fleur delacour (maquis) wrote in disorderic, @ 2017-08-22 19:07:00 |
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Entry tags: | bill weasley, fleur delacour |
WHO: Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour.
WHEN: August 1st/2nd, 2017.
WHERE: The Burrow, then Shell Cottage.
WHAT: A wedding night gone awry.
WARNINGS: Nope.
It hardly mattered that there were only six days until the full moon. The Ministry had fallen, and the wedding party not so much ransacked as utterly destroyed, the Death Eaters who'd broken through the layers upon layers of painstakingly constructed wards caring little about the comfort and dignity of those who remained. So many had fled, but those few who remained were not offered any sort of apology, only hours of questions (many nonsensical, others oddly incisive, all seemingly ceaseless) as the intruders tore through Arthur and Molly Weasley's house. Looking. Looking for them. Bill didn't need the undeniable effects of the moon to galvanize him; he was enraged all on his own. Their Ministry. Their country. Their wedding. Fleur was kept in the corner of his vision as the hours crawled by, a sharply stinging jinx from a Death Eater lackey and Charlie's arm locked around his necessary to keep him from barreling into the room when it was her turn to be questioned. "For what," he'd growled, only to have the Death Eater smirk in reply. "For starters, why she thought marrying such an ugly bastard blood traitor was such a good idea." (Of course she could take care of herself, but she didn't have to do that by herself anymore.) The pulse riding hard in his scars hadn't abated by the time she finally reemerged. She was tired, clearly, and not so incandescent as she'd been when they were wed, but she was still lovely—she was always lovely, whether she liked it or not. In this moment she wanted nothing more than to be very ordinary, and very inconspicuous, and in bed with her husband with the covers drawn high around them. "I am fine," she reassured him, her hand rising to his brow so she could sweep a stray ginger curl back. "Do not be fretting so, mon trésor." Fleur Delacour wouldn't be frightened. Not in front of these men, in her wedding gown, on this day of all days. She turned to them with all her charisma gleaming behind her. "May we be going, now?" One of them, tall and broad beneath the dull black robes, seemed to shrink under the direct glare of Fleur's magnetism. The stammer, however, came from his companion, for the first seemed to have lost his voice entirely -- "Yes, uhhh. Yes. All seems to be in order. M-make sure you don't leave the country p-please --" "Right." Bill, shortly. A hand that was well accustomed to handling delicate things now wrapped around Fleur's elbow. Not to pull demandingly, but to maintain some contact, a point of anchorage amidst the utter wreckage of the night; she could lead him and he would easily follow. Ire, however, was directed at the Death Eater pair. His parents were fine, if shaken and furious; his brothers -- those that had been in attendance -- also fine, and much louder in their anger. "If that's all of you done here," get the fuck out, but of course they were heavy-handed with their Unforgivables; "we'll be going." The trip home was quick, and quiet, and Fleur let Bill's hand on her arm, possessive and protective, act as an anchor, grounding her even as her mind raced to the heavens with fear and disquiet and anger. When they arrived at last inside their new home in Tinworth, where no spies could watch them under the guard of the Fidelius, she collapsed against him all at once, all the steel fading from her spine. "Oh, Bill," she sniffed. "It wasn't supposed to happen like that," he muttered in response. It. The Ministry's future, the return of the Death Eaters' power, their wedding. All he could find to be thankful for was that there had been no casualties -- yet, the insidious voice in his mind whispered, because of course his youngest brother and his friends were on the run. They'd faced worse though, right? And it so easily could have been any one of them running so openly from the Death Eaters. Instead, here they were, encased in the relative safety of one of the most powerful wards in existence; and in each other's arms. And that, despite it all, felt right. Gently, he cradled her face, carefully looking her over. "Did they hurt you?" "Non." She shook her head, composing herself again. "Non, I am fine. Truly, I am. It is only..." Fleur wiped a tear from her eye, then, and smiled up at him. "The wedding, it was so beautiful." When they'd danced, she'd felt herself glow silver-bright. Now she felt dim, like a veiled candle. "Thank you," she said, "for being my 'usband." She let him hold her. "I did not t'ink it would be today. Foolish of me, I am realising. Zey cannot abide to see us 'appy." Her arms looped around his waist, she drew him closer. "But I am, 'appy, Bill. I am." It was difficult not to believe her -- Fleur had her way, of course, of ushering the truth that went beyond the powers of a Veela, and not even Bill was immune to it. Not that he wanted to be, even though the tears in her eyes were a rarity. "Are you?" he asked, and knocked his brow gently against hers. "Because you're crying." A tease, as gentle as his hands had been on her. "I'm very honoured to be your husband," he added after a moment. "And not even they are going to take that away from me." Fleur laughed, then, bright and musical, and rose onto her tiptoes to kiss him. "I am very 'appy," she said. "I am. It is only zat... Zis was not ze wedding night I 'ad planned." She pouted just a little. Dawn was breaking outside the windows of Shell Cottage, and she squeezed him tight. "Ze Death Eaters, zey are making a mess of everyt'ing zey touch." She poked his heart with her forefinger. "But not us. Je refuse." "Well, that's both of us." And with that, Bill reached down and pulled her near so that he could sweep his wife -- not so much a blushing bride as a joyously luminous one -- into his arms, the silvery locks of her hair that the night's provocations had pulled from its careful up-do, and the folds of her wedding dress flowing over them. "I'm going to carry you over some threshold tonight, Fleur Delacour." Giggling despite herself, Fleur let happiness descend on her again, let it fill her from her heart to the tips of her toes. "I should 'ope so, Bill Weasley!" It felt good to let him carry her, to stop being strong a moment and let him be her strength. The war would wait, at least for a moment. |