Darker Days

Dear Maman,

This is your dear daughter, Fleur, writing from dank and dreary Britain. How are you? Has Gabrielle started eating asparagus, or is she still being a brat? Does father still insist on sleeping in his favorite pair of socks? I remember how much you hated that habit of his. Almost as much as you hated the idea of sending me across the channel, into this cold country, but I never was good at listening to you.

You will never read this.

I'm aware. These are just scribbles in my private journal. Nothing escapes Britain these days, not even words. But I have decided to address these entries like letters anyway. I've recently been introduced to the power of illusions. I would like to make use of one now, in this way, to imagine I am not as stuck as I truly am.

Do you ever feel like a fool? I certainly do. I missed my hobbies so badly, wandering the halls of the house I now reside in like an aimless ghost. So I asked to be able to paint, and to be able to write, and here I am, scribbling this down beside a new easel. I cannot make sense of my captor.

I don't even know if that word is correct. I used jailor, at first, yet he keeps his door unlocked. He practically invites me to leave. Captor is probably no more accurate, but jailor was certainly incorrect, so I have adopted the former for now.

He is the strangest man I have ever met. It baffles me every single day, to the point that I feel the need to write down the things I see, simply because I have no one to share them with. There is one other girl in this house, but I fear she is less sane than my captor, so I've chosen you to share this with you instead, Maman.

I will write again soon. It is not like I have much else to fill my life with, even with my hobbies returned. I hope my next message will find you in good health, and that you will weep with joy when you receive it.

With love, from your dearest blossom, Fleur.

O-O-O

Maman, I have lived in this place for two weeks already, and I admit, I am only now beginning to understand the system these purebloods have put in place.

It reminds me of royalty. That should not be surprising, considering their obsession with being 'lord' of this or that. Anywhere that possesses a significant population of wizards and witches has been awarded to a servant of the Dark Lord. Hogsmeade, Harry has said, went to Bellatrix herself. Other villages have at least a few Muggles living in them. Godric's Hollow, which I have laid eyes on personally, is perhaps split down the middle, with half its population magical, and the other half clueless.

I have heard that other Death Eaters turned their land into small kingdoms. They disregard the Statue of Secrecy entirely! If such a thing were known, I cannot imagine other countries would be content to shut their borders and leave Britain be as they have. These Death Eaters use the Muggles as slaves, ensuring that none of them ever leave the village. It is horrible to imagine. Do they think that what they do will stay secret forever?

Harry believes that they do. He says that they do not fathom the persistence of Muggles, nor do they give any credit to their powers of observation. I am inclined to agree.

It's possible that he has exaggerated as he answers my questions, but I do not believe that. Harry does not strike me as the type to exaggerate. While his thoughts remain a mystery to me, I see the way he acts, each and every day. Recently, I have begun visiting the village by his side.

He does not complain. I only had to ask once for him to agree. I play with the children, and relish conversations with strangers. One by one I am learning their names. They have warmed up to me significantly. Shockingly, they are warm to Harry, too.

He does not act as those others do. To the Muggle half of this village, they have no idea that he is a wizard at all, nor that magic runs through the veins of their neighbors. He does not force them to stay. In fact, from time to time, I have caught him encouraging them to move away. When he does, I spot the way his eyes drift to the edge of town.

There are houses missing. Many villagers, especially the Muggles, are missing family members. They believe a horrible fire swept the village. We know the truth.

To get Harry's attention, people were slaughtered.

I asked him what he thought of that, one afternoon, as we climbed the hill from the village. He said private thoughts don't mean anything. I told him to tell me anyway.

"Violence is all some Death Eaters know. It's all I know, too. But at least I am not proud of that."

He is a strange one, Maman. Perhaps you would be able to understand him in the ways that have stumped me. You always were better with people. But unlike Gabrielle, I possess patience. I will figure him out yet.

If there is one thing I have, after all, it is time.

O-O-O

I will be coming home soon.

Did I fool you? Probably not. That was a poor lie, but I have been practicing with them, so I thought I would try. I have recently been exposed to the power they can hold.

Harry lies as easily as he breathes. Although he says that he has never lied to me, and I am inclined to believe him. Something drives him when it comes to me, something that seems very out of place with the rest of his character.

This week, I have had him explain the magic he uses. Not the simple curses and charms, but the thing he is most known for— illusions.

He describes them as lies.

A lie is something which fools your brain. It makes you think it is true, even though it's false. An illusion is something that your eyes report to your brain, which then decides if it is really there. If an illusion made the sky look red, or covered only half your face, no brain would believe it. But if you make an illusion properly, the brain is helpless to spot it. Just like the lies you tell with your mouth, a good illusion takes craft and delicate care to pull off.

That is how Harry explained it to me. He even allowed me to try. He handed me his wand. I assumed it was a trick, yet he simply guided me through the correct spell, teaching me to replicate the couch in a different part of the room.

I considered killing him, while I had that wand in my hand. I thought about it multiple times. In the end, I created the new couch.

The result would not have fooled even the stupidest of men. It was blurry, lacking the detail of the real thing. The wand did not help — I miss my own veela hair core so dearly — but I cannot blame only my tool. It was my observations that were lacking. Harry showed me.

To conjure an illusion, one has to see every detail of what they're copying. Each stain. Every frayed seam. The way the wood of one leg is slightly darker than the others. You must see all of it in order to create its copy, and even if you do it perfectly, one quick pulse of magic can tear it all away.

That's all it takes for even the best illusions to be dispelled. What you cast can be torn away in seconds. Yet Harry uses them, and he uses them well. To him, they come naturally.

I am going to record a conversation for you, Maman, that I remember word for word. It has been stuck in my head, so by scrawling it here, I am hoping to let it leak out and be rid of it. It went like this:

"You conjure so many illusions, which vary so much. How can you tell me you notice the details on every single one of those things?" I asked.

"I have lots of practice observing things," said Harry.

"But when? How did you come to get so much practice?"

There was a pause here, long enough that it is worthy to record, for it told me as much as his eventual answer did.

"My Master's servants don't know mercy," he said. "They're violent and cruel. If you're not strong enough to make them fear you, you must be quiet enough to keep them from noticing you."

"So you were a quiet child?"

"Not at first," Harry said. "But I learned."

It made me wonder. What would he have been like had he been raised the way I was, with you and Papa's affection? Would I be like that, were I in his place? Would I have survived at all?

He kept himself out of the way, watching the world around him. And he watched it so well, and observed it so carefully, that he turned that into his greatest weapon. Now, those who tormented him fear him, or at least avoid having him as a rival.

It is impressive. But am I wrong for considering it strikingly sad?

O-O-O

It has been days since I wrote you, Maman. I confess, something quite large has happened.

From the start no place in the house was locked to me, not even the front door, with the exception of one room.

On my first night, Susan — that is the girl who was here before me — said that we were not allowed in there. But Harry said that he would do whatever I asked, and since he said that, it has proved to be nothing but the truth. So I asked. I told him that I wanted to enter that room.

And he stood up, leaving the breakfast table, and led me there to allow me in.

I did not recognize the locking charm that he dispelled. Whatever he used, it was something obscure and almost certainly powerful. When the door opened, he stepped aside. He did not attempt to enter the room — he seemed not even to want to see inside — and gestured for me to go on.

I did not know what to expect, and I considered everything. Perhaps it would be some kind of magical beast, like a pet? Maybe I would just find a room as empty as most in his house. Or, I couldn't help but consider, what if I found old victims? Perhaps I was not the first girl he brought back, and when he tired of my idle curiosity, he would slay me and shut the door, locking it forever.

I felt quite silly when I found a simple bedroom.

It was all so very clean. He must have been entering to clean it, from time to time, or perhaps he allowed the elf I've never laid eyes on to do it for him. What I noticed next was that this could not be Harry's room, not even an old one. I have seen where he sleeps now, in a bed centered inside a room with little else. 

This bedroom was different. It was a proper one. It contained a comfortable bed, with very bright red-and-gold sheets, and three different bookcases, all of which were full. Some sort of charm had been cast on the air, which smelled faintly at all times of a certain flavor of perfume. The books were on all sorts of subjects, and no matter where else I looked, I could not discover any hint of who this room was meant to belong to.

The idea I had next was slightly devious. You know me, Maman, so you know that I am no saint. When curiosity gets a hold of me, I rarely think twice.

I returned to Harry, where he stood in the hallway, and told him that I would like to move into this room.

He did not like that idea. I could see it on his face, which says quite a lot, because his expressions are as carefully crafted as his illusions. Yet he winced. He hesitated. And when he finally nodded, he turned and left soon after.

I moved in. That room is where I am writing from now. Harry has not complained a single time, yet I cannot help but continue to wonder why he allowed me to move in at all.

What motivates him to treat me so well?

O-O-O

A farmhouse in Godric's Hollow burned down. It was at the edge of town. No one died, but two children were badly burned. Harry says it wasn't an accident, and I agree with him.

He told me about the visit during the last attack. While that obese rat came for me, this man, Crouch, came to Harry. He wants Harry to join him, and as it nears a month since his first offer, he is showing his impatience. He is not the only one.

Lucius Malfoy has visited Harry's home with increasing frequency across the last week. So has his wife. He has no idea of this, so I try not to laugh out loud when I see him. In his mind I am but a slave. I have no wish to dispel that notion, as it means he pays me no mind.

He needs Harry's power to boost his faction past Crouch's. Crouch needs Harry to best Lucius and Yaxley. Voldemort himself is quiet, but Bellatrix Lestrange has been plaguing the new ministry, acting wildly as his proxy.

How I despise that awful hag.

I have been here for four weeks now. Across that time, I've learned much. I feel truly relaxed at times, though I always feel guilty later when I catch myself. But now…

Harry is pale in the mornings. He has been leaving food on his plate. He talks less, and disappears for longer. When I visit Godric's Hollow, I do so alone now. Those who are after his allegiance are moving with greater urgency, and something is wrong with him. I asked Susan, but she merely laughed and called him a monster. I do not know what to make of it.

I've been thinking about asking Harry to get me a wand. I believe he would do it. But his condition is only worsening, and if I ask, he will make it happen, even if he's in no shape to.

At what point did I begin to worry about his well being? Perhaps it's something about the air in this new room. More likely, that is an excuse. I miss Papa. I miss Gabrielle. I miss you, Maman, which is why I'm writing to your memory. I am lonely, and he has been nothing but accommodating to me.

He treats the villagers well. He treats Susan well, despite her obvious hatred for him. He is cold, but I cannot consider him evil, try as I might. Each day I grow more curious about what I would find beneath, if I could peel away his emotionless exterior.

I do not know when I will write again. There is much on my mind, but it has been difficult recently to talk myself into putting it onto paper. It is late now. As I look up at the window, I am only now noticing that it has gotten dark.

I'm writing by the light of a nearly full moon.

Adieu, Maman. This has been the bud you watered ever so well, your dearest, Fleur.

P.S. Make sure that Gabrielle eats her asparagus, even if you have to charm it down her throat. Otherwise, I will be most cross.