InsaneJournal

WHAT HAD HE DONE WRONG? He’d sent her flowers and other thoughtful gifts, gone out of his way to be charming and pleasant, and she just wasn’t getting it! And she’d attempted to go to the authorities about him, as if what he was doing was something to be alarmed about, something to be frightened about. If she would just stop being so RUDE all the time, she’d HAVE nothing to be worried about!

It was seriously tempting to just stay home and smash things to let off a little steam, but John knew what he had to do. He Disapparated, appearing outside her flat moments later and making his way to the door. Wards kept him from getting any closer than the front porch but the place was dark and there was no warmth coming from within.

She’d run from him.

He cursed loudly at the darkening sky and crack he was back at his own house, consulting his instruments with a look of desperation on his face. As best he could tell, she was in London… in Diagon Alley?

The Leaky Cauldron, then. Obvious, sure, but he wasn’t aware of any other shops that had rooms to rent. And in moments he was there.

And she’d warned the innkeeper about him. WARNED him! But he was harmless. “I just want to talk to her,” he told the innkeeper, who looked him up and down and shook his head. The ugliest expression of pure rage colored John’s features, but he choked it down, storming out of the building.

He flicked his wand, pulling out a quill and assembling a Howler. He wasn’t sure if it would be delivered immediately (given that he was right there) or if it would be held until morning, but he could wait. He settled himself in the sparse, scrubby bushes outside the Leaky Cauldron to wait until he heard her receive his mail. It was short and to the point, he thought.

“I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE. EITHER YOU COME OUT OR I AM COMING IN.”

She had only just finished her last reply to Bill when the shouting came from immediately outside the window. Hells. It was like a nightmare from which she could not seem to awaken. At first, she had been frightened to the point where it was difficult to think of what to do next. That her space had felt utterly violated and unsafe, not matter how many curses she could lay across the doors. And so, she had fled, surrounded herself with people, and used the interim to calm herself and recollect her wits. The respite had allowed her to shore up her reserves once more -- this man, this ridiculous man, should not have the power to make her feel fear. No man should.

She slammed her journal shut and parted the curtains to see his bloody Howler hovering just outside the glass, and further down, him standing out on the street within the circle of illumination of a street lamp. Her eyes narrowed. If he wanted in, then let him come.

Ringing for the keeper, she let him know that John Dawlish was permitted entry -- and after the keeper’s sceptical look, Fleur could only firm her jaw in resolution. “So long as you’re willing to turn a blind eye to whatsoever happens next.” And twenty galleons slipped into his palm for the impending trouble.

Suddenly - in response to the Howler, perhaps? The innkeeper was opening the door and motioning him in, and John was on his feet, thundering up the steps to Fleur’s room. “Fleur!” he called. “I knew you weren’t serious, I knew you’d agree to see me.”

She was right there, within reach, and yet, one step too close and he was struck with a headache akin to the pain of eating ice cream too fast. “Argh,” he growled, grabbing his head. “Fleur… Fleur, what did you do?”

Again he reached for her, but this time his hand must have tripped something and his hand erupted in boils. “What did you DO!?”

She watched dispassionately as he bumbled his way through each woven web of curses, the ones with the most immediate painful effect were, of course, just distractions from the far more subtle and powerful one woven innocuously amongst them all. Her wand was up and pointed at him, but in her other hand, curiously, was a tied ribbon as one might see wrapped around someone’s finger as a reminder. “I hold your heart in my hands, John Dawlish.” Her smile held little warmth to it this time. “This ribbon, see, is what keeps it alive and beating well. A curse that intricately ties your life to it. And if I were to simply pull on one end,” and here, she took up one of the ends and gave it a tug to loosen the knot ever so slightly, knowing it would cause a twinge in the chest of the accursed, “it would unravel, and your heart would stop.”

Demonstration thus given, she slipped the ribbon ring around her left finger -- smirking at the irony, and held it up to show him. “If you contact me again or come near me, I will not hesitate to end your life. Upon completion of the curse, all traces of magic would dissipate. It would look like nothing more than a heart attack.”

“I just want to talk to you,” John insisted, taking another step closer. He clutched at his chest as she tugged on the ribbon, proving her words to be true. “Why… why would you do that to me? What have I done that’s so wrong? I just want to LOVE YOU! WHY WON’T YOU LET ME LOVE YOU!?”

His voice rose into a furious shout, his face twisted in rage as he grabbed the nearest piece of furniture, picked it up and threw it across the room. Well, not far, because it was big and he wasn’t that strong, but it made a very satisfying crash nonetheless. Next he grabbed a vase that happened to be within reach, filled with flowers he hadn’t sent her and hurled it not at her, but near enough to her. “I just want to TALK!” he yelled as it shattered into thousands of pieces.

She grit her teeth against the loud smashes, and only her cold, resolute anger kept her from flinching away from the vase that shattered at her feet. The blood roared through her veins, nearly deafening in her ears. “So talk,” she said, a quiet voice in the ringing silence of his shouting. “This will be the last time you will have the chance. I don’t want or need your love. It is worth nothing to me.” And here she looked him dead in the eye. “You are worth nothing to me.”

He continued destroying everything within reach, working himself up more and more with every word she said. “I just want to talk, Fleur,” he kept repeating. “I just want to talk.” And when she told him he was worth nothing to her, he advanced on her again, no longer caring what she did with the ribbon, when she was already tearing his heart in two with her cruel words. He was close enough to have her by the neck before she even got near the ribbon, his Auror reflexes serving him well, but after gripping hard enough to leave a bruise, he dropped her back to the floor.

“You have destroyed me,” he said. “You have ripped me in half and broken me in two. You are cruel. You are heartless.” Twisted in pain - the emotional kind - he ran from the room, and from the Leaky Cauldron.

She had gasped when his large hands had wrapped around her neck, her hands immediately scrabbling to pry them loose as her windpipe was constricted and she suddenly couldn’t breathe. And just as quickly, she was let go with almost as much force, sending her to the floor with another gasp. Mind reeling, body nearly in shock from the show of violence, she pushed herself from the floor and moved to the window, pushing them open to shout after him in a somewhat hoarse voice, “If only your daughter knew what kind of man you were, you fils de salop!”