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Pain. Screams. Blood.
Bill awakes with a jolt, rawness in his throat telling him the screams were his. The blood isn’t real, at least, but the pain very much is. He’s grateful that it isn’t worse - that it wasn’t a full moon, that it was him Greyback attacked and not Fleur - but that doesn’t mean the scars don’t hurt like hell.
Speaking of Fleur - there she is, well out of arm's reach, but still in the room, his brave, stubborn fiance. There’s concern in her eyes, but not fear, and if Bill didn’t already love her more than he thought possible, he would for that.
They’d had one of the worst fights of their relationship after Greyback, worse than when he thought she was being reckless, when she thought he was being overprotective.
He’d wanted to break things off, wanted her to find someone who wouldn’t be a danger to her, wanted better for her than to be tied to a monster. She had refused to hear of it, had pointed out that they could well afford Wolfsbane, that Gringotts would hardly care, that she could throw no stones given her own mixed blood. There was a difference, Bill had argued, between Veela and werewolves, even partial ones like him.
The thing that had broken Bill, though, more than any injury in the field, more than Greyback, almost, was when Fleur had looked at him and asked, quiet and sad, more French than she’d ever sounded in her upset, “Is that how little you think of me?”
That had stopped Bill in his tracks. “What?”
“Do you honestly think,” Fleur had said, sounding hurt, and that was a million times worse than anger, “so little of me, Bill Weasley? Your mother, I understand, she has never liked me. But I did not ever imagine you would think I could be so shallow.”
“Sweetheart, no,” Bill had replied, stricken. “I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But you could have anyone, love.”
“I could,” she had replied, a little of the cockiness he loved in the edge of her smile, “but I want you. And besides. Who would you consider the better man, Remus Lupin or Lucius Malfoy?”
“Remus, of course,” Bill had spluttered. It wasn’t even a question.
Fleur had nodded. “Precisely. Lucius Malfoy is more of a monster than Remus will ever be.”
“Remus doesn’t have scars,” Bill had felt the need to point out. And that was the heart of it, really. He knew that lycanthrophy could be managed, had worked with ‘wolves he’d trust with Ginny’s life, never mind his own.
Fleur had scoffed. “They make you look dashing.” Her voice had softened, then, “Cheri. I could have lost you. I almost did. What do I care about scars? Like I told your mother. I am beautiful enough for the both of us.”
That had startled a laugh out of Bill, his first since he’d woken up. “You did not.”
“I did,” Fleur had replied, a smile tugging at the corner of her own lips. “So people will stare. They already do. You and I both know the truth.”
Bill had felt his resolve wavering at the certainty in those blue eyes. “But sweetheart…”
“But nothing,” Fleur had said firmly. “You have spent all your life taking care of others, cheri. It will be my privilege and pleasure to take care of you. Just as you have always taken care of me. Please, let me.”
Put like that, how could he refuse? He’d swallowed around the lump in his throat, raising her hand to his lips, and promised, “I’ll try, love.”
And Fleur had been true to her word, too. During the week he’d spent in the Hospital Wing, she’d devoted herself completely to his care. She’d sat with him during the day and curled up in a cot or by his side at night, comforting him when he inevitably woke up from dreams filled with claws and blood. She’d applied what felt like an endless regime of ointments and unguents to his slowly healing wounds, cajoled him into eating when he didn’t feel like it, and read to him when the pain was too intense for him to focus, which was often. She’d even, bless her, run interference with his mother.
Love his Mum though he did, Bill could only stand so much of her fussing. It was why he’d put his foot down about recuperating in his own flat. At the Hospital Wing, Madam Pomfrey could step in when it was too much; at the Burrow she’d be the proverbial hen with one chick. And honestly, she and Fleur would probably kill each other.
The wisdom of that decision was evident even on the first night back at the flat. Mum would have responded to a nightmare with fretting and fussing, pity and heartbreak in her eyes almost harder to deal with than the actual nightmares.
Fleur, on the other hand, just pads closer, now that he’s awake, saying quietly, “It was just a dream, cheri. You are in our flat, with me. Greyback cannot hurt you here.”
Bill nods, pulling her closer and trying not to shake, pressing his lips to her hair - easier, now that his injuries have healed some. “I know, love. Merlin, I’m so glad you weren’t there that day.” She would have come, he knows, but he’d take far worse than what Greyback gave him to keep her safe.
Fleur manages a watery chuckle. “I don’t know, cheri. Some days I wonder if planning a wedding isn’t a war by another name.”
Given his mother, Bill can believe it. “The offer to elope is still open, love.”
Fleur laughs and shakes her head. “Your mother would kill us. And my mother would help.”
She shifts so she can look at him, blue eyes warm with concern. “What do you need, cheri? To stay like this a while? Food? A shower?”
And this is why Bill loves her so. Fleur doesn’t presume to know what he needs; she asks.
He’s not hungry, but… “Food sounds good,” he says. “And my ointment? And then… could you brush my hair out for me?”
That gets a delighted smile. “Of course, cheri.”
Bill’s not a vain man by any means - even with the scars, he cares more about any negative attention they’ll get Fleur - but he does enjoy fussing with his hair. He’d been a little embarrassed, the first time Fleur spent the night, when she’d discovered his collection of hair care products. Except she’d turned to him in utter delight, because as it turns out, hair is a big deal among the Veela. Even more so for Fleur, who sees it as a connection to the grandmother she adores. Bill’s lost count of the hours of the last two years he’s spent brushing out Fleur’s hair for her, or she’s done so for him.
If Mum hadn’t made the offer of Aunt Muriel’s tiara - and there’s a peace offering Bill had never expected, although he doubts the detente will last - he had planned to give her a set of Tahitian pearl hair combs to wear at the wedding. The ethereal green-black-gold iridescence of the pearls would look exquisite against her silvery hair. Perhaps he’ll give them to her for her birthday instead - Merlin knows, he’s happy to spoil his soon-to-be wife. Who makes it a point to show him how much she appreciates it, verbally and otherwise.
Fleur helps him sit up, dropping a kiss on his unscarred cheek before disappearing to the kitchen, and Bill lets himself ogle just a little; he’s only human, after all. He’d be lying if he said Fleur hadn’t caught his eye, even at Hogwarts, but he’d honestly never expected anything to come of it.
And then he’d literally run into her in the archives at Gringotts.
What most people, especially in Britain, didn’t know, was that banking was only a small part of Gringotts’ operations, albeit quite a profitable one. They actually specialized in research, spell development, and warding. Which was why their central archives could rival some of the best libraries in the world.
Bill had known Fleur was smart - the Goblet wasn’t going to choose a featherwit as Champion no matter how pretty she was - but he hadn’t expected her to be brave and kind and funny on top of that, or to take absolutely none of his shit. Hadn’t expected her to throw herself into a war that wasn’t hers, fighting for people who happily dismissed her because of her looks. Yes, she could be sharp, and a little snobbish, and she absolutely drove him crazy with her reckless disregard for her own safety when they were out on Order missions together, but none of that compared to all of the things he loved about her.
Fleur returns, plate of souvlaki and tzatziki and French fries floating next to her, and Bill has to smile at the reminder of what they now consider to be their first official date. They’d been at one of the many fancy Society parties the posh set threw when the Wizengamot was in session, trying to gather intel and sway people to Harry’s side.The food had been terrible, though, and nothing close to enough. Not long after they’d gotten all they were going to get, Fleur’s stomach had rumbled. Bill had impulsively suggested they make their escape, slap on glamouries over their dress robes and go get Muggle street food. It had become a tradition - finish the party, debrief at a hole in the wall. Eventually they’d stopped using the parties as an excuse and just gone on dates.
Bill pulls Fleur into his lap, kissing her on the nose because she’s there and he can. The kiss on the nose turns to other kisses, and though it does hurt, it’s a pain he doesn’t mind.
“Not that I’m complaining, cheri,” Fleur says, “but what on earth was that for?”
“Can’t I kiss my gorgeous fiancee?” Bill asks, but that just gets him the look that makes it obvious Fleur knows he’s bullshitting. “I just. Thank you. For being here.”
That gets another kiss, this time with a bit of a nip. “Where else would I be, cheri?” Fleur raises a hand to cut off anything Bill might say in response. “Non. All my life, until I met you, men only saw my face and my figure. You see all of me, the bad parts, too. And you love me. Why shouldn’t I love you?”
He… really can’t fault that logic. “I guess you’re right,” he says.
Fleur tosses her hair. “Of course I am,” she says loftily, although the effect is rather spoiled by the piece of souvlaki she’s offering him. They eat like that, her on his lap and feeding each other bites, trading occasional kisses, a quiet reaffirmation.
Once they’re done and their hands are clean, Fleur attempts to steer him towards the dressing table, but Bill refuses. He’s slowly coming to accept his scars, but that doesn’t mean he likes seeing the ruin of his face. Fleur, bless her, doesn’t fuss, instead just kissing his cheek and bringing over what she needs.
The vial of ointment smells as foul as it always has - Fleur has been working with her mentor at Ecole Nationale de Brassage to improve it, but they’re both understandably wary of doing anything to limit its efficacy. Two weeks on, his wounds have healed into thick rope-like scars that have thankfully missed his eye even as they do bisect his face. The Healers have no hope of them fading completely, but regular application of ointment should help at least a little. It also means they hurt less, which Bill is grateful for.
Fleur straddles his lap, wicked twist of her lips telling him she knows exactly where his mind went. “Later, cheri,” she promises. “First the medicine, then the reward.”
Bill laughs. “Yes, ma’am.” Merlin, he loves this woman.
Fleur settles into seriousness then, exquisite features twisted into a frown as she devotes all of her considerable attention to applying the ointment onto his scars. She’s careful about it, watching his face as she does to make sure she’s not hurting him any more than she can absolutely help, her lovely hands so gentle on his skin Bill barely feels anything but the cooling touch of the ointment. Fleur is diligent, too, taking her time, making sure the scars are well covered, dropping a quick kiss on his nose once she’s done. “There we go, cheri.”
Bill smiles back, lightly squeezing her hips rather than get any of the ointment on her with a kiss. “Thank you, ma belle. I love you, you know that?”
Fleur scoffs slightly, although her eyes are warm. “I should hope so, cheri, or getting married would be a terrible idea.” Her features soften. “I love you too, Bill. Do you feel up to having your hair combed?”
On his bad days, the ointment is all the touch he can take. Fortunately, today is a good day. “I’d love it, ma belle.”
Fleur beams at him and jumps up to go fetch a comb and the hair oil she’d made just for him, the scent of spice and citrus filling the air. It’s one of a set of three she’d made for him for his birthday, packaged in beautiful glass bottles and wrapped in a silk hair wrap that had been the other half of his gift.
Bill, who had never been much for Potions and only stuck with it until NEWT level because Gringotts required it, had been fascinated by Fleur’s skill, and her willingness to expend extra time and effort if it meant elevating the end product. True, his Mum is a skilled potioneer, but her talents leaned towards the practical, salves and lotions and kitchen concoctions. Fleur is practical, too - the Order owes much of its stock of basic medicinal potions to her skills - but she insists that things must be beautiful as well as useful, or what’s the point? It’s a philosophy Bill has come to love, not least because it means Fleur fills his life with beauty and joy, too.
She’s exquisitely gentle, careful not to pull even the slightest bit as she works the comb through his hair, the scent of the oil taking Bill back to other times they’ve sat like this. She’s humming under her breath like she always does, not quite in tune but adorable anyway, some Provencal song Bill’s forgotten the name of.
Later, he’ll return the favour, brush out that silvery cascade until it’s gleaming, then take her to bed and show her how grateful he is for her continued presence in his life, how much he adores her. For the moment, he’s content to bask in how much she adores him.