Chapter Text
Fleur Delacour is sitting by the radio pretending to read an old book, waiting for a break in the static when she feels the dreadfully familiar electric charge in the atmosphere that accompanies nearby Apparition. Her fingers tighten around the edges of the frayed paperback but she remains in her seat, even as Bill’s hurried, rapid footsteps descend the staircase and he flies to the window to peek through the curtains for the friend or foe inevitably making their way towards the safehouse. She is, of course, equally as concerned with who (or what) just landed on the beach, however she is unlike Bill in the way he frantically throws himself into every oncoming disaster– instead, she closes her eyes for half a moment and breathes deeply. She prefers to calm her mind before the storm comes raging.
For all her preference to remain calm, Fleur’s white knuckles betray her as they blend with the pages of her book, nails threatening to tear the flimsy paper. She watches Bill’s face for a sign of what’s out there, gauges his expression for confrontation or relief.
She finds neither.
She finds panic.
“Oh, Merlin,” she hears him hiss before he’s ripping the door open and rushing into the pale light of dusk. Knowing he wouldn’t do that if it wasn’t safe for her to follow, she’s on his heels immediately, eyes adjusting quickly to the light change as she spots their unexpected guests, a few yards ahead just as Bill reaches them. Her breath catches and despite thinking she had mentally prepared for any scenario, she is stopped in her tracks as she takes them in.
Harry Potter and Bill’s younger brother are trudging up the sandy dunes, both a sight for sore eyes but a perfect picture of health compared to Hermione Granger, whose limp form they drag between them in a breathless struggle. Her clothes are tattered and bloodied– as is just about every part of her body, covered in slices and bruises and dirt. She lets out a pathetic, unconscious groan as Bill relieves an exhausted Ron, and the sound snaps Fleur back into action. She rushes to take Harry’s place, and only upon getting closer does she notice the house-elf trailing behind them, a haunted, horrified expression frozen on its face.
“What the fuck happened?” Bill asks, looking between Ron and Harry as they hauled her inside, Ron holding the door.
“We don’t– we don’t even know– we got caught, taken to Malfoy Manor–” Ron starts, words spilling out, tumbling over each other.
“Bellatrix Lestrange had her alone for… they stuck us in the cellar. Dobby just got us to her, got us all out– here. Like Ron said, we… we don’t know what all happened, exactly,” Harry cuts in for him and Fleur can tell he is willing his voice not to break. For a moment she sees the terrified young boy she competed against in the Triwizard Tournament, but his jaw sets and he wipes his eyes, banishing the ghost.
“We will get her to the upstairs bedroom. One of you, go in the supply closet and grab the potions and herbs kit. Bandages too,” Fleur orders gently. Harry nods once, running to complete his task. Ron slowly lowers himself into the chair Fleur was previously occupying, his face an open book of his helplessness.
“Let’s take the stairs one at a time, on my count,” Bill says, and Fleur turns away from the boys to nod and focus. Now holding Hermione, she can see more clearly the angry, already purpling bruises blooming on her neck and arms, the slices on her cheeks, the concerning amount of blood drying on her right forearm. She can tell there are more injuries marring the young woman’s legs, but they’re harder to see through the mess of her torn, bloody jeans.
Every muscle in Fleur’s face tightens, a cold fury alight in her belly. She dutifully follows Bill’s counts of one, two, three, each step until they finally reach the top of the staircase and into the bedroom. Bill releases his hold first, allowing Fleur to situate Hermione on the bed as comfortably as possible. As she is lifting her legs onto the bed, Harry and Ron come charging up the stairs with jars of potions, herbs and bandages, as well as a large bowl of warm, clean water, rag on the rim.
“Set those down on the table here, boys,” Bill gestures at the nightstand to Fleur’s right. They do so, then mutely shuffle themselves to the corner of the room, silent, lanky pillars of support for their best friend. Bill gives her a knowing look before taking his leave. She glances over at the pair’s sullen, worried faces with a sigh– she appreciates their sentiment; she’s sorry she can’t accept it. Especially not with Hermione unconscious.
Fleur grabs the rag from the rim of the bowl, dips it in the water and begins cleaning the coagulated bloody dirt off Hermione’s face and neck to appraise the bruises and cuts there, a gentle hold on her chin to turn her head this way and that. Does her best to ignore the pained whimpers that escape Hermione’s lips as she's moved. The process gives the boys at least a minute more as Fleur chooses her words carefully so as not to upset them. “Harry, Ronald… I know you wish to stay and be certain she is alright, but I must remove her clothes to check for and assess further injuries. It would be inappropriate for you to remain. I am sure you don’t want to see her like this, either.”
It is of course Ron who immediately protests. “Obviously we won’t look, we just want to– we–”
“What Ron’s trying to say is that we were kept locked away from her for the better part of six hours while–while this was happening,” Harry saves Ron from his stuttering again, “we’d rather not leave her side again.”
Fleur sighs again as she turns to face them fully. “I understand, trust me, I do; but this is not about you. It is about Hermione’s privacy. She is safe with me, and you know that. I’m afraid I cannot truly begin treating her until you leave the room. There’s no exception to this.”
“But-”
“You both can wait right downstairs and I will come down and get you when it’s okay to come back up.”
After a short standoff of eye contact, Harry relents and casts his gaze to the floor as he makes his way out of the room, stopping only when he fails to hear Ron’s footsteps behind him. He exhales in a huff, leaning back to grab Ron’s wrist, whose eyes dart wildly from Fleur to Hermione and back again, pleading.
“Come on. She’s right. It won’t do any of us any good to be here. Let’s go talk to Bill,” Harry grumbles, tugging at Ron’s wrist until he acquiesces and allows himself to be pulled down the stairs. Knowing Bill, he has tea waiting for them– hopefully it settles their nerves somewhat. After watching their forms disappear down the staircase, Fleur moves to shut the door then turns her full attention to Hermione Granger.
Last Fleur had seen this girl, she was glowing prettily in a flowery red dress, dancing and laughing in dim candlelight with her friends at Fleur’s sham of a wedding, before it all went to shit. She much preferred that sight to this.
Her first order of business is absolutely whatever has happened to Hermione’s right forearm. She picks up the rag again and begins to wipe away the seemingly endless smattering of crimson- which is alarming, to say the least. As she gently works at the dried blood, slowly clearing it off, the wound comes into full view and it nearly makes the rag slip from her fingers. Fleur gasps, freezing her ministrations and bringing Hermione’s forearm closer to her face to make sure she’s seeing this right. It makes her stomach drop violently, her muscles tighten.
Carved into Hermione’s skin, the jagged, angry red letters MUDBLOOD scream back up at her.
Fleur glances quickly to Hermione’s face, making sure she remains out cold so as not to see this, (and she is, despite the occasional quiet groan when the rag grazes over open cuts; incoherent, broken murmurs, a tear down a cheek) then she clears her throat to steel herself and quickly wraps the wound after applying a generous coating of Dittany. She blots it across her face and neck as well, having already cleaned there, hating the way Hermione’s brow is furrowed deeply, the way her jaw keeps flexing.
Fleur fights to keep her breathing calm and even, but her blood is boiling. Her vision is blurring red and all she can see is that disgusting word mutilating delicate skin.
She closes her eyes, inhales deeply, holds it for a second, exhales, opens. She needs to focus. Her righteous anger towards Bellatrix Lestrange is secondary to ensuring Hermione’s well-being. Now that the most pressing injury has been addressed, she finally allows herself to fully take in the grim sight in her entirety, all the details.
Hermione’s faded plaid shirt is stained completely red at the sleeves, ripped, tattered and buttoned unevenly, even missing a few. Casting her eyes down, Fleur notices more blood seeping through the thighs of her jeans in blotted patterns, how the jeans are also situated hastily on her frame. There are little cuts, harsh bruises littering every inch of bare skin. Her wrists and ankles are raw from something having bound them. Fleur’s hands shake slightly as she brings them up to begin unbuttoning the shirt. Bill was right– what the fuck happened?
She gets Hermione’s shirt open then sets to work on trying to gently shimmy her out of her jeans; best to get all of this out of the way rather than going in sections. She tugs the legs of the jeans down first, so they easily slide off when she hooks her fingers in the belt loops and gently pulls.
Hermione is laid bare in only her undergarments, shivering and twitching in her fitful sleep, and Fleur feels bile rise up in her throat, her blood freeze in her veins.
It’s so, so much worse than she imagined.
The cuts and bruises aren’t shocking after seeing the state of her arms and face, albeit they are deeper and darker on her toned stomach, along her hips– what threatens vomit are the several bite marks that sink into Hermione’s breasts and shoulders and thighs, the sickeningly long, raised red lines dotted with blood, undoubtedly produced by sharp human nails that track across her body. Blackening bruises that resemble fingers, some whole hands, all over. With a sharper eye on her neck, she sees that same abhorrent outline. She sees it in almost every bruise she had looked over before.
Fleur has to tear her gaze away, a hand flying to her mouth, unregistering the tears spilling down her cheeks. There is no question in her mind what happened now.
That fucking demented monstress Bellatrix Lestrange had–
Gods. Fleur doesn’t even want to think about the repulsive, repugnant, barbaric acts Bellatrix Lestrange could have possibly performed to produce the result lying before her.
Harry said she was away from them for six hours.
Remembering this actually does force vomit up into her mouth, and she swallows it back down painfully. Removing her hands from her mouth, she quickly wipes tears away from her cheeks, blinks rapidly to get rid of the last of them. She can hear the boys’ voices murmuring indistinctly downstairs; she needs to fix as much of this as she can as quickly as possible so they can return to Hermione’s side. Fleur breathes deeply once more, steadying herself; erasing (or attempting to) her mind of the horrendous possibilities that could have caused these injuries, and sharpens her concentration on the task of mending them. She decides she should start with Hermione’s legs first. The sooner she can get the shivering girl somewhat warm under the comforter, the better.
Fleur begins with her ankles, spreading Murtlap Essence along the rings of raw skin around them, and heaves a relieved sigh when she sees the marks immediately begin to fade to a paler pink. She lightly rubs bruise removal paste up her shins, and then hesitates when she reaches the first bite mark, just above Hermione’s knee. Fleur leans slightly forward to get a better look, fighting to keep her reprehension in check. It looks like there’s an unnerving amount of nicks and bites retreating to her inner thighs, though Fleur can’t see them very well with Hermione lying the way she is, legs almost clamped shut. Fleur does not know when she stopped breathing, but she finally remembers to as she brings her hands up to Hermione’s knees, releasing a long, unsteady breath. Bury the rage, focus.
She gingerly grips her knees and starts to slowly push Hermione’s legs apart, opening her up for a more clear view of the thigh wounds. It is when her legs are spread, when cold air assaults the assuredly stinging fresh bites, that Hermione wakes with a choking gasp. Fleur instantly removes her hands as Hermione snaps her legs shut again, crying out when her wounded thighs smack against each other.
Her eyes are open, but they are not seeing, not yet. “Please– no more–” her voice is hoarse and broken around the only words she can make out, kicking, pushing at the bed to put as much distance between herself and Fleur, banging her skull against the headboard.
“Hermione, you are safe,” Fleur starts gently, just as Hermione cracks out the whisper, “I didn’t take anything.” The words are strained, manifesting as a harsh wheeze. Fleur’s hands fidget in her lap, knowing she shouldn’t touch but needing to do something to calm the now hyperventilating girl down. She goes for the most neutral, comforting action she can think of– she reaches for her hand, which Hermione just now seems to be realizing is no longer bound away from her person. She gives it a disbelieving look, like she has just registered that she had been hiding her face behind it. Fleur envelops it between her own.
“Hermione, look at me. It’s Fleur. You’re okay. You’re at our safehouse now; I’ve been tending to your injuries best I can. I was just trying to get a better look at those… at your legs, see what needs to be done.” It’s not the greatest explanation, but it seems to do the trick as Hermione’s deep brown eyes meet her own, and the terror in them disintegrates to pain and exhaustion. She slumps forward, and Fleur has to lean in quickly to catch her head in the crook of her shoulder. She wraps one arm around Hermione’s back, holding her gently by the shoulders as she cries. Hermione is still gripping her other hand tightly, the sound of her violent sobs ringing through the previously quiet bedroom. They remain this way for some time, Fleur having wordlessly cast an Imperturbable Charm so as to keep the downstairs occupants of the house deaf to the noise. She holds Hermione with her jaw set, still struggling to keep her mind clear of flashes of disgusting possibility. Bellatrix Lestrange will certainly be dead if she ever appears in Fleur’s eyeline again.
Hermione jerks her head up to speak, finally, her eyes darting around the room as she manages, “Harry… Ron– are– did they–”
“They are downstairs, waiting for me to finish treating you. Dobby, as well. I assumed you would prefer privacy while– incapacitated.”
Hermione lowers her head again, and Fleur barely catches the whisper, “Thank you.” Her grip on Fleur’s hand is tight, as though it’s a lifeline. She makes no attempt to move, keeping herself tucked away in the safety of Fleur’s warmth.
“Of course,” is the faint response, “Would you like me to go get them now or finish up first?” The grip on her hand grows impossibly tighter.
“No. Don’t–don’t leave. I– finish, please,” Hermione croaks out the broken, hasty reply before Fleur has fully finished her question, pressing her face deeper into her neck. Fleur can feel hot tears pooling in the dip of her collarbone. She moves her hand from Hermione’s shoulder to stroke her hair.
“As you wish. Of course, for me to do that, you might need to let go of me, non?” she prompts softly after another good minute of sitting together, and Hermione releases a wry chuckle that sounds utterly painful as it rips from her throat.
“Right.”
“Here, before you lay back,” Fleur starts, moving her hand from Hermione’s shoulder to back for support as she leans over to grab a vial from the nightstand, “drink this. A general healing potion; it should take care of the swelling and bruising on your throat in no time, get your voice back to normal.” Hermione uses both shaking hands to raise the vial to her lips; she tips her head back, the whole contents emptied in no time. Fleur readjusts the pillows so that Hermione can sit up a little more before she helps lower her into as comfortable a position as possible. Hermione’s eyes dart from Fleur to the ceiling in a refusal to look at herself. Tears still relentlessly pour down her face and she flinches every time they roll off her chin, dripping salt into the cuts and bites on her chest.
“What… where would you rather me start?” Fleur asks, careful not to resume her attempt at working on the legs, or even bring her hands forth without permission. She doesn’t want to do a single thing that would harm instead of help. Hermione is awake; Fleur is no longer in charge.
“I don’t… I can’t think- Just… Keep doing what you were before I… woke up,” Hermione answers quietly, her voice already sounding clearer. Her muscles seem to have relaxed slightly, as well; the healing potion is working its magic, relieving at least some pain.
“If you want, I can give you a mild sleeping potion, wake you when I am done.”
An immediate head shake is her answer.
“Just… cover everything up. As quick as you can. Please.” Her voice is so small. Fleur hates to call anything about Hermione pathetic, as she has known this witch to be anything but; it’s simply the only way to describe the way her words force themselves from her mouth. Her tone sounds far away, mind elsewhere. Fleur is certain she wouldn’t like where it’s ended up. She clears her throat again and grasps at her lap for the rag, only to eventually find the bloody fabric strewn on the floor. It had been knocked aside in Hermione’s hysterical waking. She slowly begins to stand and Hermione’s hand shoots out to her wrist, halting her. Fleur briefly notices blood dotting on her forearm bandage, seeping through, before blue eyes meet frightened brown and Fleur can’t stop herself from bringing a hand to Hermione’s face to lightly graze her thumb across her cheekbone– a thankfully soothing gesture, judging from the way Hermione’s brow smooths out, the way her eyelids flutter shut for a moment, how she turns slightly into the touch.
“I’m just shouting down to Bill for a fresh rag. He’ll hand it to me through the door; I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m sorry, I…” Hermione starts, trailing off, releasing her hold, eyes still flitting open and closed as the soft pad of Fleur’s thumb continues to stroke her cheek.
“I understand.” It’s a lie, at its core; Fleur can’t possibly imagine what the younger witch must be feeling or thinking right now, but it’s obvious that her presence alone is bringing some form of solace, alleviation. Comfort. “Just one moment, I'll be right back.”
She’s at the door an instant after pushing off the bed, cracking it so her voice travels clear through the charm as she calls out, “Bill! Fresh rag!” Only a few seconds go by before Bill’s rapid footsteps are approaching and he’s in front of the door, arm outstretched, cloth in hand. One thing about this man; if she needs something, there he is with it.
“How is she?” He asks in a breath, “Those two are worried sick. From what Harry tells me, they got to her only a minute before Dobby Apparated them here, but they could hear h-” Fleur cuts him off quickly by snatching the rag out of his hand with a sharp look. Whatever he was going to say, she didn’t want Hermione to hear it.
“She’s okay– well, she’s awake,” is her quiet answer to his first words, barely a whisper. The corners of Bill’s mouth quirk up at the news and he immediately shifts his body, drawing in a breath to call to the boys. Fleur catches his arm harshly, swinging him back around. His brow furrows as he meets her eyes, finding a cold, blue glare. “I said before, I will get them when it’s okay to come up.” It comes out a hiss. He nods, and she lets go of his arm as he brings his hand up to run it through long, greasy red hair. On a better day, she needs to yell at him about a shower.
“Anything I can tell them? Settle their nerves?” Fleur closes her eyes and purses her lips at the question. She’s certain that the boys learning what she knows– which is barely anything, only what she’s seen– would do the opposite of settle nerves. It must show on her face, because when she looks at him again, Bill’s reluctant half-smile has dropped to a deep frown.
“Just… she’s awake.” With that, she retreats fully back into the bedroom and closes the door before he can reply.
She’s back across the room, lowering herself into the chair beside the bed once more, dipping the rag in the water. When she looks over at Hermione again, she sees the girl studying her face, probably looking for a hint of the hushed discussion with Bill.
“I was just telling him you’re awake, and I’ll let Ron and Harry know when they can come up,” she explains softly; Hermione nods in understanding. Fleur clears her throat for the third time, truly an undignified habit, cringing at the sound when it’s louder than intended. “I, ah… I was going to start cleaning up your thighs, before you woke up. Do you still want me to–”
“Might as well get the worst part over with,” Hermione interjects as she wipes her face clear of snot and tears (Murtlap has done its work– the cuts along her cheeks, mouth and brow are all but gone, as are the bruises on her neck), then pushes herself up to sit straighter. Her jaw tenses and she squeezes her eyes shut before slowly peeling her legs back open.
Fleur forces herself to suppress the nauseated gag that kicks at her throat. She didn’t get a good look earlier, and Hermione was definitely right; this is by far the worst part. The bites begin, like she saw, just above the knees, but they grow deeper, harsher, more concentrated towards her inner thighs until there’s almost no skin unmarred. They intersect each other, blood leaking through deep puncture wounds blooming tooth shaped bruises. There are deep scratches on her hips that run through her underwear and into the bites. Purpling fingerprints, hands everywhere. Fleur blinks hard before wringing the cloth out in the bowl and setting to work. Hermione hisses as the wet rag makes contact with her ripped flesh, eyes still shut tightly, lips pursed, knees twitching.
After wiping away the dirt and dried blood, Fleur returns the rag to the rim of the bowl and grabs an assortment of vials to mix up a more powerful salve. She stirs them all in the lid of one of the bottles, coats two fingers in her concoction and begins applying it. Hermione’s eyes remain closed but her expression relaxes slightly as the magic, well.
Fleur is not sure what possesses her to break the silence, especially not in the way she does, so it’s needless to say that she surprises herself when she asks, “Would you like to hear a secret? That no one in the world knows?”
Hermione cracks an eye open to look at her, one brow raised. “I’ll never say no to valuable knowledge.” I’ll gladly take the distraction.
A corner of Fleur’s mouth twitches up at that, and she says as steadily as she can, “Bill and I aren’t married,” before realizing that was the worst way to word it.
Or maybe the best, because it earns an eye roll and genuine (albeit small) laugh from Hermione, who replies, “You’ve got to come up with something better than that. I was literally at your wedding.”
Fleur tips her head back slightly in mild frustration at herself before returning her eyes to Hermione’s, which are now fully open and focused on her– good. “I should say it better. I mean, we are not together. Not really. We never have been– we married so I could stay in the UK and aid the Order through my connections to the French ministry without having to keep up with or evade those insane part-creature citizenship laws. And to get his mother off his back.”
She knows they promised, she’s already said too much, and she definitely shouldn’t be sharing this next part; this secret between she and Bill, bound so tightly between them that they’ve only spoken aloud about it as many times as she has fingers on one hand– and only to each other– but despite having surprised herself when she began she knows why she’s doing this. Hermione is unwillingly and completely exposed to her; the horrors etched into her body leave nothing to be imagined in the ways Bellatrix Lestrange had violated her. She did not have to speak a word for Fleur to know at least some of what she endured, and she imagines Hermione wants no one to know. Fleur feels it almost necessary to extend that exposure both ways, to share something with Hermione that she would prefer to keep hidden, a part of herself that stays locked up and unknown to all but one soul. It seems only fair.
“I am… how do you English say… a beard for him. And he for me,” she adds, almost a whisper. She forces herself to watch as the gears turn quickly in Hermione’s mind and her eyes widen in realization, lips parting in surprise.
“You mean you’re both gay?” Fleur recoils at the way she speaks it so plainly, and busies herself by continuing to apply the salve to Hermione’s thighs. After the one closest to her is sufficiently coated, she grabs the long spool of bandage and gently guides Hermione’s leg to bend up at the knee so she can wrap it.
“I don’t… say that out loud. We don’t. I have never told anyone other than him of my… commet dire… desires,” the English language is escaping her as she tries to form sentences she’s never thought to structure, “until this moment. I say we married for the law et… pour maîtriser la colère de Madame Weasley, mais… but it was also to, ah, dissuade unwanted men from attempting to make their move. A public wedding with as many guests as possible was perfect to achieve all of these ends.”
“But you looked so…” Hermione waves her hands in the air in a mimicry of dance, “... in love. Sounded so in love. I kept watching you thinking I can’t wait to have someone to love like that.” As she’s talking, Fleur is moving to the other side of the bed for a better angle on her other thigh. She repeats the same process as before, applying the salve then lifting the leg to wrap it.
Fleur smiles at Hermione’s words. “Eh bien, oui... We do love each other very much. He is my closest friend in the world, donc c’est… not very hard to pretend. Knowing we do it for each other makes it easy.”
“Why pretend at all? Surely the Order would understand the logistics of the law, at least,” Hermione reasons.
“They would, but then would come the questions as to why our relationship is not… authentique.” Fleur’s face is getting hot, color blooming on her cheeks. She never imagined she would ever be speaking about this part of her life with anyone other than Bill– she had even elected to stamp down every inkling of yearning or hunger for other women, keep every adjacent feeling securely under lock and key, never to be acted upon, even as private opportunities presented themselves. The mere thought of anyone from her family, her tribe finding out the truth of her… It sends cold, icy stabs down her spine. That can never happen. She can never risk it. So Bill it is. “It is best for both of us this way. We’ll have to come up with an excuse as to why we can’t have children once this war is won, though,” she adds with a hint of laughter in her voice, hoping Hermione latches onto the joke and decides not to press further.
She should know better than that. If there’s one thing Hermione Granger will always do, it’s press further.
“So you just plan to live this… this lie? Your whole life?” she asks incredulously. Her eyes widen and she shakes her head slightly at her own tone. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound rude, that just seems… incredibly bleak. And unnecessary. The world is only getting more accepting as time goes on. I guess I just don’t understand the point.”
When Fleur finishes wrapping Hermione’s thigh, she gestures for her to lift both her legs so she can untuck the comforter, allowing Hermione to slip under into its warmth. Hermione obliges with thanks, though still with questions in her eyes as Fleur returns to her original side of the bed to wet and wring out the rag again. She smooths Hermione’s hair out of the way and begins cleaning the bites and scratches on her shoulder. She can’t think of the words necessary to answer. She knows her reasons; she just can’t voice them.
“Why are you even telling me this?” Hermione adds when she receives no response. This, Fleur can try to answer.
“I… You are being made to… merde, je ne peux pas parler…” a quick mutter under her breath as she searches for the words to continue, “I assume you would not want me to know what happened to you in Malfoy Manor. But seeing… It is impossible for me not to. Je viens de sentir que je…. should even out the exchange, du mieux que je pouvais. I am sorry for the French.”
Hermione’s eyes cast down to her hands, brow furrowing once more at the verbal reminder of her last six hours, which had gone unspoken between them until now.
“It’s alright,” she whispers, cheeks turning rosy, “I took classes in primary school, I understand enough.” Her voice is suddenly raspy and hoarse. “Thank you. I promise I won’t tell anyone.” A breath of words.
Fleur only nods, continuing her care in silence. She mixes up more of the salve and coats it along Hermione’s shoulder, collarbone, then covers the wounds in gauze and tape, unable to wrap. The enchanted medicine should work so that Hermione can take off these bandages by tonight; in fact, they should already be fading, but Fleur remembers Hermione’s words– they ring clear in her mind. Cover everything up.
She casts a quick spell to remove the grime from the cloth before wetting it again and allowing her eyes to settle on the swell of Hermione’s breasts. The bite marks along the exposed skin pushing out of her bra are already turning sick yellows and greens around the tears in flesh, the harsh crescent moons from nails digging in already scabbing over. Fleur can tell the wounds travel below the fabric, but she refuses to ask if she can remove this last piece of privacy Hermione has to her person. Especially given what Fleur has just confessed to her. She elects to simply clean what she can see, and carefully blots at the injuries.
She can feel her face heating up again, anxiety skittering to her nerve endings. She’s treated injured women before, but never like this. Never this close. She considers for a moment asking Hermione if she would rather do this part herself, but quickly dismisses the thought. No one should have to do that. But would it be right to ask? Merlin, she should’ve done this part before telling Hermione of her desires for other women. (She should’ve never told Hermione at all. Instant regret is sinking in.) Her hands hesitate, hovering as her mind begins to whirl with what Hermione must be thinking, how her friends are not taking care of her and Fleur has gotten her alone and naked. How there might be ulterior motives to her kindness. Her hands shake. Her goal was to make Hermione feel as safe and comfortable as possible, and she’s gone and done the exact opposite with her confession.
It’s when she hears, “Are you alright?” and looks up to find nothing but concern in Hermione’s eyes, concern for her, that Fleur realizes her train of thought is completely irrational. “I mean it, I won’t say anything to anyone.”
She shakes her head slightly, mustering a small smile. “Désolée… I’m fine. You should not be worrying about me. I am just trying to consider the most respectful way to deal with…” she waves a hand vaguely over Hermione’s chest, “... this. I don’t want to cause you any discomfort.”
At this, Hermione releases a loud, bitter laugh. It fills the room and makes Fleur’s chest tighten. “Fleur, nothing about this is comfortable. Here,” she pushes herself up with grunting effort, reaches behind her back and unclasps her bra, throwing it to the side, “just do what needs to be done.” She leans back, shoving her hands under her thighs, wincing as her bandaged forearm rubs against her leg (Fleur will definitely have to come back to that wound, it seems), keeping her eyes trained on the ceiling. Fleur thinks she’s acting awfully put together about all this, definitely more than she herself would be, and it’s more than mildly concerning.
When Fleur allows her gaze to focus, she inhales sharply at the sight. She was right, of course; the marks are littered all across her breasts, harsh around raw, irritated nipples- a bite on the underside of her left breast now dripping blood down her stomach. She quickly cleans that one first, tunneling her vision to the injury, deft fingers working gently as she wipes and applies the cream. Hermione hisses as Fleur disinfects the deep nail punctures, and again when she rubs the salve into the bites around her nipples. Fleur is steadfastly refusing to acknowledge the reality of what she’s doing, where she’s touching, because now is so totally and completely not the time or place.
She finishes with the last bite, one to the side of Hermione’s right breast, having coated it thickly with her Murtlap-Dittany-Something-Else concoction, and runs her eyes over her body once more for anything she missed. This is a tedious process. Bellatrix was certainly… thorough in her sickening methods. She notices another bite on Hermione’s hip, on the bone disappearing beneath her underwear, and carefully pulls the garment to the side just as necessary to quickly treat it. Having done so, she hurries her gaze back up, relieved to see that her concoction has indeed been effective. The marks on her breasts and stomach are fading quickly; they aren’t as deep as the ones on her legs. They will be mere scabs by tonight, most bruises gone.
“I think… I think I’ve gotten everything,” Fleur says softly into the silence, tears her lingering eyes away and stands to move to the wardrobe behind her. She pulls an old Beauxbatons sweater from a drawer and brings it over to Hermione. “Here, while we clean your clothes.”
“You can go ahead and burn those,” she replies without hesitation as she pulls the sweater over her head. Fleur chuckles before she can stop it.
“Of course. I don’t know why I hadn’t already thought of that.” She watches as Hermione flips her hair out of the neck of the sweater and carefully leans back into her most comfortable position against the pillows. Her face has completely cleared up by this point, and so has her neck save for the one dark purple handprint wrapping around it. Fleur can only hope the harsher bruise fades quickly. She rocks back on her heels, holding the back of the chair she was in to stabilize. “Shall I go and send the boys up, now?”
Hermione sighs heavily, then meets her gaze again, and her eyes are so empty, so tired. They are red and puffy and seem to have expelled every tear from her body. “I… I don’t think I can see them right now. They’ll ask questions, and I…”
Fleur purses her lips. It makes sense. “Compris. I do need to at least update them on your status, though. Just let them know that you are not actively dying,” she adds in a rush, to clarify that she has no intention of telling Harry and Ron anything about what she had seen. She just knows the worry and uncertainty they are feeling must be unbearable; she wants to quell that as best she can. Hermione nods. Fleur takes this as her sign and pushes off the back of her chair, heading towards the door. She halts just before reaching it, and they speak at the same time.
“Wait–”
“I’ll get you–”
Fleur gives her a small smile. “You first.”
Hermione ducks her head, eyes focused on her fidgeting hands. “I’m sorry. I thought I… I just… I really don’t want to be alone right now. I can’t be. I know I’ll just start thinking– more than I already am, I can’t–” her voice is shattering on almost every syllable as she speaks, shoulders heaving in the beginnings of hyperventilation. Fleur is back across the room in a second, taking Hermione’s hands in her own again; she just can’t bear the unbelievable pain the younger woman is in. The violation she must be feeling. It’s like Fleur can feel it, a snake constricting around her heart, her very soul. She can’t possibly fathom how Hermione is managing to be as lucid as she is.
“Regarde-moi, ‘Ermione.” The French escapes her in a desperate breath, but Hermione understands and slowly meets her eyes, that pretty blush ghosting her cheeks again. “You will have me by your side for as long as you want me to be here. I won’t go anywhere– Harry and Ron can wait.”
Hermione nods, freeing one of her hands from Fleur’s to wipe her face of tears, then returning it. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for, ma belle. We are banishing those words from your vocabulary.”
This earns a watery chuckle, a ghost of a smile. “That seems fair.” A slight pause, and then, “What were you going to say, though?”
“Ah, oui. I was going to get you some food and water while downstairs, I’m sure Bill has cooked something by now. But if you are not hungry it can wait, just like the boys.” As if on cue, Hermione’s stomach snarls angrily. “Or I can shout to Bill to bring something up.”
Hermione sighs heavily, releasing Fleur’s hands to wrap her arms around herself. “I really could use a meal. But it does make more sense for you to go down, tell them I’m not actively dying.” In her eyes, Fleur can see the panic bubbling up before it’s stamped down. “Just please don’t be gone long.”
Fleur gives her a resolute nod, and squeezes her hand before standing again. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”
Then she’s out the door, doing her best to not sprint down the stairs. Harry, Ron and Bill hear her footsteps and are gathered at the foot of the steps by the time she gets there.
“How is she? Can we see her? What the hell happened? Bill said she’s awake–” Ron starts, his tall, hulking body immediately trying to push past Fleur to get up the stairs, and she places a firm hand on his shoulder to back him up. She briefly notices Harry’s hand on his other.
“She… she will be okay. She is still awake and talking, my potions are working well. She just needs to rest and regain her strength. I–”
“Okay, so we can see her. Can you move?” Ron is trying to get past her again, and this time Harry yanks him back.
“Alright, mate, calm down. Let her finish talking.”
Fleur takes a deep, steadying breath, very much not looking forward to Ron’s reaction to her next words, although she understands his actions completely. “I’ve just come down to tell you both that you don’t need to worry about her well-being anymore,” she looks to Bill, “and to fetch some dinner for Hermione and myself. I assume you’ve made something?”
Bill shoots her a quick grin and replies, “You know it. I’ll make your plates.” Then he’s off to the kitchen, leaving Fleur alone with Ron’s reddening face and Harry’s haggard posture, his hands retaining their firm grip on Ron’s shoulders.
“So you’re saying we can’t see her? What the hell, Fleur, you can’t just–”
“Ron, think, mate. Fleur isn’t the one saying we can’t see her,” Harry cuts off his friend’s angry barrage, and he sounds so tired. Ron is still looking up the stairs like he wants to shrug Harry’s hands off, shove Fleur out of the way and run up there, but she can see the realization hit as Harry’s words sink in, and he snaps his eyes to hers.
“She doesn’t want to see us? Why? What happened?” There’s no anger in his voice, just confusion and sadness and desperation. Harry, upon confirmation that he won’t be allowed upstairs, slumps into the chair Ron first collapsed in and buries his face in his hands.
Fleur really doesn’t know how to answer tactfully. She’s trying to find a way that won’t make them feel horrible, won’t get her cursed at, and coming up empty. She clears her throat, purses her lips.
“It is not my place to tell you what happened, she will do so when she wants to– when she can. I asked her if I should send you two up with the food, and she said no. She will see you when she’s ready. Until then, please just trust me. Trust that she is in good hands.”
Ron is spluttering in front of her, but his shoulders sag and the intensity in his eyes is fading to exhaustion. Harry finds words first, as Bill reenters the room with two steaming plates of some creamy pasta and chicken and glasses of water. In another life, he’d make an exceptional waiter.
“I’m sorry about him, Fleur, you just have to understand– we were stuck in that cellar for so long, just listening to her screams. We didn’t know what was happening to her, still don’t know what happened. We couldn’t do anything. We-we just had to listen. Ron only wants to–”
“I only want to help her, to see her alright, that’s all. And I’m not sorry.” Ron is still speaking like it’s Fleur’s decision not to let him upstairs, and she has to take a deep breath to maintain composure. Getting angry at him won’t do anything, but she can feel it bubbling up even though she empathizes. He’s being dense and selfish, focused on his own feelings as opposed to those of the friend that’s just been tortured, and it’s starting to grate on her frayed nerves.
“I think the best way to help Hermione right now is to do what she asks, little brother. Just be patient; she’s safe now, you all are. Like Fleur said, she’ll see you when she’s ready to.” Bill passes off the food and water to Fleur, who balances everything a lot less gracefully, then he eyes up the stairs as he takes Ron by the shoulders and turns him around with little effort. Fleur mouths a thank you just before he focuses on his brother and keeps talking. She makes her way back up. “I know it’s hard, but what she’s going through is harder, so just keep…”
The rest of Bill’s words are drowned out as Fleur crosses the threshold of her silencing charm and closes the door behind her, gaze immediately landing on Hermione–
Hermione sitting fully up in the bed, quilt thrown to the floor, staring down at her bandaged thighs, eyes vacant, glassed over. Her face is white as the gauze all over her body, expressionless, her frame eerily still. Fleur feels the hair on the back of her neck rise at the sight. She’s never seen anyone look so haunted, so out of their own body. She slowly moves forward, setting their dinner down on the nightstand, then bends to pick up the quilt.