. It disconcerted Fleur, for some reason.
Bellatrix sauntered over the filthy stone floor, the great hound still between them, watching balefully with his diseased eyes.
"But an audience none the less," she said, turning her back to Fleur and prodding at a pile of rubbish with the toe of her shoe. "Won't that be nice, poppet?"
If Fleur's blood had chilled earlier, it was frozen now. Her heart seemed to still within her chest, only taking up its rhythm with reluctance.
"No…" she breathed, suddenly understanding the dread that had been sitting heavily in her stomach. Horrified, she watched Bellatrix reach into the heap and impatiently pull at something within it. A filthy, emaciated wretch stumbled to her knees before falling again to land heavily on her chest.
"Up! Up for out lovely guest!" Bellatrix crowed, grabbing a hold of matted curly hair and pulling her upright. Despite the violent and undoubtedly painful treatment, Hermione made no sound.
If ice had filled her veins, fire lit her heart and soul. Screaming, she launched herself forward, aiming the butt of her staff at Bellatrix's head; right between her horrid eyes. In that moment, there was no room for conscious thought, only action. But before she got more than a couple of steps, a great mass of muscle, spite and fang reared up, slaver falling from his maw. She stumbled backwards, bowled over by his weight. She kicked his head as she went, earning a yelp.
"Ha! Our little French tart has some fight in her! Ooh la la!" Bellatrix laughed, tugging again at Hermione's hair. The beast held back, neck stiff as he snarled. Fleur scrambled up, finding herself close to the wall. She spared Hermione a glance, but only a quick one as the dog was inching closer. "Rip her entrails out, you worthless cur!"
He snarled ferociously, jaws wide and eyes starved. Fleur felt her own lip curl up at the sight, though she doubted her own teeth were quite so threatening. He bayed, deafening in the little room and lunged forward, eyes and teeth flashing as he went. Fleur felt ancient, sickening fear coil around her heart but stood firm.
Just wait, Fleur, that voice reminded, wait for him to come to you.
She waited, though her heart was clenched with fear, until she saw her moment. She whipped the heavy wood up, catching him on the side of the face and jaw. She put all her strength and anger into the strike, turning to the side with the force. The dog was sent to the side, dazzled and whining but the rotten wood had shattered, leaving her with nothing but a handful of wet splinters.
"USELESS!" Bellatrix screamed, "Useless then, useless NOW!" The beast whined from his position, shaking his great head. He'd evidently walloped it upon hitting the wall and seemed to have jangled his wits. Fleur dared to move forward, turning her back on the beast, desperate to reach Hermione.
"Give 'er to me," she hissed, her accent thickening with her rage. Bellatrix raised an eyebrow, evidently amused and with utter disregard, flung Hermione towards her. It was as casual a gesture as tossing a ball for a dog or grain to a flock of birds. As if she had no need for her any more. Fleur darted forward, catching the slim form in her arms and cradling her close.
The smell was woeful; dirt and sweat, blood and rot mixed sickeningly together. Despite that, she buried her face into her hair, anger and grief welling in her chest. The hound growled and Bellatrix cackled once more but Fleur couldn't bring herself to care. Her hands shaking, she lifted Hermione's chin, desperate to see her.
To her horror, Hermione flinched at her touch, trembling weakly in her arms. Disbelief filled her and she whispered softly to her, calling her name and encouraging her. No matter what she tried, she could not console her friend.
"It's pathetic, isn't it?" Bellatrix sighed, almost wistfully, "how it never lasts. You think you've got youth or beauty or wit on your side and then… Gone."
Fleur felt rage building in her, choking her. Her fear had fled; chased by the protrusion of Hermione's bones through scraps of cloth that failed to protect her dignity. By the scrapes, bruises and dried blood visible on every exposed part of her. By the silent quivering.
"What did you do to 'er?" she demanded, turning hot and furious eyes to the witch beside them.
"How delightful! You do want to hear!"
"NO!" Fleur barked, feeling tears well. "Why?"
Bellatrix was quiet for a long moment, before she came to kneel before Fleur. Her eyes were filled with intensity, dark with righteousness and fervour. Fleur gripped Hermione more tightly, folding herself around the other witch.
"Why? Because of what she did to our Dark Lord! She is a filthy, thieving, nasty little mudblood! She and all her kind deserve to be hunted down and brought to heel like the animals they are! And one who was such a dear friend of Harry Potter," she sneered, lip curled over rotten teeth.
"It's sad, really. Heading off with the boys. Those silly little boys. Did she think they'd love her?" she asked, quietly, fingers steepled before her face. "Or was she just there for them to-"
"SILENCE!" Fleur roared. "She went with them because it was the right thing to do!"
Bellatrix clacked her teeth and shook her head. "Stupid girl. The right thing. Who does the right thing, eh? They didn't. Look at her. Does she look like someone who did the right thing?"
Fleur still held Hermione firmly, despite her stiff posture. She pressed her cheek to Hermione's forehead and bit her lip. Something within her felt fractured, broken after seeing such cruelty displayed so openly and gleefully.
"She put up an impressive fight," Bellatrix sighed. "A wonderful opponent. So clever and with just the right balance of blunt intelligence and base cunning to make it interesting. But she lost, didn't she? And look at her now."
Fleur tried to close her ears, her heart, to Bellatrix's voice, tremulously arranging Hermione's tattered rags about her thin form. As her hands moved, she noticed that while Hermione's limbs were cold and shaking, her brow and chest were feverish. Sweat mingled with the filth covering her and she loud breathing was harsh and wheezing. Infected lacerations seeped pus and crusted blood, a dreadful stench emanating from them.
"She was so bright," Bellatrix purred, "and so scared. She remembered what I did to her and oh! She was so frightened!" Her joy at the memory was disgusting, more so by how readily evident it was.
"Be quiet, you hateful hag!" Fleur hissed, anger burning within her.
"She wasn't!" she crowed, delighting in Fleur's distress, "she screamed! Oh, she screamed and she fought but in the end, she still lost. She was always going to lose."
She levelled her gaze at Fleur and what was shocking was the knowledge that this was no woman lost to madness; she was utterly in control of her faculties. She knew precisely what misery she inflicted. Fleur's anger burned all the more fiercely, lighting every part of her soul and calling on the oldest parts of it. Her mouth was dry with the thirst, the hunger, for vengeance. To spill this woman's blood on the filthy ground.
"You want to know why I did this?" Bellatrix continued, mirth still curling her sensual mouth. "Why not? She and her kind are nothing but sport for me. Toys."
"You and your kind," Fleur growled, "witch or muggle, half blood or creature… Your kind don't belong in this world. Anyone who could do this…"
Fleur startled as Hermione began coughing, spasms wracking her malnourished frame. The cough was deep and brassy, leaving her breathless and limp in its wake. Fleur rubbed her back softly, able to feel the thrum of illness rattling through her lungs.
"I did it because I can." Bellatrix continued, tipping her head to one side. "Because now, with the Dark Lord triumphant, we can finally give them what they deserve. All of them."
Fleur ignored her, anger still blazing in her breast but meaningless compared to the need to care for the woman in her arms. Hermione was sick, perhaps deathly ill, and needed urgent care. The disease in her lungs was drowning her. Vengeance would come, when the time was right and she was properly armed for battle. "I am taking her with me."
Bellatrix laughed again. "Go ahead! There's nothing more there for me to bother with. Nothing left. Take her and spare me the bother of disposing of her bones."
Fleur shifted slightly, sliding her arms around Hermione's shoulders and knees, wondering if she'd be able to lift her. Wondering if she'd struggle at being carried. Pausing for a moment, she made one last effort to tip her face up, to see what was there. Hermione, breathing noisily and quickly, did not resist this time and Fleur felt her heart shatter at the sight. Cuts, bruises, burns and grime all marred her face.
But it was her eyes, those flat, dead eyes that spoke most loudly. Fleur's lip trembled and tears finally rolled over her cheeks. Unfocused and reddened, unseeing and vacant, there was nothing there of her friend. No spark of her humour, her wit, her ire or her affection lit the dark depths of those brown eyes. They might as well have been those of someone long dead, were it not for the heat burning her face and forehead.
"This is not real," she whispered, understanding dawning in a agonising moment, "this is not happening. This is a dream." She tore her gaze from Hermione's limpid stare and glared at Bellatrix. "I am dreaming."
Her mouth curled into a cruel, gleeful smirk. "Oh, really? Are you now. What a thing, then, to plague your peaceful dreams!"
Fleur was calmer now and took a deep breath. She brushed Hermione's hair back from her scalding brow, as gently as she could. This wasn't real; this was nothing more than her worst fears given form and shape in the darkness of the night.
"How little you know… How little you understand about this world. About your place in it! A dream! Bah! This is no dream."
"It is," Fleur said, firmly. She pressed a kiss to Hermione's brow, lingering for a moment before lifting her face to Bellatrix.
"Begone from here. I have slept long enough."
Bellatrix stood, spreading her hands. The hound, quiet until now, stood too. "You had your chance with her, my dear, and you squandered it. She's mine."
"She is her own," Fleur replied, calmly. "She answers to no one but herself. But if you try to claim her, or any of your filthy associates do, I will stand before her. I will not let you touch her."
Bellatrix smirked. "Too late for that, at this stage," she said nodding down at Hermione. With a shuddering breath, her eyes rolled up in her head and she began to convulse. As weak as she was, the strength of her spasms was almost more than Fleur could control.
"Hermione," she hissed, wincing as she received a blow to the chest. "Please, Hermione!"
"So much suffering, for such a little scrap of a thing," Bellatrix cooed. "I never thought she'd last as long as she did." The hound whined, stepping forward, mouth falling open with hunger.
"Hermione!"
"She fought. She resisted and struggled with such determination!"
Hermione's mouth began to bleed, bright red blood running over her lips and frothing.
"No! No, please! Hermione!"
"I'll have her again," Bellatrix said, softly. "She is mine."
The hound threw back his head and howled, before throwing himself to her. Yellow teeth flashed in the light shed by burning wands and Bellatrix's cackle echoed through the dark room.
"NO!"
"No!" Fleur gasped, shocked to find herself awake and in her bedroom. She was more surprised by the pair of slim hands on her shoulders, however. Tears welled in her eyes as they found Hermione's, concern and worry in that dark, wonderful, beloved gaze.
Almost not daring to believe what she saw, she lifted a hand, which shook vigourously, and touched Hermione's brow. It was cool and soft to the touch, not fevered and grimy. She lifted the other and touched her cheeks, warm and downy. They warmed beneath her palms and she felt tears fall over her face, relief and delight filling her. She sat up, gripping the other witch in a tight embrace and startling her slightly, if her soft exhalation was anything to judge by.
Fleur greedily ran her hands over Hermione's back, feeling the bumps of her shoulders and the long planes along her spine. She was soft, though, healthy and hale in her arms. She turned her face and buried it in the other witch's hair, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. She was surrounded, almost smothered by her bushy hair and she revelled in the tangled, fragrant mess.
She held her for a long time before she pulled back and laid her hands on Hermione's shoulders. Her face was red with confusion and perhaps a bit of embarrassment, her eyes shining and making a great effort to figure out what was happening. Her beating heart raised a pulse at the base of her pale throat and the clean, healthy scent of her was intoxicating. Fleur couldn't help but lay her thumb over that pulse, delighting in the vital, powerful movement there.
Hermione swallowed, her throat bobbing nervously. Fleur was captivated by the sight, by all the evidence of life and thought in her friend. Her hands were lifted by the rise of Hermione's chest to breathe, as quick and breathy as it was. She lifted her gaze again, drawing back and considering the whole.
Hermione sat on her rumpled bed, lit by the morning sunlight. Worry creased her brow but her lips were parted slightly and there was colour high on her cheeks. Her eyes, those eyes! Fleur felt herself smiling as she stared into them, so relieved and so delighted to see her. She ran her fingers between her eyebrows, smoothing the crease from there. Hermione's eyes fluttered shut and she drew a shaking breath, which helped Fleur come back to her senses somewhat.
Taking a breath, she folded one of Hermione's hands in both of hers, running her thumbs over the back. Other pulses fluttered here and there, the brunette witch's hands warm and soft.
"Fleur," she said, softly, "what happened?" she asked, opening her eyes again. She frowned, but laid her free hand over Fleur's.
"I had a nightmare," she said, shaking her head. "One which was particularly unpleasant."
Hermione turned her eyes from Fleur's gaze, shaking her head slightly. "I don't think it was simply a nightmare. I couldn't wake you at all. You were completely out of it, Fleur."
Fleur felt her relief and joy slip a bit. She was confused by the news. She was usually a light sleeper and easy to wake. Obviously, the nightmare had gripped her tightly indeed. "No, just a dream. And it is over!"
Hermione brought her eyes back to hers, the query evident. Fleur shook her head though, unwilling to revisit the memories. "It is gone, now. No more. I will give it no further thought."
She did not appear satisfied though. "You were calling my name," she said, a challenge clear in the statement.
Fleur sighed and slumped slightly. "I imagine I was. It was an unpleasant thing, I can assure you. I called to you because though you were there, I could not reach you," she said, sadly. "But you still came to me. Thank you."
Fondly, she wrapped a strand of hair behind Hermione's ear, watching that familiar blush rise again. The bright day light brought out the highlights in her hair, the tawny ends curling every which way. Her skin was pale and smooth, unblemished but for a couple of freckles scattered on her arms. Sitting there in her flannel pyjamas, perched slightly awkwardly on the side of her bed, she seemed more beautiful than any other woman Fleur had ever seen. Her brow was dark and even, locks of hair falling over the crown of her head as she ducked, self-conscious under Fleur's eyes.
But brave too, and curious. She squeezed Fleur's fingers before releasing them to fiddle with the bed spread. "You're welcome. Are you all right now? Shall I go fetch you a mug of tea?"
Fleur nodded, regretfully allowing the change of subject. "If you put the kettle on, I'll follow you down."
Hermione didn't move, evidently deep in thought. She scowled, then shook her head. "I hate not knowing what's happening. I hate that I just feel so, so bloody useless all the time. I mean, I just… I just wish I could help you," she said, frustration clear. "I wish you weren't having nightmares about me."
"Not about you," Fleur corrected, quietly. "About other evils."
"Evils that we may well end up bringing down on your heads," she said, reaching forward and lightly gripping Fleur's arm, just above the wrist. "Evils and secrets and… And every other bloody thing."
Fleur's chest clenched at that; at the nervous attempt to apologise and to reach out. "Bring them, then. We shall all stand against them."
Hermione's eyes shone with grief and guilt; worry and annoyance and curiosity and courage and so many emotions that it robbed Fleur's breath to see.
"I will stand with you," Fleur whispered, entranced. "If only…"
"If only things were different," Hermione finished. "I know. I wish…" she said, her gaze dropping to Fleur's chin.
Fleur couldn't bear to hear the rest and pressed her fingers to Hermione's lips, startling the other woman.
"I understand but please, don't say it. I want it with all my heart, Hermione. But we cannot always have what we want."
In time to come, she'd wonder what had possessed her to move forward as she did, pressing a kiss to Hermione's cheek. Her lips lingered there and her fingers stayed resting on Hermione's lips. Her eyes slid closed and she felt her wrist grasped gently as Hermione kissed her finger tips.
It would be so easy…
Hermione held her hand there for a long moment, her breath warm against the sensitive skin before she kissed her again and moved her hand away, pulling back slowly.
"No," she whispered, "we can't."
Hermione stood facing Harry, her wand drawn and ready. His green eyes sparkled behind his glasses and he held Draco Malfoy's wand with confidence.
"Go!" Ron shouted from the sidelines, sitting beside Dean and Luna. Harry moved first, casting a blinding jinx. Hermione dodged it easily but almost stumbled into an immobilising hex. She sent several quick blasts to the sand around Harry's feet, raising little whirling dervishes to spin around him. She side stepped, considering her next move.
Harry was difficult to beat because he had ridiculously fast reflexes. He didn't plan in advance, like Ron, or use esoteric spells like Luna and he certainly lacked the raw power that Bill could summon. But he could move quickly and react more rapidly than almost anyone else she knew.
Harry dispersed the whirlwinds and Hermione sent chains spinning towards him. He shattered each and every one before attempting to stun her. She decided to take a different approach and sent a flume of water to the ground beneath him. The sand liquefied and he was sent skidding backwards. Impressively, he maintained his footing and even managed to try and disarm her as he slid backwards.
She was about to try another approach when she heard a loud bang. She turned her back on Harry and faced the source of the noise, wand raised. Bill had his hands stuffed into his pockets and his pale face was grim in the morning light.
"Bill!" Ron called. "What did mum used to threaten to feed the twins to?"
"The hobgoblin who lived in the field beyond the orchard," he answered, loping forward.
"Was there really a hobgoblin in your field?" Luna asked, standing to greet Bill.
As he approached, Hermione saw that he appeared drawn and haggard. Black circles beneath his eyes drew all his usual humour and kindness, leaving him appearing very stern and dour indeed. He was pale too and shivering in the warm morning as though exhausted.
"Nah," Ron answered, "it was only an overgrown gnome."
Bill was not, as was his wont, engaging in the light banter. He was standing before Hermione, a sad and haunted set to his features. His pale blue eyes seemed almost colourless beneath the grey sky; hopeless and grieving. She felt herself flush, ashamed of what she was doing to him. She couldn't look at him for long, with that forlorn expression and turned to Harry, watching him dust himself off.
"You all right, Bill?" he asked, flicking mud off his jeans. "Where were you?"
"Out for a bit," he said, smiling weakly, "just running a quick errand, Harry. Why don't you lot take a break. I'll grab a cuppa and give you a bit of a practice for an hour or two, eh?"
"Sounds great," Ron said, enthusiastically. "Ace."
"Yeah. See you in a bit, so."
Hermione watched him walk slowly towards the cottage, weariness clear in every part of him.
How much of that is due to you?
She turned away and sat heavily beside Luna, turning her wand about in her hands. The blonde was weaving marram grass into little shapes, humming as she went. The boys joined them and they began discussing tactics and spells for defeating Bill. He was a skilled duellist, practiced and collected. Harry and herself had earned some lucky victories but he was difficult to beat.
The day was warm, though, and it was difficult to stay focused for long out in the bright sunlight. Eventually, Ron lay back, looking up at the clouds. Luna soon followed suit and they began discussing the shapes they found there.
Hermione sighed, idly levitating bits of grass and attempting to plait them as Luna had. She felt entirely off-balance and found herself almost desiring to be on the road again; to leave this confusing and hurtful situation and get back to the mission.
She lay back and closed her eyes, allowing herself to imagine for a moment if she'd turned to Fleur that afternoon. What would it have been like to kiss her? To feel that softness on her lips, rather than her cheek? To have pressed close to her and tangled her hands in her hair? To have fallen into Fleur's unmade bed and…
You do mean Bill and Fleur's, don't you?
She rubbed her face. It was a good thing they were leaving because she was finding it harder to leave her decision to refuse Fleur's offer unexamined. What would she have done, had Fleur been single? Would she have immediately agreed? Would she have refused, given that she had feelings for the other woman that made the idea of only being together once wholly unpalatable?
Oddly, Fleur's withdrawal had made it seem all the more tempting and interesting an idea. It had shown her that this meant more to Fleur too, that she meant more to Fleur. That the other woman respected her too much to be with her under false pretences. She couldn't imagine what secret Fleur protected and had no time to ponder it. Their last hours in Shell Cottage were speeding past and she found herself unwilling to try and unravel the mysteries of their hostess.
Besides, what's the worst it could be?
Hermione could think of a few things that would stop someone from agreeing to sex, but none that applied to their situation, except for Bill, of course. Was it some sort of veela thing? She knew that the veela were a society composed entirely of women and perhaps that had a bearing on the situation. Perhaps for them, being with a woman had some great significance, something not to be entered into blindly.
Well, it's more likely to be something like that than the clap, anyway.
In truth, the whole situation didn't add up for her. There were chunks missing and she found herself not liking it one bit. What was the nature of the spell? What exactly was being sacrificed; the possibility of a future together? If it was possible to confer protection on someone merely by sleeping with them, why hadn't anyone else tried it? Given the mindset of many of her friends and school mates, she was sure that this would come up already if it was at all feasible.
Fleur confused her as well, which disheartened her greatly. She'd felt that she'd come to gain a certain level of understanding of her new host, an impression the previous twenty four hours had thoroughly discredited. She'd never realised just how vulnerable Fleur could be or what worries she bore behind her cheerful exterior. She was a much more complicated person than Hermione had ever expected.
She seemed to feel things so deeply and with utter disregard for the safety of her own heart. She offered herself unreservedly and wholeheartedly, making this reticence seemed entirely out of character. The grief it brought her seemed especially unfair, in that circumstance.
What it be like to be with someone like that? Who was so free with both their sorrow and their joy? Who shared themselves without a second thought? What would it be like to know Fleur after the war, when there would be no more need for secrets? When there were no more barriers between them? She felt a shiver run through her at the thought.
Her chances of seeing that lay between slim and none, she knew. Whatever happened, she was not likely to survive the coming battle. Her days were numbered and the figure was likely depressingly low. Their plan for the next day was, after all, incredibly dangerous.
The realisation came to her that she could well be experiencing the last full day of her life. That the night before her could be her final. The thought was incredibly saddening and she felt her heart clench. She laid a hand over her chest and opened her eyes.
The sky was incredible; blue and endless. Clouds drifted here and there but failed to hide the sun or impinge on the majesty of the vast heaven above them. Arching from the horizon to the sea, it dwarfed them on their little patch of sand. Birds wheeled above them, joyous on the wing as they caught currents of warm air and cried out. The air was warm and filled with the scent of the surf.
She rolled over onto her stomach and stood, suddenly wanting to enjoy the world around her without a discussion of Quidditch in the background. She told the others that she was going to stretch her legs and set off, heading to the corner of their protected island that she'd frequented least.
It was odd, she mused, how she craved solitude in what she knew could be the last moments of her life. How she wanted to be alone with her thoughts.
To be alone with myself, really. Whoever that may be.
She followed a path down the dunes, watching small birds take wing before her and flutter until she passed. Moving calmed her and she found her mind beginning to settle. As she went, she widened her stride and quickened her step, feeling her breath come more quickly.
We've done all we can. We're following the only lead we have with the horcruxes. We can only hope that we're on the right track and that if, IF, we survive tomorrow, we'll gain a clue to the next.
And I know that the chances aren't great. All I can hope for is that we'll keep Harry safe long enough for him to do what he must.
She was almost running by the time the barrier came into view, shimmering in the sunlight. It seemed delighted by the change in weather too and was not shy about letting it be known. She smiled sadly as she approached it. How much of what had happened between herself and Fleur could be blamed on the barrier, she mused wryly. There was something about gazing out over an edge that left one particularly reckless, she thought.
She turned and followed the barrier, enjoying the way the sun warmed her. The winter had been long and bitter and the spring unenthusiastic at best. It was nice to see the world finally making an effort at throwing off the cold and misery of winter. She soon met a low tree covered in white flowers, boughs moving languidly in the wind. The little white flowers were beautiful; crowning the slender branches and stems.
May Blossom.
She moved forward and touched one of the delicate flowers gently. Something about the sight of them, and certain memories, tugged at her heart and she felt sadness well within her. She closed her eyes and listened to the wind, an odd and lonely peace settling around her.
Fleur was bustling around the kitchen, preparing supplies for the three adventurers when Bill walked in through the door. He was pale and wan in the sunlight, his scars appearing especially ugly. Fleur set down what she was doing and rushed towards him, enveloping him in her arms. He clung to her, desperate and lost. She stroked his hair and hummed to him, trying to soothe his grief.
"What happened?" she whispered, "is anyone hurt?"
Is anyone dead?
"No," he said, quietly. "Well, yeah. They are. But no one we know."
Fleur led him to the kitchen table and sat him down, worried by his obvious distress. It took a lot to shake Bill but never before had she seen him so perturbed. His hands shook as he removed his cloak and rubbed his tired face.
After a few silent moments, Fleur set a mug down before him. He took it gratefully and sipped quietly. She knew that there was no point in rushing him; he'd speak when he felt ready. She found that she didn't have to wait long for him to begin, his voice hollow in the sunny kitchen.
"When I was out the other day," he said, voice low and tremulous, "Kingsley tipped us off to an attack on some muggles in East Anglia. We went and checked it out, but we couldn't find anything. Last night, he was in Lupin's when he got this message, about them muggles. He couldn't go alone, so he sent for the rest of us. I went with him and Fred and Dad, just to see if there was anything we could do."
He swallowed thickly and stood. Fleur followed and wrapped her arms around him. He held her close, speaking into the air over her shoulder, voice low and flat, as though he was recounting a dream he couldn't quite remember.
"There wasn't, though. The couple and their two little boys were dead, for days likely. Killing curse. But the daughter… Saw her train card. She was fifteen. Called Laura," he said, taking a deep breath.
"She'd been cut and stabbed, like Hermione. Only worse. I mean, she was fucking cut to ribbons. Had words carved into her. Filth. Mudblood."
Fleur frowned. That didn't quite make sense. Bill was quiet and she turned her head, attempting to look up at him. "Mudblood? I thought you said she was a muggle."
"Yeah," Bill sighed. "She was. But she had this big mop, this glorious head of brown curls, Fleur. And she'd been so pretty. Would have grown up to be a stunner." She gripped his shoulders more tightly, hearing his voice grow hoarse.
"She'd been with her for days, Fleur. Fucking sticking her full of holes and healing her… Keeping her alive. There was just, there was blood everywhere. And she, all these little holes all over her."
Fleur felt tears well in her eyes, a lump forming in her throat.
"And mudblood carved into her, Fleur. On her chest and her belly. Letters four inches tall and so deep." He too a deep breath, struggling with the next part. "The worst of it is, she could have been Hermione's sister."
"Bill," she whispered, her throat tight. "I'm so sorry you had to see that."
He laughed without humour and nodded. "I am too, love."
He was quiet for a long moment. "I thought if they stayed here, it wouldn't matter what was going on out there. We could look after them. Keep an eye out, you know? But they're going and… And that's what will happen to Hermione if Lestrange gets her hands on her. Harry, he's dead the moment you-know-who gets him and Ron… Ron's got a big mouth. They'll either kill him right off or they'll keep him as a ransom. To ensure the good behaviour of all and sundry."
Fleur felt tears roll over her cheeks. How could they face such horrors, when they were so young? What kind of a world did they live in where this sort of thing was allowed to happen? Bill gripped her more firmly.
"So I hate your idea, Fleur. It scares me. It makes me feel like I'm on the edge of losing everything but… But Hermione can't end up like that. Keep her safe."
Squeezing her eyes shut, she gripped him as firmly as she could. "I will. But you're right," she said, sadly. "She doesn't know. What kind of person would I be, to lead her down a merry lie?"
"One who cares deeply for her and wants to offer her protection, in the only way you know how." He sighed. "How much does she know?"
"She knows that there are things about me that I cannot tell her. Without knowing these, she cannot decide one way or another."
"I see." He sighed deeply. "We've really dug ourselves into a hole, haven't we?"