(no subject)

Fleur is sitting on the floor of their flat, holding a broken picture frame. The glass is broken, but their wedding picture, Bill twirling her about on top of that fake Eiffel Tower in Las Vegas, is still mostly in tact.

She can't say the same for their couch.

Most things are slashed, broken, shredded. Only one of her mother's paintings survived, and that's because Fleur had it under their bed because she had not found the right place to hang it.

At least nothing is burned. She just. No, she can't think of that right now.