fleur delacour is a classy lady. (alluring) wrote in flippedrpg, @ 2012-04-25 00:00:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! narrative, ch: can: fleur delacour, p: kristy |
WHO Fleur Delacour
WHAT Fleur’s final moments
WHEN 8am Wednesday morning
WARNING: CONTAINS CHARACTER DEATH
At ten years old, there was nothing so beautiful in the word to Fleur Delacour than the tiny blonde creature in the bassinette, wiggling and cooing and blinking eyes that could not yet see, but looked about anyway. She’d known love, of course. She’d experienced it from her family and from the little friends she’d met at playdates. Nothing compared to the love that blossomed in her chest at the sight of her new baby sister. And she’d known, in that instant, that there wasn’t a thing in the world she’d not have done to protect the little one.
That had held true at seventeen, when, during the Triwizard Tournament and her failed attempt at the Second Task, she’d learned with a sinking heart that she’d failed Gabrielle. She hadn’t even known that her little sister was at the bottom of the lake until it was too late to save her, and her heart had shattered into panicked pieces. It was sheer luck that someone so brilliant and selfless as Harry Potter had been there to save Gabrielle when she couldn’t. And Gabrielle, then, had only been seven.
Now, two years later, she sat in an impossible place wrapped in an impossible situation. It had taken time, but she’d managed to wrap her mind around the Compound and its intricacies, or as much of them as was comprehensible. She’d fallen headlong into the role of motherhood, applying that unhesitant adoration for Gabrielle easily to her love for her daughter. A daughter who, at ten, was only a year older than Gabrielle was at home.
A daughter who, very soon, would have to exist for an indeterminate amount of time with the knowledge that her mother had been executed because of accusations from her father.
At the same age Fleur had been when she’d fallen in love with her infant sister, her child would experience pain unlike anything she could imagine.
She’d been silent at her trial, her expression distant and unreadable. She’d expected the guilty verdict, as she’d told Remus. She’d been damned from the start, from the moment Bill had accused her. This was no surprise.
Though the quiet calm had continued through the next day, Fleur was not numb. The chaos within her did not match the way in which she sat, stone-faced, and stared at the wall of her cell. She was fueled by rage, by panic. By fear. She was hurt and overwhelmed, worried for her child. Worried at what her child would see, both during and after. She was fueled, also, by hate.
It couldn’t be said that Fleur was a particularly forgiving creature anyway. That was due, in some decent part, to the Veela blood within her. She also had spent so much of her young life fighting off the belief that she was simply a beautiful girl with little merit otherwise. She was proud and strong, or tried to be, but she was still human. To have the man she loved accusing her of such horrid things, even under the influence of whatever was plaguing him, was painful. She’d known from the start that he wasn’t himself, that the words weren’t how he felt. But after hearing them for days, it was hard not to be furious.
Why wasn’t he fighting it harder?
Knowing that he was to blame for the fact that she’d hang a short time from this moment was overwhelming, and her hands clenched again into the fabric of her skirt, her knuckles white. And then there were the others, those boys who had perpetuated the situation for the sake of a joke. Those who hadn’t caused her arrest, but who certainly hadn’t helped to keep it from happening.
But they weren’t worth these last thoughts or her rage. In her time, she really only knew Charles, having met him more than a few times. Ronald and Ginny, she’d met, but did not know explicitly. She’d met Charles with William, though. She knew Charles, trusted him. He had been the only one who’d been there for her throughout this ordeal, really. He’d gotten her out of the woods. He’d promised to support her. As far as she was concerned, he was the only family that mattered.
Family loyalty was one of her greatest priorities, and family did not treat each other this way.
She did not stand as the door to the prison opened, letting in early morning light. She did not stand until they opened her door and forced her to. The sight of the gallows and the crowd about it made her heart leap into her throat before sinking swiftly into her stomach, a simulation of what awaited her.
She would be first. Je suis honoré, she thought, a morbid joke. I’m honored.
She was led to stand on the creaking wood of the trapdoor, her hands bound. She stared forward, ignoring the Puritan who spoke of a nonexistent God as another secured the rope. Her eyes first sought Remus, who she hoped would not be present. If he was not here, then Victoire was safe.
Then, as discussed, she found Charles, her eyes on the loving, grieving face of her brother.
“May God have mercy on your soul.” And then a request for last words.
“Je n'ai aucun intérêt dans votre dieu.” I have no interest in your god. And her eyes landed on her crazed husband-to-be, though they didn’t linger at the sight of the hateful expression that existed on his face. They returned to Charlie, tears springing a bit to her eyes and a very vague, grim smile on her lips.
“Merci, mon frère.” Thank you, my brother. For loving her. For the support. For simply being there, a calming face in a sea of hate.
She closed her eyes then and focused on the image of her daughter and of her William, Remus, Teddy. Of Andromeda. Charlie. Gabrielle. The sound of her pounding heart was punctuated by the grinding sound of the lever being pulled. The floor fell from beneath her and she dropped.
A pull. An agonizing pain. Blackout.