Leigh!fic | Don't Blink (1/2) | Bill Weasley/Fleur Delacour
Title: Don’t Blink (1/2)
Author: Leigh, aka leigh_adams
Pairing: Bill Weasley/Fleur Delacour
Word Count: 10,023
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Trust me friend, a hundred years goes faster than you think. So don’t blink. Bill reflects on his life-- and the remarkable woman he shared it with.
Warnings: Extreme angst. You only think I’m kidding.
Author’s notes: This was written for the 2011 hp_canon_fest, using this quote from Dragonfly in Amber-- "Lord, ye gave me a rare woman, and God! I loved her well." To my wonderful betas, elle_blessing and fiery_flamingo, thank you for being you. I honestly don't know what I'd do without y'all. The title of this story comes from the song Don’t Blink by Kenny Chesney. I think it’s quite appropriate. I hope you all enjoy! Oh, and if you hover your cursor over the French words, you’ll see the English translation.
October 15, 2078
A cool breeze ruffled the tree limbs, sending a whirl of golden leaves falling down to the ground. It was a lovely autumn’s day in Ottery St. Catchpole with just the barest hint of the oncoming weather hanging in the air. The old wizarding cemetery was completely deserted.
At least, it nearly was.
In a silver wheelchair sat a small, stooped figure. His shoulders were hunched with age, and his once-flaming red hair was now silver. Lines crossed his face; laugh lines that had given way to age lines as the years had passed. Hands, once so strong and sure, were now gnarled with arthritis and wear.
But his blue eyes were as keen and bright as they had ever been.
A flannel tartan was draped across his lap, lovingly tucked over his thin legs by the great-granddaughter who’d accompanied him to the graveyard-- Anaïs. She had left him where he was with a kiss on the cheek and the assurance that she would be nearby.
”Just in case you need me.”
There were several headstones nearby designating the final resting places of his family. Fred was there, buried beneath the willow tree-- George had liked that. His parents, too, side-by-side in death as they had been in life. He took solace in the fact that his mother had gotten the grandchildren she’d always longed for; there were over a dozen between the six surviving Weasleys.
The stone at his feet was new. His children had picked it out, narrowing down the different types of marble until they’d shown him their final choice. But he didn’t care; the stone was more for them than it was for him. He knew it wouldn’t be long before they were choosing one for him.
A bouquet of dark crimson roses sat beneath one wrinkled hand, the stems bound together by a white satin ribbon. She had always loved roses, had tended the various bushes around their home until she’d been too weak to do so on her own. The blooms in his lap were from one of her prize bushes, lovingly plucked by Isabelle-- their eldest granddaughter and chief caretaker of her Grandmère’s garden.
In the distance, a sparrow sang. The leaves rustled. At the Burrow, the garden gnomes were likely plotting world domination. But none of that mattered at the moment. All that mattered was sitting in front of him, carved in stone.
Fleur Isabelle Delacour-Weasley
August 17, 1977 to October 15, 2077
Loving daughter, sister, wife, and mother
Cœur nobyle, esprit immobyle
Sometimes, it was hard for Bill to realize she was gone. He was over a hundred years old and it was easy to forget that his wife of eighty years was no longer with him. There were mornings when he would wake up, agitation growing when he didn’t see Fleur sleeping beside him.
And then he would remember.
And then the pain would return.
Looking up from the headstone, his mind started to wander. As blue eyes took in the unchanging landscape of his home village, Bill began to think back on days gone by-- for at his age, he could recall the past much more readily than he could the present. There had been a time when he’d been a headstrong, adventurous young man; a time of darkness and war, when his family had still been whole.
And during that time, she’d changed his life forever.
*~*~*~*~*
December 2, 1995
“So Miss Delacour, tell me. Did I manage to convince you that having dinner with me was a good idea?”
The winter moonlight glinted off Fleur’s white-blonde hair as they walked next to the Thames, Bill’s arm around her waist. Merely to keep her warm, of course. It was nearing Christmas, after all, and Fleur was from the south of France. He hadn’t missed the way she shivered when they’d left the restaurant.
A voice in his mind-- one that sounded suspiciously like his mother-- had said, ”She wouldn’t be cold if she’d be sensible and wear a nice jumper,” but Bill ignored it. He much preferred the way her silk dress clung to her in all the right places.
“Peut-être,” she replied coyly, glancing up at him through her lashes. A faint touch of a smile tugged at her lips. “You ‘ave certainly made a convincing case for yourself, I theenk.”
“Oh?” Stopping, his arm tightened around her waist, and he turned her to face him. His lips tilted up in his most effortless smirk, blue eyes alight with amusement. “Have I now? And what do you think of my case?”
“I theenk zat I will be needing to ‘ear more on eet,” she responded, her gaze flashing. One brow rose as she glanced down at his arm, then back up to his face, and her smile curled into a smirk to match his own. “But I do not theenk you will mind, non?”
Bill gave a theatrical sigh. “You drive a hard bargain, mademoiselle. I suppose I’ll just have to grit my teeth and bear another evening in your company if you’re to be satisfied.”
“Ees zat so?” Fleur didn’t miss a beat as she pulled away, her long hair whipping around as she wiggled out of his embrace. “I would ‘ate to so inconvenience you, Monsieur Weasley. I am sure zere ees some other women who weel not be as challenging to spend time with. And Roger ‘as been ‘oping to take me to another Queeditch match, you see.”
He laughed and reached out for her again, big hands grasping her slim hips and tugging her back against him. “Oh, I don’t think so, love.”
“Et pourquoi pas?” she asked in defiance. One small hand braced against his chest, and Bill promptly reached up to lace his fingers through hers.
“Because,” he said, his smirk growing, “the other women-- the non-challenging ones-- aren’t nearly as beautiful as you.”
Her veela vanity assuaged, Fleur smiled. “Well. When you put it like zat...”
“I’d be happy to spend another evening convincing you, Fleur,” he said, ducking his head down to brush his lips against her ear. His voice was a whisper when he breathed, “And if you like, I can provide character references.”
“I do not theenk zat will be necessary,” she murmured, her head turning a fraction to the side. Their lips were but a hairs-breadth apart as she said, “Eef you would kiss me.”
“As the lady commands, so it shall be.” Without further commentary, he closed the gap between them and pressed his lips to hers.
He hadn’t known it at the time, but that had been his last first kiss.
*~*~*~*~*
June 3, 1997
It was quiet in the hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey was in her office, reviewing files, and the other inhabitants had been discharged from her care the day before. It left Bill alone, as the hovering caretaker was not quiet ready to send him on his way. Even though he’d grumbled and argued, she’d insisted on one more night’s observation.
Fleur sat in a chair beside his bed, a blonde tendril of hair curled on her cheek as she dozed softly. Since the attack, she hadn’t left the hospital wing; not to eat, not to sleep, nothing had been able to get her to leave his side. Bill had seen the grudging admiration in his mother’s eyes when Fleur had yanked the poultice away from her.
If he’d been in any other shape, he would have smirked. But that probably would have been rewarded by one of his mother’s Stinging Hexes, and he didn’t fancy that again.
He shifted in bed, and Fleur’s eyes flew open. “Chéri, do you need somezing? Should I get ze Madame?”
Bill shook his head. “‘M fine, Fleur. Go back to sleep.”
His fiancée snorted softly, rolling her eyes at him. Comme si je pourrait,” she said softly, sitting up in her seat. She reached out and took his hand between hers, small thumb stroking softly over the calloused flesh.
In the dim light, he saw a tear roll down her pale cheek.
“Fleur, please don’t cry,” he murmured, reaching out with his free hand to brush her tear away. “Love, it’s alright.”
“But eet almost was not,” she whispered furiously, turning watery blue eyes up to him. “You could ‘ave been keeled, chéri.” She brought his hand up to her face, pressing her lips against him. “I do not know what I would do eef I lost you, Bill. I can’t lose you.”
The desperation in her voice tore at his heart. He wanted nothing more than to draw her into his arms and assure her that everything would be alright, that he would never leave her. But he couldn’t lie to her. Their world was growing darker and more dangerous with each passing day, and there was a fair chance something would happen to him.
“Come here, love.”
She shook her head. “You’re ‘urt...”
Rolling his eyes at her stubbornness, he rolled onto his side and reached around her waist, tugging her up onto the bed beside him. Ignoring her protests, he pulled her back against his chest and let his chin rest on top of her head.
“Bill, eef you were not ‘urt, I would ‘ex you!”
He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Fleur, darling, I’m hurt. I’m not dead.”
She stilled. “Please don’t say zat,” she said, her voice quiet with angst. “Bill, I-”
Bill pressed a finger against her lips. “Love, I can’t promise that something won’t happen to me. I’m not going to lie to you. But you’re strong, you can survive anything.”
Fleur shook her head. “Not without you,” she whispered.
He sighed and pressed his lips to her silky hair. “Don’t fret, Fleur. I won’t go anywhere without a fight, I can promise you that. We’re both alive, and right now, that’s all that matters.”
*~*~*~*~*
August 1, 1997
“So, Mrs. Weasley, how does it feel to be married to the most handsome wizard in Britain?”
He didn’t have to glance down at her to know she had rolled her eyes. “Ze most ‘andsome wizard een Britain ‘as quite ze ego,” she commented lightly as Bill twirled his new wife under his arm, bringing her back to him in time with the music.
“You knew that from the start, love.”
“So I did.” Fleur tipped her face back to look at Bill, a contented smile in place. “Et toi? ‘Ow does eet feel to no longer be a bachelor?”
“Absolutely perfect.”
The need for words died, and Bill’s hand slid around to the small of her back, drawing her curves flush against his body. Despite all the turmoil they had endured over their year-long courtship-- his family’s protests, Greyback’s attack, and the daily threat of Death Eaters or worse-- it was all worth it. To have Fleur in his arms, to call her his own...
It was more than he’d ever imagined for himself. She was more than he deserved.
“Chéri.” Fleur’s voice drew him out of his reverie, tugging him back to the moment. Bill glanced down to find her peering up at him, blonde brows drawn in concern. “You are far away. What are you theenking about?”
“You,” he answered honestly.
Fleur’s lips curled upwards in a smile. “Ah bon?”
“Really.” Ducking his head down, he pressed his lips against hers in a soft, sweet kiss.
“I love you,” she whispered against his lips.
“Je t’adore aussi,” he murmured, tightening his hold on her. The fierce, proud, gorgeous woman was his.
A streak of light shot into the tent, causing the wedding-goers to gasp in surprise. Bill pulled back from his wife, instinctively moving to shield her from whatever had happened upon their reception. It was a Patronus, and a split second later, he recognized who it belonged to.
A lynx.
Kingsley.
”The Ministry has fallen. Scrimegeour is dead. They’re coming.”
He barely heard Fleur whisper, “Mon dieu,” beside him before shadowy figures started to appear, shattering glasses and flinging hexes within seconds.
And all hell broke loose.
*~*~*~*~*
December 24, 1997
“Fleur, love, please come inside.”
It was freezing, and his wife was on the beach. Her back was to him, but Bill didn’t need to see her face to see the tension radiating off her. Had she been facing him, he was sure he’d have seen her arms crossed over her chest, her jaw set defiantly, and her blue eyes hard with anger.
“I will be inside een a minute,” she said shortly.
Bill sighed and moved closer, wrapping his arms around her waist and drawing her back against him. “You’re going to catch your death out here with no jumper on,” he said against her ear.
“You sound like your muzzer,” Fleur groused. Despite her testy tone, she relaxed against him, pressing back against his warm body.
“She’s a very wise lady,” he replied sagely, pressing a kiss to her neck. “What’s got you so worked up, sweetheart?”
“‘E should not be ‘ere.”
One thumb idly stroked her clothed hip. “I know,” he murmured soothingly. “I know.”
“‘E should be with ‘Arry and ‘Ermione!” she shot back hotly. “Why did ‘e leave zem? What eef somezing ‘appens to zem while ‘e ees not zere? ‘E ees ‘iding ‘ere, and ‘e should not be doing so!”
“Fleur, darling,” Bill started, turning her in his arms. “I’m not much happier about it than you are. But where else is he supposed to go? Back home? Mum would kill him for leaving them.”
“I am going to keel ‘im!” his wife hissed, jerking away from him. Her blonde hair whipped around in the ocean’s breeze as she tried to escape his embrace, but his long fingers wrapped around her wrist and jerked her back to him.
“Hey,” he said, ignoring the violent flash in her blue eyes, “I know you’re upset, but he’s my brother. What would you do if you were in my position, and Gabrielle was in his?”
“She would not abandon ‘er friends to ze wolves because she was a coward!”
“Do not call my brother a coward, Fleur.”
“Non? Zen what ees ‘e?” She tried to pull away, thrashing against his firm hold on her. “Let me go!”
“No.” Despite her protests, his embrace tightened. One hand moved to cup her cheek, holding her head in place as he caught her gaze. “Not everyone is like you, love. You’re fearless. Nothing scares you, and that’s a quality I both love and hate about you.”
Her lips hardened into a thin line. “And what ees zat supposed to mean?”
“It means that while I admire your courage, I’m scared that one day it could get you killed.” Pausing to draw a shaky breath, he closed his eyes and shook his head. “Ron made a mistake, love, and he knows it. Try not to be too hard on him.”
Bill opened his eyes when he felt her cup his cheek, mirroring his own actions. “I will, but I promise nothing.”
“That’s all I ask.” Giving her a small, grateful smile, he leaned down and let his forehead rest against hers. “Happy Christmas, my lovely wife.”
“Joyeux Noël, mon mari.”
*~*~*~*~*
May 2, 1998
It was over.
Voldemort was dead.
They had won.
But Fred...
Fred was gone.
The sunlight filtered over the Scottish highlands, casting the castle in its morning rays. It glinted off the lake, and Bill had to raise one hand to shield his eyes. All around him, remnants of the previous night’s battle littered the grounds; bodies were being carried back into the Great Hall, both Order and Death Eater alike.
Some of them were young. Too young. Students who had sneaked back onto the grounds after McGonagall’s mandatory evacuation.
But Bill couldn't think about them. He didn’t know them, and while it might have been selfish of him, he didn’t care.
Because Fred, his brother, was dead.
A choked sound escaped his lips as the overwhelming reality of that sank it. It wasn’t as if Bill didn’t know death, hadn’t felt its keen sting before; he’d been there when Uncle Bilius had died, and he’d lost coworkers over his work in the Egyptian tombs. But nothing could compare to the heart-wrenching ache that filled him. He’d never see Fred laugh again, never watch the twins conspire against Percy.
A light touch on his shoulder startled him, and his mind registered the soft scent of flowers. Fleur.
He didn’t want her to see him like this, so beaten and broken. So lost. Bill squeezed his eyes shut, simultaneously warding off tears and shielding himself from her gaze.
“Bill,” he heard her whisper, “chéri, look at me.”
Bill shook his head.
“Please.”
The raw pleading in her voice tore at him, and he was helpless to refuse her. He opened his eyes and looked down at her. Her blonde hair was tousled, and blood from a cut on her forehead matted the fine locks. Dirt was smudged on her face, and her blouse was ripped.
But the sight that pained him the most were her tears, pooling in her eyes and cutting a track down her dirty cheeks.
It was like a floodgate opened within him, and a strangled sob fell from his lips. His arms wrapped tightly around her waist, and he buried his face in her hair as he gave into the overwhelming urge to cry.
He didn’t know how long they stood there on the edge of the Great Lake. Fleur never faltered, crying herself even as she murmured French nothings in his ear. Fred was gone, but he still had Fleur. There would always be a hole from the loss of his brother, but it wouldn’t always hurt this badly.
As long as he had his wife at his side, he could get through anything.
*~*~*~*~*
May 2, 2000
His hand was going to fall off. He was sure of it. For over eight hours now, he’d been sitting in this chair by her bedside, his hand in hers.
And if she squeezed any harder, she would probably sever his fingers from his hand.
“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he said. He’d probably said it about seventy times since her water had broken earlier that day, but it was all he could bloody think to say! Truthfully, he wanted to excuse himself and throw up in the loo, but he could only imagine the painful punishment his wife would dole out if he dared leave her side.
“Bill?”
“Yes, love?”
“La ferme!”
The Healer glanced up from her position at the foot of the bed and gave them both an encouraging smile. “I can see the head,” she said. “I need one more really big push, Fleur. You can do it.”
“That’s right, sweetheart,” Bill coached, just like they’d gone over during the lamaze classes. “Just relax and push. You’re almost done, love.”
“Eet ees easy for you to sit back and say ‘push,’” Fleur retorted hotly, her face flushed with exertion. “But you are never ‘aving sex with me again! Jamais!”
“One more, Fleur, you’re so close,” the Healer said, and Bill could see the woman’s lips curl at his wife’s pronouncement. If she hadn’t been helping his wife give birth to their firstborn, he’d have had some very nasty thoughts for her.
Fleur grasped his hand even tighter-- he hadn’t thought it was possible to do so, but apparently, he’d been wrong-- and let out a blood-curdling scream. Bill’s gaze was so focused on his wife’s face that he almost missed another sound.
A baby’s cry.
“It’s a girl!” the Healer proclaimed, holding up the slimy, squirmy newborn for her parents to see.
“A girl,” Bill murmured in awe. He leaned in to press his lips to his wife’s clammy forehead. “We have a daughter, love.”
After the Healer had cleaned her up and wrapped her in a pink blanket, she placed the baby in Fleur’s arms. It might have been sappy or cliched, but Bill was sure he’d never felt more like a man than he did at that moment.
“What should we call her?”
Fleur glanced down at the blonde fuzz atop her pink head. “What ees ze date?”
“May 2nd,” he answered, brow knit in confusion. “What-”
“Victoire.” His wife glanced up at him. “Eet ees ze anniversay of ze battle. Let’s call ‘er Victoire.”
“Victoire Weasley.” As Bill sounded the name out, his lips curled upwards in a smile. “I like that. Victoire Apolline Weasley. It’s perfect.”
“She ees perfect.”
“Can’t argue with that, love,” he said, reaching out to trace his finger over her soft, tiny cheek. “Can’t argue with that.”
*~*~*~*~*
March 22, 2002
Victoire was at his parents’ for the weekend, and not for the first time did Bill feel the familiar sadness welling up again. His daughter was almost two; she couldn’t understand what was going on. She didn’t know why her Maman wouldn’t get out of bed, why her Papa was constantly sad.
She was too young to comprehend what had happened.
It had happened so suddenly. One minute, his wife had been happily chopping away at chard for their dinner, the next she was doubled over in pain. At her scream, he’d dropped his bottle of butterbeer, and the shattering of glass mingled with Fleur’s cry of pain.
When he’d rounded the kitchen counter, he’d nearly frozen in his tracks.
Blood. It stained her dress, running down her leg and onto the tiled floor, pooling at her feet. Her hands were gripping her stomach, and only one thought ran through Bill’s mind.
The baby.
He had grabbed Fleur and Apparated her to the emergency ward at St. Mungo’s, but it had been too late. She had lost their baby-- their son.
And the worst part was there had been nothing either of them could have done to prevent it. It was just one of those things, her Obstetric Healer had said with a sympathetic smile.
Bill hated her. She had no idea what they were dealing with. She couldn’t know their pain.
He knocked lightly on their bedroom door and paused, waiting for Fleur to say something. When a minute had passed without a word, he pushed the door open and slipped into the dark room.
“Fleur?” he said softly, crossing to the small figure curled in a ball on their bed. “Sweetheart, please talk to me.” The bed creaked as he sat down on the edge of the mattress, reaching out to tip her chin up so he could see her face. Her eyes were bloodshot and hollow, her cheeks pale, and her hair was bedraggled and limp around her face.
“What ees zere to say?” she whispered, blinking back tears. “I ‘ave failed. I killed our baby.”
Bill opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was too thick to say anything. Instead, he shook his head and laid down on the bed next to her. His arms moved around her, drawing her against him, and he pressed his cheek to her hair.
“It’s not your fault, Fleur,” he murmured. “You heard the Healer. It was an accident.”
“But zere ‘as to ‘ave been something I could ‘ave done,” she whispered through little sobbing hiccups. “I should ‘ave rested more, eaten somezing different...”
“There was nothing you could have done better, sweetheart,” he assured her as one tear fell down his own cheek. “But we have each other, and we have our Victoire. And she’ll have a brother or sister someday, I promise.”
“J’espère,” she whispered. “J’espère que ça.”
Continue to Part Two
Author: Leigh, aka leigh_adams
Pairing: Bill Weasley/Fleur Delacour
Word Count: 10,023
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Trust me friend, a hundred years goes faster than you think. So don’t blink. Bill reflects on his life-- and the remarkable woman he shared it with.
Warnings: Extreme angst. You only think I’m kidding.
Author’s notes: This was written for the 2011 hp_canon_fest, using this quote from Dragonfly in Amber-- "Lord, ye gave me a rare woman, and God! I loved her well." To my wonderful betas, elle_blessing and fiery_flamingo, thank you for being you. I honestly don't know what I'd do without y'all. The title of this story comes from the song Don’t Blink by Kenny Chesney. I think it’s quite appropriate. I hope you all enjoy! Oh, and if you hover your cursor over the French words, you’ll see the English translation.
October 15, 2078
A cool breeze ruffled the tree limbs, sending a whirl of golden leaves falling down to the ground. It was a lovely autumn’s day in Ottery St. Catchpole with just the barest hint of the oncoming weather hanging in the air. The old wizarding cemetery was completely deserted.
At least, it nearly was.
In a silver wheelchair sat a small, stooped figure. His shoulders were hunched with age, and his once-flaming red hair was now silver. Lines crossed his face; laugh lines that had given way to age lines as the years had passed. Hands, once so strong and sure, were now gnarled with arthritis and wear.
But his blue eyes were as keen and bright as they had ever been.
A flannel tartan was draped across his lap, lovingly tucked over his thin legs by the great-granddaughter who’d accompanied him to the graveyard-- Anaïs. She had left him where he was with a kiss on the cheek and the assurance that she would be nearby.
”Just in case you need me.”
There were several headstones nearby designating the final resting places of his family. Fred was there, buried beneath the willow tree-- George had liked that. His parents, too, side-by-side in death as they had been in life. He took solace in the fact that his mother had gotten the grandchildren she’d always longed for; there were over a dozen between the six surviving Weasleys.
The stone at his feet was new. His children had picked it out, narrowing down the different types of marble until they’d shown him their final choice. But he didn’t care; the stone was more for them than it was for him. He knew it wouldn’t be long before they were choosing one for him.
A bouquet of dark crimson roses sat beneath one wrinkled hand, the stems bound together by a white satin ribbon. She had always loved roses, had tended the various bushes around their home until she’d been too weak to do so on her own. The blooms in his lap were from one of her prize bushes, lovingly plucked by Isabelle-- their eldest granddaughter and chief caretaker of her Grandmère’s garden.
In the distance, a sparrow sang. The leaves rustled. At the Burrow, the garden gnomes were likely plotting world domination. But none of that mattered at the moment. All that mattered was sitting in front of him, carved in stone.
Fleur Isabelle Delacour-Weasley
August 17, 1977 to October 15, 2077
Loving daughter, sister, wife, and mother
Cœur nobyle, esprit immobyle
Sometimes, it was hard for Bill to realize she was gone. He was over a hundred years old and it was easy to forget that his wife of eighty years was no longer with him. There were mornings when he would wake up, agitation growing when he didn’t see Fleur sleeping beside him.
And then he would remember.
And then the pain would return.
Looking up from the headstone, his mind started to wander. As blue eyes took in the unchanging landscape of his home village, Bill began to think back on days gone by-- for at his age, he could recall the past much more readily than he could the present. There had been a time when he’d been a headstrong, adventurous young man; a time of darkness and war, when his family had still been whole.
And during that time, she’d changed his life forever.
*~*~*~*~*
December 2, 1995
“So Miss Delacour, tell me. Did I manage to convince you that having dinner with me was a good idea?”
The winter moonlight glinted off Fleur’s white-blonde hair as they walked next to the Thames, Bill’s arm around her waist. Merely to keep her warm, of course. It was nearing Christmas, after all, and Fleur was from the south of France. He hadn’t missed the way she shivered when they’d left the restaurant.
A voice in his mind-- one that sounded suspiciously like his mother-- had said, ”She wouldn’t be cold if she’d be sensible and wear a nice jumper,” but Bill ignored it. He much preferred the way her silk dress clung to her in all the right places.
“Peut-être,” she replied coyly, glancing up at him through her lashes. A faint touch of a smile tugged at her lips. “You ‘ave certainly made a convincing case for yourself, I theenk.”
“Oh?” Stopping, his arm tightened around her waist, and he turned her to face him. His lips tilted up in his most effortless smirk, blue eyes alight with amusement. “Have I now? And what do you think of my case?”
“I theenk zat I will be needing to ‘ear more on eet,” she responded, her gaze flashing. One brow rose as she glanced down at his arm, then back up to his face, and her smile curled into a smirk to match his own. “But I do not theenk you will mind, non?”
Bill gave a theatrical sigh. “You drive a hard bargain, mademoiselle. I suppose I’ll just have to grit my teeth and bear another evening in your company if you’re to be satisfied.”
“Ees zat so?” Fleur didn’t miss a beat as she pulled away, her long hair whipping around as she wiggled out of his embrace. “I would ‘ate to so inconvenience you, Monsieur Weasley. I am sure zere ees some other women who weel not be as challenging to spend time with. And Roger ‘as been ‘oping to take me to another Queeditch match, you see.”
He laughed and reached out for her again, big hands grasping her slim hips and tugging her back against him. “Oh, I don’t think so, love.”
“Et pourquoi pas?” she asked in defiance. One small hand braced against his chest, and Bill promptly reached up to lace his fingers through hers.
“Because,” he said, his smirk growing, “the other women-- the non-challenging ones-- aren’t nearly as beautiful as you.”
Her veela vanity assuaged, Fleur smiled. “Well. When you put it like zat...”
“I’d be happy to spend another evening convincing you, Fleur,” he said, ducking his head down to brush his lips against her ear. His voice was a whisper when he breathed, “And if you like, I can provide character references.”
“I do not theenk zat will be necessary,” she murmured, her head turning a fraction to the side. Their lips were but a hairs-breadth apart as she said, “Eef you would kiss me.”
“As the lady commands, so it shall be.” Without further commentary, he closed the gap between them and pressed his lips to hers.
He hadn’t known it at the time, but that had been his last first kiss.
*~*~*~*~*
June 3, 1997
It was quiet in the hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey was in her office, reviewing files, and the other inhabitants had been discharged from her care the day before. It left Bill alone, as the hovering caretaker was not quiet ready to send him on his way. Even though he’d grumbled and argued, she’d insisted on one more night’s observation.
Fleur sat in a chair beside his bed, a blonde tendril of hair curled on her cheek as she dozed softly. Since the attack, she hadn’t left the hospital wing; not to eat, not to sleep, nothing had been able to get her to leave his side. Bill had seen the grudging admiration in his mother’s eyes when Fleur had yanked the poultice away from her.
If he’d been in any other shape, he would have smirked. But that probably would have been rewarded by one of his mother’s Stinging Hexes, and he didn’t fancy that again.
He shifted in bed, and Fleur’s eyes flew open. “Chéri, do you need somezing? Should I get ze Madame?”
Bill shook his head. “‘M fine, Fleur. Go back to sleep.”
His fiancée snorted softly, rolling her eyes at him. Comme si je pourrait,” she said softly, sitting up in her seat. She reached out and took his hand between hers, small thumb stroking softly over the calloused flesh.
In the dim light, he saw a tear roll down her pale cheek.
“Fleur, please don’t cry,” he murmured, reaching out with his free hand to brush her tear away. “Love, it’s alright.”
“But eet almost was not,” she whispered furiously, turning watery blue eyes up to him. “You could ‘ave been keeled, chéri.” She brought his hand up to her face, pressing her lips against him. “I do not know what I would do eef I lost you, Bill. I can’t lose you.”
The desperation in her voice tore at his heart. He wanted nothing more than to draw her into his arms and assure her that everything would be alright, that he would never leave her. But he couldn’t lie to her. Their world was growing darker and more dangerous with each passing day, and there was a fair chance something would happen to him.
“Come here, love.”
She shook her head. “You’re ‘urt...”
Rolling his eyes at her stubbornness, he rolled onto his side and reached around her waist, tugging her up onto the bed beside him. Ignoring her protests, he pulled her back against his chest and let his chin rest on top of her head.
“Bill, eef you were not ‘urt, I would ‘ex you!”
He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Fleur, darling, I’m hurt. I’m not dead.”
She stilled. “Please don’t say zat,” she said, her voice quiet with angst. “Bill, I-”
Bill pressed a finger against her lips. “Love, I can’t promise that something won’t happen to me. I’m not going to lie to you. But you’re strong, you can survive anything.”
Fleur shook her head. “Not without you,” she whispered.
He sighed and pressed his lips to her silky hair. “Don’t fret, Fleur. I won’t go anywhere without a fight, I can promise you that. We’re both alive, and right now, that’s all that matters.”
*~*~*~*~*
August 1, 1997
“So, Mrs. Weasley, how does it feel to be married to the most handsome wizard in Britain?”
He didn’t have to glance down at her to know she had rolled her eyes. “Ze most ‘andsome wizard een Britain ‘as quite ze ego,” she commented lightly as Bill twirled his new wife under his arm, bringing her back to him in time with the music.
“You knew that from the start, love.”
“So I did.” Fleur tipped her face back to look at Bill, a contented smile in place. “Et toi? ‘Ow does eet feel to no longer be a bachelor?”
“Absolutely perfect.”
The need for words died, and Bill’s hand slid around to the small of her back, drawing her curves flush against his body. Despite all the turmoil they had endured over their year-long courtship-- his family’s protests, Greyback’s attack, and the daily threat of Death Eaters or worse-- it was all worth it. To have Fleur in his arms, to call her his own...
It was more than he’d ever imagined for himself. She was more than he deserved.
“Chéri.” Fleur’s voice drew him out of his reverie, tugging him back to the moment. Bill glanced down to find her peering up at him, blonde brows drawn in concern. “You are far away. What are you theenking about?”
“You,” he answered honestly.
Fleur’s lips curled upwards in a smile. “Ah bon?”
“Really.” Ducking his head down, he pressed his lips against hers in a soft, sweet kiss.
“I love you,” she whispered against his lips.
“Je t’adore aussi,” he murmured, tightening his hold on her. The fierce, proud, gorgeous woman was his.
A streak of light shot into the tent, causing the wedding-goers to gasp in surprise. Bill pulled back from his wife, instinctively moving to shield her from whatever had happened upon their reception. It was a Patronus, and a split second later, he recognized who it belonged to.
A lynx.
Kingsley.
”The Ministry has fallen. Scrimegeour is dead. They’re coming.”
He barely heard Fleur whisper, “Mon dieu,” beside him before shadowy figures started to appear, shattering glasses and flinging hexes within seconds.
And all hell broke loose.
*~*~*~*~*
December 24, 1997
“Fleur, love, please come inside.”
It was freezing, and his wife was on the beach. Her back was to him, but Bill didn’t need to see her face to see the tension radiating off her. Had she been facing him, he was sure he’d have seen her arms crossed over her chest, her jaw set defiantly, and her blue eyes hard with anger.
“I will be inside een a minute,” she said shortly.
Bill sighed and moved closer, wrapping his arms around her waist and drawing her back against him. “You’re going to catch your death out here with no jumper on,” he said against her ear.
“You sound like your muzzer,” Fleur groused. Despite her testy tone, she relaxed against him, pressing back against his warm body.
“She’s a very wise lady,” he replied sagely, pressing a kiss to her neck. “What’s got you so worked up, sweetheart?”
“‘E should not be ‘ere.”
One thumb idly stroked her clothed hip. “I know,” he murmured soothingly. “I know.”
“‘E should be with ‘Arry and ‘Ermione!” she shot back hotly. “Why did ‘e leave zem? What eef somezing ‘appens to zem while ‘e ees not zere? ‘E ees ‘iding ‘ere, and ‘e should not be doing so!”
“Fleur, darling,” Bill started, turning her in his arms. “I’m not much happier about it than you are. But where else is he supposed to go? Back home? Mum would kill him for leaving them.”
“I am going to keel ‘im!” his wife hissed, jerking away from him. Her blonde hair whipped around in the ocean’s breeze as she tried to escape his embrace, but his long fingers wrapped around her wrist and jerked her back to him.
“Hey,” he said, ignoring the violent flash in her blue eyes, “I know you’re upset, but he’s my brother. What would you do if you were in my position, and Gabrielle was in his?”
“She would not abandon ‘er friends to ze wolves because she was a coward!”
“Do not call my brother a coward, Fleur.”
“Non? Zen what ees ‘e?” She tried to pull away, thrashing against his firm hold on her. “Let me go!”
“No.” Despite her protests, his embrace tightened. One hand moved to cup her cheek, holding her head in place as he caught her gaze. “Not everyone is like you, love. You’re fearless. Nothing scares you, and that’s a quality I both love and hate about you.”
Her lips hardened into a thin line. “And what ees zat supposed to mean?”
“It means that while I admire your courage, I’m scared that one day it could get you killed.” Pausing to draw a shaky breath, he closed his eyes and shook his head. “Ron made a mistake, love, and he knows it. Try not to be too hard on him.”
Bill opened his eyes when he felt her cup his cheek, mirroring his own actions. “I will, but I promise nothing.”
“That’s all I ask.” Giving her a small, grateful smile, he leaned down and let his forehead rest against hers. “Happy Christmas, my lovely wife.”
“Joyeux Noël, mon mari.”
*~*~*~*~*
May 2, 1998
It was over.
Voldemort was dead.
They had won.
But Fred...
Fred was gone.
The sunlight filtered over the Scottish highlands, casting the castle in its morning rays. It glinted off the lake, and Bill had to raise one hand to shield his eyes. All around him, remnants of the previous night’s battle littered the grounds; bodies were being carried back into the Great Hall, both Order and Death Eater alike.
Some of them were young. Too young. Students who had sneaked back onto the grounds after McGonagall’s mandatory evacuation.
But Bill couldn't think about them. He didn’t know them, and while it might have been selfish of him, he didn’t care.
Because Fred, his brother, was dead.
A choked sound escaped his lips as the overwhelming reality of that sank it. It wasn’t as if Bill didn’t know death, hadn’t felt its keen sting before; he’d been there when Uncle Bilius had died, and he’d lost coworkers over his work in the Egyptian tombs. But nothing could compare to the heart-wrenching ache that filled him. He’d never see Fred laugh again, never watch the twins conspire against Percy.
A light touch on his shoulder startled him, and his mind registered the soft scent of flowers. Fleur.
He didn’t want her to see him like this, so beaten and broken. So lost. Bill squeezed his eyes shut, simultaneously warding off tears and shielding himself from her gaze.
“Bill,” he heard her whisper, “chéri, look at me.”
Bill shook his head.
“Please.”
The raw pleading in her voice tore at him, and he was helpless to refuse her. He opened his eyes and looked down at her. Her blonde hair was tousled, and blood from a cut on her forehead matted the fine locks. Dirt was smudged on her face, and her blouse was ripped.
But the sight that pained him the most were her tears, pooling in her eyes and cutting a track down her dirty cheeks.
It was like a floodgate opened within him, and a strangled sob fell from his lips. His arms wrapped tightly around her waist, and he buried his face in her hair as he gave into the overwhelming urge to cry.
He didn’t know how long they stood there on the edge of the Great Lake. Fleur never faltered, crying herself even as she murmured French nothings in his ear. Fred was gone, but he still had Fleur. There would always be a hole from the loss of his brother, but it wouldn’t always hurt this badly.
As long as he had his wife at his side, he could get through anything.
*~*~*~*~*
May 2, 2000
His hand was going to fall off. He was sure of it. For over eight hours now, he’d been sitting in this chair by her bedside, his hand in hers.
And if she squeezed any harder, she would probably sever his fingers from his hand.
“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he said. He’d probably said it about seventy times since her water had broken earlier that day, but it was all he could bloody think to say! Truthfully, he wanted to excuse himself and throw up in the loo, but he could only imagine the painful punishment his wife would dole out if he dared leave her side.
“Bill?”
“Yes, love?”
“La ferme!”
The Healer glanced up from her position at the foot of the bed and gave them both an encouraging smile. “I can see the head,” she said. “I need one more really big push, Fleur. You can do it.”
“That’s right, sweetheart,” Bill coached, just like they’d gone over during the lamaze classes. “Just relax and push. You’re almost done, love.”
“Eet ees easy for you to sit back and say ‘push,’” Fleur retorted hotly, her face flushed with exertion. “But you are never ‘aving sex with me again! Jamais!”
“One more, Fleur, you’re so close,” the Healer said, and Bill could see the woman’s lips curl at his wife’s pronouncement. If she hadn’t been helping his wife give birth to their firstborn, he’d have had some very nasty thoughts for her.
Fleur grasped his hand even tighter-- he hadn’t thought it was possible to do so, but apparently, he’d been wrong-- and let out a blood-curdling scream. Bill’s gaze was so focused on his wife’s face that he almost missed another sound.
A baby’s cry.
“It’s a girl!” the Healer proclaimed, holding up the slimy, squirmy newborn for her parents to see.
“A girl,” Bill murmured in awe. He leaned in to press his lips to his wife’s clammy forehead. “We have a daughter, love.”
After the Healer had cleaned her up and wrapped her in a pink blanket, she placed the baby in Fleur’s arms. It might have been sappy or cliched, but Bill was sure he’d never felt more like a man than he did at that moment.
“What should we call her?”
Fleur glanced down at the blonde fuzz atop her pink head. “What ees ze date?”
“May 2nd,” he answered, brow knit in confusion. “What-”
“Victoire.” His wife glanced up at him. “Eet ees ze anniversay of ze battle. Let’s call ‘er Victoire.”
“Victoire Weasley.” As Bill sounded the name out, his lips curled upwards in a smile. “I like that. Victoire Apolline Weasley. It’s perfect.”
“She ees perfect.”
“Can’t argue with that, love,” he said, reaching out to trace his finger over her soft, tiny cheek. “Can’t argue with that.”
*~*~*~*~*
March 22, 2002
Victoire was at his parents’ for the weekend, and not for the first time did Bill feel the familiar sadness welling up again. His daughter was almost two; she couldn’t understand what was going on. She didn’t know why her Maman wouldn’t get out of bed, why her Papa was constantly sad.
She was too young to comprehend what had happened.
It had happened so suddenly. One minute, his wife had been happily chopping away at chard for their dinner, the next she was doubled over in pain. At her scream, he’d dropped his bottle of butterbeer, and the shattering of glass mingled with Fleur’s cry of pain.
When he’d rounded the kitchen counter, he’d nearly frozen in his tracks.
Blood. It stained her dress, running down her leg and onto the tiled floor, pooling at her feet. Her hands were gripping her stomach, and only one thought ran through Bill’s mind.
The baby.
He had grabbed Fleur and Apparated her to the emergency ward at St. Mungo’s, but it had been too late. She had lost their baby-- their son.
And the worst part was there had been nothing either of them could have done to prevent it. It was just one of those things, her Obstetric Healer had said with a sympathetic smile.
Bill hated her. She had no idea what they were dealing with. She couldn’t know their pain.
He knocked lightly on their bedroom door and paused, waiting for Fleur to say something. When a minute had passed without a word, he pushed the door open and slipped into the dark room.
“Fleur?” he said softly, crossing to the small figure curled in a ball on their bed. “Sweetheart, please talk to me.” The bed creaked as he sat down on the edge of the mattress, reaching out to tip her chin up so he could see her face. Her eyes were bloodshot and hollow, her cheeks pale, and her hair was bedraggled and limp around her face.
“What ees zere to say?” she whispered, blinking back tears. “I ‘ave failed. I killed our baby.”
Bill opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was too thick to say anything. Instead, he shook his head and laid down on the bed next to her. His arms moved around her, drawing her against him, and he pressed his cheek to her hair.
“It’s not your fault, Fleur,” he murmured. “You heard the Healer. It was an accident.”
“But zere ‘as to ‘ave been something I could ‘ave done,” she whispered through little sobbing hiccups. “I should ‘ave rested more, eaten somezing different...”
“There was nothing you could have done better, sweetheart,” he assured her as one tear fell down his own cheek. “But we have each other, and we have our Victoire. And she’ll have a brother or sister someday, I promise.”
“J’espère,” she whispered. “J’espère que ça.”
Continue to Part Two