October: Coming Out of the Closet

Day Two-Hundred-Forty-Two of Free Independence

Monday, October 2nd, 2005

Hideously Surprised

8:44 AM

8:44 a.m. – I sit here, irresponsibly, at the Ministry, wracked by a problem which has nothing to do with the batch of fire-breathing vacuum cleaners we received from Berwickshire this morning. This morning, as I was walking into the bathroom in my usual morning haze, yesterday's sock plastered to my forehead in the usual "I look more hung-over than I am" way, wondering why anyone lets me drink on Sundays, I found not two aspirins and a martini glass filled with water, but Jacques—Jacques saying the most hideous things my ears have ever heard. He was standing there, very Risky Business in his rumpled Oxford and dorky white socks, but practicing saying very Jerry Maguire "you complete me" things to the mirror. "I don't know how to say this," he was saying nervously, holding a cup of coffee over the bathroom sink, "but I'm in love with you. I always have been—ever since high school. God, I've been in love with you practically all of my life—" At this point, I abruptly turned around and fled, since I now needed to find another bathroom to throw up in. Jacques is going to tell Janine he loves her, and I am going to die.

9:20 a.m. – He does not love her. He thinks her loves her. He loves to do her, perhaps, but he does not love her. Right? Right. I'm so right.

10:00 a.m. – Jesus, he loves her. Why did I never notice this? Why did I see their relationship as just chain-sex and broken presents when day by day, while I was off being a whore at Hogwarts and a slut in Ottery St. Catchpole, they were falling madly and deeply in love with each other! Why was I so inexplicably blind? No wonder Jacques had to escape my presence for a month—he simply couldn't handle my disparaging comments and tactless gagging at the mention of his true love's name! I've been such a huge bitch… whose best friend wants to basically marry her other (not much of a) friend. Merde. Merde on toast.

12 NOON – "Fleur, you seem a little distracted," Percy remarks, casually checking out the new intern, Brian. I, however, was too disconcerted to even look at Brian—which, I suspect, prompted this remark. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I said, looking downwards and picking forlornly at a wilted cabbage leaf. "I'm just thinking about something."

"You look like you've lost your best friend," Percy said, watching as Brian dropped a large stack of papers and bent over to pick them up. At just that moment, a great and terrible sun abruptly dawned on me, right in the middle of the Ministry of Magic, right in front of Intern Brian's taut little ass: that after Jacques tells Janine he loves her, I probably will.

4:23 p.m. – "Don't be melodramatic," Jacques said, crossing his arms and giving me a tutor-glare that I'm sure sends shivers down the spines of even his most apt Latin students.

"I'm not being melodramatic," I whined melodramatically, fainting backwards into a couch. "I just think it would be nice if I cooked dinner tonight. I mean, don't best friends cook each other dinner?" This whole dinner thing is my incredibly subtle plan to remind Jacques that we will always be best friends; so far, I don't think he's caught on. Tomorrow night: Operation Cordon Bleu.

"I suppose so, but if we both want to live past thirty, then maybe I should be in charge of cooking dinner?" Despite the fact that we are indeed best friends, it really annoys me that Jacques seems to think that he is Julia Child just because he can make macaroni and cheese once a week. However, if he decides he does not love Janine after all, I would gladly reconsider these annoyances. I handed him the cookbook with a smile, because I am working on my expressions and have perfected a new one that says "I am the perfect best friend, so when a force of pure evil tries to snatch you away from me, you won't succumb to the wiles of the devil." Of course, this expression also looks something like "feed me, I'm insane."

"Fine—you can have it your way," I said, a reflex of being disparaging and obnoxious which I now see is a HORRENDOUS PROBLEM. Obviously, I am simply DRIVING HIM INTO THE ARMS OF SATAN.

6:00 p.m. – "I have to go out for a little bit," Jacques says cryptically, looking at me in an indecipherable fashion, as if he is trying to figure out how much I know about this situation involving those three little words. I am giving nothing away of course, by wearing a poker face which expresses only interest in eating chocolate. All of dinner, he kept looking up from the predictably excellent feast he prepared and gazing at me in this appraising fashion and asking me questions like, "Do you remember the day we met?" and other nonsense. I know he's simply trying to skirt around the issue at hand—that he's IN LOVE with Janine and for inexplicable reasons he feels he can't tell me, but he can use my bathroom mirror to practice this blasphemy.

"Why?" I ask nonchalantly, trying my best to sound completely uninterested in his actions and future whereabouts, because in my role as a best friend, I also have to spend some time playing hard to get. I have decided that the only way to deal with men is to use the Rubber Band Theory on them constantly, because I have realized that my relationships come in cycles of elasticity. I had to give Harry time to pull away before he came snapping back on top of me at the breakfast table… which I am not talking about because my behavior was indecent and morally upsetting… though delightful… sigh… concentrate! I will clearly have to use the same logic on Jacques, giving him time to pull away (maybe his "love" for Janine is a manifestation of his need to pull away from me?) before he comes back and hopefully recovers from this madness.

Day Two-Hundred-Forty-Five of Free Independence

Thursday, October 5th, 2005

The Fourth Day of Madness

10:10 AM

10:10 a.m. – I woke up to find Jacques cryptically Flooing someone, and, not wanting to seem jealous or possessive or anything, I waited like a secret agent outside my door, eavesdropping unsuccessfully on the conversation. Lately, all Jacques seems to do is disappear and cryptically Floo people and give me strange looks. Yesterday night at dinner, he kept starting sentences and then abruptly ending them and smiling at me without any explanation; all our conversations were stilted and awkward and I can just tell that he too has figured out how profoundly his loving Janine is going to affect our relationship. How can he love her when I don't even like her? And what is love anyway? What has love got to do with it? If Tina Turner can figure it out, why can't Jacques see it too?

Merde, Percy is glaring at me. I suppose it's rather obvious that I'm not exactly doing official Ministry business. It's back to dismantling the latest batch of pagers… Seriously, who even uses pagers anymore?

1:45 p.m. – Today at lunch with Percy and his adorable cashmere sweater, he seemed more concerned than ever. "Fleur," he said, in the manner of a troubled parent or a guidance counselor, "I'm worried about you. You don't eat—you look like you haven't gotten any sleep lately—you barely talk to me anymore. Is everything okay? Is everything okay… at home?"

Home? At these words I wanted to fling my arms into my sandwich hysterically and pour my tears into my tea. HOME!—where Jacques is, where I am losing Jacques day by day to this all-consuming passionate love he harbors for… dear God, it's the most horrid thing to think about! Two days ago, I heard Jacques talking to Janine through the fireplace. He was very much, "We have to talk" and "I have something very important to say." I was very much passed out on the floor. Percy's suddenly bringing my haggardness up in the middle of the workday was the final straw, the caring words that culminated in disaster. I immediately began crying into my Jell-O cup.

"Percy, I don't know what to do!" I shrieked. I was unable to see Percy's expression, but I'm sure it was rather the expression of someone watching a bomb explode in slow motion all over their impeccably selected outfit. He threw a monogrammed handkerchief at me. "I walked in on Jacques practicing telling his girlfriend he loves her! Loves her, Percy, loves her! She's no longer a BFILF, a fantasy, a girlfriend, a lover—she's now marriage, kids, picket fence potential!"

"And what's wrong with that?" Percy asked obliviously. "What's a BFILF?"

"Forget it," I sniffled, ruining his hanky. "All I know is she was my best friend for years, and then she started getting all mushy around Jacques and making things all weird… and then she stopped being friends with me for some stupid, petty reason, and now we're on non-speaks. But she and Jacques aren't on non-speaks, and soon she'll be coming over for dinner all the time, and they'll be effing Frenching over the fantastic roast duck he cooks on Fridays, and having sex on the couch all the time, and forgetting I'm there—"

"I think you're overreacting," Percy said calmly.

"OVERREACTING?!" I screeched. "Percy, love supersedes friendship, and… I saw him, Percy. I saw him when he was practicing what he was going to say, and he's in love. And sometimes when we're talking, he gets this far away look in his eyes and I can tell he's thinking about her and—" Everything suddenly coalesced to a colossal breakdown, a shoulder-shaking, head-in-hands breakdown.

Percy swung his chair over to my side of the table and slung his arm around my quaking shoulders. "You don't need to worry about a thing," he said softly. "Even if Jacques is in love with Janine, that doesn't mean that your relationship has to change. Besides, aren't you happy for him?"

My answer was a resounding NOOO, complete with sobs. "What's wrong with me, PW?" I asked, hoping that if I was weeping uncontrollably he would let me get away with calling him PW. "Why can't I handle this? Why can't I handle the fact that I'm no longer the only significant other in Jacques' life?"

Percy's only reply was a thoughtful "hmm" and a kiss on the cheek. I could tell he was thinking something he didn't have the words to express. "It'll be okay, sweetheart," he said. I had immense trouble believing him and instantly made plans to go swimming in a chocolate pool.

4:20 p.m. – Dying. Gasping for air. Looking at old pictures of Jacques and me (grammar? OH MY GOD, what will I do without his grammar lessons), weeping softly, clutching tissues and a soft pillow. Have been eating ice cream all day under the pretense of a sore throat, not that Jacques noticed—he's out as usual, saying "I have a few things to attend to." What? Buying the ring? Oh God. Vomit. NO. Waste of ice cream.

Do you think Jacques would forsake all others and pay attention only to me if I had a near overdose on Haagen-Dazs?

6:00 p.m. – And my misery fest has moved to the floor with Beauxbatons yearbooks. We're right next to each other, Delacour and DeMontmorency… Look how cute we are! Well, I look sort of fat and obnoxious, especially in that asphyxiating necktie they insisted upon us wearing, but Jacques looks—

He's home! MERDE!

7:30 p.m. – It went like this: I was sprawled on the couch, lying on top of a pile of yearbooks and martini glasses filled with chocolate chip cookie dough, smiling like a teenage boy who had just gotten into his parents stash of Cuban cigars and was trying to grin the guilt away. Jacques looked at me suspiciously and asked, "What have you been doing all day?" I replied quickly with "nothing!" and picked up a copy of the Daily Prophet which I was lucky enough to find under the couch. I told him I had to get caught up on current events, and he darted into his own room to… I don't know, think about Janine.

Day Two-Hundred-Forty-Seven of Free Independence

Saturday, October 7th, 2005

The Sixth Day of Madness

9:02 AM

9:02 a.m. – As I was walking through the living room, I happened to intercept a suspicious Floo from Janine. I was simply tidying up my surroundings, because I do that now, and poof—her obnoxious, pretty face popped up in the fireplace. "Jacques?" At which point she realized that it was not her gorgeous lover Jacques—it was me, the person she hates for completely irrational reasons and who wholeheartedly hates her back. "Oh," she said, not trying in the least to conceal her disappointment. "It's you." There was a short and uncomfortable silence. "Do you know where Jacques is?"

"No," I said curtly with an acidic smile. Admittedly, I have nothing to smile about, since I don't know where Jacques goes anymore, but as long as Janine doesn't know either, it's cool with me. "Actually, I don't know where Jacques is. But I can take a message?"

"Oh no, that's okay," she said, and afterwards she paused to give me a suspicious look, even though I was the one with the right to be suspicious. "Could you just tell him I floo'd?"

I nodded compliantly. "Of course."

There is no way in hell I am telling him she floo'd.

12 NOON – An owl—clearly sent from the upper echelons of heaven to save me from my doubt-filled misery! Perhaps from Jacques, revealing whereabouts and at last confessing to me his intentions with Janine… or perchance lack thereof? No, alas… is from Harry.

Alas? What the hell is wrong with me? Dear God, opening letter and attempting to talk a little sanity into myself…

Fleur,

Maybe you could come over for tea and dessert, and we could discuss what happened between us at the Weasley's?

Love,

Harry

Which is funny, because pretty much every Saturday since "what happened between us at the Weasley's," I have been over at Harry's "discussing" it. Discussing what happened at the Burrow generally includes sipping tea, making eyes at each other, trying to talk about nonsexual things like the newspaper and the weather, and Harry's prying into my relationship with Percy. It's a particularly torturous event that only a total masochist would arrange; mainly, we drink our Earl Grey (me, slowly; Harry, sensually) and try with all our might to mentally bulldoze the table between us. Last weekend, our weekly discussion consisted of: talking about a particularly fascinating Daily Prophet article, looking out the window at the clouds, and thinly-veiled questions from Harry such as "How's Percy?" and "Soooo… how are you and Percy doing?" Occasionally during these discussions, we do extremely taboo things like stand closer than a foot apart, shake hands, and (oh sweet Jesus) last week, I dropped a fork, and we both reached for it at the same time, and OUR BARE FINGERS TOUCHED. I nearly fainted…

EFFING SHAG ME.

4:00 p.m. – Back from Harry's. Started off in the usual manner, with Harry opening the door bashfully—today he was wearing a demure blue Oxford that politely asked to be ripped off instead of passive-aggressively demanding it. "Hello," he said, very Hugh Grant in Notting Hill nervous. "Um, so last week, we never really got around to actually discussing what—"

"Harry, we never really do," I laughed, walking through the open door. By deviating from the script, I had clearly flustered him, and he forgot his next lines. While he fumbled for something intelligent to say, I contemplated shagging him on his kitchen counter.

"Um… the weather… the sky… the…" Harry paused thoughtfully before coming up with an inspired ad-lib. "How's work at the Ministry going?"

"Everything's going great," I said as Harry poured out a cup of tea. How Harry can even stand to look at himself in the mirror every morning is beyond me. How on earth does he manage not to pass out at his own attractiveness? Why won't he shag me? Why is Jacques in love with Janine? Why? She's not even that pretty… she's not that nice…

"Fleur, are you okay?" Harry asked with tea in hand, stepping towards me in concern before checking himself and taking two steps backwards for fear that he might accidentally touch me.

"I'm fine," I replied, sitting down. "Everyone keeps asking me that—I'm fine." Everyone except Jacques that is, because he doesn't seem to mind that he is single-handedly destroying my emotional state. How dare he! If he's going to take this humongous step, he should at least tell me—and if he's not going to tell me, he should at least care enough to figure out if I'm dying perhaps! I sniffed indignantly at my tea and stared angrily at the crumpets.

"Fleur, you don't seem fine," Harry said, sitting down next to me, his hand grazing my knee in a way that made me want to throw myself at him. Actually, the past week has been spent in this fashion—in a mental tug-of-war beteen Screw Jacques and No, Seriously, Screw Harry. "Is it something with…Percy?"

Mon dieu, sacrebleu ! NON ! Ne posez pas cette question !

"NO, Harry it is not something with Percy—this has nothing to do with Percy whatsoever," I stated dramatically, hysterically. "This has to do with the fact that some people just won't tell other people how they're really feeling, and instead insist on hiding their emotions through a complex network of secrets and lies." I then proceeded to stare wistfully out the window on which all of our meteorological conversations were based.

Harry took hold of my hand and forced me to look at him, which caused all sorts of dizziness and vertigo at his devastating good looks. "Fleur, I know I've been unfair to you, and I suppose now is the time to make things absolutely clear. If I had my way… oh God, if I had my way, Fleur, we'd be together right now. But I can't—we can't—you're still with Percy, and we can't do this. As much as I want to—" I opened my mouth to correct him, but before I could say anything, Harry was giving me the last kiss of a lifetime, the sort of kiss that makes fireworks seem ordinary and instead sets off neon DO ME NOW signs in your head. And just as I was saying yes, Harry was already pulling away to say depressing things. "As much as I wish I could do this all the time… I can't." I started to feel a little suicidal… and worse than that, a sign of my insanity—that the instant Harry stopped kissing me, I started thinking about Jacques.

10:30 p.m. – Ugh… so Harry's refusing to touch me and therefore refusing to repeat today's "discussion," which I fear will be our last; Jacques is always writing letters, Flooing Janine, and gazing off philosophically; Renée won't stop sending me different styles of wedding invitations and asking me which one I like best; I CAN'T SLEEP. I figured that I should go to sleep early tonight, because I'm stressed and I have too much on my plate, but as it is, all I can do is toss and turn and listen to how annoyingly audible my breathing is.

11:45 p.m. – I need to know that everything will be all right… that if Jacques decides that Janine is the Renée Zellweger to his Tom Cruise, things won't change. What if he moves out… and doesn't write, or speak to me anymore? Oh dear God, I have to go make sure I don't lose him.

Day Two-Hundred-Forty-Eight of Free Independence

Sunday, October 8th, 2005

Morning Sickness

2:06 AM

2:06 a.m. – Just got back from Jacques's room. He was lying there so peacefully that I almost didn't want to wake him up… but then I realized that Jacques's well-being is the not the important part of this situation. I tiptoed over and poked his shoulder. "Jacques… Jacques… wake up…" He turned over and kicked at his sheets. Clearly not awake. "Jacques!" I hissed.

"Fleur…" he murmured, turning around again. I briefly pondered the location of my megaphone, and whether or not it would be worth it to retrieve it from the recesses of my closet. I voted, and reached the conclusion that my voice was megaphone enough.

"JACQUES!"

He jerked awake, looking around in a singularly bewildered manner. "Fleur?" he exclaimed as his eyes widened—with good reason since this was past midnight and I was already invading his personal space. "Jesus! Am I wearing pants?"

"Doesn't matter. Scoot over." So I hopped into bed with him, and he was probably mentally cursing the fact that I had ruined his hospital corners or something. "Look…" Except for Jacques looked kind of dazed and far away, even though he was right next to me, and he wasn't exactly being a stickler for eye contact. "No, seriously—look at me."

"Yeah?" he said, taking a deep breath, since conversations with me (actually, any conversations that aren't with his One True Love) are probably incredibly painful for him to participate in, requiring vast reserves of strength amassed from hours in the gym and total immunity to my insanity. "I'm looking at you." And so he was, however dazedly, considering the fact that it was about one a.m.

"Where have you been lately?" I asked tentatively, wishing I had a cup of ice to nervously crunch on, or—as I would have done otherwise—Jacques's hand to clench. Considering the fact that I had invaded his personal space in the wee hours of the morning, I decided it would have seemed clingy and frightening to grab on to his arm for dear life.

He did the shifty-eye thing again. "Um, around. I've been… you know. Tutoring stuff." Oh my God, seriously? These are the kinds of things you tell your parents when you've been doing lines off of your significant other's chest at three o'clock in the morning and they ask you how your weekend was.

"Sure?" I asked, hoping that by intensely staring at Jacques, I would somehow compel the truth to burst spontaneously out of him. Unfortunately, the truth was still at bay, so I opted for further prompting. "Because… because it feels like you're using any excuse you can to get away from me."

"No! No. You don't…" This was awkward, I suddenly realized. Why was this so awkward? "I don't want to be away from you, Fleur, it's not that. God, I want… no, it's not that I want to be away from you."

"Well…" I wasn't sure I wanted to hear him say it. Then again—maybe I need to hear him say it, so he can finally start being honest with me, and then I can go through a couple of days/months of killing myself in that same blasphemous bathroom, Janine can cheat on him with an accountant or something, and then we can all go back to normal. None of this can happen if he insists on keeping the way he feels about that lying whore a secret from me. Doesn't he get that? I thought he might, so I gave him a second chance: "Is there something else?"

"Fleur…" He paused. It looked as if he were literally biting his tongue. "No. No."

And Jacques blinked rapidly and ran his hand through his really ridiculously messy hair and listened as the second chance whizzed by…

"Look." THIRD CHANCES, PEOPLE. "You don't have to tell me what's going on or anything—I understand. But… just don't go. I need you here."

This was very Lifetime movie of me, I know.

And even though I knew he was keeping things from me, and even though I was angry at him for being so stupid and having such terrible taste in sluts, excuse me, girls, I closed my eyes and pretended it wasn't all happening. And Jacques put his arms around me the way you'd put your arms around a time bomb, and I let him hold me until I fell asleep.

Day Two-Hundred-Forty-Five of Free Independence

Saturday, October 8th, 2005

Déjà Vu

8:20 AM

8:20 a.m. – He was doing it again. I was walking past his room with no ulterior motives whatsoever when I heard him talking to himself. "I love you, I love you, I love you," he was saying—I made a few quiet gagging noises and then walked by his door again. "Tell her. No, you shouldn't tell her. If you tell her… what if she doesn't love you back. What if she loves someone else?" That bitch! Why would she love someone else? "But if she does… if she did, you would have noticed by now, or she would have said something—dropped some sort of hint. Oh, but what if she's too scared—"

I fled the scene, furious at that Janine, that whoreface Slutty-McSluttenheimer. What does she have to be scared of?

12 NOON – Floo from Renée. Urgently wanted to hide by stuffing self into laundry machine, but Jacques is being helpful and wonderful and doing the laundry for me so I won't be tempted by my self-destructive tendencies. God, that stupid… I'm running out of bad names to call Janine. Damn it. Butthead.

Anyway, Renée floo'd to make my life hell. "Oh gross," she said when she saw me, even though I actually got dressed today (okay, so it was the only thing I could rescue from the laundry basket—this crumpled grey pantsuit from the eighties that Mum sent me in the mail once she found out I had a job). "Sweetie, whatever happened to that diet of yours? All the bridesmaids' dresses we bought are size two…"

"Renée, I really do not have time for this," I said frankly, tugging at the gross grey tweed of my mum's closet purge. "I have to… um… there's some leftover filing—"

"No, there isn't," sniffed Renée, lighting up a cigarette and signing a wedding invitation at the same time. "I'm not letting you off the hook that easily. So, you know how my wedding is next June?" I nodded and watched sentimentally as Jacques carried up a load of fresh laundry—how cute. "Okay, so Aylesford is getting a wee bit suspicious after he found a black silk vest in our suite, and I'm not quite sure our caterer, Alexei, will be as nice now as he was in the elevator last Thursday. So basically, our wedding has been moved to the 18th of December! Yippee!"

"Um, Renée, that's two months from now."

"Oh, I know—that's why you have Sister Duties to attend to. I'm going to need a bridal shower and a bachelorette party, you have to not look like a cow for the next two months, and you must find Alexei someone else to do, and soon because I'm getting really sick of the lack of catering going on." She rolled her eyes, because her life is so hard.

"Renée, I know this is hard for you to realize, but I have my own life and my own problems to attend to. Jacques is falling in love with Janine, that twit of an ex-best-friend of mine? I have no idea where I stand with Harry, because I'm faking a relationship with my coworker Percy, who hasn't come out to his family yet! Do you not understand that this is nuts? My life is a wreck. I don't care what bridesmaids' dress you put me in. I don't care what color your napkins are. You can screw the caterer, the waiter, the wedding planner, the wedding singer, and the best man for all I care. I will show up at the wedding on the 18th and give you my best wishes and a blender, but I don't have time to give you 150% right now."

I took a deep breath and spent about three seconds being proud of my speech before I realized that Renée was staring at me in deadly, intense silence.

"Fleur," she began slowly in one of those frightening Meryl Streep-esque hisses, "I know that this is hard for you to realize, but the fact that your life is a pathetic black hole filled with failed romances and homosexual farcical romps really doesn't interest me. Somehow you are going to get your fat ass out of that hideous pantsuit and drag it to the gym. You are going to fit into that dress, and even though it's lavender and will make you look like an Easter egg, you're going to like it. You are not going to get me a blender; you're going to get me a heartfelt and possibly jewel-encrusted token of the enduring sisterly love we've shared since childhood. And if I feel like it, I will screw the caterer, the waiter, the wedding planner, the wedding singer, and the best man, because this is my wedding, and I will do whatever the hell I want. And I when I ask you to distract and possibly bang Alexei, you will say, 'How hard?' Got me?"

I gulped, getting that familiar feeling that my sometimes-maniacal, neurotic older sister would actually whip out her wand and Imperius me into doing her bidding and that if I crossed her, she'd probably just kill me. She'd always wanted to be an only child.

"Um, fine—"

"Good. Now I don't know or care what you wear to work out, but I have a feeling that a fashion felony from twenty years ago isn't exactly a standard uniform for a four-mile run. I want to see you five pounds lighter two weeks from now, ten by November." She had the air of a general explaining complex military strategy to a fourth-grader. "I can't have people judging me based on my pudgy little sister. If I don't feel that you're giving this endeavor the utmost attention and concern, I'll leak your little sob story to The Snitch Report. I'm sure they'd love to hear about you playing house with a flaming Ministry worker. Percy, was it?"

Merde. "Renée—"

"Oh save it, you bore me—just go," Renée sighed, tossing her infuriatingly blonde hair and sampling a slice of wedding cake. "You keep up your end of the deal and I'll keep mum about your darling little fruitcake."

4:00 p.m. - Affolé d'Affaires Courant

Name: Fleur Delacour

Height: 5 foot 8

Weight: 140…. Uh-oh. So that's 135 by the 22nd and 130 by November? Salaud.

Hair: Blonde.

Eyes: Blue.

Lust Situation: Would be totally resolved if Harry would just do me. But I suppose that's not new, is it?

Pilates Minutes: 15 and then I gave up, because my non-abs were on fire, and I thought I should probably call a doctor.

Orlie-thinking Minutes: Couldn't stop thinking about Harry, which made me inevitably upset; couldn't stop thinking about Jacques, which made me more upset. Instead decided to focus on a neutral party, so: 127.

Jude-thinking Minutes: 34. Got bored of brunettes.

HP-thinking Minutes: Forever. Why does this category continue to exist?

HG glares: Zero, I've been hiding.

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 365 to 1. The carefully orchestrated mating dance Harry and I seem to be doing is ridiculous, painful, and causing lust spikes like no other.

Overall Day: DEATH.

6:00 p.m. – "Fleur," Jacques calls the instant I walk in the door, "I was a little too busy to make dinner tonight—do you wanna order in?"

After a productive day of whites, brights, and colors, no wonder Jacques didn't have time to cook. It dawns on me suddenly that I let Jacques be my maid whenever he comes home, and I just sit around feeling sorry for myself while he takes care of me all the time. I swear, if he doesn't stop looking at me like that, like he wants to just take care of me forever, I will move out.

"Um, sure." I flop down on the couch, fully aware that Jacques is still making worried-eyes at me, as if he's worried I'll stumble upon some vast secret or is waiting for me to suddenly explode with anger and do something crazy—in the manner of an abusive partner or similar.

"Chinese?" he offers, sitting down next to me.

"Oh, I can't have rice… or noodles… or anything with carbs. I'm on a diet."

"Can't that diet start tomorrow?" he smiled, tossing me menu.

I caught the menu and threw it on the coffee table. "No, I have to lose fifteen pounds pronto," I said resolutely, thinking of Percy, how mortified he would be to see his personal life splashed across Page Four, a campy story of how I was once again lying and pretending my way through England with Percy as a casualty of war.

"Fleur…" Jacques shifts, facing forward, looking out the window. "You shouldn't be on a diet," he says stubbornly, looking at his hands. "You're beautiful," he mumbles.

I suddenly feel as if I'm going to cry, so I quickly kiss Jacques on the cheek—so quickly that Jacques seems to start, and I go to my room, and I lock the door.

Day Two-Hundred-Forty-Eight of Free Independence

Tuesday, October 11th, 2005

Causing Concern

9:15 AM

9:15 a.m. – "Fleur," Percy begins, looming over my desk as he so rarely does, green silk tie flapping gallantly in the light breeze of the Ministry's drafty second floor. "You're crying into a bag of telephones."

"No, I'm not," I sniffed, grabbing a tissue and yanking an ancient rotary phone out of the sack, not really caring how many Muggles lost their hearing after using it. I was calm and composed for several seconds. I blew my nose and threw the wadded-up tissue in the trash can, wiped my eyes, and blinked expectantly at Percy. "See? I'm fine."

He stared. I started bawling.

12 NOON – Percy ended up sitting with me underneath my desk (so that officials such as Mr. Twycross wouldn't pop over and read us the riot act over our lack of worker productivity) while I ruined seven of his embroidered handkerchiefs. I was gulping, I was gasping, I was wailing. It was terrible. "Percy," I was saying, "the other night, he was trying so hard to be nice to me, and he was being so wonderful, and I realized that I can't do this, Percy. I can't let him leave."

Percy dabbed at my eyes and looked pensive. "Then maybe you should tell him how you feel?"

"What?" I replied. "I should say, 'Sorry, Jacques, but the idea of you confessing your love to your girlfriend makes me want to put a fork through my own eye. Could you, like, not love her? Thanks.' I mean, I want him to be happy, just not with… her." I looked at Percy and saw that he was giving me a look, one of those looks that say: maybe this is where a psychiatrist should intervene or perhaps a psychic. "I know that sounds selfish, and I am being selfish, because who is going to be with me when he leaves? Who's going to make dinner, and who am I going to have witty banter with? For God's sake, who's going to entertain my childish notions with a certain amount of humor and disdain—who's going to gently tell me that I'm acting like a five-year-old without actually making me feel like crap? What am I going to do? I feel like if he left, I would be kind of… empty."

"I'm sure he wouldn't leave completely," Percy insisted. "He's your best friend—I don't think he would drop out of your life entirely just because he's decided he's in love with this Janine character. Maybe he would stay over less often, move back in with her—" I gasped suddenly at the mention of this prospect and Percy paused, alarmed. "Um, well, only if they got more serious. And it's not as if he'll stop thinking about you or anything like that—he won't forget about you—"

"Oh, Percy, of course he'll stop thinking about me. He stops thinking about me whenever he's with her. When he was staying with her all of August, he barely even spoke to me! It's almost like he's trying to forget me, or she's trying to make him forget me. I just… I…"

"Fleur, you know what I think?" Percy said finally, after a long silence. "I think that you might not want to admit it to yourself, but…" He paused again as I wiped my eyes and looked up at him. "Um, actually… you need a break, I think, from all of this… stress. Come with me to the Ministry Halloween Party."

"Hmm?" Excuse me? The Ministry hosts Halloween parties? Oh God, they're probably like extreme versions of Model UN conferences, and people think it's especially hilarious if you can do a great impression of the Secretary General.

"No, I promise it will be fun!" he beamed, his adorable freckled face flushing with color. "Everyone dresses up, some people coordinate their costumes, and we discuss various political…" He must have noticed my eyes beginning to glaze over. "And there's lots of alcohol, and sometimes people make out on Cornelius's desk."

Yippee! I sniffed. "Could we, um… could we be one of those couples that coordinates their costumes?" I started to picture Percy and I going as one of history's great loves, like Marc Antony and Cleopatra or Romeo and Juliet… or probably more fittingly, Liza Minnelli and David Gest. WE COULD GO AS LINDSAY LOHAN AND HER COKE HABIT. (Is it wrong that I kind of love her and want her to get her life together so that it's okay for me to like her again?)

"Yeah, yeah," said Percy, picking himself off the floor and leaning back on my desk. "We can do whatever you want. I just want you to be happy. I really owe you."

"You'll think of someway to repay me," I joked, getting up off the floor. Let me just say: the look on Arthur Weasley's face when he saw my head rising up from the vicinity of Percy's well-pressed khaki pants… well, that was priceless. That being said, I wanted to immediately commit suicide.

"Um, hi, Mr. Weasley," I said awkwardly.

"Oh… hi," he smiled amiably, looking uncomfortable. "Um… I'll let you two kids get back to—"

"Oh! No—"

I turned to Percy as Percy was turning to me, and we both spontaneously collapsed into a fit of giggles.

Day Two-Hundred-Fifty-One of Free Independence

Friday, October 14th, 2005

Playing Dress Up

9:15 AM

9:15 a.m. – I don't think Percy quite anticipated the ramifications of agreeing to coordinate our costumes. I was doing some brainstorming, as well as polling various coworkers of mine, and you would be surprised what couples' costumes have trotted through this Ministry! I was expecting the usual Marie and Pierre Curie, Voltaire and Emilie du Chatelet, Napoleon and Josephine, or maybe Victoria and Albert if we're going be all English about it. Apparently, people here really "push the envelope" as Percy put it… Apparently some ministry workers don't leave much to the imagination. Not to sound like a slut or anything, but I have a feeling that I am going to be one of those ministry workers.

10:30 a.m. – All right, I've run through the first draft of potential costumes, and will pitch it to Percy over lunch. I'm thinking: We could go as Robin Hood and Maid Marion! Percy could wear tights and prance around and have a bow and arrow—boys love bows and arrows—and no one would suspect that he swings in the other direction! And I could wear one of those elaborate old-timey costumes with humongous sleeves. It would be lovely and totally campy and great.

OR: We could go as Peter Pan and Tinkerbell. Okay, to be quite honest, I was always kind of disappointed in the way Peter Pan treated Wendy. He blatantly ignored how much Wendy totally wanted him, for which I don't blame Tinkerbell—however short that skirt was and however ambiguous her and Peter's relationship might have been—I blame Tiger Lily. I mean, that was a stripper name if I ever heard one, and what guy can resist short, shredded skirts and feathers? I mean, what else can you expect from a boy who refuses to grow up?

Pros to this costume: I get to wear a cute little dress that's appropriately sparkly and involves wings, and my shoes will have curlicues on them. It would be darling. Also, I think there are very appropriate parallels between moi and Percy and Tinkerbell and Peter. I'm the sidekick who's always getting into trouble and who doesn't actually say intelligible things—Tink is mute, and I blubber incomprehensible words of despair under random desks. Peter Pan is a boy waging war with an obnoxious, bearded old man (totally Mr. Twycross, who really should have his hand swallowed by a crocodile) who likes to fly off to Never-Never-Land and frolic with other boys—yeah, I'm going to stop the comparison right there. Percy would wear… Okay, it totally doesn't matter what Percy wears. I'm the one with the infatuated roommate here—Percy will wear what matches.

Or, still, we could go as great loves! He could go as Antony and I could go as Cleopatra! This sounds even better than it did on Tuesday! I could wear lots of gold lamé, bangles, and gaudy eye makeup; Percy could wear a toga, or one of those delightful helmets, or whatever it is that Roman generals wear. We could go as Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston, and maybe if Janine shows up to complete this triangle, she can be a total psycho vampire-skank who's only pretending to be a good person—oh WAIT!

I'm being cruel. But she freaking deserves it. Knowing Janine, she'll probably show up with Jacques's blood in a vial around her neck, after having banged him in a freaking limo on the way to the party, where she'll hop into bed with Percy and reveal that he's not gay, it's just impossible for anyone to be sexually attracted to me. And then I'll date John Mayer!

Anyway, must confer with Percy about his tights policy.

12 NOON – Lunch with Percy. Percy's main concern seems to be whether or not our costumes will be taken, which, if we go the Peter Pan route, they totally won't be. Percy's other concerns include:

"Fleur, what if people suspect my…?"

"Gayness?" I add, delving into my salad—which I am pretending to enjoy now that Renée is threatening to out my un-boyfriend if I don't lose fifteen pounds by her freaking wedding. I feel like Little J, and Percy is my non-bitch version of Asher.

"SHHHHHHHH," Percy hisses, as if the fact that he is actually putting one finger to his mouth isn't already tipping everybody off. I have also got to tell him to stop talking flamboyantly with his hands.

"Don't worry about it, Perce," I assure him, pretending to love the taste of vinaigrette. I'm dipping my fork into it and not draping it all over my disgusting Ministry half-green lettuce, of course. Seriously, can't I lose three pounds like right now, just for how good I'm being? "If things get really bad, and Brian the Intern starts giving you the eye, I'll just make out with you in a very obnoxious way that says: 'No questioned sexuality here!' It'll be fine."

"Right," Percy nods, picking a stray piece of lint off of his argyle sweater. He leans forward and rests his chin on his fist, the way they make you do in cutesy Bambi-themed portraits when you're five. I should probably remind him to stop doing that too. "And what if the BWL sees?" I'm very proud that Percy has started calling Harry the BWL, but incredibly alarmed at the nature of this question.

I stare, goggle-eyed, at Percy—horrified that he would even bring up the subject of Harry, as if he's completely forgotten my fragile emotional state. I backtrack into denial and feigned flippancy. "Why should I care if Harry sees? He thinks we're in a relationship anyway—nothing's going to happen," I remember wistfully, wondering if Harry could "look for a napkin" again and we could be one of those couples who makes out on Cornelius's desk.

"That's interesting, because as I recall, you two were behaving rather intimately on my breakfast table," snorted Percy as I turned a shade of crimson that Jacques would recognize.

"I WAS MOSTLY CLOTHED," I corrected loudly (as various Ministry officials who actually have the sense to have a working lunch glared at me inquisitively), which was mostly true. "Besides, Harry… Harry's being really stupid right now, and he won't just undress me, because he's too decent of a person, so even if he loses his self-control long enough to, say… blow my—mind, Percy, I saw that look, you dirty boy—over a breakfast table, he certainly won't lose his senses long enough to actually be with me."

"You'd be surprised what the Ministry Halloween Party leads to every year," Percy says mysteriously, with only the faintest air of prudish disapproval, which makes me wonder exactly what Percy has been doing at these annual Ministry parties, and whether or not my presence there will hinder any other activities that may occur on or under Cornelius's desk. "Semper paratus," Percy says, finally returning back to Earth after a few moments spent in some recollection in God knows where—perhaps on cloud nine?

"Be faithful?" That might be too much to ask—especially if Harry shows up looking as unintentionally sexy as I've trained him to be.

"No—be prepared."

5:00 p.m. – I have this horrible feeling that Percy's right, and I should be prepared for this party—because whether or not Harry can control himself is up in the air, but I'm almost positive that I can't control myself any longer. How long have I been lusting after him? It feels like it's been forever, and we're finally on the brink of something, and I think all it would take is one push… Maybe I should stop waiting for someone to push me?

7:45 p.m. – Jacques made me dinner, which was very lovely of him, but I couldn't concentrate on any of it, because my head was swimming with thoughts of his beloved Janine and what I'm going to do about Harry, and the last thing on my mind is steak frites. My eyes just wandered around the room for what felt like hours before finally landing back on Jacques, who was saying something that I'm sure was wonderful about our friendship. He was wearing that sweater that I bought him back in our Sixth Year, and I remember thinking he was sick, because it was absolutely freezing in the apartment, and he was turning red. Or maybe that was the candlelight. This horrible sense of dread just flooded through me—it started at my toes, and by the time Jacques started talking about the three of us, how great we were together—me, him, and Janine—my head was so consumed with fear that I wanted to scream.

"And, God, Fleur, that just brings me to what I wanted to say," he was saying, practically clutching the tablecloth, trying to catch my eye as I tried to find a conveniently located window to look out of. "I mean… Look, Fleur, there's something that I really have to tell you—and I don't know if you already know, and I know I was gone a long time, and I know this will probably be hard for you, but I have to tell you—you're my best friend, Fleur—and—"

I actually thought I was going to throw up. I couldn't do it. I couldn't listen to Jacques talk about how much he's in love with Janine and watch him drift away from me.

"Don't," I said abruptly, and I think I sounded scared or upset, because Jacques looked alarmed. "Okay? Just don't. I know what you have to say, and I'm sorry, but I can't hear it, okay? I know it sounds selfish, but trust me: it would ruin things for you and me."

There was a remarkably long silence, and I thought he was going to yell at me or storm off and leave, but he just swallowed hard and said: "Okay. Um… yeah. I guess I should have… Okay." He started clearing the plates away immediately, and he blew out the candles, and I felt like a huge bitch—but it would have ruined everything, I know it would have, and now he realizes that if he's going to be with Janine, then I want no part of it. He paused at the sink and looked back at me. "Can we… can we just never talk about this again?"

That is absolutely fine with me.

Day Two-Hundred-Fifty-Seven of Free Independence

Thursday, October 20th, 2005

Being Awkward

6:15 AM

6:15 a.m. – All right, so Jacques is not happy with me. I think I realized that was going to happen. However, I did not realize that this meant that I could no longer speak to him, because that is what seems to be happening. He tiptoes around me all the time, and it's driving me crazy, because stopping him from telling me about Janine was supposed to save our friendship, not ruin it.

7:00 a.m. – "I'm, um, going to work," I announce quietly to an unusually silent and spotless apartment. Ever since Friday, Jacques has just been cleaning every surface of the apartment, like he wants to erase me or something. Right now, he's dealing with the kitchen sink, and therefore does not have the capacity to multitask and speak to me. "Okay, fine," I mumble, heading out the door.

12 NOON – "He's not speaking to me, Percy," I explain, gesturing in violent despair with my fork. "When he does it's: 'I already did the laundry, Fleur,' or 'Dinner's in the fridge, Fleur,' or 'I'm charming the dust out of this rug, could you not walk on it, Fleur?' I told him I didn't want to hear about his stupid girlfriend—NO, his stupid hook up buddy—and now he won't talk to me. What the hell did I do?"

Percy sighs. "Are you sure that's what he wanted to talk to you about?" he asks, probably exhausted by this conversation, one which we have been having on repeat for the past week, like an overplayed song on the radio. He's probably unbelievably sick of me and would rather be checking out more new interns.

"I'm positive, Percy—what else would he be talking about?"

"I think you need to have a conversation with him," says Percy thoughtfully, "about where you two stand now. You're going to go crazy if you don't." I paused hesitantly, the way five-year-olds do before proclaiming I don't wanna and then bursting into tears. "Fleur, if you don't talk to him, I'll have to—and I think we both agree that that's a terrible idea."

Talk to him? So much easier said than done.

Day Two-Hundred-Sixty-Two of Free Independence

Tuesday, October 25th, 2005

Passing Notes in Class

12 NOON

12 NOON – I still haven't talked to Jacques. I have instead been distracting myself by passing by Harry's apartment a lot, biting my fingernails to shreds, staring mournfully at old pictures of me and Jacques, and assuring Percy that: "Yes, of course, I've talked to Jacques. What makes you think I've been lounging on the couch sobbing all day? My mascara is not running!"

4:35 – Affolé d'Affaires Courant

Name: Fleur Delacour

Height: 5 foot 8

Weight: 135… going down, very slowly, creeping towards a state of not obesity. Great, so I am no longer considered the elephant in the room in my apartment. That spot is occupied by Friday's dinner.

Hair: Blonde.

Eyes: Blue.

Lust Situation: Terrible. With regards to Harry, lust has become MUST.

Pilates Minutes: 2 freaking hours, just to distract me from the fact that I now live in a gleaming, immaculate mausoleum or library, where no one can speak, and I can only sneak around while Jacques sullenly grades papers in his room. It feels like something died in the apartment on Friday, and we're both tiptoeing around a coffin.

Orlie-thinking Minutes: 90. Day-dreaming can be a good cure for total, irreparable life turmoil.

Jude-thinking Minutes: 231.

HP-thinking Minutes: All the time.

HG glares: Only once, when I was lurking too conspicuously in the hall outside of Harry's apartment, and she popped her head out of Ron's apartment (I guess she's still staying with him, thank GOD) and looked at me as if I had risen directly from hell and had just taken the elevator up to her floor.

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 34 to 5.

Overall Day: The appalling awkwardness of my living situation, combined with the pressure from my coworker to deal with the awkwardness of my living situation, compounded upon the fact that I am desperate to be on top of Harry right now brings my day right up to a negative 2.

10 p.m. – I have just done something remarkably brave. I have slipped a note underneath Harry's door. SHUT UP. I know it's very fourth grade, but this is the best I can do! I am in the fourth grade, and Janine has cooties, and I don't want Jacques touching her! However, Harry has had more than enough cootie shots—I mean, he's immune to everything, including deadly curses—and he can do anything to me he likes. Um, well. Maybe fourth graders don't think quite like that.

Anyway, the note read—get ready for this: Are you going to the Ministry Halloween Party? Fleur.

I KNOW, RIGHT? So brave.

Merde, I'm about ten years old.

10:45 p.m. – Note from Harry—also slipped under my door, which I was monitoring carefully just in case, retrieving said note while Jacques was sleeping in the confines of his bedroom, where he was been for seemingly two weeks. It reads: If you'll be there? Oh dear. Could it be possible that Harry wants to be on top of me as much as I want to be under him?

Writing note back immediately. Or perhaps I should put this on time-delay, so that Harry doesn't think that I'm actually so desperate as to have sat by the door, patiently waiting for his reply. Will send note back in ten minutes. Hm. Well, it took him forty-five to send it. Maybe I should send it in one hour, to imply that I want him 15 minutes less than he wants me. Well maybe not fifteen minutes less—that's a little cold. I'll want him 7.5 minutes less than he wants me.

11:37 p.m. – Wouldn't miss it for the world. I'll be Tinkerbell—and you'll be…? Fleur.

11:50 p.m. – Anything you want me to be. Harry.

MIDNIGHT– I am now wanting him five minutes less than he wants me, and sending over a note in eight minutes saying: Then you'll be going as Harry James Potter? Fleur.

12:13 a.m. – The one who's desperate to see you? Harry.

12:20 a.m. – I definitely want him at least two minutes less than he wants me. Definitely. That might be the one. It depends. How desperate exactly is this Harry Potter to see me? Fleur.

12:22 a.m. – Desperately enough to be at your door right now. Harry.

Day Two-Hundred-Sixty-Eight of Free Independence

Monday, October 31st, 2005 – Halloween

Thanking God, A Lot

6:27 AM

6:27 a.m. – Thank GOD, Jacques was asleep. Of course, I opened the door. I think it's fair and not at all an exaggeration to say that Harry leapt on me. He nearly threw me against the door—it's a wonder that Jacques didn't wake up—and I think I'm not guilty of hyperbole if I say that I leapt on him too. We couldn't keep making out in the doorway, of course—the doorknob was digging into my back—so we made out on the dinner table (we, um, couldn't exactly tear ourselves away from each other long enough to get to the couch) for about nine years, periodically removing articles of clothing until I thought I heard Jacques's footsteps, threw Harry off of me, and told him I'd see him at the Halloween party—probably wearing more clothes than his particular state of undress at that moment.

I never thought I'd say "thank God it's Monday," but…

8:12 a.m. – Then again, why should Jacques care what I do with Harry? He's not even involved enough in my life to care, now, is he? As a matter of fact, he's not involved enough in my life to even really make eye contact with me. The closest we've come to a real conversation was this morning, when I said: "Don't worry about breakfast—I did the dishes," and he replied: "Thanks." Honestly, it's like, he looks at me for two and half seconds, and then he realizes that the mere sight of me wants him want to kill himself, so he goes back to awkwardly pushing his sleeves up and down.

Well. Who cares? Right? He's got… Janine, and I have Harry. Ish. I mostly have Harry in that sometimes he comes over and we make out. Oh dear God, am I Harry's hook-up buddy? Regardless. If Jacques wants Janine, I want Harry, and the whole world is at a happy equilibrium; actual conversations between Jacques and myself would only upset the happy equilibrium that we have reached through means that are assez désagréable but nonetheless effective. Okay. So I just won't talk to Jacques, and he won't talk to me, and as long as we keep our lips otherwise occupied, we won't run the risk of violating our tacit agreement.

Oh my God, Percy would be so proud of me for saying "tacit agreement."

12 NOON – So Percy was not even remotely proud of me for my use of the words "tacit agreement." In fact, Percy is not even at lunch today. Percy is "really busy with some official stuff, Fleur—I've got to, um, take some files… to another office." What? What other office? Complex network of secrets and lies, I tell you, secrets and lies.

OOH. Maybe Percy's just being secretive about the fabulous curly-toed shoes he bought for our Peter Pan costume—I knew he would be a little self-conscious about that; he probably had a nice pair special ordered, and he's dashing off to make sure that his owl has delivered them in time. Oh, Perce, totally unaware that I have his costume totally covered. Yesterday, after work, in (what was totally not) an effort to avoid making eye contact with Jacques, whose looks can now be described as alarmingly pained, like Edward Cullen smelling Bella's "outrageous flavor" in Biology, I went shopping.

I purchased this totally fabulous strapless silver dress—maybe a little too short, but it's a Halloween party! Also, Percy and I are breaking up today, so I thought I should "be prepared." And I'm wearing tights, so it's okay. And I have a pair of silver curly-toed shoes to match the ones that Percy's ordering, plus a pair of wings. My wand also glows in the dark now, which I thought might be helpful.

You know. In case it gets dark. Which it might. Under Cornelius's desk. I mean, not to imply that I'm going to end up there or anything, but… Harry's going to be there, and right now, I'd really like to not think about Percy, or Renée, or Jacques and that stupid whore he thinks he's in love with—I'd really much rather be under Cornelius's desk with Harry.

5:20 p.m. – Do you want to hear something crazy suspicious? So, as I was dashing back to the apartment to mentally prepare myself for a night of debauchery at the Ministry Halloween Party, who should I find racing out of my apartment but a certain Percy Weasley? "Um, hi, Percy?" I said, raising my eyebrows (because I'm not skilled enough to raise just one) in a manner that said: Care to tell me what's going on?

"Oh, hey, Fleur," said Percy, in a very anxiously nonchalant way, as if he'd just run up a flight of stairs and was now pretending that he'd just been on a casual stroll. "I was just dropping by to check that… our costumes matched well. But then Jacques let me know that they do… in fact… match… well… so! That's that! Ha-ha!" laughed Percy inanely. There was an awkward and distrustful pause. "I'm going to go."

"You do that, Perce."

Okay, so Jacques will talk to my high-strung gay coworker and not me? Seriously?

7:30 p.m. – So I took an extra long shower, extremely pissed and unwilling to speak to the shady character sitting in the kitchen poring over Japanese notes. Eventually, I started to feel bad for the environment (even though those polar bears sometimes eat their young…), so I hopped out of the shower, grabbed my towel, and headed for my room. On the way there though, Jacques's freaking face stopped me. He's being very moody today—forest green is a nice choice of sweater color, because no one's going to accuse you of being moody for wearing it, yet, he was rocking it in the most sullen of ways—black coat slung over the chair behind him, super dark jeans, black shoes, his freaking messy hair in his face. Mm-hm. Very moody. And so sullen, especially the way lighting was falling on his chiseled features—I got very upset. So I was standing in the doorway to the kitchen in my towel, glaring at him, until he at long last looked up and said: "What?"

"You're making me hate you," I replied succinctly.

"Really?" Jacques breathed. I say breathed and not "said" because he literally just exhaled this word, as if he'd been holding his breath since October 14th.

"Yeah," I replied eloquently. "And it sucks, because as mad as I get at you sometimes," I continued, dragging my left foot back and forth on the carpet, "I've never come close to hating you."

Jacques, literally, almost laughed. Like one of those "I'm laughing because five minutes from now I'm going to kill myself" laughs. "Fleur, I've never come close to hating you either."

"You have a funny way of showing it," I said, rushing to my room and shutting the door.

8:45 p.m. – So it's taken a good hour and fifteen minutes for me to get ready, but now I have an awkward fifteen minutes before Percy comes to pick me up that I need to spend avoiding Jacques. Perhaps I should spend said time coming up with a definitive game plan for tonight. Percy and I have already figured out the first half: The Break-Up. It's a very elaborate set-up; Percy should write screenplays. Basically, we will walk in, all body language coldness—he'll be very "come here," and I'll be very "don't touch me." And after ten minutes of me avoiding him, he will come over, super macho, super aggressive (hopefully Percy is a good actor), and be very Bradley Cooper, i.e. very dickish and unnecessarily affronted. "What is your problem, Fleur?" he will hiss, only very masculinely. "I don't have a problem," I'll say, coolly and cruelly, playing to the public image of me as Frosty-the-Snow-Bitch. "Is there somebody else?" This Percy will say loudly, at the most punctuated silence; I will give him an evasive look, down my martini, and migrate elusively into Harry's hearing range. Percy, naturally, will follow me to ask me again, desperately and indignantly: "Is there? Somebody else?" And I'll say: "Yes, Percy, there is," very exasperated, and the ice queen exterior will melt for a second, as if I am about to cry, wracked with guilt. "I can't help it. I just... this isn't working. This... it's over, Percy." To avoid any sort of "poor Percy" backlash, Percy will have to have a very dickish reaction to this, i.e. "You're going to regret this, Fleur Delacour. Your life in the ministry is over!"

I know. It's a little melodramatic, but I thought it would be cute, and Percy wants an opportunity to flourish his cape dramatically. After this, Percy will furiously bolt out the door (probably with Intern Brian), and I will stand thoughtfully like a wounded but resolute gazelle on the African savannah, waiting for a very attractive and heroic lion to pounce on her.

Seriously. It can't go wrong. Besides, I look pretty good tonight, if I do say so myself. I have never succeeded in making my hair look as romantic yet just-shagged as it does tonight—think Penelope Cruz in Vicky Christina Barcelona, very mussed, very wild, but in a really good way—like "I'm just tragically beautiful like this, don't question it." The eye makeup is fantastic. I had to look up so many spells, and I was terrified that the eyelash curler was going to take me out, since it was basically doing all the work itself, but I can kind of see in both eyes, so all is well. Plus, I read somewhere that Harry's favorite flavor is cherry (which I think is a little gross, but he can do whatever he wants), so I'm being Katy Perry tonight, very "the taste of her Cherry Chapstick." I kissed the Boy Who Lived, and I liked it? Absolument.

And I've lost like five pounds already, so this short silver sparkly Roxie Hart dress doesn't look too shabby on me, I don't think. So hopefully, I won't be standing alone on the African savannah of the Ministry of Magic for too long.

Fabulous. J'émerge!

9:00 p.m. – And so, I emerged. Right on time, Percy knocked on the door, and I surged past Jacques in a desperate effort not to seem at all affected by his presence. I opened the door for my soon-to-be ex-fake-boyfriend, and Percy came into view, and mon dieu, our shoes matched perfectly. Sometimes I really love life.

"Fleur, you look gorgeous," Percy said, and I was really happy that he didn't say gorge this time, because that is a red flag if I ever heard one. Percy inexplicably shot Jacques a look, and it occurred to me that perhaps his conversation with Jacques extended beyond costumes and my horrendous cooking skills. "Are you ready for this?" he asked, turning his attention back to me.

I snapped my gaze away from Jacques, who was staring at me in what appeared to be befuddlement and regret. "Hm?" Ah yes, the Ministry Halloween Party. "Mais oui, cheri! Showtime."

12 MIDNIGHT – When I said Showtime, I didn't mean like the channel. Like a drama-filled, sex-filled twenty-four-hour orgy set in 16th century England with mothers who sell pot. That's not what I meant at all.

Needless to say, the plan went all wrong. The first hint should have been that Percy forgot his wand at my apartment. "Oh God, I'm sorry, Fleur," he said, standing outside the door to the party, adjusting his forest green Peter Pan hat. The red plume complemented his hair perfectly, which was a shame, since no one was going to see it.

"Do you have to go back? It doesn't matter. And besides, my costume will look ridiculous without you!" There's something about standing alone at a party clad in a too-short silver mini-dress that doesn't scream seduction, but rather, desperation.

Percy patted my head in a loving fashion usually bestowed upon small dogs, completely misreading my worries. "Well, with all due respect, Fleur, I don't think anyone here knows who Peter Pan and Tinkerbell are."

Um, what? "Don't be ridiculous, Percy—it was a very popular play like a thousand years ago," I retorted. "And I'm sure some people have read the book, right? It's very amusing from a wizarding standpoint." I decided not to add the point about Johnny Depp.

"In any case, darling, I have to go back and get my wand," he said, looking quite apologetic and quite… dishonest, actually. "I feel dreadfully insecure without it. But please don't wander away; I think there's something very important you should know."

"Well, tell me now," I said, tapping my curlicue shoes on the parquet floors of the Ministry foyer. Somehow it seems that whenever I go to a party, I end up freezing, alone, and wearing a dress that in hindsight seems altogether inappropriate.

"Mm, no—I think it will all make better sense when I return," Percy said cryptically. I swear, he was much more open before I met him—but it seems all the men in my life thrive on confusing me.

I allowed Worst Boyfriend Ever to disappear into the night and contemplated my entrance. Clearly, I was in no position to make Hermione Granger's "Madonna" entrance (the holy one, not the slutty one)—but at least no one would be watching me walk in. I could slip into the party unnoticed, and then wait until Percy came back so that we could break up. I would simply open and close the door very quietly, and mingle with the old stuffy gentlemen I knew from work until Perce rescued me. No one would see me. My dress wasn't that short. Harry probably wasn't there yet. Fine. Absolutely fine.

But then I opened the door, and stuffy old men were nowhere to be found. Instead, the room seemed to be overflowing with wait staff carrying enormous trays overloaded with champagne flutes, Marie Antoinettes cavorting carelessly with their Louis 16s, Prince Charleses holding hands with their Revenge Dress Dianas and making out with their horsey Camillas, mischievous angels chasing after scantily-clad devils, and quite a few ironic hipsters sporting HP scars on their acne-ridden foreheads. What in the name of sweet Jesus? The Ministry had gone decidedly mad. And dead ahead of me were four people I was least excited to see: (1) Remus Lupin, dressed inexplicably as a sheep, probably thinking that everyone would laugh and shriek "HAHAA, it's funny cos he's a WOLF—HAAAAA," which a few drunk people did; (2) Severus Snape, who is being crazy post-modern, and came as himself—or, maybe, an executioner; (3) Hermione Effing Granger, dressed as Maid Marion because that bitch is always one-upping me on the virginal thing, which is UNFAIR, since she is TOTALLY not a virgin, and I am SO JEALOUS, and her costume makes perfect sense considering: (4) Harry Potter, dressed like sex in his Robin Hood costume. Nice. Hat. Cary Elwes isn't the only man who can pull off tights.

So um. My first instinct was to get drunk. So I grabbed a Bellini off of the first tray I could reach, and drained it in a record seven seconds, leaving the waiter judging me mercilessly, to which I mentally responded with: "You are a waiter. Stop judging me. I'm not the one wearing a silk man-vest and waiting for my acting career to take off." My second instinct was to hide, but the coat room was blocked by undesirable people, so I looked frantically around and darted straight for the bathroom.

Pull yourself together, Fleur, I advised myself sternly in the bathroom mirror. Your eye-makeup is holding up beautifully, your thighs have almost stopped looking like baby orcas, and Harry Freaking Potter said he wants to be with you. So what if he's coordinated costumes with that evil bushy-haired psycho you hate—she probably caught a glimpse of it when he was bringing it back to his apartment. Whatever. So what if this bathroom-mirror dialogue is reminding you sharply of your early-October encounter with your now-distant best friend? Whatever. His loss. So what if Percy has been gone for all of five minutes and you already feel like dying? GET IT TOGETHER. Take a deep breath and remember the sage words of Lady Gaga: "Just dance. It'll be okay."

And so I did. I emerged from the bathroom as I emerge from all things, like a radiant butterfly stepping out of her chrysalis into a bright new world filled with hope and iniquity. I embraced this iniquity and stepped confidently out into the room, humming: "I've had a little bit too much... all of the people start to rush..."

In particular, Draco Malfoy was rushing at me. I have no idea why God insists on torturing me with his consistent presence. From what I could ascertain, Draco was either dressed as Chuck Bass or the Joker, though neither of these options made any sort of sense. Maybe he just wanted an opportunity to wear purple? Or to grab my arm, pull me close, and absolutely nauseate me?

"Fleur?" he said fervently into my ear.

"Um, yes?" I said, panicked.

"We can never be."

And at that moment, my heart didn't shatter into a thousand little pieces. I decided it was wisest to just say nothing.

"I'm with Pansy now," he explained wistfully. "Snape told me you were interested, but I only date women of pure wizard heritage."

"I have to pee," I said, wrenching my arm away from him, and trying to think of a direction to walk in that wouldn't result in horror or pain. Glancing at the gilt clock on the wall, I prayed that Percy would show up in the next five minutes. How long could it possibly take to pick up a wand? God, you'd think he was passing along urgent messages, like some spy involved in some covert operation.

"Fleur, wait!" Draco exclaimed. Hatred really doesn't cut it anymore, does it? "Despite my... relationship... with Pansy," Draco began—the long pause explaining everything: clearly, what he had with Pansy was really more like a shag-and-run, a quasi-comitted hook-up relationship, if you will. "I feel very possessive of you," he said slowly and intensely, as if he were trying to burn a hole in my face with his eyes.

"Am I supposed to find that sexy?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

I have no idea what Draco has been watching that has him convinced that what a girl really wants is a pale, stalkerish, slightly obsessive boyfriend, but about three things I was absolutely positive. (1) That Draco was choosing the sketchiest method of seduction possible, (2) that Harry was relentless eye-sexing me from across the room, and (3) that I was irrevocably and uncontrollably interested in letting him do whatever he wanted to me. Seriously.

Suddenly, all those things that normally sound like terrible, self-destructive ideas seemed incredibly logical, and I turned to Draco and announced loudly: "I'm going to get my coat."

Approximately 2.5 minutes later: Wish I could shut my playboy mouth... how'd I turn my shirt inside out?

I'll tell you how: I got stuck in a coat closet with Harry James Potter, that's how. If we're going to be blatantly dishonest, I have never put much thought into how I would lose my virginity. But Harry Potter seemed like a good way to go. And that's total honesty.

So I was pretending to get my nonexistent coat, when Harry Potter suddenly appeared between me and the coat closet door. "Fleur." Yes, Harry? "Tell me that I can just kiss you. Tell me that you and Percy are broken up."

Too. Drunk. To. Lie. "Oh, Harry, we were never really together."

And just like that, Harry had pulled me into the coat closet, where we were doing anything but putting on our coats. In approximately half a second, Harry's green Robin Hood hat was on the floor, my curlicue shoes had been tossed carelessly aside, Harry's doublet (wait, seriously—doublet?) had been ripped to shreds in the manner of a poorly-written Victorian romance novel, and we were both on our way to extremely fun bad decisions. Abruptly, we both looked up—taking a break from ruining each other's clothing and taking a simultaneous deep breath.

"Fleur, I don't want you to regret this," he said, looking adorably flushed and almost shy, as if he had just realized that we were stripping as fast as we could in a coat closet.

"I won't," I breathed. Granted, I was not entirely sure of this at the time, but Harry was looking at me as if he was seeing something glorious that he was perhaps afraid of defiling, and I was perfectly primed to be defiled. I had lingered too long in the land of the pristine, too long in a homeland of doubt, uncertainty, deception and denial. For once, I was determined to live my life, experience something, feel something, because I was so incredibly tired of living in an apartment so ridden with feeling that it was devoid of it. Is it terrible to want to express something in reality, not suppressed, not in jest—something really, really felt? "I'm sure."

And Harry kissed me, and there were no strings holding us apart. No Hermione, no Michael, no Percy, no press. Just the pressure of Harry's lips on mine. And I felt wonderfully free to kiss him back, the kiss I'd wanted to give him since... ever? Since—I don't know, ASP or his Lucky Shamrocks or our unlucky towel escapades, or since he was sitting on my bed that morning in July, asking me to casually save the world with him. Or, actually, more accurately, since everything he said to Mrs. Weasley and to me at the Burrow.

And this is simple. This is simple in the way that Harry is—this whole time, it's been just his blushing adorable desires and his infuriating admirable integrity, and just those two things which occasionally come between us, but now they both are satisfied, and this is uncomplicated. And maybe the situation hasn't been—but he has, the same way that though Darcy and Elizabeth spun out a complex tale, their motivations were simple. And now there are no stupid secrets kept, no words swallowed, no hesitations—and have I lived my whole life in hesitation? Because it feels as if those moments when I am moving have been with Harry, those moments when I am acting have been with Harry.

And maybe thinking is overrated.

And that is what I am thinking when Harry is taking off my dress, and we are somewhere between a grey wool pea coat and some over-expensive mink PETA would die over. And soon, eyes-shut hands-clenched moments later, the worst is over, and Harry wants to know if I am okay, and I think I am. And he kisses me, and I could swear I am really feeling something. And Harry says "I think I'm in love with you, Fleur" after, and now I'm sure that have felt something for once in the past month.

And before I can reply, like a knife slicing through the night's greatest silence: "Excuse me. I have to get my coat," says some stranger in a borrowed Peter Pan costume.

Because I was still putting on my stockings and Harry was still buttoning his shirt when we bumped into Jacques coming out of the closet.

A/N: Wow. That was long. The chapter and the wait. My dearest, sincerest apologies. (Obviously), this chapter was difficult to get through, but hopefully you enjoyed it? It's going to be a low-key summer, and I'm not making any promises, but hopefully updating will be better now that I've gotten over this hurdle. I love each and every individual reviewer; thank you for putting up with me. :)

Love, Femme Teriyaki