'I'll take care of you.'
'It's rotten work.'
'Not to me. Not if it's you.'
-- Excerpt from Euripides, translated by Anne Carson
He rubbed the purple colored salve onto the open wound, hissing as the cool paste made contact, an odd tingling sensation washing over his shoulder as he worked the substance in.
The fire roared, green flames spewing forth and for a brief moment, his eyes hazy from drink, he thought a blonde goddess had stepped through. As his mind focused back into reality he scowled, looking back down at his wound before speaking.
“Go away.”
She ignored him, walking the distance between them and snatching the jar of paste from his hand wordlessly. He sighed, too exhausted to fight and far too drunk to match her determination. He reached for the bottle but she swatted his hand, the brown container falling from the small table, its contents spilling onto the floor. He didn’t bother to look up.
“Ron says you went in without backup. Again.”
He nodded.
“Why?”
He stiffened as she rubbed more of the substance into his open wound, not bothering to look up and meet the withering glare he knew he’d find.
“It was a standard raid, nothing special,” he explained, “there wasn’t even anyone there. I got careless and a trap caught me on the shoulder. I’ll be fine.”
She gripped his chin and forcibly moved his head to look at her, icy blue eyes shooting daggers through him.
“Do you have a death wish?”
An unexpected wave of guilt welled in him. She knew. She always knew the moment he slipped on the mask, put on a happy face, and played the part that had been cast for him.
She knew because she’d been the one to find him on his quiet return to the tattered remnants of his godfather’s family home. He’d found comfort in the stores of firewhiskey hidden in the basement. The damn drink tasted like shite, and the burn as it went down never faded, but it dulled the pain. It kept the nightmares at bay. It helped him forget about all those he had failed to save.
She knew because she’d stubbornly refused to leave him to his own devices as he slowly pushed everyone away. Everyone had looked to him for guidance, to help heal the damage that had been done, yet he couldn’t heal his own wounds, so he’d retreated into himself. She refused to let that happen.
She knew because she’d done it herself a thousand times over and was far better at it than he. He’d learned that being a good actor was more than enough for most, but he could never fool her. That unrelenting desire to help him had been the one constant in his life that didn’t come in a bottle, and yet, he’d pushed her away every time.
“Does it matter?”
She let out a growl of frustration and threw the bottle of paste to the ground, the glass cracking slightly as it rolled.
“Every time, every single time, you put yourself in harm's way unnecessarily you hurt those who care for you. Do you care so little about those around you?”
Unexpected defiance burst forth and his eyes lit with determination, no longer hazy, as he stared back at her.
“Everyone’s got their own lives, their own problems, I don’t need to burden them with my own.” Idly, he realized that he hadn’t refuted her accusation that he was endangering himself and he felt his mask crack just a bit. “Don’t you have a husband to get back to?”
Hurt briefly flashed through her face and his mask cracked again, the guilt returning as he realized he’d cut her deep. Just as quickly as it came, it was gone, replaced by familiar determination.
“Bill and I split months ago. You’d know that if you came around the Burrow more often.”
Silence reigned as they both looked away from each other, her towards the fire, him looking at the spilled bottle of firewhiskey on the floor. Tension permeated the air, and yet, he felt emboldened. He didn’t know if it was the drink or the rush of his injury, but he felt brave.
“What is it you want from me, Fleur?” .
His words were soft, barely audible. He couldn’t trust himself to speak any louder. She turned back around and grabbed his hands, rubbing his scarred knuckles with the pads of her thumbs. The soft sensation soothed his mind and the tension in his body eased just a bit.
“I want you to live. Ron and Hermione have a kid, your goddaughter, and she barely sees you. Victorie hears stories about you but doesn’t really know your face. You’ve always been good to me, ‘Arry, and I will never forget that. Let me help you. Please.”
He looked up and his mask shattered, tears welling up in his eyes as he let her comforting warmth engulf him, the sensation of a summer breeze passing over him.
“I’m a bit broken,” he whispered and she cupped his cheek, a small smile on her face.
“I’ll take care of you.”
“It’s rotten work.”
She shook her head slowly. “Not to me. Not if it’s you.”
As she pulled him close and he wrapped his arms around her, the dam broke and he let out a wail of emotion. She rubbed his back as he sobbed, pent up anguish escaping all at once. He wasn’t right, they both knew that, and he would need a lot of help.
In that moment, wrapped in her arms, he caught a glimpse of what life could be like. As he breathed in the scent of cinnamon, he realized that perhaps everything would be okay if he allowed her to guide him.