The Great Recession (Ch. 4)

( Every character in this story is a legal adult over the age of 18 )

The Great Recession

Chapter 4

Fleur Delacour, formerly Weasley, wrapped her arms tight around her ribcage. The gesture was as much about hunger as the cold. She was perched at a chipped enamel table, knees jammed under the edge, and surrounded by the smell of stale bread and wet firewood. The air in their rented shack was damp, and every surface was lightly powdered with fine, grey dust. None of them had the motivation to do any deep cleaning. All she could do was sit there and dream about Château Delacour, back when her family still owned a garden, or a château, or even a shred of dignity. 

She listened to the muffled, scratchy sounds coming from the single bedroom. Her mother’s tired and stressed voice snapped instructions at Gabrielle. She heard the tin clatter of a spoon in a bowl, followed by Gabby’s giggle. That sound used to annoy Fleur. Now it was the only light in the place. Her younger sister was still so full of hope, and it made Fleur feel old and impossibly heavy.

She licked the inside of her mouth, searching for the last taste of butter. It had been Gabby’s birthday yesterday, so they’d splurged. The butter was gone now, scraped up out of the packaging with a finger, and there would be no more until Fleur landed a job … or married rich. She snorted, then caught her reflection in the sooty window. She looked like hell. Her hair was in a limp ponytail, and her face was pale and drawn. Her blue eyes were still sharp, though, which Fleur was happy about. 

She hated how thin she was getting. Veela blood was a blessing and a curse. It burned through calories faster than a normal person. The hunger made her short-tempered, and lately, she and her mother had been fighting about everything. It was a miracle they hadn’t killed each other yet. The door banged open, and Gabrielle strolled out, sloshing cold tea from a chipped mug. She wore Fleur’s old jumper, which was a little stained and torn.

“Fleur, Maman says we have to eat the soup before it congeals,” Gabby announced, her voice bright and oblivious.

“I’ll be right there,” Fleur muttered.

Gabby set down the mug and squeezed into the chair next to her. She nudged Fleur’s arm and gave a toothy, conspiratorial grin. “Guess what? An owl brought a letter for Maman! She says it’s from Papa, but she won’t show it to me.”

Fleur shrugged. “Probably another bill,” she said.

Gabby pouted. “Do you think Papa will come back?”

Fleur stared at the patchy, threadbare curtain that covered their only window. “No,” she said, “I don’t.”

Gabby didn’t cry. She just drank her tea quietly. Fleur ruffled her hair, careful not to catch the snarl of tangles at the back. Gabby smiled, then wandered off, leaving Fleur to her thoughts. She heard Apolline in the next room. She scolded Gabby, then rounded the sharp edge with a soothing voice, always in that measured, elegant cadence that even poverty hadn’t erased. Fleur felt the familiar tug of resentment and tried to let it go. Her mother was proud, but she was not strong. Fleur was the strong one now, and she hated the crushing feeling of responsibility.

Bill’s absence was a wound that wouldn’t heal. It throbbed every time she looked down at her finger and at the indented spot where the ring used to be. She’d sold it two months ago, after Apolline refused to part with her dead grandmother’s pearls. It was her own fault, she supposed, for marrying a Gryffindor. Courage only got you so far in this world. After the last round of lay-offs at Gringotts, Bill had gone into “adventurer mode.” He called it freelance Cursebreaking, but it mostly meant sending the odd letter from Egypt with three galleons taped to the inside. The first time, she wept. The second time, she nearly set the note on fire. After that, the letters stopped coming altogether. She had no idea where Bill was or what he was doing. She couldn’t even be sure that he was still alive. The only thing she knew with certainty was that she was on her own.

Apolline had told her, “We will manage. We are Delacours, and Delacours always find a way.” But Apolline never lifted a finger. It was Fleur who cleaned the floors and scrubbed the windows. It was Fleur who scrounged for work every day, walking the cold streets and pretending she didn’t see her old friends with their pitying eyes. They couldn’t help her anyway. They had just as many problems as she did. Fleur knew that it wasn’t her mother’s fault. She was very depressed, though she did her best not to show it. 

Fleur couldn’t take it anymore. She grabbed her coat from the back of the chair, shrugged it on, and fished through the pockets for loose coins. There were three. She set one aside for Gabby, just in case, then left the shack with her hair unbrushed and her pride in tatters.

The French wizarding district was a ruin. The grand avenue was lined with closed shops, the once-shiny gold signage now scratched and tarnished. At the end of the street, the bakery was still open, and the smell of fresh baguettes taunted her as she passed. She didn’t bother going in. The owner was a prick and wouldn’t give her credit. Besides, it hurt too much to look at the pastry case.

She made her way to the Rue des Arcanes, the Parisian answer to Diagon Alley, except longer and, in better times, more beautiful. Fleur always used to walk the length of it on Sundays, shopping with her mother and laughing at the tourists. Now, there were none to be seen.

There was a crowd outside the newsstand. People argued over the price of the latest edition, now printed on rough, brown paper. Fleur’s meager coins wouldn’t buy a full copy. She pretended to browse the headlines, then caught sight of a discarded newspaper in the gutter. She stooped, snatched it up, and stuffed it under her arm before anyone could see. She ducked into a side alley and leaned against the cool, damp stone. She smoothed the paper on her knee. The ink was smeared, but the headline jumped out at her.

“BRITISH WITCH SECURES TOP JOB AT PLAYWIZ PUBLISHING! GRANGER RETURNS TO THE FOLD.”

Fleur read the story twice. Apparently, Hermione Granger had been named the Talent Manager at Harry Potter’s infamous Playwiz magazine. The article was snide and full of little digs about “the fallen brain of Britain,” and “Potter’s latest squeeze,” but the facts were all there. Hermione had gone to work for Harry.

Fleur wasn’t sure how she felt. Of course, when Harry opened the magazine, the Weasleys were furious. Well … mostly it was Molly, but as everyone knows, the men in the Weasley family followed her lead, no matter how stupid or unreasonable the woman was. Fleur didn’t have a problem with the magazine, but Hermione certainly did. Fleur remembered when Hermione heard about it. The girl nearly blew a gasket. She rounded on Harry and said a lot of things that she probably wished she hadn’t. From what Fleur knew, it ruined their friendship, but at least according to the newspaper, that friendship had somehow been salvaged. Not only that, but Hermione was working in an industry she absolutely despised. Fleur couldn’t help but giggle at the strange turn of events. Fleur then sighed. At least Hermione had a job. At least she was wanted.

Fleur read the article again, searching for any information that she might have missed. The picture next to the story was a moving photograph. Hermione’s hair was glossy and tamed, and she was smiling with her arm around Harry Potter. The smile was genuine. They looked like people who had never been hungry a day in their lives. She folded the paper and stuffed it under her arm.

Maybe Harry needed more help. Fleur winced when she realized that she hadn’t spoken to Harry in a long time. When the Weasleys shunned him, Fleur hadn’t reached out to him to offer any kind of support. She wasn’t sure if he held any kind of grudge toward her. Maybe Hermione, the prim and proper manager, would put in a good word for her. Fleur felt the first flicker of hope.

She shoved the paper into her pocket and headed back to the shack, her mind already racing ahead. She pictured Harry’s face when she showed up at his door. She pictured herself in a warm, sunlit room, eating three meals a day and sleeping in a bed without springs poking her in the back. She’d have to write them first, of course. Fleur grimaced at the thought. She was many things, but she was not a beggar. When she got home, Gabby was waiting at the table, hair combed and eyes wide with anticipation. Fleur sat down, stared at her empty bowl, and made a decision.

She went to her room, dug out the last scrap of good parchment, and dipped the nib of her quill in the cheap, watery ink. She wrote …

Dear Hermione,

It is with great humility that I write to you now…

She stopped, crossed out “humility,” and started again. She wanted to sound strong. She didn’t want to sound desperate. She wanted to sound like Fleur Delacour, not some whimpering, shivering girl in a one-room shack. She started over.

Dear Madame Manager,

Congratulations on your new position. I am in need of employment, and I understand that Playwiz may have an opening for someone with my skills. If you are in need of a model, a translator, or even a secretary, I would be most grateful for the consideration.

Sincerely,

Fleur Delacour

She read it over twice. She knew the letter sounded very business-like, but she didn’t care. If they wanted her, they could have her. If not, she’d die of starvation or humiliation, whichever came first. She sealed the letter, addressed it to Hermione Granger at the Playwiz Mansion, and slipped it in her pocket. She left her shack to take it to the owl post. For the first time in months, she allowed herself to hope.

The Great Recession

Hermione arrived at the Three Broomsticks just after dawn. The place smelled of last night’s spilled ale, but it was warm inside, and the lamplight made the battered tables look almost inviting. She unbuttoned her coat and glanced around. The pub was empty, which didn’t surprise her. Hogsmeade was a ghost town these days.

Rosmerta was already behind the bar, her blonde hair piled up in a tired bun. She wore a tight, low-cut top that might have looked flirtatious five years ago, but now just made her look older. The stress had done a number on the poor woman. Still, she smiled when she saw Hermione. “Morning, love,” she called. “You’re up early.”

Hermione gave a quick smile. “So are you.”

“I can’t sleep much these days. Not with all the bills stacking up.” Rosmerta’s eyes flicked to the empty seats, then back to Hermione’s face. “Will you be having your usual, then?”

Hermione shook her head. “I’ll wait for my guest,” Hermione told her. She chose a table in the far corner and sat down, letting her bag fall to the floor with a heavy clunk. She watched Rosmerta polish glasses and wipe down the already-clean countertop. There was nothing else for Rosmerta to do, so she did it twice.

Hermione knew the feeling. She’d spent her entire life being busy, and when she wasn’t, it felt like something was wrong with the world. Since she’d started at Playwiz, things had improved. The work was steady, and Harry paid her a very good wage, even if she suspected he was doing it out of guilt or nostalgia. He’d put her in charge of everything. She was managing the girls, handling the accounts, and keeping the calendar for photoshoots and ad copy. She didn’t mind the lewdness anymore. Most of the models were funny and smart, and they kept her on her toes. If she were being honest, she’d never been so happy. It was embarrassing, but it was true.

The front door opened, and a blast of cold air swept in. Fleur stood in the entryway, framed by the weak morning sun. She wore a plain black dress and a thin wool coat that looked two sizes too small for her. Her hair was loose, streaming down her back like molten silver. There were deep shadows under her eyes. She looked around, saw Hermione, and smiled in a way that tried to be confident but failed completely. Hermione stood and waved. Fleur crossed the room in three long steps and hugged her. Hermione was surprised by how tight her hug was. “ ‘ermione, it’s so nice to see you again. You look well,” Fleur said with a kind smile.

Hermione returned the smile. “You too.” It was a lie, but she said it anyway.

They sat down. Fleur tucked her legs neatly under the chair and folded her hands in her lap. Her nails were bitten to the quick. She looked around the empty pub, and Hermione saw her calculating the price of everything in the room. Rosmerta came over with two menus. She gave Fleur a smile that was both warm and slightly desperate. “Good to see you, dear. I haven’t had a proper customer in days. Can I get you ladies started?”

Hermione looked at Fleur, who shook her head quickly. “Nothing for me, thank you.”

Hermione turned to Rosmerta. “We’ll have the Deluxe Breakfast. Double bacon, extra toast, and a pot of tea, please.” She slid the menu back across the table, and Rosmerta’s smile flickered to life.

“Coming right up,” Rosmerta said, and practically floated back to the bar.

Fleur’s eyes lingered on the swinging doors to the kitchen. Hermione saw the way she licked her lips, just barely. She wondered when Fleur had last eaten a real meal. “You don’t ‘ave to do this,” Fleur said, her voice low.

Hermione shrugged. “Friends help each other.” She pulled her money sack from her bag, opened it, and Fleur saw the glint of gold inside. The pouch was so full it barely closed. Fleur’s eyes widened, and then she looked away when Hermione began pulling out the money for the food.

“ ‘arry is generous, I see,” Fleur said, and there was no judgment in her tone, only envy.

“He takes care of his people,” Hermione said. She realized she meant it.

Fleur nodded, then ran her finger along the edge of the table. “Your letter was very… professional,” Hermione offered. “You would make a good publicist.”

“I will do any work,” Fleur said, her voice flat. “Tell me, ‘ermione, ‘ow did you end up at the mansion?” she asked. 

Hermione took a deep breath and told her all about Susan. She explained how Susan came to live with Harry, and how Susan suggested to her that she take the same deal. Hermione then blushed and told Fleur how she went to the mansion and yelled at Harry. Fleur giggled when she heard this. “Of course, I ended up accepting the deal. Harry then gave me a job a couple of days later. So, I guess it all turned out for the best,” Hermione told her. 

Fleur thought hard on this. Her husband had abandoned her, so technically, she was single. Her only worry was that she wasn’t alone. She had a mother and a sister to think about as well, and she was unsure if Harry was willing to take in three more people. “Do you think ‘e will give me the same offer?” Fleur nervously asked. Hermione smiled kindly at her. 

“I’m sure he would,” Hermione said. Fleur blushed deeply. 

“I’m not exactly looking my best,” Fleur reminded her, but Hermione shook her head. 

“You’re still very pretty,” Hermione told her. Hermione could see that Fleur was a little skinnier than before, and her eyes were slightly dark. Other than that, there was no big difference. Fleur was still utterly gorgeous. 

Fleur made a face. “You mean I am still pretty, even with my bones sticking out?”

“You are beautiful,” Hermione said, and it was true. “Harry would hire you in a second.”

Fleur stared at her, then glanced down at her hands. “Would you talk to ‘im for me?” she asked quietly. Hermione smiled and placed her hand over the top of Fleur’s.

“Of course, I will,” she promised, and Fleur breathed a sigh of relief and smiled.

“ And this Susan Bones girl?” Fleur wanted to know about her competition. 

Hermione smiled. “She lives in the Mansion, practically rent-free. Harry helps her with her shop. She eats whatever she wants, and has a wardrobe bigger than my entire old flat.”

“She fucks ‘im,” Fleur said, with no emotion.

Hermione nodded. “She does.”

Fleur digested this, then nodded back. “And you?”

Hermione hesitated. She wanted to be embarrassed, but she wasn’t. Not really. “Yes,” she said. “It’s not what I imagined my life would be, but…” She looked around the pub, at the worn-out Rosmerta, the empty tables, and the cold outside. “It could be worse. It could be much, much worse.”

Fleur smiled, a real one this time. “Yes. It could.”

Hermione then smiled cheekily. “And besides, Harry is a very talented lover,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows. Fleur put her hand over her mouth and giggled. 

Rosmerta brought their food, and the smell of bacon filled the air. The plates were heaped with scrambled eggs, hashbrowns, sausages, and a stack of toast thicker than Hermione’s wrist. Fleur’s eyes went wide. She looked at the plate, then at Hermione, as if asking for permission.

“Please,” Hermione said. “Eat.”

Fleur did. She started slow, but after the first bite, it was a blur. She polished off half the eggs in seconds, then inhaled the bacon and most of the toast. Hermione sipped her tea and watched, amused.

“You don’t eat?” Fleur asked, her mouth full.

“I ate already,” Hermione lied. She didn’t want to make Fleur self-conscious.

Fleur tore into the sausages, then wiped her mouth on the napkin. “Thank you,” she said, with a gravity that surprised Hermione.

“You can have more,” Hermione said. “I’ll tell Harry it’s a business expense and get the money back.”

Fleur smiled, lips greasy with butter. “You are very generous with ‘arry’s money,” she teased, and they both giggled. She set down her fork and looked at Hermione, eyes suddenly sharp. “Why did you really take the job?”

Hermione thought about it. “I wanted to feel important again. I wanted to not worry about money. I wanted to sleep at night without wondering if I’d end up on the street, or worse.” She shrugged. “Mostly, I was very lonely, and I missed Harry.”

Fleur nodded. They sat in silence for a while, watching the light change as the sun rose. Fleur finished every crumb on her plate, then licked her fingers. She looked satisfied for the first time in months.