Pain.
Fleur Delacour woke to an ungodly searing on her arm, a scream in the back of her throat, her mind still trapped in the nightmare that she had left behind, the sense of dread and hopelessness coming into the world with her consciousness.
She grabbed her pillow and bit down on it as the burning in her arm started to radiate to the rest of her. She felt like she was on fire, and for the first time that scared her.
The dread pressed down on her with such a force that her sight started to black out and she started to hyperventilate, and then, with the same suddenness it started, it all stopped.
She let herself fall down onto the mattress and huffed a sigh, the cool air from the half open window caressing her, the chill helping her forget the phantom pain.
This was not the first time she felt such pain, or such dark feeling took possession of her mind, but it had been by far the worst. She did not even tell her parents about it anymore, they would only take her to a healer again, only for him to come to the same conclusions.
She was perfectly fine.
Not even her grandmére Elena, who had four thousand years of expertise, had been able to tell her anything about it. Or that half-giant ‘Creature healer’ her mother had all but dragged her to. Her cheeks tinted in embarrassment at the memory; never had she been more mortified that under the enormous hands of the surprisingly gentle man as he picked and prodded at her with long tools, and peered at her from behind comically large augment glasses, as if she was a particularly stubborn piece of clockwork.
He was incredibly kind though, she had to give him. Her embarrassment stemmed only from the situation, and not the man himself.
She always had a suspicion that Elena knew more than she said, but knowing granny she would not speak if she was not sure. Nor would she say anything if she thought silence was worth more in the situation. That was a balm to her worries, as she knew that were it something truly critical grandmére would not have been so blase about it.
A knock on the door made her close her eyes and sigh. She had screamed in her sleep, surely.
“Come in.”
The door cracked open, the cone of warm light from it heralding the angelic figure of her mother. Apolline walked to the bed and sat on it, Fleur’s eyes scrunching further in response to the shift in the mattress.
Despite her discomfort, despite knowing she’d have to answer questions that she did not want to hear, despite that and much more, the touch of her mother’s fingers as they caressed her forehead was comforting to the point where she felt her body relax from the stiff and knotted bunch she had not even realized she had been in.
“You are drenched.”
“I know.”
She shivered and snuggled towards the warm body of her mother, curling into a ball, her head on Apollines leg, and relaxed under the combing of her hair.
Slowly, surely, her wet hair regained its unearthly glow and gossamer texture.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Apolline asked as her daughter's hair started to float around her preening fingers.
“Not really,” was the mumbled answer she got.
“It may help.”
“I’m not hurting anymore. It’s okay.”
They stayed like that for a while, just listening to the background noises of a mediterranean night, the monotonous and comforting noises. At some point, Apolline thought Fleur had fallen back asleep.
“It was all dark,” murmured Fleur.
“Oh?” Apolline encouraged.
“I was dreaming of something else, I can’t remember now, and then it changed. Like someone had flicked the dream off. Then I started to hurt. It was like I was burning inside out.”
“Like the shift?”
“Non. But yes. It felt almost the same, but the shift doesn't hurt like that.”
“I’ve never heard you scream before.” Apolline’s voice wavered.
“This time was far worse. But the worst part was not the pain,” She fiddled with a thread of her mother’s sleeping robe. “It was the… the fear. I thought I was going to die.”
Apolline’s fingers dug deeper into her scalp at that, her lips pursing, the tautest part of the plucked string that was her facade.
She had been afraid of that possibility since Fleur was four years old and she had started to scream, her chubby hands clasped on her forehead before fainting.
“I’m fine, maman. It was just-”
“We don’t know that, ma petite. Your father made an acquaintance at work last week. Some famous curse breaker from Spain that may-”
“No.” Fleur scrambled up, leaning on her arms to look into Apolline’s eyes. “I won’t subject myself to another pointless test.”
“But Fleur, we need to know why this keeps happening. It could be serious, it could-”
“If it were serious nana would have said something about it.”
Apolline’s caring expression hardened instantly at the mention of Elena and her opinions.
“I know that you and nana don’t see eye to eye but-”
“I will not have you risk your life believing the crazy, convoluted tales of someone who doesn’t understand what it is to live a human life.”
They locked eyes, mirroring expressions filled with steel and stubbornness. After a few moments both deflated, and Fleur let herself fall back down onto her mother’s lap, where she drank in the comfort of her presence.
“I know I’m fine, maman. I feel it. This,” and her tone lent a weight to the simple word that made it obvious what ‘this’ was, “Is not something that can be healed. I don’t know what it is, but I think it’s something I have to find out on my own.”
Apolline sighed, a sad smile pushing its way to her lips. “I may not see eye to eye with my mother, as you say, but I think I can sympathize with her having to deal with such a pig headed daughter.”
Fleur giggled and burrowed herself further into Apolline’s motherly embrace.
“Would it reassure you if I went to this curse breaker?” She said.
“Immensely. It would mean a lot to me, ma chérie.”
Fleur sighed. “Okay then. But only a quick check. And it must be here at home.”
They smile at each other, both calm and at peace, surrounded by the indelible warmth of family.
“I’ll set it up, ma Fleur.”
Two Years Later
Fleur’s hand trembled as she held a wand that seemed to weigh as much as the dragon in front of her.
She sang, her enamelled voice singing from behind keratined lips, features as sharp as her Intent focused on the equally predatory face of the magnificent beast that snored mere meters ahead, drooling liquid fire.
Her voice wavered slightly under the strain, and it echoed within the matching essence of beauty and charm within the rosewood, a ripple of feathers rushing up her chest towards her shoulders. She felt as if she was about to turn inside out, and her focus on the song was the only thing keeping her in this in-between state. She really hoped she did not slip into the shift.
Holding a wand with six inch clawed fingers was not quite so easy.
She was mere steps from the egg now, already under the shadow of the dragon. But there was a problem, she could not lift the damned thing with a single hand.
What a ridiculous hurdle.
With a mental sigh she dropped her hand into her hip holster as quick as she could and jumped to grab the golden egg. The adrenaline, and the cut with the stabilizing feeling of the wand in her hand tipped her over, and in seconds her fingers shifted into long talons sharp enough to scratch the metal they snatched.
With a huff she started into the fastest trot she could manage back towards the entrance of the pit, and the dragon, starting to wake, snorted a tongue of flames that reached her legs. The screams of terror from the stands deafened her. She could also hear some cheers over the roar of the flames.
With a few quick pats of plumy hands she managed to put out her -ridiculous for the occasion- skirt. Almost her whole left leg was on display where the fabric was reduced to less than ashes.
She chirped mournfully; she loved that skirt.
The stadium silenced as she appeared to come out of a gust of dragon fire completely unscathed. The dragon started to shake awake, but she was already a few steps from the exit. After passing the doorway she stopped, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, letting it out and feeling it humm and resonate in her changed chest. The heat of the fire had almost made her change entirely.
The undulating sound calmed her, and lasted until she looked as she normally did again. Not a feather in sight.
She skipped to the medical bay and let the mediwitch check her over, her confused face as the diagnostics turned out odd results only answered by her beatific smile. The madame shook her head and gave her some ugly set of stretchy pants for her to change into before letting her go outside again.
Not even the terrible garment managed to get her of her heady high. The feel of the fire on her skin… It was curious how much it had affected her.
The judging passed quickly enough. She did well. It was no surprise, her charmwork had been more than a little impressive. She was, however, very tired, so it was with relief that she obeyed the command to sit with the rest of the delegation in the stands.
That boy was insane. Absolutely and utterly out of his rocker. Fleur followed the quick-moving figure as it zipped through the air, swerving and pirouetting around the dragon like an annoying red and black fly.
He had the audience eating from his hands though. The noise from the stands felt like a soundtrack to his flight, holding its collective breath when a difficult manoeuvre came, or gasping when a swerve was too close.
It was impressive, she had to begrudgingly admit, if mundane compared to her own attempt. And showed a complete disregard for personal safety. Not many people could fly like that.
The dragon was getting annoyed. The boy swept up close enough to reach and touch the beast’s snout, enraging it, and the dragon tried to follow up in a fit of pique. Fortunately, the chains held, and then quick as a fire bolt, he plummeted to the ground, faster than the dragon could register, faster almost than she could see.
He had gotten the egg. A blink, he was falling. Another blink, he had the shining price held in an arm.
The stadium exploded in cheers, even the competitors’ delegations joining in the raucous celebration. She had to give it to him, she thought with a smile, he knew how to put on a captivating show.
A blink, he was levelling after pulling from the head-spinning dive. Another blink, the dragon moved. If Potter’s speed was amazing, the dragon’s was unbelievable. A mountain moving at the speed of a train. The beast’s tail whipped, aimed smartly to his path, wicked bone spikes blurring.
He was not going to make it.
A corkscrew down. The longest spike clipped his shoulder and pushed him down faster. The same arm pulled the steer up with all the strength it could muster, not regarding the awful pain it caused, adrenaline pumping through him as he tried to regain control.
He was not strong enough. His arm failed. The ground was too close.
Fleur gasped, her arm flying to her torso as she collapsed to the floor. She could hear the dragon tamers shooting spells and crying indiscernible commands over the roaring crowd. She was confused, she was having a hard time breathing, her sight doubled. She felt like a bludger hat hit her on the ribs.
Slowly, carefully, she rose, her hand patting until it found the railing to help her pull herself up. The pain had already diminished considerably, just a dull ache on the lower, left side of her ribcage.
Her wide, surprised eyes scanned the chaos down in the pit until he saw him. A mere black speckle next to the gargantuan mass of fire and death. He was outside of the competition area. The task was done.
She poked her aching side and the pain did not change. It did not spike in response to her touch. The crazy daredevil of a boy was standing with his back to the stadium's wall, the egg at his feet, his hand cradling the left side of his torso. She saw him there, breathing through the pain, and then she knew.
Her lip trembled. He crouched to grab the egg and his side protested. She felt that. She moaned, in despair, in joy, so many emotions raging through her that she could not identify them before they shifted again. She cried, but not in pain, no. She had long since learned to deal with that. She cries in relief.
She had found her answers
“I’m fine, Poppy.” She hears muffled behind the thick fabric of the medical tent as she marched towards it. Her feet don't stop even as she crosses the threshold, the flaps on the entrance flopping dramatically as she pushes past them with violence. Every face turned towards her, conversations trailing and fading under her intrusion.
“ ‘Es not fine.” She spats, her feet still moving mechanically, rhythmically. She reaches his side, rounding the gentle-faced mediwitch from before before anyone has a chance to react. She pokes him on the ribs fast, and she feels exactly what the problem is.
A flick of her wrist and a snapping sound that make him curse and her wince, and then the medic grabs her wand hand.
Fleur looks at her, “The boy ‘ad three broken ribs.”
She snatches her arm from Pomfreys’ grip and pokes Harry in the ribs with her wand, eliciting a complaint from both him and the nurse whose name she could not care less about. At the moment she had enough attention for only one person. A small and scrawny english boy who yelped again as his bones finished their accelerated knitting.
“You, monsieur, ‘ave a lot to explain.”
Eyes like a stormy sky pinned him with rage, with apprehension, with resentment, with hope.
And then he knew.
He knew because he felt it all in his own heart, in his own mind. Because he knew the fire in her eyes now burned in his own. Familiar foreignness, an intrusion that had become welcomed over the years, sometimes sparking rage, sometimes happiness. And he saw the roiling reflection of his feelings on the fair witch facing him.
“It was always you,” Spoke two voices in unison, unaware of the world that had started to move around them again.