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It would be a blatant lie to say that Fleur Delacour was scared.
In fact, she was terrified.
The idea of what was to come in a few months' time made her blood chill. It was silly, she knew, and she had Bill who never failed to offer her all his support. Yet, she couldn't shake off the constant and irrational fear that crawled across her blood like a hoard of insects, caused her hair to stand on end, made sweat glisten on her perfect skin. Perhaps it was due to the war, perhaps its effects still lingered even years after it was over, hung over them like an ominous cloud, and made it near impossible to enjoy the pleasures of life without thinking of the trauma that had swept through the country.
A sudden shiver ran down her spine. Hugging her shawl closer around herself, she drew her legs to her chest and stared out at the wide empty sea that stretched into the horizon in front of her. The wind whipped across her face and she could almost taste the salt in the atmosphere. Her blonde hair, which was tied into a ponytail, has come loose and continued to fly haphazardly around her. Her hand slowly let go of the shawl and lowered itself to rest on her swollen abdomen.
She remembered at the age of ten, she had told her mother that she would never have babies of her own. It wasn't due to any philosophical or noble reason – she simply wasn't fond of the idea of having another being grow inside her. It gave her goosebumps thinking about it, and she was appalled by the idea of carrying a huge bump for over nine months.
But now, there she was, with a bump on her stomach that grew larger and heavier each day. A few days back, she had realised with a jolt that her favourite nightgown no longer fitted her, and she subsequently fell into a crying fit. It was probably the hormones that had caused the breakdown, but she continued crying on and off all day, despite knowing that there was absolutely no reason for her to cry.
A tumble of emotions swept through her. She was going to be a mother. A life was forming inside her that fed off the food she ate, received the oxygen she breathed in, that grew, matured and that would eventually be born as a new human being. It was endearing, exciting, enthralling and yet frightening at the same time. All her thoughts revolved around the baby; everything she ate, everything she did, every song she hummed, was because of the baby, her baby. The baby that would inherit half the traits from her, and half from the man she loved. Or maybe it would inherit more from her. She wondered what her child would look like. The red hair gene has run through the Weasley bloodline for generations, and she secretly wished her child to get her blonde hair, just to break the tradition.
She could hear the roaring of the sea as the waves crashed into the rocks below the cliff upon which she sat. The frothy waves raced from the distance and broke at the bank, and rather ironically, the fierce nature of the sea brought calm and peace into her mind, soothed her nerves and told her, there is nothing to be afraid of.
This was perhaps the reason she had chosen Shell Cottage as her dwelling. Despite coming from a wealthy family and being raised in a luxurious mansion, she had immediately loved the location and the cottage. It was small, whitewashed, and the walls were embedded with shells. It was nothing like the house she grew up in, but she loved it all the same.
