Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
For the Hogwarts Online prompt of the day: boats. I'm a bit obsessed with Charlie Weasley right now, forgive me.
Listen to: The Way I Loved You by Taylor Swift.
(But c'mon, tell me I'm not the only one who listened to I'm On A Boat by the Lonely Island right away after seeing the prompt.)
to be in the in-between is a fate worse than love
if I could write you a song to make you fall in love
I would already have you right under my arm
And surely both boys would like to give her the world.
She's like a boat, floating upon the surface, tiny and miniscule against the monstrosity of the ocean as waves crash against her fragile outer layer, wearing her down and making her heart hurt. She cannot choose whether or not she'd like to be above or below the churning of the seawater, and with each second that she is in the in-between, bitter salt makes her eyes water as she drowns in them.
Maybe she would enjoy being safe. Secure. Careful. Protected. Loved. Maybe she would like tucking long red hair behind pink ears, of laughter and an always-smooth face. Of large, muscled arms thrown across her waist as she sleeps in a stable cottage by the seaside, the sound of ocean against beach shore, tugging sand into their depths to lull her into sleep. Maybe she would like a baby to wake them in the morning with gleeful crying, and family close-by, an Apparation away. Maybe she'd like a man who comes home every night and kisses her good-night, and soft hands clutching her fingers and plump lips against hers.
Or perhaps she could live dangerously. Unsurely. Unexpectedly. Recklessly. Precariously. Daringly. Perhaps she would love to tug her thin fingers through choppy auburn hair before pushing him away, pressing her pink lips to chapped and thin ones chastely as he leaves, never knowing whether he would be back this time. Perhaps sunburned noses and smirks and games are the way to go; perhaps she would appreciate nuzzling a stubbly chin and having a lean chest to rest against as she tends to the shiny burns on his forearms. Perhaps she could maybe treat the dragons as her own children and learn to use the roaring of fire outside as her lullaby. Perhaps she would like it better to be overjoyed to have a man come home at night because he's still alive; perhaps she'd like desperate kisses at midnight because maybe he won't come back tomorrow.
It seems Maybe and Perhaps are the only sureties she has these days.
She feels like jumping ship someday. Plopping her bare feet firmly against the wooden edge and jumping off, floating with expert swimming, right in the in-between, one foot in, one foot out. She doesn't think she could bear to decide. She cannot help the way her ocean eyes meet his, the way her silvery-blonde hair stands out against his. She cannot help it, but surely one of these days she will get sick of the rocking of Atlantic waves.
Perhaps, maybe one day she will decide. Maybe, perhaps she will break a boys' heart, and add another notch to her bedpost. Perchance one day she will be attainable and finally either break into the air or be pulled underneath into the water.
But for now, Fleur Delacour will lay against her boat and let her stomach churn, floating in her very own in-between.