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Fleur Delacour

I am good looking enough for the both of us, I theenk!

Fleur Delacour

Blue Fleur



le 31 juillet 2006

A Desperate Visit

Blue Fleur
My life is not so good.

I have no idea what to do about Bill Weasley, even if there is anything that I can do.

I cannot approach Aveline about my troubles. She has a life of her own…a busy job, an attentive lover…a baby on the way. No, I cannot expose her to the pain and confusion I live with now. Besides, the father of her child happens to be the brother of my difficulty. I could never put her into that position.

I know I cannot turn to ma ange, Gabrielle. She adores Bill. He can do no wrong. I have not the heart to tear asunder her adoration for my fiancé.

If only I could rediscover that tender purity of love with him.

But every time I try to talk to Bill about what may be troubling him, he pulls away even more. The harder I try the more distant he becomes.

So I am left to pretending that nothing is the matter. Our love, our relationship deteriorates every day and I have no one to turn to for help and advice.

He is obsessed with impregnating me. He knows more about my monthly cycle than even I care to know. It is truly disturbing.

He is single-minded in his endeavors.

All he desires now is sex. When I am ovulating he is a rutting animal, carnal and possessed.

Even when I am not in season, the beast inside him is consumed with the thought of sexual intercourse. It is worse than ever it was when I first seduced and captivated him before we were married. I should be thankful for an attentive lover but there is more to me than my uterus.

It is because of all these things that I find myself standing at the base of the marble garden stairs in the front of Faerie Ridge, my mère’s English country home. I did not announce my coming but I am certain she is aware that I am here.

As I ascend the marble staircase I observe gardeners trimming the ornately-shaped hedges and realize the sheer opulence that was my childhood. Maybe the privileged circumstances under which I was raised are to blame for my problems with Bill. Affluence seems to matter much more to him than it does to me; I just like attention. My family and my past must be discouraging to him…not to mention, my mother as well.

And just imagine that, Fleur, here you are in search of solace, dare say, advice, from your mother. On a ridiculous quest for reassurance. Do you really expect to find an answer here?

I think of how it pains me to know that I am unfamiliar with any of my mère’s servants as one of them escorts me through Faerie Ridge to the back gardens where my mother sits at an outdoor table. She is surrounded by files and papers, obviously work of some kind. Babette does not lift her head to look at me until I am a few steps from her and when she does she paints a shining smile on her face and gestures for me with her arms out to embrace me. I bend toward her, catching a trace of her fine Parisian perfume as I lean down and in turn kiss each of her cheeks as is custom in our culture.

“Dear heart, my daughter,” she says as I sit in the chair next to hers and she dismisses the servant with a wave of her hand, not even bothering to look at the nameless girl. “It is good to see you…and, unexpected,” she says as she lowers her large-framed, designer sunglasses to peer expectantly at me over the tortoise shell rims. “But a blessing nonetheless,” she says as she pats my knee, “You have not come to tell me you are pregnant, have you?”

“No mere…”

“Thank the Goddess then,” she interrupts before she pauses. “Then what brings you here to grace me with your lovely presence?”

“I simply wished to see you again, Mère.”

“You have never simply done anything in your recalcitrance…”

“Mother, please,” I interject, “I did not come here to argue with you.”

“Then answer my question. Why did you come.”

“Am I not welcome?” I ask. “Because if I am not,” I say as I push back my chair, “I can leave.” But she grabs my arm.

“Do not!” she says forcefully before she regains control of her emotions. “Leave,” she finishes much more quietly.

Settling back I see that she watches me, perhaps appraising me and her situation.

“The reason for your visit is of no consequence,” she says, “What matters is that you are here now, so we can talk of whatever you want.” She quietly looks at me and ten years ago her gaze would have intimidated me into crawling beneath the table, but not today. “Are you sure you are not pregnant, then?” she inquires again.

I laugh and shake my head. She smiles and joins me in my mirth.

“Good Goddess, no!” I reply . With a knowing grin at the thought of Bill’s enthusiasm in that field I quickly look away and attempt to hide my amusement, but mère notices. She attempts to show me a disapproving glare, but in the end she smiles.

“Does he treat you well, at least?”

“He tries, Mère,” I sigh, “He really does try.”

“But he does not succeed, does he?”

It is tremendously difficult to respond to her question because I want to tell her the truth, talk to her and ask her advice but I hesitate.

“He has a new job,” I begin. “He is once again able to do what he loves.”

“Silly curse-breaking?” she dismisses.

“Yes, mother, silly curse-breaking,” I reply, “He enjoys it.”

“And do you approve of his career choice, daughter?”

I hesitate before I answer. A servant brings clear glass pitcher of Mimosa and pours mère and I each a flute.

“I would be lying if I said that his work did not frighten me on occasion. There are nights when he comes home recuperating from some injury or another.” I take a long gulp of the sweet drink before inhaling deeply. “But he allows me to do what I want to do and keep modeling for his brothers.” She coughs sarcastically.

“Allows you, does he?” I can see her eyebrows raise above her sunglasses.

“He might not like me modeling and being such a public person and I may not feel completely comfortable with the danger that comes with his job, but we support and encourage each other to do the things that make us happy,” I respond, “Much happier than we would be if he forced me to quit modeling or I made him go back to a desk job.

She studies me carefully, thoughtfully and I am surprised at her cool and understanding demeanor. She is so much more experienced and wise than that for which I give her credit. She even nods in consideration as she listens.

“Answer my question, little one” she insists, “Does he treat you well?”

I am silent, pensive, before I speak. “He does his best to treat me well. Everything he can.”

“But his best is not enough,” she observes as she leans over toward me. “Tell me, Fleur, has the beast taken a hand to you?”

I waver and she seizes upon the opportunity.

le 18 juillet 2006

Femme Fatale

Sultry smile
Fury boils through my veins. Sated, like a fucked cur, all I can do is lay here while the bastard falls asleep. Selfish fucking bastard. I wish that I did not love him so much. The scalding love bleeds forth from me, my love is so great, like acid in my veins. It eats away at me now.

Would that tonight was for amusement, a sex game derived to imbue our carnal interaction with heat and sport for pleasure. But no, this encounter was for nothing more than ego and possession, things that raise bile to my throat.

His breathing has long steadied and sleep has overcome his replete senses; his need is fulfilled. Yet still I burn not with sensual appetite but with stinging rage at the price demanded at my expense…an expense that he will never afford to pay in his recent temperament. I question his character and pray that some vile illness has invaded his mind, an illness that his body will fight and conquer in time.

Yet I fear his only infirmity is that of himself. He is the disease that he alone must cure.

I am torn. Torn between wanting to offer myself up to him in order to ease the pain he forces upon himself and wanting to lash out at him for making our lives so miserable. So what do I do? I merely lie here and take the abuses because of how much I care for him.


With the force driven by my anger I position my feet at the dog’s arse and back and shove with all my might. His still-sleeping form slowly rolls closer to the edge of the bed and then plummets to the floor, accompanied by Bill’s surprised shout as he lands with a large thump. Then I hear a groan as I scramble to the opposite side and jump from the bed before I march to one of the wardrobes and fling it open. With a snatch I grab blankets and a spare pillow before he can completely comprehend what is happening.

“What the bloody hell…,” he grumbles as he tries to disentangle himself from the sheets and stand. When he does I thrust the linens in his face, which he catches with a muffled huff.

“You act like ze cur zen you will sleep like ze dog zat you are!” I scream, “On ze floor for all I care!” I snatch at him and shove him to the bedroom door, desperate to force him out of the room before he completely regains his faculties. With a gasp of breath I succeed and then slam the door behind him, locking it quickly. The first bang against the wood is expected, but it surprises me all the same.

“No door can lock me out of there, Fleur!” he yells before his fists pound the door again. “You forget what I do for a living!”

“But you ‘ave never opened a cursed room zat ‘eld an angry Veela before, ‘ave you?” I reply and the hammering stops. Silence. “Come through zat door, curse-breaker, and you will ‘ave to sit like a woman to piss for ze rest of your worthless life!”

“You can’t keep me out forever, Fleur!”

“Who said anything about forever?” I snap, “Zis is only until you decide to stop acting like ze ‘orse’s arse and start treating me with ze reverence I deserve, vous porc!” With that I turn and walk back to our bed to straighten the sheets and pillows so I can go back to sleep. In the hallway I hear Bill’s voice mumbling some irritating nonsense about his manhood.

“I am not listening!” I cover my ears with my delicate hands. “I am not listening to you, la, la, la, la, la, not listening!” I say in a sing-song voice and eventually his inane babble stops.

I do not hear his footsteps moving away before I force myself into uneasy sleep.

The next morning I bathe and dress quickly. It is the morning in which I will meet with the twins to discuss the particulars and parameters of the new advertising campaign. Bill Weasley picked an inopportune time to raise my anger at him. He wants me to end my work with his brothers. A bigger fool than Bill Weasley I do no know at this moment.

So I open the door of our bedroom, determined not to let him talk about the events of last night until I feel like discussing them. When the door swings wide all that I see in the hallway is the pillow and a tangled blanket in my way. He might have waited for hours, even fallen asleep on the floor here. Although at some point in the night he moved, probably because he would not want me to see him there. So he has moved, but to where?

When I walk through the cottage in the early morning light I see him sleeping on the sofa in the parlor. His gangly legs lay propped over the arm’s edge and a sheet is threaded between his knees, then under and around his naked body. He looks peaceful this way, something that is a great rarity during this time of strife for him. His jaw is not clenched in frustrated thought and worry over nothing. I wish he could be this way in his waking hours as well. I walk over to him and look down at him. His calm breathing comes out in gentle puffs.

I slowly run my hand from his knee upward to the warm flesh of his crotch. He twitches slightly with a sigh and a smile. A smile on his perfect lips…

That quickly disappears as he rouses to consciousness when I grab the skin of his scrotum and grind it between my fingertips. He gasps in pain as he attempts to sit up to scramble away from me. But I came prepared and I slide the tip of my wand against his bare throat, resting it against the vein beneath his ear.

“Fleur,” he snarls, “Let go you crazy fucking witch.”

“Do not move,” I spit down at him, my face nearly touching his. “If you ever touch me again with ze same irreverence you did last night, I will turn you from a cock to ze ‘en without ze mercy of magic.” He opens his mouth to speak and I release his balls. His hands instantly cover his crotch in possessive protection.

“Fleur,” he rasps in controlled rage.

“NO!” I scream at his face. “You do not ‘ave ze right to speak to me zis time!” He opens and closes his mouth. “SHUT IT!” I shout. “My fazzer beat my mozzer when I was a small girl so I will kill you before I let you touch me like zat again. Do you comprehend?”

He sits silently, defiantly.

“Do you comprehend?” I snap as I press the tip of my wand into his neck. His jaw clenches and he nods once, very quickly.

“Good!” I stand before I abruptly turn to walk out of the front door on my way to meet with Fred and George.

le 22 juin 2006

Different Opinions

Sultry smile
Je suis dans l'amour avec un bitte.

(“I am in love with a prick.”)

It is the only thing of which I can think to call him at this moment.

Et ses plus jeunes frères jumeaux, branleurs les deux.

(”And his younger twin brothers, wankers the both of them.”)

I cannot believe the audacity my fiancé has shown by taking it upon himself to step in and make decisions that affect my life without consulting me. My first glance at the letter led me to think that Fred and George Weasley were playing a joke for me, sending me maternity wear and carrying on about how much they will miss me modeling for their business.

But then it dawned on me. Like an exploding cauldron.

Bill Weasley told them that I intend to quit as the Wicked and Wonder Witch spokes model. I cannot believe this. The first time we were married Bill could not divorce me and get away from me fast enough and now, now it seems he believes he has the right to make my choices for me.

Le contrôle, porc chauvin.

(”The controlling, chauvinist pig.”)

And his buffoonish brothers should have talked to me before assuming that Bill’s words accurately reflect my wishes. It seems I need to set the three of them on the straight path before they make complete fools of both themselves and me. I shall need to speak to Fred and George Weasley, after I speak to Bill Weasley.

It is then that the click of the cottage door draws my attention. It is Bill returning home after work. He will soon step into the kitchen, as that is his routine, to pour himself a goblet of juice or open an icy Butterbeer. It is exactly the latter that he does before he turns around to discover (with a barely-startled flinch) that I am sitting at the kitchen table, a letter in my hand and opened parcels in front of me.

“What have you got there?” he asks pleasantly and joins me at the table as I watch him. He takes a long gulp of the Butterbeer before he sets the bottle on the wooden surface with a clunk.

“Bill?” I begin calmly. “Is zere somesing you need to tell me?”

He slowly turns his head toward me, a look of confusion in his eyes as his brow knits and he cocks his head like a befuddled dog. How accurate… He hesitates before he answers me.

“Nnnnnnnnoooo.” It is a statement, but the inflection in his voice makes it sound more like a question. “Why?” He is definitely puzzled now.

“I received a belated birthday gift from your brozzers today.”

“Which ones?” he asks as he takes another swallow.

“Fred and George,” I reply evenly. Bill stops in mid-gulp but does not choke or cough. He looks at the boxes in front of me and for a flashing second panic seems to spread to his eyes. But then it is gone.

“What did those two wankers get you for your birthday?” he inquires, certainly hoping to cut some of the tension in the room. “Something good, I hope. They can certainly afford it.”

“Zey sent me pajamas,” I say coolly.

“That’s nice.” He pulls the box closer and inspects the garments inside.

Maternity pajamas,” I say. Bill’s hand freezes with the flannel in its grasp. “Why would your brozzers be so bold as to send me pyjamas de maternité? How do zey know zat we are trying for a bébé?”

“I told them,” he hesitates, “After all, they are my brothers.”

“And zey are my employers,” I snip, trying desperately to control my emotions. I take a deep breath before I speak again. “Ze kind of work I do for zem would be directly affected by a pregnancy. Eet would ‘ave been much better for me to discuss zis situation with zem myself.” I glare incredulously at him and he meets my gaze.

“But you aren’t going to be modeling for them for very much longer so it doesn’t really matter.” He nonchalantly takes another sip of Butterbeer.

“Who is ze one who says zat I will not be modeling for zem much longer?” I demand. “Because eet ees not me at zis moment in my life.”

“We’re engaged to be married,” his jaw clenches, “And as your future husband I have the right to disapprove of my wife flaunting herself half-naked around the entire Wizarding community. The mother of my children will not stoop to doing that kind of work.”

“And what about ze opinion of your wife?” I protest, “What of ‘er rights? Does she not ‘ave a say concerning ‘er own choices, or does ‘er opinion not matter as much as yours?”

“Fleur, your opinion matters…”

“Just not in zis particular situation,” I growl, wounded at Bill’s insensitivity. “Who gave you ze right to tell my employers, whether or not zey are your brozzers, zat I intend on resigning? I enjoy being zeir spokes model. I like being ze Wicked Witch.”

“But it’s not appropriate for a married witch, and a witch with children as well, to do that kind of work,” he counters, “It’s just not acceptable.”

“According to whom?” I hiss. “Who on zis Goddess-forsaken island believes zat eet is not acceptable for a married mozzer to be ze Wicked Witch?”

I DO!” Bill bellows as he slams his fist onto the table. “And I would hope that my opinion matters to you.”

le 21 juin 2006

I find myself staring at possibly the loveliest engagement ring I have ever seen, the setting is exquisite and the stones flawless. Of course a ring of such beauty and precision will be the perfect star upon the perfection of my hand. Bill kneels before me, his long legs getting in the way of his gesture.

“I can finally afford the kind of ring you deserve, Fleur,” he tells me as his nimble fingers remove the ring from the tiny decorative box. “You never answered me.”

“What?” I ask, distracted by the candlelight flickering upon the surfaces of the diamonds.

“Will you marry me again?” his voice wavers this time and my vision is drawn to his face, his eyes, shining with the glimmering evening candle flames. A thought that he fears I might tell him no pierces my heart as I study his chiseled face. His brows crinkle together in momentary doubt and suddenly I see the same man who proposed to me all those years ago. Frightened that I will turn from him.

“Oui, mon loup,” I respond as my fingers grace the backs of his hands, “Oui, I will.” As I touch him I notice that he is shaking slightly. “Bill?” I ask as he slowly caresses my left hand until my fingers are extended. His eyes move from the task of slipping the ring onto my finger and meet my eyes. “Je t'aime beaucoup, mon mari,” I whisper. (”I love you very much, my husband.”)

“I love you too,” he marvels through shortened breath. When he inhales I watch his eyelids flutter shut as if in prayer. I cannot resist the pull to touch his face as he simply kneels before me in silence, the most penitent man in the world. He dies at the thought of losing me. Through his hard exterior and demanding nature lies a frightened child who is terrified of being alone, being without me. But to whom do I lie? Only myself if I ever entertain the thought that I could survive now without this man. I would kill myself rather than spend a life without him.

His jaw sets as my fingers brush the skin. I relish the feel of barely grown stubble, red and animal-like. “Your earring? You took eet off?” He inhales sharply as my fingers glide up to his earlobe and his head turns slightly to give me contact. But his eyes remain closed…as if he is concentrating on picturing this moment in his memory. Then I realize that he is recording this very instant with his sense of touch and hearing, but most of all with his now-heightened sense of smell. “Can you tell?” I ask as I lean into his neck below his ear, “Can you smell me? How much I want you?” His jaw clenches once more at my inquiry. “You can, I know you can.” My tongue darts out to test the saltiness of his throat. “You like eet better zis way?” I continue, “Since your change, I know you do.” I reach back to the tether that holds his hair away from his face. “I like you zis way aussi, ma bête.”

“Fleur,” he sighs as his arms pull me to him, “Don’t ever leave me. I love you too much. It would kill me.”

“Not to worry, mon loup,” I coo against the skin of his throat before I nip. “I will never leave you. I never could, not now.” I slowly turn my head inward and snuggle against the dark fabric across his chest. “And if you ever left me again I would pursue you to ze darkest corner of ze earth to find you again and bring you back to me.” His arms constrict and I find that I savor the physical control he exerts over me.

Somehow we both decide to silently stand before he steps away from me. He motions his head toward the back of the cottage where our bedroom awaits. “We can start our plans tomorrow, ma belle, tonight I want to be with you, make love to you.” It is almost a plea as he steps back and I follow his slow, purposeful journey to our room. The darkness and shadows lap at us as we make our way through the golden glow of our home.

When we reach the bedroom he is...Réduire )

*From ‘Full Moon’—Robert Miles
“Fleur, you know Babette is going to be furious when she finds out about all this, don’t you?” Aveline’s comments are extremely irritating, but I know that she speaks the truth, no matter how maddening that truth may be.

“And ‘ow is she going to find out, you will not tell ‘er, will you?” Her admission does strike a chord of fear in my heart. I spear a sliced cucumber with my fork as I sit across from Aveline, who rests in the large chair behind her desk. She swallows a long gulp of spring water before she answers me.

“Great Goddess, no,” she responds quickly. “I would never run to her and tell her about you and Bill, or about your vows. You know me better than that.” She chews thoughtfully on a mouthful of greens. “But you’re lying to yourself if you think she’s not going to find out soon enough. You know your mother. She knows and sees everything in the end.”

“Oui, I know,” I admit. “I am not so concerned about ‘er reaction to Bill. After all, she ‘as not spoken to me since she found out I was seeing ‘im again.” I sigh, a little disappointed to not be able to share my recent happiness about the man I adore with my beloved mother. “She is very stubborn. Look at ze way she ‘as cut Gabrielle, ‘er angel, from ‘er life.” I stare at the small tomato in my salad, a flash of red on a sea of verdant green. “Ze baby, do you think eet will ‘ave red ‘air like ze rest of zem?”

“What?” She looks at me, an expression of confusion on her face and I motion toward her stomach. “Oh!” She smiles and laughs. “Yes, as a matter of fact, it most likely will, at least according to Charlie.” She rubs her blossoming stomach with one of her hands. “He says that there has never been a Weasley child born without flaming red hair. You’ll find out for yourself soon enough.” She gestures to me and laughs, “The way you say you and Bill have been going at it since Christmas, you’ll be next, I’m afraid.”

I force a smile and calm casualness at her comment. Yes, one would think the way Bill and I have been at each other for the past six months…

“Well, since I am not with child at ze moment,” I brush her observation and my concerns aside for the moment, “Zen I would like to study as much as I can for ze Veela Vows. Take zem before I become pregnant. In fact, I would very much like to take ze vows before remarrying. Even zough she will not speak to me, I made a promise to my mozzer zat I would do zis, and I must. I must do eet before ze marriage or I fear I will never finish zem.”

Aveline silently studies me. “Then you know it’s going to be a great deal of work on your part, don’t you? Bill doesn’t seem like the kind of man who wants to wait long. I won’t lie to you, Fleur, the Veela magic, it requires effort and dedication to master.” She reaches up and scratches the side of her dark brown hair. “Have you given any thought about who will guide you through the actual ceremony? That is traditionally the place that the mother of the neophyte takes, but since you and Babette have had a falling out, I don’t know.”

“I intend to seek ze advice of ze Elders in ze matter and let zem decide.”

“That is probably the most wise decision you could make,” she begins, “But you forget one thing…Babette IS one of the Elders.”

“Actually,” I reply, “I ‘ave considered zis already. I am going to send an Owl to my mozzer to tell ‘er of my intentions beforehand. So zere will be no surprises for ‘er.”

The only thing to be heard in the silent office is our breathing. Oddly enough, the rest of the Auror department has grown strangely quiet for this lunchtime.

“You don’t think she would try to prohibit you from taking the Vows, do you?” Aveline asks with an expression of sincerity and concern on her face.

“I ‘ope not,” I whisper meekly in reply as I stare at a spot in the center of Aveline’s desk. Then I breathe deeply. “But I will ‘ave to deal with zat when and if ze time comes.” I begin to gather the leftovers of my lunch. “And in ze meantime, Aveline, will you ‘elp me with ze studies, tutor me? With both you and Gabrielle to assist me in ze lessons, I can accomplish my goals much more quickly.”

“And not make Bill stand too long at the altar waiting for you to finish?” she chides cheerfully.

“Oui,” I smile back at her, “You of all women should know zat eet is not good to keep a Weasley man waiting!”

le 09 juin 2006


Smug white smile
“You have to get these back to me quickly, or Babette will suspect something,” Aveline sets a small stack of hand-bound antique books on my desk. “I told her I needed them for family name research in order to name the baby.” I glide my fingers across the faded leather cover of the top book and inhale the musty smell of the old tomes and am taken back in my mind’s eye to my days at Beauxbatons, sitting in the library, pouring over thick books of charms and spells between classes.

“But zese, zey are my mozzer’s records, ‘er Veela ancestors,” I reply, not even looking up at Aveline. “Not ze Rousseau line of ze Veela.” When I finally look up, Aveline’s dark eyes meet mine.

“I think Babette likes the idea of the baby having a name from her Veela heritage,” Aveline crosses her arms and leans against my desk. “She was happy about the idea. Didn’t need any persuasion at all.” I open the book that has now found its way into my hands and study the ancient writing, recognizing the language.

“Oui, eet is written in French,” I smile and breathe a sigh of relief. “I was concerned zat eet might be written in some ancient Eastern European language zat I would not be able to understand.” Aveline moves next to me and joins me in my examination of my Mère’s family records.

“There may exist some very old branch somewhere far, far down your family line,” she says over my shoulder as she pats my upper arm, “But that is for you to discover in your studies. How many days do you think you’ll need to reproduce the books for your own copies?” At her words I stare at the short stack that seemed small before she asked me that particular question. My expression must give away my unexpected dilemma. “Remember, they must be hand-copied, without the use of magic. It is part of the training process. But don’t worry too much; Gabrielle and I can help.”

“I do not ‘ave to do zis part alone?” I ask in disbelief. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she smiles as she tells me. “Your loved-ones can help you duplicate your records for your family copy.”

“Do zey ‘ave to be Veela to ‘elp?” I inquire. Aveline cocks her head to the side as if in thought.

“Actually,” she begins with a smirk of sneaky satisfaction, “No, they don’t have to be Veela. My Aunt Volette helped me to hand copy my ancestry…and, believe it or not, Charlie Weasley did too, back at Hogwarts. He kept complaining about having to do it by hand, wondering what it was he was copying. I just told him it was a special project for Arithmancy and that kept him quiet, at least for a while. So yes, Bill can help you, if that’s what you want to know. He should be quite adept at transcribing ancient texts. He ought to get kick out of the task.”

“So,” I knowingly look at Aveline, “Zis man, Charlie Weasley, you loved ‘im back when you were at ze ‘ogwarts, non?” She rolls her eyes at my question.

“Just get the volumes back to me as soon as you can,” she changes the subject, “No more than a week, Fleur, that’s all the time I can give you and not make your mother suspicious. She’d have a fit if she knew the real reason I borrowed them.”

“No more zan a week,” I reply as she heads toward the door, “I promise.”

Hours later, after a light supper of fruit and cheese and bread, I find myself sitting at the kitchen table of the cottage, diligently copying my family history. I must get Gabrielle to help me. I shall speak to her tomorrow… The light from the candle flickers as I place the quill next to the ink pot and rub my aching hand. Bill is working late tonight, one of his curse-breaking assignments. I only hope he comes home uninjured this time. Last week he came home after a long day, with a nasty slice across the palm of his left hand. The wound healed more slowly than I had liked and I found myself wishing for one of my Mère’s Veela Healers to close the cut sooner than the twenty-four hours it took to seal…

“I ‘ope zis man, Blackfoot, I ‘ope he gives you ‘azard pay to make up for injuries,” I complained to Bill as he squirmed at the salve I rubbed into the cut before I brought his hand up to my mouth to softly blow against the hurt skin. Bill did not squirm after that…ma Déesse, when he stares at me that way…

The gentle click of the kitchen door as it shuts snaps me from my thoughts as Bill turns and gives me a smile of pleasant surprise.

“Up so late?” he asks as he hangs his summer cloak on the peg next to the door before coming over to examine my handiwork. “Homework, or something of the sort?” He pulls a chair away from the table and spins it around so he can drape his long legs on either side of the back of it before he leans crossed arms on it. “These are the books, aren’t they?” He takes one of the volumes and look through it reverently. “Your family history…Merlin, Fleur, these must go back over a thousand years.”

“Two-thousand-one-‘undred, actually,” I reply with a satisfied smile. I know he is fascinated with ancient texts and these books, they belong to my family, they are my family. He whistles his amazement before I speak again. “And I ‘ave a week to copy zem all.”

“That’s nothing, a few quick spells…”

“By ‘and, and in less zan a week,” I tell him and he stops to stare at me in astonishment.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Zat is all ze time Aveline could give me,” I look around at the enormity of my predicament. “Ozzerwise Mère might grow suspicious.”

“I can help you transcribe, can’t I?” He rights his chair and pulls close to the table, where he takes one of my extra quills in hand. He deftly locates a stack of parchment and brings it to him. “Where can I start?” He looks over at me and I find myself smiling at his selflessness. “What?” he asks.

I hand him the volume to my left. He takes it and opens to the first page.

“Merci, mon loup.”

He looks up from the text and returns my smile.

le 13 mai 2006

Regimental (NC-17)

Bill and Fleur Kiss
I left him alone, to his own devices earlier this afternoon. He still has a number of boxes remaining to unpack, boxes that have been in our guest room since early February. Far be it from me to intrude on his unpacking as I do not wish to see, perhaps, something that I am not supposed to see, something that he does not want me to see. After all, when we divorced I know he was a free Wizard, free to fraternize with whomever he pleased. Oh, and I am quite sure he participated in more than his share of collaborative involvement. It is his way of doing things; he has always been a randy hybride. In the end he is a beast, an animal, but that is not necessarily a bad thing. No, it is réellement a very good thing. Even before he became the feral creature he now is he was often ruled by his more carnal needs, especially whenever he was around me, but I cannot fault him for that. I am simply thankful that he possesses the stamina to keep up with me when it comes to intimate matters.

“Fleur, Fleur?” he calls from the guest room.

“Oui Bill?” I respond pleasantly from the sofa in our lounge.

“Stay there,” he directs me, “And close your eyes. I have a surprise for you.”

“You ‘ave given me enough of ze surprises, cher,” I reply.

“Just promise me you’ll keep your eyes closed until I say so.”

“Oh, alright zen!” I hear Bill’s soft footfalls on the floor as he emerges from the guest room. I can feel the air pressure in the lounge adjust as it accommodates to the intrusion of his body. With my eyes closed my other senses take over all thought and I feel as if it is I who am stalking my prey as I imagine my lover enter the room, move slowly toward me, and settle in a standing positions as he nudges my knees apart. For a brief moment the feel of his bare legs startles me and I nearly open my eyes before I hear his voice.

“Uh-uh, no peeking yet,” he insists as I move forward in an attempt to grab his hips. His large hands stop me mid-reach and in the next instant I am met with two very different physical sensations. As Bill pulls my hands toward him, the edge of a coarse cloth brushes across the tops of my knees. I know the material is common wool, a favorite of the silly English types during colder weather. The second thing I touch is Bill’s bare stomach, covered on one side with this same wool. Even though he is getting older, he is aging very nicely, and his smooth stomach proves just this. He releases my hands and I splay my fingers over his belly and hips. His smell mixes with the scent of the wool and the dye of the cloth. I begin to inch my hands lower and my fingertips meet the waistline of some type of garment, made of the same cloth that is now scraping my upper thighs. Bill bends slightly forward and whispers, “You can open your eyes now.”

When I do I look up into his face and see the dark relief of the last rays of the day’s sun shadow the surface of his skin. A long gathering of dark blue and green tartan wool hangs from his shoulder diagonally across his bare chest, and is tucked into the waistband of a kilt constructed of the same material. The deep blue and green illuminate his skin, amplify every freckle; the intense hues of a hidden sea magnify the red of his long hair as it falls forward and he gazes down at me. He is nearly as beautiful as I. His eyes, his eyes pierce my heart with their striking power, carving his name into the hidden flesh of my soul.

“Tonight is the full,” he says simply.

“Oui, naturellement, je sais ceci,” (“Yes, of course, I know this”) I answer in a gasp as I look at the collected wool wrapped and pleated around his waist. “Ma Déesse, vous êtes la chose la plus sexy que j'ai jamais vue dans mon vie entière.” (“My Goddess, you are the sexiest thing I have ever seen in my entire life.”) His slender fingers sink into my flaxen hair and his force tilts my head up to meet his.

“Do you think so?” he asks.

I close my eyes and nod my head, “Oui.”

“Good.” His lips crush mine in a bruising kiss, desperate, wild. But he composes himself quickly to pull back, just breaking our connection. Our foreheads touch as his warm breath glides over the surface of my lips and cheek. “Want you so much. All the time now. More than before.”

“Good.” I smile into him and feel him chuckle in response to my jest. As our faces touch I look toward the mass of plaid between myself and his…

Mon loup, what do you wear beneath your kilt?Réduire )

le 30 avril 2006

“Fleur, Fleur, you up? You up?” Bill’s voice pulls me out of my sleepy haze. “You up? You up?” Of course I am up now. “Did I wake you?” Er, well, yes, yes you did. When I open my eyes his face comes into view, framed by his ginger hair. He has decided to let it grow again, not cut it back. Everyone always says that Charlie is the one with the perfect shade of ginger hair. I disagree. Charlie keeps his cut too short, but no, not my Bill. Even on the rare occasion that he allows me to clip them back some, his spicy locks seem to have a will of their own, continually giving Bill his rebelliously intellectual appearance. He is kneeling beside our bed with his torso across the covers, leaning over me.

“Mmmmmm,” I yawn and stretch. “I am awake now.” Looking around our bedroom I can see that it is still dark. Only the slight silvery shine of the crescent moon strikes the snowy mountain of covers on the bed. For a second, I panic. “It is not morning. Is something wrong, mon amour de gingembre?”

“Nothing, nothing at all, mon amour,” he whispers as he strokes my snow white hair. “You’ve got to come see something.”

“No cher,” I whine, “Let me sleep.” I close my eyes again when I feel his lithe fingers trace down my neck.

“You’ll regret it if you don’t,” he pleads, “Let me carry you.” Before I can respond his hands slip under me and he draws my slender firgure to him easily and I wrap my arms around his neck and rest my head on his bare shoulder. Through the darkness and moonlight I can focus on a few of the ginger freckles on his neck and chest. He carries me through the lounge and sets me down at the large window overlooking our back garden and the edge of the little wood behind our cottage.

“Ma Déesse, il est beau!” (My Goddess, it is beautiful!) I gasp as he smiles and covers me in his embrace. The entire garden, it is coated in a feathery dusting of snow.

“Blanc de neige au printemps, (Snow white in spring,) just like you,” he says before he kisses the back of my neck, “Perfection.” I feel his lips on my skin once more.

“Oui, juste comme nous, juste comme nous,” (Yes, just like us, just like us,) I sigh as his arms tighten.

“Nous sommes comme le gingembre et neigeons, ma Fleur, gingembre et neige,” (We are like ginger and snow, my Fleur, ginger and snow) he says softly against the shell of my ear. I close my eyes and lean back against him.



and has become a part of the role-playing game known as Ginger and Snow


le 22 avril 2006

One Thing

Blue Fleur
Restless tonight
Cause I wasted the light
Between both these times
I drew a really thin line
It’s nothing I planned
And not that I can
But you should be mine
Across that line

If I traded it all
If I gave it all away for one thing
Just for one thing
If I sorted it out
If I knew all about this one thing
Wouldn’t that be something
--Finger Eleven

“I suppose we should pick up the mess we made,” Bill whispers against my temple as we sprawl across the tangled sheets of our bed, “I’m sorry I broke the night stand…and I’m pretty certain you won’t be able to mend the shirt you were wearing either.” He fights to hold back a chuckle. I simply laugh.

“I theenk zat maybe we were too boisterous in our love-making zis time, no?” I lift my head to survey the damage to our bedroom. Everything is knocked off my dresser; I am uncertain whether or not any of my trinkets and bobs have been broken, but I do not care.

“Too boisterous or too angry,” he smiles as he brushes back my lustrously wild hair, tousled in the aftermath of our mad and heated passion. “Why didn’t we ever put our anger with each other to such good use way back when? When we used to fight we never took advantage of the situation this way.”

“Maybe we ‘ave learned from our mistakes,” I reply before I lean in to kiss him. “And I theenk I do not want to clean up until tomorrow morning. We should go to sleep and worry tomorrow.”

“A splendid idea,” he tightens his arms around me as I lay my head on his bare chest. I close my eyes and think back to the afternoon…


“…and I will wait for you ‘ere. Today is a lovely day and I do not feel like following you around a smelly Quidditch supply store.” I cannot for the life of me, figure out why Bill would want to go into a Quidditch supply store. I roll my eyes and find a seat on a bench outside the Quality Quidditch Supplies shop in Hogsmeade, across from Zonko’s. I shoo Bill on and have a seat, passing the time on this fine sunny day by inspecting the purchases I have made. But by the time I have looked inside the first shopping bag I am interrupted.

“Excuse me, Miss? Oh wow, it is you! Oh wow, oh wow,” for a moment a young blond-haired man in his mid-twenties stands in front of me stammering in disbelief.

“Of course it is me, you silly man. Who did you theenk it would be?” I reply in confused irritation.

“Myron, Willy,” he shouts excitedly over his shoulder, “It’s her; I told you. I know it’s her.” Two more men around the same age as the first walk up behind their friend. All three of them are wearing goofy expressions of awe as the original trespasser extends his hand to me. I take it so as not to be rude and he shakes it vigorously. “Oh Miss, this is such a great honor. Oh wow, I’m star struck.” One of his friends shoves him forward and the poor boy-man stumbles against me. “Stop it, you dumb git! Oh, not you Miss, never you. Oh gosh, I’m Samson, Samson Studacheck. I’m a big fan of yours.”

“And I’m Myron Womsby,” the man who pushed Samson finally speaks.

“And I’m Willy Stone,” the third offers, each man shaking my hand in turn.

“It is very nice to make your acquaintances, I am sure,” I say as I look at each of them.

“Oh dear Merlin! She’s French, she’s French,” Samson sputters as he stares at his hand, “I’ll never wash this hand again.”

“Of course she’s French, you wanker,” Myron scolds his mesmerized friend. “Her name is Fleur Delacour. Of course she’s French. Are you daft?” But Samson is oblivious to Myron’s taunts as he continues to gawk down at me. He looks strange. I hope he does not get sick on me…

“What I think our friend means to tell you, Miss Delacour,” Willy comes to the awestruck Samson’s rescue, “Is that he is a great fan of yours, as are we too.” He gently elbows Samson and whispers, “Why don’t you just ask for her autograph, Sammy?” Samson responds by pulling an issue of Quidditch Weekly from under his robes, that, and a self-inking quill. Willy has to actually guide Samson to hand me the issue and after I sign the page that holds one of my Wicked and Wonder Witch advertisements the poor man just gapes at my signature with wide eyes. “I think you’ve put the whammy on old Sammy here, Miss Delacour. Could you sign my copy too?” Willy continues, “And don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re biggest fan here gets home safe and sound.”

I smile and make petty small talk with the three men, who speak of the advertising campaigns that feature my loveliness. I make sure to write nice things on both Willy’s and Sammy’s magazines. “And what about you, Myron?” I ask the one who teased his friend earlier, “Do you have a Quidditch magazine for me to autograph too?”

“Nope,” he smirks, “I’ve got something better.” He brushes back his cloak and unclasps the top half of the buttons of his shirt. “Right here,” he points to the center of his chest, “Sign your name right over my heart.” Samson stares on in envy as I sign the man’s chest, but before the three of them leave, I am sure to kiss Samson on the cheek to make up for the slight. I have a smug smile on my face when I turn around to look into the Quidditch store…and Bill is standing right there.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing talking to strange men like that?” Bill demands. The scowl on his face is evident as he sets his jaw.

“I am speaking to some of my many fans and giving zem autographs, zat is what I am doing!” I plant my feet and cross my arms, shopping bags dangling from my elbows.

“They could have been lunatics or worse,” he steps forward, “I don’t want you speaking to strange men anymore. And I certainly don’t want you to put your autograph on some horny bloke’s chest…not ever again.” I will not tolerate Bill barking at me in such a fashion.

“You, you cannot tell me what to do!” I shriek. “You are NOT my ‘usband. Vous vous êtes assuré de celui il y a quatre ans! (You made sure of that four years ago!)

Pure rage flashes from his eyes as he grabs my wrist and marches both of us to the alley between Zonko’s and Gladrags across the street. I try to wriggle out of his grip as I jerk my arm a few times, but it is to no use. When he reaches to point in the alley next to the side door of his brothers’ business Bill spins on his heel to face me.

“How dare you!” I scream as I finally yank my arm from his grip and shake my finger in his face. “How dare you…you, you beast!”

“I’m not nearly the beast that some of these crazies that could put you under the Imperious Curse and kidnap you are,” her retorts.

“You sound just like my Mère with your commands,” I say, and know that I have cast the right spell to get him reeling.

“Don’t EVER compare me to that woman,” he growls as he steps back and smoothes down his hair. But I do not let him escape. Instead I follow him too closely. He turns and I bang into him. “Fleur,” he pants, “I'm beginning to think that you working for Fred and George isn’t going to work out for us. I want you to stop it, quit.”

“What?!! Ce qui la baise?”

“You heard me, Fleur.” How dare he make such a demand. The jealous porc. He cannot tell me what to do.

“You are just jealous zat I am getting ze attention, zat I am in ze light and not you,” I cry. “You always wanted to control me so it would make you feel more like a man!”

“That’s not true and you know it!” He steps forward and I flinch but do no step back. With a great deal of forced direction he softly takes my arms and rubs them. “I learned the hard way a long time ago that I could never control you.”

“And besides,” I interrupt, “I make too much money from your brozzers. I make more money zan you and I could ever spend.”

“But you don’t have to, Fleur,” he says, “I make enough money to support the both of us.”

“And a bébé as well?” I ask. “You forget, I ‘ad ze job you ‘ave right now and I know for a fact zat it did not pay zat well. I do not want to raise a family zat way, from pay check to pay check.” I look up to him and he stiffens, dropping his hands from my arms. “Oh, Goddess, I am so sorry…,”

“I’ll have you know that I am quite capable of making enough money to take care of a house full of children AND the selfish notions of their mother!” He turns sharply, jerking away from my touch. “I’m a curse breaker, Fleur. Did you know that I am the most highly sought after curse breaker in all of Europe?” he asks sarcastically. “And do you know what I’m doing? Do you? I’ve chained myself to a desk so I can handle vault security at a fucking bank. What a fucking waste of talent! And for what? An ungrateful witch who isn’t even my wife! I gave up EVERYTHING for you!”

The vitriol of his words is like a slap in the face. But the irony is that I know he is right. But I am right too and if he were not such a stubborn and proud goat he would see that.

“I never asked you to give it up. I never did, not even in ze beginning, zat summer. You made ze sacrifice willingly. Did you know zat I asked Père to get me a job wis ze Gringott’s in London because of you…‘oping you would come to me,” I yell. “You cannot theenk zat a Tri-Wizard champion would stoop so low as to chain ‘erself to a desk simply to ‘andle vault security for a fucking bank! I was ze darling of all Wizarding France and I gave it up just to be with you!” I refuse to cry and show him weakness, and I fail miserably as my eyes well with tears. “Oh! You are impossible! Go back to your silly curse breaking if zat is what you need to feel like a man. Do not let me ‘old you back any longer!”

“I just might do that!” he snaps. “There are a few jobs coming up…on the other side of the world, mind you. It would give me plenty of time to get you out of my system!”

“You silly man!” I laugh, “Don’t you know zat you will NEVER be able to get me out of your system?” I smile wickedly, confidently. “Say what you will, but you are only fooling yourself!”

“God damn it!” he shouts in fury and grabs my arms again, this time much more brusquely. For a split second fear and wrath possess me, then melt into something more as he leans forward and sniffs my hair. “Are you as turned on as I am?” he asks.

“Oui, plus,” I gasp as he pulls me roughly against him and with a swish of his wand he Apparates us to the bedroom of our cottage…

le 19 mars 2006

Gabrielle and I have come to meet for brunch at Madam Puddifoot’s today as my sister and I have not seen or spoken to each other in quite some time. The hustle and bustle of the tea room with its changing seasonal decorations, now in pale yellows, blues, and greens, sets the mood of spring. The centerpieces are bright bouquets of fresh flowers, each with a number of colorful butterflies flitting around them. I sit back and sip my pumpkin juice and look appraisingly at my sister. From the moment we met outside the tea room we have talked of nothing of great importance, only passing occurrences and small talk of this and that. She tells me about the excitement she feels at being able to attend Hogwarts under special circumstances so that she can finish her education. Bill will be very pleased about that. I will have to talk to him about it…and I will have to talk to Fred as well to learn of how he made such arrangement for my precious little sister. It is good that she will be able to experience at least a short time in school as I know she was completely heartbroken when Mère took her out of Beauxbatons after our father’s death…

But an atmosphere of undeclared tension surrounds Gabrielle and I and I wonder if she is keeping things from me as I am from her. She wipes her mouth with the linen napkin and looks outside the little window beside our table.

“Fleur,” she begins, “There is something I haven’t told you.” I raise my eyebrows and nod interest as she continues. “I saw Mère a few weeks ago.”

“How is she doing?” I ask. “I assume she is back at Fairie Ridge?”

“I didn’t see her at Fairie Ridge.” Gabrielle’s distracted gaze finally returns to me. “I saw her here, in Hogsmeade.”

“Ah, yes, I theenk she would like ze tea room very much.”

“We didn’t meet her at Madame Puddifoot’s,” she tells me, but her silence tells me more. “She came to the alley by Zonko’s and waited until I was emptying the rubbish bin…,” Gabrielle goes on to tell me of the horrible encounter she had with Mère.

“Oh dear Merlin, ma ange!” I whisper loudly in surprise. “She slapped you in ze face? Ma Déesse! She ‘as gone mad!” I snap my fingers to gain the attention of our waitress and order a bottle of champagne. When the flutes are poured I hand one to ma ange. “Zis, zis is not a toast of ze celebration. We just need somesing a bit stronger zan ze pumpkin juice to get through zis talk. Drink up, mon cher, we must now speak as women, you and I.” My sight fixes on her desperate blue eyes over the rim of the tilted crystal as the bubbles assault my nose and the alcohol spreads through my body.

“I don’t know what to do, Fleur. I can’t believe she would cut me, cut us out of her life like that.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “I ‘ad ‘oped it would be better for you zan it was for me, loving a Weasley man. I ‘ad ‘oped she would accept Fred, you know, because ‘e is not, is not,” I move my hand in an arc and gesture nonchalantly to my face. Gabrielle’s brow furrows in anger.

“Fleur, how could you say that, about Billy?”

“No, cher, not ze scars,” I grab her hand across the table and my arm bumps my fork against the china of my plate. “Never about ze scars, love. No! Mère could never accept ze wolf, ze change zat ‘appened to Bill after ze attack. I thought she might eventually consent to Fred because ‘e does not ‘ave ze change.”

“She won’t have him because he’s a Weasley, werewolf infection doesn’t influence her opinion. It’s the whole Weasley family; she won’t accept them, Fleur. She hates them all, every last one of them.” She lifts her glass and swallows many gulps of champagne and refills the flute. “But she said zat, I’m mean, she said that she was cutting you from her life as well. Why, Fleur, why? The two of you only recently reconciled.”

I am quiet and thoughtful as my mind drifts back to the day that my Mère paid me a surprise visit not so very long ago. “Well,” I say, “A few weeks ago I told ‘er zat I wanted to commit to ze Garden Path and begin studying to take my Veela Vows as soon as possible.”

Gabrielle’s face brightens immensely as she squeezes my hand. “That’s marvelous, Fleur. Mère must have been so happy to hear you make that promise.” In the silence that follows her cheer her mind begins to race and she looks across to me. “What happened to make her displeased with you?”

I take a deep breath. “Well, zat was right about ze time Billy came ‘ome from work. Mère paid me a surprise visit at ze cottage.” Gabrielle’s eyes grow big as saucers.

“Oh ma Déesse! How horrible! She didn’t know about Billy,” Gabrielle gasps as she covers her mouth with her hand.

“Well, she knows all about Billy now,” I reply sarcastically and cannot help but grin at our predicament. “Two sisters,” I say as I sip my champagne, “In love with two brozzers, and disowned by zeir mother. Aren’t we a pair?” I raise my glass in salute of the irony of our matching dilemmas.

“I don’t know what to do, Fleur,” Gabrielle confesses. “I know I have Fred and you have Billy, but what if things don’t work out for one or the other of us? What if Fred and I don’t make it? I’ve never been alone and on my own. Oh dear Goddess, I’m scared.”

“Don’t be scared, ma ange,” I say with a wink, “You and I, and Aveline too, we will always ‘ave each ozzer.”
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