InsaneJournal

The dry chill of English air, as sharp and precisely cutting as a knife, easily burned away the last of India from her sense memories as Fleur dropped the wards that guarded homebase (a complexly woven, nasty set of of curses to befall anyone who dared to force their way in -- representing, perhaps, the worst Bill and Fleur had to offer the world) and entered her dark, cool flat. The air of neglect to the space indicated he had not been in for some time, late as the hour was, but it was hardly an observation for concern: their lives often hurdled past each other more often than not; they were fortunate to catch a glimpse of each other in passing.

Perhaps, more worryingly still, her heart did not cry out at the loss.

Not something to think about now, she scolded herself, not when one was exhausted and a bit sick from PortKey travel or still caught up in the rhythms of a different time zone. Tea first, she thought, better still, a glass of Bordeaux, very fine, a gift from her parents for her birthday. A flick of the wand set the radio going and something young, melodic and soothing filled the room. Wine was poured. All the lights were luxuriously turned on and the heat turned up. She could pretend, perhaps, there was a cosy hearth at which to sit. A pet would do well now, only she’d have little time to care for one. Still, it would be nice to hold something close that one loved very much -- too many terrible things were happening of late, and comfort ought to be taken where it could.

John had known she was back. It would have been hard to miss, given that he had taken to going past her place at least once a day as part of his rounds. Sending things to her in Balaghat hadn’t gone so well, so he’d thought of maybe visiting her at home.

“Fleur,” he called out as he knocked on the door. “It’s so good to see you. You were gone for so long, and I missed your beautiful face.”

Her quiet world was suddenly interrupted by the shouting, and for a moment, she had thought she’d been hit with a stunning spell, for she could not understand how John Dawlish’s voice came to be emanating from outside her door at this time of night. For several moments, she remained rooted in her chair, and then, senses and thoughts finally starting to seep back in, she rose and hastily crossed the sitting room to open the door before her neighbours complained about the noise (the walls were ever so thin here).

And, indeed, it was John Dawlish, and the very realisation he had found her home hit her in full force. “What are you doing here?” she forcefully whispered, eying the doors down the hall for any lights to come on and cantankerous faces to pop a head out. “Good gods, Mr Dawlish, this is entirely crossing the line!”

“I came to see you,” John said, confused. “You’re a very special woman, and very special women are worth the extra effort. I wanted to welcome you home.” He wasn’t lowering his voice or attempting to be quiet in any way, shape or form. And why would he? The only people in the world were himself and Fleur.

“When you stopped replying to me, I thought perhaps something had happened to you, that you had been harmed in some way, so I came by to check that you were okay.” Gently he nudged his way past her, entering the little flat. “I’ll make us some tea, and you can tell me all about it.”

She pivoted on her heel, ire flashing like steel in her eyes. Fleur was used to her share of suitors, even ones who were more ardent than most. Even the most insistent of them knew very well when they had been soundly rejected. This man, however, with an air that betrayed not the least bit of shame or guilt, who spoke as if matters were simply fact, was an entirely different animal of madness. Her wand was in her hand and pointed at him before she could even blink. “I thought we had discussed this. I thought I had made matters clear, but in case I had not, I will do so now: I do not want you, John Dawlish. Please get out of my flat.”

Carrying on as if he hadn’t heard her, John went to the cupboards and began hunting through for a couple of mugs. He pulled out his own wand, and set the kettle boiling. “So tell me about India. I’ve never been, but all I know about it is that it rains there much the way it does here, and that pretty girls need umbrellas. Were the people nice? Did you get the work done that you went there to do?”

“Incarcerous!” she said, as a stream of magical rope was issued from her wand, coming to snake around him. She wasted little time in grabbing her journal to alert the DMLE of her unwelcome guest. “You’re mad,” she hissed back at him, dipping her quill in the pot of ink.

“Protego,” John said, just as quickly. Deluded and slightly mad he may be, but you didn’t get into the DMLE without being quick on your feet and decent in a duel. But the fact that the love of his life was sending imprisoning charms at him was more than a little vexing.

With two quick steps he was right in front of her, snatching the quill out of her hand and tossing it aside. “I don’t think so,” he said, getting angry for the first time. “You don’t want to do that. Getting law enforcement involved, that would be a big mistake. Big mistake,” he repeated. “I’ve been nice to you Fleur, but you don’t want to make me angry. You wouldn’t like what could happen.”

He took hold of her shoulders and shook her lightly, as if to drive his point home, then let her go and went back to the sink, dumping out the now boiled kettle and setting it back on the stove top with a crash. “We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down,” he told her. Then he stormed out, getting to the street before Disapparating with a loud crack.

For the first time, Fleur felt icy fear run through her veins at his swift approach, could practically taste the genuine rage colouring his features and turning them ugly. His touch made her flinch and nearly curl up in on herself, and when his hands fell away from her, she still felt the lingering imprints of his bruising fingers.

It was only when he had stormed out of her flat that she felt she could breath again, even as her pulse still pounded in her ears.