Witnessed here in Time and Blood: A Lily to the Heat
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 Eight: A Lily to the Heat 1/2
Dear Reader,
Well, here we go with the next chapter. Once again, thank you to everyone who has taken the time to leave a review. This one was quite challenging! And it's quite long too, definitely time for some tea/beer/mulled wine or something similar! Please bear the rating in mind, this one gets quite sweary in places.
The afternoon that followed was hectic. Bill spent several hours putting Harry and the others through their paces, trying to polish their duelling skills as best they could. Fleur, meanwhile, gathered all the food she could find and enchanted it to last for some time to come. She smoked sausages for them and bought hard cheese from Redruth, as well as baking several loaves of brown bread. She washed and dried the last of their clothes and even sewed a couple of buttons back on.
After returning from the beach, Bill had gone about repairing rips in his tent and had found a dozen bottles of beer dating from the summer after he finished Hogwarts. Himself and Dean had used them for a yeasty version of clay pigeon shooting. No one seemed keen to spend time alone or with their thoughts, the whole household apparently aware that they faced great sorrow in the near future.
Fleur herself was particularly busy and did not notice time passing nor the movement of those around her. It had become so natural, so normal, to have her home filled with people. Ron's low voice rumbled from the living room where he was speaking with Harry. Luna was humming softly to herself as she skipped out the back door. Dean was laughing in the garden, Griphook moving over the floor in his bedroom.
They had, she realised, formed a sort of family. They'd been thrown together by extraordinary events but their fondness and affection for each other had bonded them. Their willingness to help one another, in both mundane and truly remarkable ways, had thoroughly cemented these bonds. Now the time was upon them for part of that little family to leave and the thought brought almost unbearable grief to her.
Luna and Dean would stay for the foreseeable future; it was not safe for either of them to try and return to their families. But Hermione, Harry and Ron would be gone, bringing Griphook with them.
Ah, if we are a family, then he is the horrible uncle!
She gave a little laugh at the idea, her mind hopping onto the absurd notion rather than focus on the reality that soon, her friends would leave for unspeakable danger. That Hermione would leave for unspeakable danger.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to move away from the thought of Hermione. To banish the image of her soft eyes and tumbled hair. The scent of her skin and shampoo. The softness of her and the nascent surety of her touch.
Shaking her head, she turned her mind back to the task at hand. She stooped to remove the final couple of loaves of bread from the oven when the back door opened. The familiar tread brought joy and sorrow in equal measure. She sent the bread floating over to a wire rack to cool before she wrapped them. Taking a deep breath, she stood and turned to face Hermione.
There was something about the outdoors that suited Hermione, she mused. For someone who spent so much time surrounded by, and adoring, books and learning, being outside certainly enhanced her natural beauty. Her cheeks were rosy from the wind and exertion; her hair wild about her shoulders and brow. She had a small, nervous smile on her lips and Fleur felt herself respond in kind.
It was inescapable; Hermione made her happy. Despite the sorrow and worry, despite the threats their future held the very sight of the other witch never failed to fill her with simple joy. She seemed to feel the same way, standing before the kitchen door holding a bough in her hands. Delicate white flowers held a tinge of pink and their scent mingled with the aroma of baking. Fleur tipped her head to one side at the sight, curious.
Hermione blushed under her attention. "I was out walking and I saw this. When I was in primary school we used to make a May Altar. We'd find flowers and bring them in every morning for the whole month. I loved it, because everyone made a big effort and well, it was lovely."
Fleur nodded, leaning against the table. "May blossom for the altar?"
Hermione nodded, a slightly impish expression spreading across her face. "When you got me my wand, you called blackthorn May blossom."
"I did," Fleur confirmed, now a bit confused.
"Only, it isn't," Hermione said, offering the branch. "This is. It's hawthorn."
Fleur took the branch and examined it. "Right you are! But they do bear more than a passing resemblance to one another."
"Except blackthorn gets its flowers before its foliage, while it's the other way round with hawthorn," she said. Fleur wondered how Hermione had managed to restrain herself that evening, which seemed so long ago, and decided that she'd probably been distracted by the fact that she hand just received a new wand. She found herself delighted to be corrected, though, and by the confident manner in which Hermione had spoken.
"Well," Fleur mused, smiling fondly at the other witch, "now I know. Thank you. And thank you for this," she held up the branch, "I shall put it in water and have my own May altar."
Hermione smiled shyly. "It's not actually May yet, though. But I won't see you tomorrow so… Well, anyway. I saw it and I thought of you."
Fleur gazed at the flowers, their creamy petals streaked with palest pink. Their hearts were yellow, pollen beaded at the centre on delicate stamens. They crowded the end of the branch, an attractive and dense inflorescence.
Her breath caught in her throat. May. Tomorrow was the first of May; Beltaine.
Her head spun with the thought, with the implications, and she sat down in a chair, mind racing. Memories crowded her mind and she recalled boisterous festivities and enormous bonfires. Some part of her felt a shock too, the word Beltaine resonating strangely in her.
"Fleur?" Hermione asked, concern evident in her voice, "what's the matter?"
"I lost track of days. This is the eve of Beltaine, no?" She couldn't understand her reaction, why the knowledge affected her so. Was it because it reminded her so keenly of her family? Her beloved family whom she'd left so far away?
Hermione nodded, frowning. "It is. What of it?"
Fleur was quiet for a long time, adrift and lonesome. "It is the start of summer. When I was young, we used to light a bonfire on this night. Animals were driven through the smoke, or ridden through the flames. The following day, there'd be a festival with dancers and the children would decorate a tree with ribbons."
Hermione smiled. "It sounds lovely."
"It was," Fleur agreed. "It was my favourite time of year, because men were allowed to attend, which was uncommon with veela celebrations. So my entire family could enjoy it together."
Hermione was quiet for a moment before nodding. "It's a muggle bank holiday, too. The first Monday in May. My parents would always do something nice for me. We'd go to the park or a museum or something."
They shared the silence for a long while, both lost in contemplation. Fleur's heart clenched. How quickly time moved! How quickly winter faded and summer began. How short the years of childhood; of happiness and carefree days. How distant their homes were. How lonely this fugitive life now seemed, when confronted with such memories.
Hermione's face was saddened too, folded in her own remembrance. Fleur wondered, for the first time, about Hermione's parents. What kind of people could have produced such a remarkable daughter? They must have been very kind, she thought, and supportive of their child. How much did they know about the perils she faced? About the war she fought?
She was about to open her mouth to speak when Dean entered, smiling sheepishly. "Fleur, could you come out and help for a tic? We can't get the tent folded properly."
"Of course," she said, nodding at the young man. She handed the branch back to Hermione. "Will you put this in water, please?"
Hermione nodded, her dark eyes solemn and regretful. There was so much unsaid between them and no time left in which to speak. She smiled wistfully and looked down at the blossoms.
That image was one which, in future times, Fleur often recalled to her mind. Hermione sitting pale and melancholic in the sunshine, face bowed over the flowers.
A May Queen.
Hermione sat for a long time staring at the blossoms, unable to establish a firm hold on any of the thoughts running through her brain. They drifted by, nebulous and indistinct as if viewed through fog or smoke. She heaved a sigh before standing and lifting a vase. She held it between both hands and watched it fill with cool water. The sunlight shining through the window caught in it, rainbows dancing along the edges of the glass; fractured light caught in gentle motion.
She sent the vase to rest on the dresser and lifted the bough, gently setting it in. She adjusted it until it sat in a way that pleased her and stood for a moment, regarding her arrangement. A noise from the door drew her attention and she turned. She saw Bill outside, kicking his shoes against the boot scraper.
She was frozen, her mind screeching to a complete halt at the sight of him. He still looked tired; wan and weary in the sunlight. He lifted his eyes and his gaze found her, surprise clearly written upon his face. His features quickly folded into a closed, wary expression as he straightened up. He opened the door quietly, still watching her carefully.
She found she couldn't look away, though she greatly wanted to. How could she she dare look him in the eye when she had almost kissed his wife this very morning? When her last thoughts before sleep imagined a life shared with Fleur? Ashamed, she felt her face pale and her mouth loll open. But her legs seemed cast in lead and she couldn't bring herself to move, though she desperately wished to.
"You know, I didn't think you were scared of me, Hermione," Bill said, entering the kitchen. She felt her face flush and she couldn't form a single word. Her heart was pounding in her ears and she found she could no longer meet his eyes, mortified and filled with guilt. Bill sighed and shook his head.
"Listen, I'm tired and weary. I can't keep track of the number of plots and plans being hatched in the house but I want you to know…" he flushed himself. "Um, well, Fleur told me. About her plan."
Hermione's racing heart slammed to a halt behind her ribs and utter disbelief filled her mind.
You're joking. You're bloody-well joking! We're actually going to have this conversation.
Bill folded his arms, bowing his head. "I don't like it one bit, to be honest." He heaved a great sigh, from the bottom of his chest. "But do we have another choice?"
Hermione was gob-smacked. She was so surprised that she wondered if Fleur had told him the actual plan or another, sanitised version.
"It doesn't matter," she said, frowning mightily. "I'm not doing it. I won't."
Bill sighed again, cocking his head to one side. He regarded her carefully for a long time before he spoke. "That's probably wise. But um, if you do change your mind..."
Hermione felt faint, as if the floor was buckling beneath her feet. Bill was examining his fingernails carefully, still flushed and scowling. Was he implying that she should follow Fleur's suggestion? He was extending an invitation to her? She stumbled over to a chair and sat down.
He doesn't know. He wouldn't be saying this if he did.
Seeing her state, he turned to leave, obviously not comfortable discussing the ins and outs of his wife's premeditated infidelity. He paused at the door and turned back. "I won't do anything as bloody condescending as give my permission but, you know… You're both adults, aren't you? This is between you and her."
He lifted his face to look at her, tears in his kind blue eyes. He looked old then, the scars on his face more disfiguring than normal. How odd, that he should look so wretched when he was at his most noble. He sounded so lonely, though, lonesome and despairing. He moved through the kitchen, reaching out one hand for the handle of the door that led into the corridor.
"I'm a bit jealous, you know," he said, quietly. "And I think it's madness but… If you care for her… Well, it's not like the world isn't on the brink of ending. If you love her, don't let this pass by."
He spoke with such a deep, aching sorrow and raw grief that Hermione felt tears well in her eyes. How could he even bring himself to think about the subject, let alone speak to her about it? She wiped her face with shaking hands, feeling the heat there.
"Bill," she said, quietly. "She told me we can't, anyway."
"Yeah, she said that to me too." He drew a deep breath. "I know what secret she's protecting, Hermione. She made a rash promise when she was young and stupid to another young and stupid person." He swallowed thickly. "She'll not like me saying this, but you know..."
Hermione's eyes widened. "You? You're the one…"
"Yeah," he said. "But it isn't just me, you know. You don't understand what could happen, how many lives would be in danger. Hermione, I know that it would fix things to just come out and tell you but you have no idea! And given what you're planning, you're the last one who should know, other than perhaps Harry."
He released the door handle, pacing the kitchen, frustration clear. Baffled, Hermione turned in the chair, watching him go.
"This is life and death," he said, voice low and harsh. "And I wish I could, I really do, but…"
"Stop," Hermione said, quietly. "It's all right, Bill. Please, forget about it. It doesn't matter."
He leaned on the dresser, his broad back to her. He seemed to be examining the flowers and it was a long time before he spoke again.
"You have to stay away from Bellatrix Lestrange," he said, quietly. "Avoid her at all costs. Don't cross her path."
Hermione's mouth went dry and she felt fear travel down her spine. Avoid Lestrange? She was to become her in a matter of hours! Her fear galvanised her and she stood, clenching her hands tightly.
"Bill, I'm sorry. I never meant for it… I, I couldn't help it. And we never… We didn't…" She bit back a sob and pressed her hand to her mouth. "And we won't. I mean, it's ridiculous, anyway! It's mental…"
Bill sighed but did not turn around. "It's all right, Hermione. You can't help who you fall for. Who you love."
They were silent then, the long moments agonising as they both stood engulfed in sorrow, frustration and misery. Hermione wept, muffling her sobs into her hands. It was too much; it was utterly overwhelming. She moved, staggering towards the back door on unsteady feet. She fumbled with the knob, swiping at her eyes as she went.
"Hermione," Bill said, voice soft and hoarse, "it's not your fault. And it wasn't fair of Fleur to ask you, when you don't know what you'd be agreeing to. When you don't know her."
He was silent for a long time and she waited for him to speak.
"I've known her for a long time though," he said, softly. "And her heart's in the right place. She just wants to help you but we're stuck and it's shite. Pure and utter shite. I mean, I never expected to find myself having a bloody conversation like this, let me tell you."
"Bill, please," she said again. "It's not going to happen."
"But perhaps it should," he said quietly. "It's the only thing that I can think of to keep you safe. Maybe you should but… When you don't, can't, know, how can you agree?"
Hermione felt shaky, her hands trembling with adrenaline and fear. When she spoke, she surprised herself. The words had come from nowhere, yet seemed to have taken form in the very deepest part of her. She rarely spoke to freely, with such little consideration but she couldn't help herself.
"I don't know her, but you do."
Bill's shoulders tensed as she spoke, as if he knew what she was going to say. He took a breath and she saw his hand tense into a tight fist. "You want to know the answer to the question; if I were you, would I?"
Bill turned to face her, lifting his eyes to meet her own. Tears had left wet tracks on his cheeks. His face was blotchy and he looked utterly finished; exhausted and defeated. Her heart broke again, seeing the results of her actions. He frowned then, considering her words carefully for a moment.
"Do you love her?" he asked, softly.
"I don't know," Hermione replied, after a long moment. Honesty was the only course left for her, in the midst of all this uncertainty. At the end of the world, there was no room for deceit. "I really don't."
"But you care for her, a lot."
She nodded and he sighed. He closed his eyes briefly and then turned to look at her, a sad smile tugging one corner of his mouth up. His expression was odd and Hermione had no idea what to make of it at all. Unfathomable, his blue eyes flat as the summer sky, his face still and holding no hint of anger or rage. But written into every crease and every scar was suffocating sorrow. He drew himself to his full height, moving his shoulders backwards before allowing a small trace of droll humour to cross his face.
"You know, I think I would."
Hermione sighed, running her hand through her hair in an aggravated swipe. For the second time that day, she'd felt the need to escape the confines of Shell Cottage. Besides the utterly excruciating conversation she'd had with Bill, it was too busy in the little house, too manic. Her heart was too sick to pretend that there wasn't something wrong right now. Everyone was aware of it, though Harry and Ron seemed to think it was due to her reluctance to take on the mantle and wand of Bellatrix Lestrange.
That was, admittedly, absolutely true. The thought of looking in the mirror and seeing those hateful, sly eyes meeting her gaze terrified her, bringing awful memories to the surface of her mind. She remembered how jagged fingernails had clawed her, gripping her in anger and fear. She remembered the weight of her on her chest, suffocating and overwhelming. She remembered feeling so pathetic and useless; so weak as she lay there sobbing in pain and panic.
It made her angry to recall that time, ashamed at the reminder of her cowardice. She never wanted to feel like that again. She'd die before she let herself be reduced to a trembling heap again.
Her anger was hot and fierce, burning away the last of the guilt she felt over the memories. Yes, she was ashamed at herself for behaving so meekly but she had come to realise that it hadn't been her fault. She wasn't to blame, she knew. After all, who wouldn't be reduced to tears while being stabbed and tortured? It had taken time to come to this conclusion and a certain amount of self-pity and brooding.
She'd survived and had a job to do. Knowing what she'd escaped, she knew what awaited her if they failed. Her talk with Bill had only cemented the notion, whatever knowledge he had discovered regarding the malicious witch. If Lestrange ever caught her again, she'd suffer horribly. So the only way forward, she reasoned, was to not get caught.
Easier said than done, she readily admitted. Eventually, they'd have to stand against Voldemort and he was not likely to face them alone. She'd fight toe to toe against Bellatrix and the only option was victory.
Or death in battle.
She sighed. That was another viable plan and the more likely outcome of a confrontation with the cruel woman. They faced such a hopeless future that it seemed almost foolish to try, to make any effort.
She'd found herself at the end of hope; battered and bruised and wondering why she was even doing this, exerting such effort. She'd stood on the edge and felt despair. She'd even articulated it to Luna. But having been there and seeing the hopeless abyss beyond their foolish optimism, she knew what she had to do.
She'd known utter despair but rejected it. Yes, the abyss awaits but we're not ready for it yet.
She'd walked to the edge, peered over and walked back. She felt different, firmer and sterner. There had been a price to pay, though. Happiness now seemed largely impossible but for moments snatched with Fleur, which seemed like half-remembered dreams. She lamented their loss but knew that they'd serve to draw her from the difficult path she had to walk.
And how she wanted to stray! How she wanted to sink into Fleur's arms and see what could be found there. She wanted to take the pleasure offered, to kiss those lips and drink those laughs and sighs.
She could face it fully now, after that talk with Bill. She'd never had a more awkward or dreadful conversation in her life and it had left her feeling like a wrung-out rag. But it had been almost liberating to talk with someone about the whole situation. It felt better to have the whole situation out in the open too, less illicit.
And he practically handed you a gilded invitation. What are you waiting for?
She scolded herself for her traitorous thoughts. The fact of the matter was that his reluctant endorsement didn't really change anything. It was still cheating, still wrong on many different levels.
Wrong and mercenary. What kind of person was she that she could even contemplate using such an intimate moment as nothing more than payment for protection? Was her life really so precious, so valuable, that it was worth Fleur ruining her marriage?
It's not. I'm not.
But there was another side to her, one which craved Fleur; her warmth and affection. One which wanted nothing more than to indulge this passion and damn the consequences. One that dreamt of Fleur. One that left her unable to ignore her or the feelings she elicited. One that ached to press close to her and lose herself. To forget the misery around them and claim some happiness.
Why not? Why shouldn't I?
Because it was selfish. Because it would harm a good man. Because it would break rules that she'd followed her entire life. Because it seemed like a cheap excuse, a tenuous justification for something she wanted. Because she didn't really know what she was agreeing to.
Her desires, her needs, were not important in the grand scheme of things. When had they ever been? She rubbed her face and shook her head. She'd never been someone possessed by great passion or a brave heart. She'd never put her head above the emotional parapet so why start now? Why begin something she could never hope to continue?
She couldn't see the sea from where she stood. She was surrounded by gently undulating sand dunes. Field fares rose above the fresh green tips of the grass, floating effortlessly on the currents of air. The evening breeze was warm beneath the reddening sky. The sun was low behind wisps of cloud, a handsome backdrop for wheeling gulls.
The beauty around her was simple and understated. There was no breathtaking panorama or awe-inspiring view. There was nothing remarkable about the part of the world she found herself in but she'd never seen anything so beautiful. In the fading light of what she imagined would be her final day, she regretted the life she was leaving behind.
There was a shining path, a bright and easy trail before her. It was lit with happiness and joy; with the faces of her friends and family. But there was a second path before her, one dark and overgrown. She knew what faced her and what she had to do. Her way forward did not lie in golden light.
Birds called in the fading light and she felt tears well. She turned and walked back towards the cottage through the gloaming.
Let life go on, she thought. Let this world continue its great cycle. Let the wheel of time keep turning.
That evening they ate heartily and drank a couple of bottles of wine. Luna, in her odd way, doubtless knew exactly what was going on but was polite enough to say nothing. Bill and herself fed them all well and Harry, Hermione and Ron headed to bed early, discretely thanking their hosts.
Hermione had shyly taken her hand and squeezed her fingers. Her dark eyes had been brimming with tears and sorrow, the young witch unable to express herself or find time to articulate her feelings. Fleur had understood, though, and gripped her hand tightly.
There was so much she wanted to say but there simply wasn't the time. So she'd pressed Hermione's warm fingers and smiled at her, trying to say with her eyes what words could not convey. Such sorrow! Such despair! How she'd longed to embrace her and chase those shadows away but their time had passed. Their opportunity had fled.
What else was there to do anyway, but wish her well?
Fleur found herself in the parlour again, not eager to retire to bed. She heard a sound in the hall and turned, a tiny flash of hope flaring in her chest. Could Hermione have decided… Instead, Harry stood in the doorway, a volume of Lily's diary in his hand.
"Hello Harry," she said, fondly, glad to see the young man despite her disappointment. "We will not be seeing you in the morning."
"No," he agreed. He placed the book on the bookshelf with the others and sighed. "Will you look after them, Fleur?"
"Until you come to collect them, yes," she said, feeling great compassion for her friend. "Whenever that may be."
"Thanks," he said, with a weak smile. He sat in the other chair and gazed into the fire for a moment. "They didn't do me much good. I didn't understand most of what she was talking about, to be honest." He was quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "What do you think is the one thing she would have wanted me to know?"
"That you are loved, Harry," she said, gently. "I know! You wished for a different type of answer but that is the only one that counts. You are loved by many people. Some of these have left the world, sadly. Some of them are far away. But some are by your side, my friend. What of Ron, Hermione, Luna and Dean? Your friends in school? The Weasleys? The other members of the Order? Bill and I? We all love you."
His eyes shone and he blinked, turning away. Fleur looked into the fire, providing him a bit of privacy. "This is true. And I believe you hold in your heart a great amount of love for your friends, though perhaps this is not something that men your age admit to openly. That is what she would have wanted you to know. That you are a good and noble man with a heart open to love who is in turn loved by many. The enemy doesn't understand this and cannot defend against it."
Harry was quiet for a long moment. "Dumbledore believed that too, but he's dead. He left me so much to do and I just don't have a clue. I don't know if I can do it."
Fleur stood and knelt before him, taking his hands. He had suffered so much and carried such a heavy burden, she thought. "Harry, listen to me. You are the only one who can do it. Is this an unfair burden for you? Of course! No one person should have to face this. But there is not a speck of doubt in my heart that you will do it."
He smiled weakly again, shaking his head. "I don't know why you do, or anyone does for that matter. But I will do it. I have to."
They were silent for a moment before Harry spoke again. "I don't know how long it'll take, though. It's the only hope we have but… It could take a long time and things might get even worse for everyone, especially the Weasleys."
Fleur noted his blush and smiled. "I know. I will keep an eye on Ginny."
"Thank you," he said, quietly. "And just, tell her that I'm sorry I couldn't take her. I just couldn't stand the thought of her getting hurt. It's a crap excuse, I know. It's not like she isn't better than me at most offensive spells but I just can't stand the idea of her…" he choked. "It's bad enough with Hermione and Ron! It's enough I've had to drag them in to help me! Not her, too."
His eyes shone and Fleur leaned forward, nodding solemnly.
"Go, do what you need to do. I will keep an eye on her and when all the dust is settled and the battles are over, you'll never have to leave her behind again."
Hermione found herself standing in a warm and bright room. Gulls cried outside the windows and waves hissed over a nearby shore. She closed her eyes, confused and slightly disorientated. When she opened her eyes again, she found herself standing beside an unmade bed in an airy room. Four large windows set on two walls allowed light to stream in, fitful through swaying curtains half drawn. One window was opened and she could see a tree in bloom beyond it, white flowers covering its branches. A magpie clattered and a dog barked.
She closed her eyes, content to sleep within this dream, but a soft whimper drew her attention. Some small noise from the foot of the bed compelled her interest, in that half intended way dreams have. She saw a basket sitting on a frame at the foot of the bed and walked cautiously towards it.
There was an infant within and it looked very young. It was waving its arms and making unhappy noises, eyes screwed tightly shut. Hermione drew back the white blanket and freed its kicking legs, carefully lifting it to nestle against her chest. It was so young that it immediately rolled against her, curling into a little ball on her shoulder. One of her hands covered its little back almost entirely.
This is certainly a dream, she mused, because I'm quite sure I have no idea how to do this in reality.
The thought seemed dreadfully intrusive in this peaceful place and she banished it, wandering back to sit on the bed, watching the little creature in her arms with astonished eyes. It was wearing a white babygro with a little duckling on the chest. A yellow knitted hat sat on its head, tucked over its tiny ears. It turned against her, rooting at her chest and she laughed in surprise.
"I see someone's hungry," came an amused voice from the doorway. Hermione started, earning a wail and a small smack as the baby jerked in surprise, and looked up to see Fleur standing in the doorway. She was clad in a blue dressing gown and a child was leaning at her hip. The girl was wearing colourful pyjamas and had her head tucked fondly against Fleur. The resemblance was uncanny. Silvery blonde hair, almost white, hung in twin pigtails. The child pushed off Fleur and ran to the bedside.
"Is she awake?" the little girl asked, her English accent seeming very odd. She clambered into the bed and nestled against Hermione's right side, gazing at the little baby's red face with awe. "She's tiny!"
"She'll get bigger," Fleur assured her, climbing in behind her and fondly smoothing her hair. "You were smaller, believe it or not."
The child began to protest and the infant opened her eyes, scowling in annoyance. Bright, though unfocused, eyes tried to make sense of the world around her. Evidently, they failed and she gave a cry. Hermione felt her chest lurch; those eyes were the same as the child and the woman in the bed beside her. She snapped her head around to face Fleur and found herself staring, dumbstruck and frozen, into eyes like gemstones.
She woke panting for air, with tears streaming down her face and sweat rolling down her spine.
This will never come to pass, she thought, Fleur's children won't be born in a world where Voldemort rules.
She knew it with an absolute certainty. She turned to glance at Luna, ensuring she hadn't woken the girl.
Luna's either. Or Harry's. Ginny's. Teddy won't survive.
The importance of their mission was well enough known to her. If they failed, all decent folk would lose everything they had, up to and including their lives. Evil and wicked people would enslave and torment muggles, who would fight back. The world would burn and there'd be no peace, no ease or comfort. There'd be no goodness. She had known, always, that some abstract future generation was reliant on their success but they had never before seemed so real. She could still feel the infant's warm weight in her arms, the easy affection of Fleur's daughter at her elbow. They were more real to her than those who had died already; those ghosts who, if you believed what you were told, cried constantly for vengeance.
She buried her face in her hands and knew, with utter conviction, that there was no option but victory. The dead were gone and very unlikely to collect outstanding debts but life needed to continue. Those to come deserved the best possible world, not one of ash and ruin.
The weight of their mission had never before felt so heavy on her shoulders. Failure was not an option. Everyone she knew, magical and muggle, depended on their success.
She knew, then, within her heart what had to be done.
Part Two
http://whistlesilver.livejournal.com/4091.html
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 Eight: A Lily to the Heat 1/2
Dear Reader,
Well, here we go with the next chapter. Once again, thank you to everyone who has taken the time to leave a review. This one was quite challenging! And it's quite long too, definitely time for some tea/beer/mulled wine or something similar! Please bear the rating in mind, this one gets quite sweary in places.
The afternoon that followed was hectic. Bill spent several hours putting Harry and the others through their paces, trying to polish their duelling skills as best they could. Fleur, meanwhile, gathered all the food she could find and enchanted it to last for some time to come. She smoked sausages for them and bought hard cheese from Redruth, as well as baking several loaves of brown bread. She washed and dried the last of their clothes and even sewed a couple of buttons back on.
After returning from the beach, Bill had gone about repairing rips in his tent and had found a dozen bottles of beer dating from the summer after he finished Hogwarts. Himself and Dean had used them for a yeasty version of clay pigeon shooting. No one seemed keen to spend time alone or with their thoughts, the whole household apparently aware that they faced great sorrow in the near future.
Fleur herself was particularly busy and did not notice time passing nor the movement of those around her. It had become so natural, so normal, to have her home filled with people. Ron's low voice rumbled from the living room where he was speaking with Harry. Luna was humming softly to herself as she skipped out the back door. Dean was laughing in the garden, Griphook moving over the floor in his bedroom.
They had, she realised, formed a sort of family. They'd been thrown together by extraordinary events but their fondness and affection for each other had bonded them. Their willingness to help one another, in both mundane and truly remarkable ways, had thoroughly cemented these bonds. Now the time was upon them for part of that little family to leave and the thought brought almost unbearable grief to her.
Luna and Dean would stay for the foreseeable future; it was not safe for either of them to try and return to their families. But Hermione, Harry and Ron would be gone, bringing Griphook with them.
Ah, if we are a family, then he is the horrible uncle!
She gave a little laugh at the idea, her mind hopping onto the absurd notion rather than focus on the reality that soon, her friends would leave for unspeakable danger. That Hermione would leave for unspeakable danger.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to move away from the thought of Hermione. To banish the image of her soft eyes and tumbled hair. The scent of her skin and shampoo. The softness of her and the nascent surety of her touch.
Shaking her head, she turned her mind back to the task at hand. She stooped to remove the final couple of loaves of bread from the oven when the back door opened. The familiar tread brought joy and sorrow in equal measure. She sent the bread floating over to a wire rack to cool before she wrapped them. Taking a deep breath, she stood and turned to face Hermione.
There was something about the outdoors that suited Hermione, she mused. For someone who spent so much time surrounded by, and adoring, books and learning, being outside certainly enhanced her natural beauty. Her cheeks were rosy from the wind and exertion; her hair wild about her shoulders and brow. She had a small, nervous smile on her lips and Fleur felt herself respond in kind.
It was inescapable; Hermione made her happy. Despite the sorrow and worry, despite the threats their future held the very sight of the other witch never failed to fill her with simple joy. She seemed to feel the same way, standing before the kitchen door holding a bough in her hands. Delicate white flowers held a tinge of pink and their scent mingled with the aroma of baking. Fleur tipped her head to one side at the sight, curious.
Hermione blushed under her attention. "I was out walking and I saw this. When I was in primary school we used to make a May Altar. We'd find flowers and bring them in every morning for the whole month. I loved it, because everyone made a big effort and well, it was lovely."
Fleur nodded, leaning against the table. "May blossom for the altar?"
Hermione nodded, a slightly impish expression spreading across her face. "When you got me my wand, you called blackthorn May blossom."
"I did," Fleur confirmed, now a bit confused.
"Only, it isn't," Hermione said, offering the branch. "This is. It's hawthorn."
Fleur took the branch and examined it. "Right you are! But they do bear more than a passing resemblance to one another."
"Except blackthorn gets its flowers before its foliage, while it's the other way round with hawthorn," she said. Fleur wondered how Hermione had managed to restrain herself that evening, which seemed so long ago, and decided that she'd probably been distracted by the fact that she hand just received a new wand. She found herself delighted to be corrected, though, and by the confident manner in which Hermione had spoken.
"Well," Fleur mused, smiling fondly at the other witch, "now I know. Thank you. And thank you for this," she held up the branch, "I shall put it in water and have my own May altar."
Hermione smiled shyly. "It's not actually May yet, though. But I won't see you tomorrow so… Well, anyway. I saw it and I thought of you."
Fleur gazed at the flowers, their creamy petals streaked with palest pink. Their hearts were yellow, pollen beaded at the centre on delicate stamens. They crowded the end of the branch, an attractive and dense inflorescence.
Her breath caught in her throat. May. Tomorrow was the first of May; Beltaine.
Her head spun with the thought, with the implications, and she sat down in a chair, mind racing. Memories crowded her mind and she recalled boisterous festivities and enormous bonfires. Some part of her felt a shock too, the word Beltaine resonating strangely in her.
"Fleur?" Hermione asked, concern evident in her voice, "what's the matter?"
"I lost track of days. This is the eve of Beltaine, no?" She couldn't understand her reaction, why the knowledge affected her so. Was it because it reminded her so keenly of her family? Her beloved family whom she'd left so far away?
Hermione nodded, frowning. "It is. What of it?"
Fleur was quiet for a long time, adrift and lonesome. "It is the start of summer. When I was young, we used to light a bonfire on this night. Animals were driven through the smoke, or ridden through the flames. The following day, there'd be a festival with dancers and the children would decorate a tree with ribbons."
Hermione smiled. "It sounds lovely."
"It was," Fleur agreed. "It was my favourite time of year, because men were allowed to attend, which was uncommon with veela celebrations. So my entire family could enjoy it together."
Hermione was quiet for a moment before nodding. "It's a muggle bank holiday, too. The first Monday in May. My parents would always do something nice for me. We'd go to the park or a museum or something."
They shared the silence for a long while, both lost in contemplation. Fleur's heart clenched. How quickly time moved! How quickly winter faded and summer began. How short the years of childhood; of happiness and carefree days. How distant their homes were. How lonely this fugitive life now seemed, when confronted with such memories.
Hermione's face was saddened too, folded in her own remembrance. Fleur wondered, for the first time, about Hermione's parents. What kind of people could have produced such a remarkable daughter? They must have been very kind, she thought, and supportive of their child. How much did they know about the perils she faced? About the war she fought?
She was about to open her mouth to speak when Dean entered, smiling sheepishly. "Fleur, could you come out and help for a tic? We can't get the tent folded properly."
"Of course," she said, nodding at the young man. She handed the branch back to Hermione. "Will you put this in water, please?"
Hermione nodded, her dark eyes solemn and regretful. There was so much unsaid between them and no time left in which to speak. She smiled wistfully and looked down at the blossoms.
That image was one which, in future times, Fleur often recalled to her mind. Hermione sitting pale and melancholic in the sunshine, face bowed over the flowers.
A May Queen.
Hermione sat for a long time staring at the blossoms, unable to establish a firm hold on any of the thoughts running through her brain. They drifted by, nebulous and indistinct as if viewed through fog or smoke. She heaved a sigh before standing and lifting a vase. She held it between both hands and watched it fill with cool water. The sunlight shining through the window caught in it, rainbows dancing along the edges of the glass; fractured light caught in gentle motion.
She sent the vase to rest on the dresser and lifted the bough, gently setting it in. She adjusted it until it sat in a way that pleased her and stood for a moment, regarding her arrangement. A noise from the door drew her attention and she turned. She saw Bill outside, kicking his shoes against the boot scraper.
She was frozen, her mind screeching to a complete halt at the sight of him. He still looked tired; wan and weary in the sunlight. He lifted his eyes and his gaze found her, surprise clearly written upon his face. His features quickly folded into a closed, wary expression as he straightened up. He opened the door quietly, still watching her carefully.
She found she couldn't look away, though she greatly wanted to. How could she she dare look him in the eye when she had almost kissed his wife this very morning? When her last thoughts before sleep imagined a life shared with Fleur? Ashamed, she felt her face pale and her mouth loll open. But her legs seemed cast in lead and she couldn't bring herself to move, though she desperately wished to.
"You know, I didn't think you were scared of me, Hermione," Bill said, entering the kitchen. She felt her face flush and she couldn't form a single word. Her heart was pounding in her ears and she found she could no longer meet his eyes, mortified and filled with guilt. Bill sighed and shook his head.
"Listen, I'm tired and weary. I can't keep track of the number of plots and plans being hatched in the house but I want you to know…" he flushed himself. "Um, well, Fleur told me. About her plan."
Hermione's racing heart slammed to a halt behind her ribs and utter disbelief filled her mind.
You're joking. You're bloody-well joking! We're actually going to have this conversation.
Bill folded his arms, bowing his head. "I don't like it one bit, to be honest." He heaved a great sigh, from the bottom of his chest. "But do we have another choice?"
Hermione was gob-smacked. She was so surprised that she wondered if Fleur had told him the actual plan or another, sanitised version.
"It doesn't matter," she said, frowning mightily. "I'm not doing it. I won't."
Bill sighed again, cocking his head to one side. He regarded her carefully for a long time before he spoke. "That's probably wise. But um, if you do change your mind..."
Hermione felt faint, as if the floor was buckling beneath her feet. Bill was examining his fingernails carefully, still flushed and scowling. Was he implying that she should follow Fleur's suggestion? He was extending an invitation to her? She stumbled over to a chair and sat down.
He doesn't know. He wouldn't be saying this if he did.
Seeing her state, he turned to leave, obviously not comfortable discussing the ins and outs of his wife's premeditated infidelity. He paused at the door and turned back. "I won't do anything as bloody condescending as give my permission but, you know… You're both adults, aren't you? This is between you and her."
He lifted his face to look at her, tears in his kind blue eyes. He looked old then, the scars on his face more disfiguring than normal. How odd, that he should look so wretched when he was at his most noble. He sounded so lonely, though, lonesome and despairing. He moved through the kitchen, reaching out one hand for the handle of the door that led into the corridor.
"I'm a bit jealous, you know," he said, quietly. "And I think it's madness but… If you care for her… Well, it's not like the world isn't on the brink of ending. If you love her, don't let this pass by."
He spoke with such a deep, aching sorrow and raw grief that Hermione felt tears well in her eyes. How could he even bring himself to think about the subject, let alone speak to her about it? She wiped her face with shaking hands, feeling the heat there.
"Bill," she said, quietly. "She told me we can't, anyway."
"Yeah, she said that to me too." He drew a deep breath. "I know what secret she's protecting, Hermione. She made a rash promise when she was young and stupid to another young and stupid person." He swallowed thickly. "She'll not like me saying this, but you know..."
Hermione's eyes widened. "You? You're the one…"
"Yeah," he said. "But it isn't just me, you know. You don't understand what could happen, how many lives would be in danger. Hermione, I know that it would fix things to just come out and tell you but you have no idea! And given what you're planning, you're the last one who should know, other than perhaps Harry."
He released the door handle, pacing the kitchen, frustration clear. Baffled, Hermione turned in the chair, watching him go.
"This is life and death," he said, voice low and harsh. "And I wish I could, I really do, but…"
"Stop," Hermione said, quietly. "It's all right, Bill. Please, forget about it. It doesn't matter."
He leaned on the dresser, his broad back to her. He seemed to be examining the flowers and it was a long time before he spoke again.
"You have to stay away from Bellatrix Lestrange," he said, quietly. "Avoid her at all costs. Don't cross her path."
Hermione's mouth went dry and she felt fear travel down her spine. Avoid Lestrange? She was to become her in a matter of hours! Her fear galvanised her and she stood, clenching her hands tightly.
"Bill, I'm sorry. I never meant for it… I, I couldn't help it. And we never… We didn't…" She bit back a sob and pressed her hand to her mouth. "And we won't. I mean, it's ridiculous, anyway! It's mental…"
Bill sighed but did not turn around. "It's all right, Hermione. You can't help who you fall for. Who you love."
They were silent then, the long moments agonising as they both stood engulfed in sorrow, frustration and misery. Hermione wept, muffling her sobs into her hands. It was too much; it was utterly overwhelming. She moved, staggering towards the back door on unsteady feet. She fumbled with the knob, swiping at her eyes as she went.
"Hermione," Bill said, voice soft and hoarse, "it's not your fault. And it wasn't fair of Fleur to ask you, when you don't know what you'd be agreeing to. When you don't know her."
He was silent for a long time and she waited for him to speak.
"I've known her for a long time though," he said, softly. "And her heart's in the right place. She just wants to help you but we're stuck and it's shite. Pure and utter shite. I mean, I never expected to find myself having a bloody conversation like this, let me tell you."
"Bill, please," she said again. "It's not going to happen."
"But perhaps it should," he said quietly. "It's the only thing that I can think of to keep you safe. Maybe you should but… When you don't, can't, know, how can you agree?"
Hermione felt shaky, her hands trembling with adrenaline and fear. When she spoke, she surprised herself. The words had come from nowhere, yet seemed to have taken form in the very deepest part of her. She rarely spoke to freely, with such little consideration but she couldn't help herself.
"I don't know her, but you do."
Bill's shoulders tensed as she spoke, as if he knew what she was going to say. He took a breath and she saw his hand tense into a tight fist. "You want to know the answer to the question; if I were you, would I?"
Bill turned to face her, lifting his eyes to meet her own. Tears had left wet tracks on his cheeks. His face was blotchy and he looked utterly finished; exhausted and defeated. Her heart broke again, seeing the results of her actions. He frowned then, considering her words carefully for a moment.
"Do you love her?" he asked, softly.
"I don't know," Hermione replied, after a long moment. Honesty was the only course left for her, in the midst of all this uncertainty. At the end of the world, there was no room for deceit. "I really don't."
"But you care for her, a lot."
She nodded and he sighed. He closed his eyes briefly and then turned to look at her, a sad smile tugging one corner of his mouth up. His expression was odd and Hermione had no idea what to make of it at all. Unfathomable, his blue eyes flat as the summer sky, his face still and holding no hint of anger or rage. But written into every crease and every scar was suffocating sorrow. He drew himself to his full height, moving his shoulders backwards before allowing a small trace of droll humour to cross his face.
"You know, I think I would."
Hermione sighed, running her hand through her hair in an aggravated swipe. For the second time that day, she'd felt the need to escape the confines of Shell Cottage. Besides the utterly excruciating conversation she'd had with Bill, it was too busy in the little house, too manic. Her heart was too sick to pretend that there wasn't something wrong right now. Everyone was aware of it, though Harry and Ron seemed to think it was due to her reluctance to take on the mantle and wand of Bellatrix Lestrange.
That was, admittedly, absolutely true. The thought of looking in the mirror and seeing those hateful, sly eyes meeting her gaze terrified her, bringing awful memories to the surface of her mind. She remembered how jagged fingernails had clawed her, gripping her in anger and fear. She remembered the weight of her on her chest, suffocating and overwhelming. She remembered feeling so pathetic and useless; so weak as she lay there sobbing in pain and panic.
It made her angry to recall that time, ashamed at the reminder of her cowardice. She never wanted to feel like that again. She'd die before she let herself be reduced to a trembling heap again.
Her anger was hot and fierce, burning away the last of the guilt she felt over the memories. Yes, she was ashamed at herself for behaving so meekly but she had come to realise that it hadn't been her fault. She wasn't to blame, she knew. After all, who wouldn't be reduced to tears while being stabbed and tortured? It had taken time to come to this conclusion and a certain amount of self-pity and brooding.
She'd survived and had a job to do. Knowing what she'd escaped, she knew what awaited her if they failed. Her talk with Bill had only cemented the notion, whatever knowledge he had discovered regarding the malicious witch. If Lestrange ever caught her again, she'd suffer horribly. So the only way forward, she reasoned, was to not get caught.
Easier said than done, she readily admitted. Eventually, they'd have to stand against Voldemort and he was not likely to face them alone. She'd fight toe to toe against Bellatrix and the only option was victory.
Or death in battle.
She sighed. That was another viable plan and the more likely outcome of a confrontation with the cruel woman. They faced such a hopeless future that it seemed almost foolish to try, to make any effort.
She'd found herself at the end of hope; battered and bruised and wondering why she was even doing this, exerting such effort. She'd stood on the edge and felt despair. She'd even articulated it to Luna. But having been there and seeing the hopeless abyss beyond their foolish optimism, she knew what she had to do.
She'd known utter despair but rejected it. Yes, the abyss awaits but we're not ready for it yet.
She'd walked to the edge, peered over and walked back. She felt different, firmer and sterner. There had been a price to pay, though. Happiness now seemed largely impossible but for moments snatched with Fleur, which seemed like half-remembered dreams. She lamented their loss but knew that they'd serve to draw her from the difficult path she had to walk.
And how she wanted to stray! How she wanted to sink into Fleur's arms and see what could be found there. She wanted to take the pleasure offered, to kiss those lips and drink those laughs and sighs.
She could face it fully now, after that talk with Bill. She'd never had a more awkward or dreadful conversation in her life and it had left her feeling like a wrung-out rag. But it had been almost liberating to talk with someone about the whole situation. It felt better to have the whole situation out in the open too, less illicit.
And he practically handed you a gilded invitation. What are you waiting for?
She scolded herself for her traitorous thoughts. The fact of the matter was that his reluctant endorsement didn't really change anything. It was still cheating, still wrong on many different levels.
Wrong and mercenary. What kind of person was she that she could even contemplate using such an intimate moment as nothing more than payment for protection? Was her life really so precious, so valuable, that it was worth Fleur ruining her marriage?
It's not. I'm not.
But there was another side to her, one which craved Fleur; her warmth and affection. One which wanted nothing more than to indulge this passion and damn the consequences. One that dreamt of Fleur. One that left her unable to ignore her or the feelings she elicited. One that ached to press close to her and lose herself. To forget the misery around them and claim some happiness.
Why not? Why shouldn't I?
Because it was selfish. Because it would harm a good man. Because it would break rules that she'd followed her entire life. Because it seemed like a cheap excuse, a tenuous justification for something she wanted. Because she didn't really know what she was agreeing to.
Her desires, her needs, were not important in the grand scheme of things. When had they ever been? She rubbed her face and shook her head. She'd never been someone possessed by great passion or a brave heart. She'd never put her head above the emotional parapet so why start now? Why begin something she could never hope to continue?
She couldn't see the sea from where she stood. She was surrounded by gently undulating sand dunes. Field fares rose above the fresh green tips of the grass, floating effortlessly on the currents of air. The evening breeze was warm beneath the reddening sky. The sun was low behind wisps of cloud, a handsome backdrop for wheeling gulls.
The beauty around her was simple and understated. There was no breathtaking panorama or awe-inspiring view. There was nothing remarkable about the part of the world she found herself in but she'd never seen anything so beautiful. In the fading light of what she imagined would be her final day, she regretted the life she was leaving behind.
There was a shining path, a bright and easy trail before her. It was lit with happiness and joy; with the faces of her friends and family. But there was a second path before her, one dark and overgrown. She knew what faced her and what she had to do. Her way forward did not lie in golden light.
Birds called in the fading light and she felt tears well. She turned and walked back towards the cottage through the gloaming.
Let life go on, she thought. Let this world continue its great cycle. Let the wheel of time keep turning.
That evening they ate heartily and drank a couple of bottles of wine. Luna, in her odd way, doubtless knew exactly what was going on but was polite enough to say nothing. Bill and herself fed them all well and Harry, Hermione and Ron headed to bed early, discretely thanking their hosts.
Hermione had shyly taken her hand and squeezed her fingers. Her dark eyes had been brimming with tears and sorrow, the young witch unable to express herself or find time to articulate her feelings. Fleur had understood, though, and gripped her hand tightly.
There was so much she wanted to say but there simply wasn't the time. So she'd pressed Hermione's warm fingers and smiled at her, trying to say with her eyes what words could not convey. Such sorrow! Such despair! How she'd longed to embrace her and chase those shadows away but their time had passed. Their opportunity had fled.
What else was there to do anyway, but wish her well?
Fleur found herself in the parlour again, not eager to retire to bed. She heard a sound in the hall and turned, a tiny flash of hope flaring in her chest. Could Hermione have decided… Instead, Harry stood in the doorway, a volume of Lily's diary in his hand.
"Hello Harry," she said, fondly, glad to see the young man despite her disappointment. "We will not be seeing you in the morning."
"No," he agreed. He placed the book on the bookshelf with the others and sighed. "Will you look after them, Fleur?"
"Until you come to collect them, yes," she said, feeling great compassion for her friend. "Whenever that may be."
"Thanks," he said, with a weak smile. He sat in the other chair and gazed into the fire for a moment. "They didn't do me much good. I didn't understand most of what she was talking about, to be honest." He was quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "What do you think is the one thing she would have wanted me to know?"
"That you are loved, Harry," she said, gently. "I know! You wished for a different type of answer but that is the only one that counts. You are loved by many people. Some of these have left the world, sadly. Some of them are far away. But some are by your side, my friend. What of Ron, Hermione, Luna and Dean? Your friends in school? The Weasleys? The other members of the Order? Bill and I? We all love you."
His eyes shone and he blinked, turning away. Fleur looked into the fire, providing him a bit of privacy. "This is true. And I believe you hold in your heart a great amount of love for your friends, though perhaps this is not something that men your age admit to openly. That is what she would have wanted you to know. That you are a good and noble man with a heart open to love who is in turn loved by many. The enemy doesn't understand this and cannot defend against it."
Harry was quiet for a long moment. "Dumbledore believed that too, but he's dead. He left me so much to do and I just don't have a clue. I don't know if I can do it."
Fleur stood and knelt before him, taking his hands. He had suffered so much and carried such a heavy burden, she thought. "Harry, listen to me. You are the only one who can do it. Is this an unfair burden for you? Of course! No one person should have to face this. But there is not a speck of doubt in my heart that you will do it."
He smiled weakly again, shaking his head. "I don't know why you do, or anyone does for that matter. But I will do it. I have to."
They were silent for a moment before Harry spoke again. "I don't know how long it'll take, though. It's the only hope we have but… It could take a long time and things might get even worse for everyone, especially the Weasleys."
Fleur noted his blush and smiled. "I know. I will keep an eye on Ginny."
"Thank you," he said, quietly. "And just, tell her that I'm sorry I couldn't take her. I just couldn't stand the thought of her getting hurt. It's a crap excuse, I know. It's not like she isn't better than me at most offensive spells but I just can't stand the idea of her…" he choked. "It's bad enough with Hermione and Ron! It's enough I've had to drag them in to help me! Not her, too."
His eyes shone and Fleur leaned forward, nodding solemnly.
"Go, do what you need to do. I will keep an eye on her and when all the dust is settled and the battles are over, you'll never have to leave her behind again."
Hermione found herself standing in a warm and bright room. Gulls cried outside the windows and waves hissed over a nearby shore. She closed her eyes, confused and slightly disorientated. When she opened her eyes again, she found herself standing beside an unmade bed in an airy room. Four large windows set on two walls allowed light to stream in, fitful through swaying curtains half drawn. One window was opened and she could see a tree in bloom beyond it, white flowers covering its branches. A magpie clattered and a dog barked.
She closed her eyes, content to sleep within this dream, but a soft whimper drew her attention. Some small noise from the foot of the bed compelled her interest, in that half intended way dreams have. She saw a basket sitting on a frame at the foot of the bed and walked cautiously towards it.
There was an infant within and it looked very young. It was waving its arms and making unhappy noises, eyes screwed tightly shut. Hermione drew back the white blanket and freed its kicking legs, carefully lifting it to nestle against her chest. It was so young that it immediately rolled against her, curling into a little ball on her shoulder. One of her hands covered its little back almost entirely.
This is certainly a dream, she mused, because I'm quite sure I have no idea how to do this in reality.
The thought seemed dreadfully intrusive in this peaceful place and she banished it, wandering back to sit on the bed, watching the little creature in her arms with astonished eyes. It was wearing a white babygro with a little duckling on the chest. A yellow knitted hat sat on its head, tucked over its tiny ears. It turned against her, rooting at her chest and she laughed in surprise.
"I see someone's hungry," came an amused voice from the doorway. Hermione started, earning a wail and a small smack as the baby jerked in surprise, and looked up to see Fleur standing in the doorway. She was clad in a blue dressing gown and a child was leaning at her hip. The girl was wearing colourful pyjamas and had her head tucked fondly against Fleur. The resemblance was uncanny. Silvery blonde hair, almost white, hung in twin pigtails. The child pushed off Fleur and ran to the bedside.
"Is she awake?" the little girl asked, her English accent seeming very odd. She clambered into the bed and nestled against Hermione's right side, gazing at the little baby's red face with awe. "She's tiny!"
"She'll get bigger," Fleur assured her, climbing in behind her and fondly smoothing her hair. "You were smaller, believe it or not."
The child began to protest and the infant opened her eyes, scowling in annoyance. Bright, though unfocused, eyes tried to make sense of the world around her. Evidently, they failed and she gave a cry. Hermione felt her chest lurch; those eyes were the same as the child and the woman in the bed beside her. She snapped her head around to face Fleur and found herself staring, dumbstruck and frozen, into eyes like gemstones.
She woke panting for air, with tears streaming down her face and sweat rolling down her spine.
This will never come to pass, she thought, Fleur's children won't be born in a world where Voldemort rules.
She knew it with an absolute certainty. She turned to glance at Luna, ensuring she hadn't woken the girl.
Luna's either. Or Harry's. Ginny's. Teddy won't survive.
The importance of their mission was well enough known to her. If they failed, all decent folk would lose everything they had, up to and including their lives. Evil and wicked people would enslave and torment muggles, who would fight back. The world would burn and there'd be no peace, no ease or comfort. There'd be no goodness. She had known, always, that some abstract future generation was reliant on their success but they had never before seemed so real. She could still feel the infant's warm weight in her arms, the easy affection of Fleur's daughter at her elbow. They were more real to her than those who had died already; those ghosts who, if you believed what you were told, cried constantly for vengeance.
She buried her face in her hands and knew, with utter conviction, that there was no option but victory. The dead were gone and very unlikely to collect outstanding debts but life needed to continue. Those to come deserved the best possible world, not one of ash and ruin.
The weight of their mission had never before felt so heavy on her shoulders. Failure was not an option. Everyone she knew, magical and muggle, depended on their success.
She knew, then, within her heart what had to be done.
Part Two
http://whistlesilver.livejournal.com/4091.html