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Fleur Delacour

A Desperate Visit

Fleur Delacour

Blue Fleur

A Desperate Visit

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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.
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