Pairing: Fleur's grandmother/Fleur's grandfather (no names are given in canon, and none are given in the fic)
Word count: 700
Notes: I know it's mightily too late for hprarestpairest, but I hope it's still allowed. I'd love to see some more activity here.
Summary: "She has given up on herself a long time ago."
She has given up on herself a long time ago. She avoids mirrors because they do nothing but tremble in frightened admiration before her, she wears the most unappealing black robes to hide the softly flowing curves of her otherworldly body. She has told the butler to burn the love letters that come by the dozens each week.
As it is, she’s not sure where she belongs. According to the law she isn’t human – her parents still lived and bred in sparkling ethereal colonies not of this world, with fights and loves and animal desires. They knew where they belonged and it was definitely not with the humans. But she? She had been taken in by a human couple who shrank with the years even as she grew tall and shining above their heads. They loved her as much as they feared her. Unable to teach her about her own ways, they taught her everything about theirs and now she is caught in a world that doesn’t recognise her as one of them. In her anger, deformed and pointy before cracking mirrors, she has to concede: she is different.
She has a magic that no one else does but instead of revelling in it she smashes mirrors, cuts her hands on the reflecting shards, licks the blood away and wishes that her powers would flow from her like the blood does. They don’t, and she remains a ghost in the world, as admired as she is hated. They say she is cold, frigid, a man-devourer. The most insightful comment that she simply isn’t like them. Every man feels his blood burn when she appears, but when the intoxication clears they look upon their plain yet sweet wives and realise which is best.
The love letters say: “You are the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on.”
The love letters say: “Say yes and I will be your slave.”
The love letters say: “Your eyes, your lips, madam, the sight of you makes me want to die.”
The butler burns them in big heaps in the back yard.
The years slide by and she remains tall and beautiful, unnaturally so in a world where the charms of youth ease quickly into a warm, lined contentment. A new generation of young men sends her letters, although they are fewer (maybe their fathers have taught them). The old butler has died and his son doesn’t like the fires. He keeps the letters in neatly stacked drawers and puts the key on top, averting his eyes when she swishes by. The house dies as its human inhabitants do.
One night, when she feels old but still isn’t, she can’t take it anymore and madly pulls the letters from their envelopes. She devours their drunken words, their sugar-coated love confessions and feels something inside her breaking. At dawn, there is only one letter left and her fingers are bleeding. There is no envelope for this one.
It says: “Dear miss Delacour. I know you must receive countless of letters, yet I hope you will not be bored with reading them yet. You must think me a hopeless fool, reading this, but I cannot stay silent any longer. I see how those drunken inexperienced teenagers flock around you and how it makes you hurt. Yes, I see your hurt. I am an outcast like you. I cannot always control myself, like you. You are a bird of prey, and I am a wolf. I think I understand, miss.”
Her heart is beating like never before. She writes to him, saying how rude it must seem to him that she only now answers a letter that was sent months if not years before. She writes to him, saying that she would like to meet him.
He writes to her: “Yes.”
He is scarred and bulky and his eyes are steady as he looks at her. They kiss until their lips start to bleed, and finally – finally – she feels the years descending on them as they sink into love. She feels the years behind them and the years that lie ahead.
He says: “I am not always reliable.”
She says: “I know.”
And they are happy.