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Because I keep thinking I've posted this and wonder why people get confused about my character.

( What the heck was that?! A Guide To the First Fleur Meeting )

Fleur is laying across a rock just watching Ophelia and her boy from afar, not seeming to notice that she is sunbathing in the dead of the scottish winter.

She knows the boy is dead; a bit obvious that. What should she do now? Her dead girlfriend's boyfriend is now dead too. They are cutely dead together. The boy loves Ophelia. Ophelia loves the boy. She should be happy because her cherie is happy, sane, and so beautiful, but all Fleur can think of "where do I fit in thiz?"

Where does she fit? With Bernard, they had an understanding. Bernard loved Ophelia like a sister, Ophelia loved many other people, and Fleur...was content. With this little boy...Fleur is sure he wants to be the only one.

So she lays there, turning the equation over and over in her head and is never satisfied with the answer she reaches.

The front door bursts open and the bar is filled with the drunken renditions La Marseillaise, Les Anges dans nos campagnes, and Nouvelle agreáble all jumbled together in joyous celebration.

--Aux armes citoyens!
Formez vos bataillons,
Marchons, marchons!
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillon--

Fleur slips through the door and slams it behind her, but not before a blonde bludle of little sister scampers in after her. Gabrielle is frumpled, graceless ball of lace, velvet, and loose blonde hair. Fleur is grinning from ear to ear. Her face is flush. And she is dripping in diamonds from the tips of her ears to hand beaded train on her frost gown.

She is ridicioulously happy.

The little girl chatters excitedly as Fleur makes her way over to the christmas tree and begins dropping down presents.

( Ophelia )

“So this is your home?”

“Was, my little rose. Was.” Fleur digs into her bottomless purse, her arm disappearing up to her elbow in her search.

( Death )

Gabrielle snorts delicately. “Is.”

“Was!”

“You pretend. It will distract you when I go through your closest.”

( Raph )

“Was, and you are too young to go through my closest. You will be shocked and traumatized, and Maman will kill me when you die of heart failure.”

“I’ve seen your bondage things. They are very shiny. Can I play with them?”

“NO!”

In her shock, she drops her purse. A simply wrapped gift for her secret santa and an aged book fall out. She absently drops her secret santa gift under the tree as she stares at the book. She takes a deep breath before she picks it up. Gabrielle watches her and licks her lips. She much rather her sister kept that one. She liked to lock herself up in her room with that book. Fleur comes to a decision as she teases her fingers across the dog-eared pages. She drops it under the tree.

( Bernard )

Mother Delacour appears in the doorway, drunk and just as beautiful as her daughter. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. “Bergers, pour qui cette fête~ Quel est l'objet de tous ces chants? Vite ! Vite ! Le vin--ooh! Your bar~! It is not so shiny as I thought. Oh, look, little young things! ‘ello, little young things--"
Fleur grabs her sister’s hand and drags her to the door. “Gabrielle has been going through my closest! We must punish her!”
“Oh, did she find your leather harness? I’ve been looking for that--"

“Maman!”
Gabrielle and Mother Delacour cackle together as they pull Fleur back through the front door and back to Paris.

“Satan retenait dans les fers
Les peuples de tout l'univers
Mais cette nuit, Satan s'enfuit
Devant cet enfant adorable—“

And the door slams shut.

She is laying on her back on the roof watching the stars explode. She only finds the cycle of death and rebirth trapped in a puerperal loop a little ironic.

"...zut alors..."

She sits up, takes another drag of her cigarette, and rests her forehead in her palm. When she exhales, it is a chaos of curves and hard angles that linger just in front of her face. She fans the smoke away.

"...I should have stayed in England." She looks up at the stars again. "I should have stayed, married that Weasley, et had a multitude of affairz for the side of light in the name of information gathering." She folds her legs up against her chest and rests her cheek against knee. When she remembers to finally flick her cigarette, she watches the ash fall and loses herself in thought as she stares off into space. "...I could have had a redwood..."

She looks down again, taking another drag. This time the images have more of a curve and move gracefully away from her face. "I am not made for sadness, you know," she addresses the stars again and where ever the Landlord hides Himself. "I am me. Et here I am, sad et alone. Ma cherie understandz, but ma roux needed me. He loved me et needed me." Laying her cheek back on her knee, she stares out across the lake. "You made me beautiful. You made me what I am. Why do you make me sad again? Why? I am confused."

She snorts and rubs at her eyes. "Fucking Bar. It makez me religious."

"It doez not matter, you know. What he feelz. I love him. I try my best to be loyal. I tried very hard. A month! I have been very good--it doez not matter one bit. But he iz...he iz what he iz. He believez in the end all and be all. I tried. I tried to show him that he waz my man. I tried. I let him drool on me. That iz love.

"He iz so...normal. Well, in comparison. He...he likez to sharpen his pencils himself. Et he likes his coffee brewed in the kitchen, not by magic. Et when he looks at me, his eye crinkle et I know he seez a woman not--not a half breed mutt. Et he grinz in his sleep when I say I love him. Et sometimez, when he thinkz I am asleep, he liez next to me, et strokez my hair, et...et tellz me all the thingz he waz afraid to tell me. That I will die et leave him. That I will find someone better. That I--that I do not know what love iz..."

She stares up at the stars, lost and confused. The cigarette burns down to her finger tips, and she tosses it away with a start.

*Fleur sways into the bar, and she pauses at the threshold. Even though she lives here, if almost feels like she hasn't been here in weeks. She shrugs off the thought and blames it all on Bernard and his way of distracting her.*

*She shoves her cigarette more firmly between her lips and makes her way over to the bar.*

Fleur wakes slowly, overheated but very content with the world at the moment. Ophelia's breath is warm against her collar bone, and Bernard is drooling ever so slightly on her neck. Fleur smiles and disentangles herself from their tight jumble. Yawning, she finally gets a whiff of herself as she stretches.

"Ewwwwwwwwww..."

*And with a pop, Fleur appears in the middle of the bar. Her face is covered in blood, her feet are bloody and raw, and debris is scattered about in tangled clumps in her hair. She blinks slowly, her eyes still unfocused.*

...home...

*She crumples to the floor.*

It was worse than she expected. Much worse. She should have known it was more than offering her as a once given gift to their Dark Lord. Her grandmother never did things by halves.

She was more than a one night gift. Her guards, a squat Englishman with horrid breath and a hooked nosed German, thought she was still obvious. They thought that the fresh scent of blood was covered by the spills of lavender petals and seemingly endless rows of incense burners. She could scent the crisp stench of ash left during a vampire's death thongs. The scent of werewolf blood was so thick, she could taste it along the back of her tongue. They were going to kill; bleed her for some wizard ritual like a stuffed pig, and her family had led her here.

Her bare feet were scraped raw, her wrists were shredded from the manacles they had used to restrain her (she was happy to know before she died that the squat one was missing a finger and the hooked one was without a bit of his nose), and she refused to think of her back from when she had been tied to that rocky wall and she had tried to escape. At least her hair was in order. She would go with all her hair.

For one about to die, she was very clear minded. It didn't matter a wit what happened now. She would fine her way back to Ophelia and Bernard. Death was just another way. She and Ophelia could talk to the flowers together. And Bernard would stop worrying in the back of his mind that one day, she would grow bored and leave him. It was a fine plan. It saved her sister from a horrid fate, and she could be Home again. And she would help Tonks bring them down from the inside because who knows better than the killer's victim.

They were marching her again. March march march through the dark tunnels full of blood, lavender, and death. March march march. Maybe she could bite off that dumpy fool's other finger before they gagged her. Maim him more, make him pay--

A scream cuts the night air. Fleur gets the distinct scent of veela before the squat man goes down, and there is blood splattered everywhere. The hooked man goes for his wand, and she throws herself bodily at him, anything to give her would-be savior time, but trips over her own feet and falls. The German makes a move toward her, but the veela snaps his neck without a thought. The sound echoes in the cavern.

"...p'tite?"

Fleur looks up, frantic, and it is her mother. Her mother covered in blood, gore, and still wild eyed. She reaches out a bloody hand, and touches Fleur's face.

"Ma p'tite fleur..."

"Maman?" Fleur reaches up and covers her mother's hand. "Maman, what--what--?"

"Hush. Just hush. Here. I have your stick. Go. Go be a witch. Go back to your man and your woman and your home. Go to that place you write to be about. Go." Her mother presses her wand into her bloody palm. "Go go go, please."

"Maman! Grandmere--what about Gabrielle? Maman!"

"I have let this go too long. Your sister is safe. I have seen to that." Her mother strokes her cheek, than roughly kisses both Fleur's cheeks, her forehead, and clings to her daughter for just one more moment. "I almost let them. I almost did. Forgive me. Please forgive me one day." She pushes Fleur back and stares into the shocked girl's eyes. "I love you." She gives her daughter's shoulders one last squeeze before shoving her back on her feet, and disappears off into the night.

Fleur looks down shakily at the bloody mess at her feet. It only barely registers that the other Death Eaters will be soon to come. Clutching her wand to her chest, she closes her eyes and thinks franticly of home...

Fleur dumps her tea in utter shock all over the table. Behind her, the landscape passes quickly. “You want me to what?” she asks in complete shock.

Lady Von Strauss smiles into her tea. “I want you to do your family honor. Prove you worth.”

“Honor? HONOR? YOU ARE INSANE!” Fleur stands and does not care any more that she is making a spectacle of herself. The train is mostly empty, her mother is standing idly by, and they want her to—to— “I will not!”

“You will. You will, and you will enjoy it.” Von Strauss smiles again, all fangs and her eyes glow a dark, sick yellow. “Or, do you want my little one to do it?” Her eyes turn to Gabrielle.

Her mother finally acts and moves protectively in front of her youngest daughter. Fleur’s mouth falls open, and she stares at her grandmother in utter shock.

“You—you would do no such thing! You would not!”

Von Strauss smiles again and sips her tea. “Well, what is your choice?”

Fleur gulps. Bernardopheliabernard, help me. Help me.

“I will do as you ask. I will…win over your Dark Lord.”

“You will show him what only a quarter veela can do. If a mutt like you can win him over, than what can a full blood do for him?”

And her grandmother laughs, her mother cringes, and Fleur sits back down slowly and prays for the first time in her life.

Fleur sways with the movement of the train, and grips the edge of the seat cushion convulsively. She stares unseeing at the grain pattern of the windowsill.

They had left them. She, her mother, her grandmother, and little Gabrielle. They had left the others on purpose. They had hoped the government would catch their scent. They wanted as many veela as possible captured in France. Because the French veela did not care. They were happy to float freely among the Parisians and the winemakers. It was the Germanics and the old, pure tribes that wanted change. They wanted to walk with the human dark wizard, then tear him apart from the inside.

Her grandmother dreamed of the old days in centuries long past when the veelas were gifted virgins as sacrifice for their magics and their rituals. She longed for the time when humans, both wizard and muggle alike, feared them.

Her grandmother was insane, her mother was placidly following her, and all Fleur could do was sit, sway, and stare out into the night as they wormed their way through the mountains.

Betrayer. Betrayer. Betrayer bretrayerbetrayerbretrayerbetrayer…

The jerk behind her navel feels anything but familiar as Fleur drops the portkey into her palm. Her ears pop, everything is dark, and for one terrifying instant, she thinks she made the wrong decision; it was all a test, and she failed failed failed. Betraye--

She finds her feet again. The floorboards creak under her weight, and she can feel the rough scorch mark under her foot that she made in the main parlor with a stray fireball at five. She always remembers things she marks. The faint grassy smell of that atrocious dandelion tea her mother always drinks floats under the scent of lavender, basil, freshly cut mushrooms.

She wants to think "home" but her heart gives a little quirk at the very thought.

Finally, she opens her eyes. The pouring rain beating against the large picture window greets her.

"Fleur?" Fleur turns to find her mother hovering in the doorway to the kitchen. And for the first time in years, Fleur watches her mother lose her icy calm and barrels her daughter over in a hug. "Oh, ma p'tit fleur! I have been worried. Very worried."

Gabrielle appears in the kitchen doorway a few steps behind her mother. "Fleur! Fleur!" She pounces her older sister's knee and attaches herself there.

"Oh my petit, Maman..." Fleur hides her face in her mother's neck, and pulls Gabrielle closer against her hip. For a moment, almost, she feels like the world is not crashing around her ears and things will be fine once again and her family can meet her new family--

"A-hem."

Fleur lifts her eyes and finally notices the severe, beautiful blonde standing up slowly from her perch. "...Grandmere--" Fleur pushes herself away from her family, trying to step back.

"My name. What is my name?"

Fleur curtsies. "Lady Von Strauss."

Katchen Von Strauss leans forward on her gold tipped cane and smiles fangily at Fleur. In hard, heavily accented English, "Velcome Home, my dea ‘alf-breed."

Current Mood: cynical

Fleur tugs Bernard up from his slump over the table. "Come come, my roux, it iz time for all good barmen to be in bed."

Bernard just gives her a rakish grin and pulls her tight against his hip. They say their good byes, and make their only slightly unsteady way out of the bar. Neither quite knows how to deal with the fact they have become the authority in the bar.

Just out of the kitchen, where the moonlight spills about them and turns the great forest blue in the twilight, Bernard backs Fleur against the doorjamb, his hands flexing and unflexing around the curve of her hips.

"Baby, did you mean that?"

"Mmm, mean what?"

"What you said earlier. About home. About this being home."

Fleur looks up at her man sleepily. "Mmm? Oui. Home. Alwayz."

The small light of hope grows in the corner of Bernard's eye. He leans down, and kisses her breathless.

Then, with with a slight mad cackle, Bernard sweeps her up in his arms. "Come on! We gotta break in our new place--God, our place." Their laughter echoes into the night.

Current Mood: content

Fleur sits along the edge of the roof smoking in the early morning.

Flicking the ashe from her cigarette in her handy tea cup, she contemplates her now short, black nails. Her mother would be proud right now. Her daughter has accept the Proper Way of things. She picked lightly at the fishnets across her thighs. In all honesty, she thought her mother was insane. Black was boring very quickly if not properly accessorized. And her mother never accessorized, unless one counted different hues of steel metal rods along the same lines as a fashionable belt or purse.

She was bored. That never boded well for anyone. When she was bored, she thought instead of acting. When she thought, she always jumped to the wrong conclusions too quickly, and bad things normally happened. The not at all fun kind of bad things.

She missed Ophelia, even though the other girl was right here. She could even see among the grove of evergreens from the roof. But, she wanted Ophelia to be awake and here and lay Fleur's head in her lap while she wove flowers in her hair while she explained again that she found fangs sexy and green scales interesting--she missed Ophelia because when she was near, Fleur felt strong, needed, and more than what she was, and why wasn't she here now to say things would be better and not to worry?

She missed Bernard in a way that surprised her. She missed his weight across her stomach in her sleep. She missed the casual way he would tuck her hair back when it flew everywhere. She always had an itch right behind right ear because that was where he always kissed her when he woke in the morning. Most of all, she was always confused when her cigarettes lasted more than a few quick drags. She and Bernard had always shared. They tasted odd now.

Sighing, she mashes out her cigarette in the tea cup. Thinking would solve nothing in the end.

Current Mood: contemplative

Fleur comes back to awareness warm, oddly happy, and that fuzzy taste in the back of her mouth that always appears after a night of heavy drinking. She blinks slowly, not entirely awake, at the arm around her shoulders. Looking up slightly, she sees Raph. His arm is tucked behind his head, and he is smiling, just slightly, in his sleep.

Fleur smiles. "Told you floor iz bad for you," she mutters before falling back asleep.