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April is the worst month, and it has been so for the last 15 years.
Every year like clockwork, Hermione’s nightmares return full-force. Fleur spends more nights calming her down and putting her wife back to sleep than sleeping herself. A gloom descends upon their tiny house as she sinks deeper and deeper into herself. The fire in the hearth goes small and cold, and it takes all of Fleur’s ability to keep the embers burning until the terrible month is truly well and done.
During the first years after the war, Fleur had been afraid that she’d wake up one day to an empty house, bed long cold, Hermione long gone. She turned into a ghost those days except ghosts were livelier still. Her eyes dulled, and her smile turned brittle. She buried herself in work until she keeled over, avoided sleep until she hallucinated. And when she finally settled into bed, it would be weeks until she got up again. The letters on Hermione’s arm would burn and throb and bleed, and Fleur often found herself shoving blood-replenishing potion down her wife’s throat.
April was a question of uncertainty back then. Thank God, they’ve found their footing since, their April routine as perfect as they can make it.
She startles out of her thoughts when a cup of coffee floats to her. The teaspoon boops her lightly on the nose before settling itself in the mug and stirring. It lands in her hands, and the aroma warms her even before she takes a sip. Her lips quirk up to a little smile. The night had been long and hard, and her body aches from the tiredness. The familiar gloom had come seeping in, so she savors the warmth even if it’s just strong coffee.
“Thank you, mon amour.” She takes a sip then happily sighs. “It is perfect.”
“I solemnly swear that isn’t bribery because I burnt your toast.” Her wife sheepishly emerges from the kitchen with a plate of toast in varying shades of black. The circles under her eyes are stark against the paleness of her face. A playful smirk lights up her eyes, but no smile can hide how haunted she looks today. “We really should get a toaster, Fleur. Life would be much easier.”
“Easier than this?” Fleur waves her wand and in a flash, the burnt bread is no more. In its place lies perfect toast, crispy and golden brown. Its scent joins that of the coffee making the room smell heavenly. Hermione pouts. Then smiles. She slides into her seat, the movement slow and weary. She gives her wand a little flick, and pans filled with bacon and eggs come flying in. The kitchenware does a little dance before the food serves itself.
She rests her head on Fleur’s shoulder. Fleur immediately opens her arms, and Hermione snuggles closer to her chest instead. They just breathe together for a moment. The sounds of the sea and the birds filter in from the open window, and Fleur sinks into their rhythm. Hermione closes her eyes as if to sleep, but Fleur knows better. The dancing pans and wonderful food had done little to warm their house. Hermione is hunched as if she bears the weight of the world on her shoulders. There iss something brittle in her gaze, and now in rest, an odd fragility settles over her. Fleur draws her more tightly.
They finish their food in silence, but their legs are pressed together and they pepper each other with soft kisses when they can. With how hectic their lives could get, Fleur insists on keeping breakfast sacred. No work happens at the breakfast table, and while Hermione vehemently protested at first, they both draw comfort in the routine now. With their jobs, being together feels like a luxury they can ill-afford at times. And especially in April - when being alone is not only ill-advised but actively dangerous - breakfast is the safe haven they’ve carved for themselves.
“You will come home, won’t you? If you feel ill during the day?” Fleur’s voice is soft, pleading almost. “You have always worked too hard.”
Hermione huffs. “We both know that if I do that, I might as well not come to work at all.”
“Is that really so bad if that is what you need?”
“There are more important things, you know that.” Fleur expected the answer. It’s the same answer Hermione gave to anyone who so much as suggests that she let herself slow down and rest. Most days, these words are said with annoyance, but today - with her shaky hands and droopy eyes - she sounds almost resigned. Still, she smiles just a little for her fretting wife. “I’ll be fine, love. I promise.”
Lies. The kind Hermione loves telling, but Fleur merely sighs. Instead, she summons several little bottles from their stores. Three vials of blood replenishing potion tuck themselves into Hermione’s purse. The calming draught, she gently pours into Hermione’s cup, her eyebrow raised as if daring her to protest. Instead Hermione snorts before giving in and chugging down her coffee. Fleur watches as the tightness in her wife’s shoulders release, the crease between her brows softening just a little. She sighs in relief.
“Looks like you needed that hmm, ma belle?”
Hermione only chuckles. She leans in, pulls Fleur into a tender kiss. For a moment, Fleur’s world freezes as she savors the taste of Hermione’s lips, her wife’s scent washing over her. The moment is over too soon, but Fleur figures it’s enough to tide her over until the day ends, and they can be together again.
“Does this count as bribery, Madame Minister?”
“More like a thank you gift, Healer Delacour. For taking such good care of me.” And here, her voice softens as if breathless, as if awed and disbelieving still even after all these years. Fleur only scoffs. She completes their routine by checking on the bandages on Hermione’s arm. She tuts at the spotting but figures that the bleeding is not too bad just yet.
They go still.
There is honesty in the quiet. Hermione is dressed in the minister’s robes, Fleur in her healer’s uniform. It’s a Friday, and they’re both going through the motions even as Fleur waits with bated breath for a chance to rest. They eat breakfast. She checks the bandage on Hermione’s arm. Changes it if she must, the cursed scars still vivid and raw decades from the first carving. She frets over her wife, and Hermione smiles, her eyes crinkling in the way Fleur likes.
They part, and the hearth goes even colder. She can’t wait for April to end.
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The second week of April is the worst week of the year.
The hearth is half dead, and the house goes cold and dreary no matter what heating charms they employ. Fleur works herself to the bone, and Hermione’s eyes go haunted and hollow. Their touches become heated as if trying to drive away the cold.
The nightmares begin in earnest too. Fleur dreams of St. Mungo’s. And each time, she’s surrounded by beds piled high with bodies, corpses splayed wide open as if carelessly tossed away. She dreams of blood dripping through her fingers as she tries and fails to close wound after wound. The room is wintry cold, and on her lap lies Hermione, the blood oozing from her scars the final spots of warmth left in this world. When Fleur wakes, the hospital falls away, but the failure lingers.
Hermione’s are more amorphous. Some nights it was a blaze of flame, of heat licking at her skin, walls closing in as the smoke chokes her to death. Other nights, it’s a flash of silver, familiar laughter echoing in the darkness. Pain. So much pain. And on these nights, she wakes up with sheets soaked in blood, scars gushing out as if they’ve never closed in the first place. And even as her eyes open, she stays trapped in the dream, frozen in that half death and helplessness.
Some nights, Hermione gathers Fleur in her arms. She takes her hand and presses it to her chest, breathing slowly and deeply. She lets Fleur’s hands wander as they please, and Fleur falls asleep to the lullaby of Hermione’s heartbeat. Other nights, Fleur changes the sheets and summons tea filled with calming draught. She stays as still as Hermione needs her to be, and when the time comes, she opens her arms to Hermione, cradles her until she no longer feels like a gentle breeze will shatter her into dust.
And then there’s the worst nights.
On the worst nights, their nightmares feed into each other like rotting trees and forest fires. Fleur needs to touch Hermione, to feel her breath, her pulse, her warmth. Any and all signs that she might still be alive. But Hermione only feels safety in the distance. Touch burns and the memories surge over and over until they drown her. There is only Bellatrix and the pulsing pain in her arm.
In the second week of April, the nightmares go from bad to worst, and Fleur is left with hands hovering over a lover who flinches at the sight of her. Fleur is soaked with Hermione’s blood, and no matter how different the dream is from their cozy, little room, the terror lingers. Little hiccuping sobs burst out of her chest. Her heart races and she shivers. Nausea pools in her gut, and it takes all of her strength to change the sheets, summon their special potion-laced tea. And then walk away. She will not be part of her lover’s nightmare.
Most nights, she spends hours in the bathroom washing her hands over and over. Fleur knows - knows - that Hermione is alive. That she kept Hermione alive all those years ago. But the blood is stark on her fingers, and their stains stay even as the actual blood washes away. She needs to hold her wife. Can’t sleep without her arms wrapped tightly around Hermione’s middle, the scent of ink and parchment wrapping around her like a comforting blanket.
But nights like these Hermione can’t be touched, so Fleur sits in the tub until dawn breaks. Shaking. Breaking. Whispering useless assurances that she hasn’t failed yet.
The sunrise comes as a relief. And with the sun, Hermione comes knocking on the bathroom door. The bags under her eyes match Fleur’s, but a brittle smile breaks through her lips at the sight of her wife. Slowly, she sinks down to where she sits. Hermione takes her hands and pushes them against her chest. Breathes in. Breathes out. Slowly, gently, surely. Until Fleur’s shoulders sags. Until her sobs ring in the bath and then peter out again. Until her eyes flutter close, head resting on Hermione’s breast, herself falling asleep to the sound of her wife’s heartbeat.
Most days, Fleur wakes up on the tiled floor still cradled in her wife’s arms. Her hand smells of cream, and when she moves, Hermione pulls her back in until Fleur’s happily resting again.
When breakfast comes, Hermione whispers apologies, and Fleur soundly shuts her up with a desperate kiss. They stick to their routine like glue. Hermione burns toast but makes the perfect coffee. Fleur tuts over soiled bandages and cursed scars. They kiss. They part.
Fleur tucks in her mind the memory of waking in Hermione’s arms. She takes a deep breath. The week will end eventually. Until then, they endure the cold.
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April 12 is the worst day of the year.
When Fleur asks Hermione to stay home, she refuses as always. But Fleur knows her wife won’t last the day. And neither will she.
Still, they go through the motions. They trudge out of the bathroom where Hermione wakes her with weary kisses. Her eyes are haunted, shattered still from last night’s terrors. Fleur sits her down. She makes the coffee today, Hermione’s hands shaking too badly that any magic right now will end in disaster anyway. Hermione gathers her potions by hand. Fleur tuts at the bandage, already soaked through despite the sun having barely risen. Hermione rubs Fleur’s hands with soothing salves. They kiss.
They linger. Today, they linger. Then they part.
Healer Delacour’s day is the same as always. There are patients to see, lives to save. She gets a giggle from the terrified little girl the aurors brought from a raid. With her steady hands, she fixes and heals and saves and saves and saves. She cannot fail. Her hands get soaked with blood, but the magic tells her that her patient is about as well as she can make them. The nurses sing her praises. She’s one of the youngest senior healers in a century, and she didn’t get the spot by being the minister’s beautiful wife.
Still, her eyes stray to the clock more often than reasonable. It’s barely noon, but she’s counting the hours already. It’s been 15 years, and they have their routine down to pat. They make breakfast a time for themselves. In the second week of April, they keep each other together as much as they’re able. On April 12, Healer Delacour keeps an eye on the clock and on the floo. Her usual workload is divided amongst her juniors, and barring the worst of emergencies, everyone knows her vigil is not to be disturbed. All of St. Mungo’s wait with bated breath.
At 12 noon sharp, the floo comes to life. Out stumbles Harry in stained auror robes, a too-pale Hermione cradled in his arms. They’re barely out of the fireplace before Fleur rushes to them. Harry smells of vomit and blood. He’s yelling for help, but Fleur is frozen. The scene is near identical to her dreams, and she’s shaking too hard to cast even the most basic charms. Her hands are too clean, but she’s seen them blood-stained and failing. And now more than ever, failure is unacceptable still.
And so she trails behind them. Another healer casts all the diagnostic spells Fleur should know by heart but somehow can’t reach. Figures in sparkly bright green float out of her wife’s too-still body. Blood pressure. Respiratory rate. Oxygen levels. Fleur’s pulse pounds in her ears as the numbers dip lower and lower. Her body vibrates with the need to help, but their routines are years in the making, and she’s long since learned that she’s useless here.
April 12 is the worst day of the year. Once upon a time, Bellatrix Lestrange carved open Hermione’s arm in Malfoy Manor, and Fleur put her back together. Years later, the curse in the blade rips wide open the long-closed scars. In a moment of weakness, Hermione described the pain as a re-writing, knife after invisible knife carving up her skin. At best, Hermione screams. At worst, she vomits and faints. Today, she fainted, and Fleur can only watch as she shudders in Harry’s arms.
The first years were filled with trial and error. Confinement made Hermione’s depression worse. Fleur’s nightmares are soothed through hugs while Hermione needs to handle hers alone. Breakfast is reprieve and comfort and safety.
And Fleur cannot be the healer who puts Hermione back together.
On April 12, St. Mungo’s is the place of nightmares. She remembers too vividly their second year together. Fleur blinks and her hands are caked in blood. The light shifts, and Hermione is back on her lap, her pulse just about gone, and Fleur’s magic failing. The charmed numbers float around her head, but she can’t grasp their meaning. She turns around, and one moment she’s trailing footprints of blood, but the next the floors are gleaming in the light.
That second year was a failure she cannot forget, and a decade later, her mistakes still haunt her. And so she trails after her wife and their healers, head wrapped in cotton. They are barred from the room itself, the procedure much too delicate for interference. Instead, she and Harry wait outside. Mindlessly, she flicks her wand and vanishes the sick off his robes. He send her a weak grin, but Fleur can only stare at the locked door. She curses herself for her weakness. For the way her hands shake. For the nightmares she can’t soothe. For needing to stay away.
She doesn’t realize she’s crying until Harry’s wiping the tears off her face, and even then, she’s too numb to respond to it. Harry gathers her into his arms, and there Fleur stays until the door opens again. Helpless. So fucking helpless.
“She’ll be okay, you know,” Harry whispers. And Fleur can only nod. Hermione will be. This routine is 15 years in the making, and it’s kept them as fine as they could possibly be. April 12 will end. April will eventually fade away.
Still, she wishes her hands didn’t shake. Wishes that the blood didn’t haunt her, and she was enough to keep her wife safe. Instead, she can only sit outside the surgery and wait.
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Hermione wakes up. They stay in the hospital overnight, and Fleur tries her hardest not to cling too hard. She lets her hands hover but never touch. She smiles, all the longing and desperation of the night carefully tucked away beneath more cheerful stories. She trembles from keeping herself still.
And then Hermione’s eyes soften. She reaches out with shaking arms, and Fleur leans down, slowly at first, afraid of moving too fast or too hard lest she breaks her. But Hermione only grunts out her impatience. She gives Fleur a single warning before she harshly pulls down her wife.
“I’m not breakable, love,” she warns, her voice that of the Minister of Magic.
But Hermione is wrong. Dead wrong.
She came through the fireplace barely breathing, and Fleur had to wait outside for hours. She remembers the green figures floating around her head, and she knows what they mean now even if she could barely comprehend them then. Fleur watched as blood dripped down Hermione’s arm. She vanished her sick off Harry’s robes. And it’s routine now. Every April 12 for the past 15 years.
Hermione is breakable. And Fleur can only sob as she recalls how still and pale Hermione was only hours earlier. Hermione cradles her closely to her chest. She breathes in deeply and slowly, letting Fleur catch the sound of her breath and heartbeat. When Fleur finally calms, Hermione only sheepishly grins, and Fleur finds that she can no longer hold on to her fear. She melts into Hermione’s embrace, then snuggles closer still, as if hoping to bury herself in her lover's chest. And at last, she falls asleep.
April is the worst month of the year, and it has been for the past 15 years. But Fleur and Hermione come home from the hospital whole. They make breakfast as always. Hermione burns the toast, but makes perfect coffee, and Fleur tucks in bottles of potions in Hermione’s purse. Tomorrow they will part, but today they kiss, and they go back to bed, just relishing being in each other’s arms.
April is not over yet. The nightmares will come, and some nights they can’t weather away the terrors together. But daybreak always comes, and inevitably, they find their way back to each other. Over and over. Until the worst passes through.
Then the hearth comes back to life.