A/N: I got to thinking what if they were hunting zombies instead of Horcruxes and this happened. And I've had a thing for declining sanity for awhile. Also, lesbians.
Disclaimer: I'm making no profit here, just enjoying wasting my time.
Her bullet burrows into its forehead and a crack splits the white cap of skull where the scalp has been shed. It wobbles forward in a rubbery motion, then lands on the spongy ground like a fallen tree. The body is liberally stripped of flesh, the ribcage an unhinged jaw of bones with a dead heart clogged in its throat. She reaches inside, between the curved teeth of ribs and chokes it in her small fingers. Gives a violent pull that snaps the cords of veins, severing an unyielding artery with the lip of her knife.
She drops the lumpy heart at Hermione's feet, her grin feral and stark white against the crimson blood weeping in rivers down her pale face - both her own and not.
"You may do ze 'onor," Fleur says. Her electric eyes flicker like the power is going on and off within her, the moonlight catching them the way a glare would reflect the blade of a sword. There's a twitch on her lips where the calm slope of a smile used to be.
Hermione doesn't hesitate to crush the muscle under the sole of her boot in a swift stamp and continues until it's nothing but a part of the soggy forest floor. She has long been desensitized to the smell of minced flesh and the sludge of it on her shoes.
"Zhat was ze last one," Fleur rejoices, madness bringing life to her smile again as she drops her handgun and curved tip knife to the ground, and frames Hermione's face in her bloody hands. Relief doesn't flood her rigid body the way it should. Their hips touch and she plugs the sound of Fleur's misplaced laughter with a kiss. Their mouths mold to the shape of one another's lips.
The chains are cut, but the shackles are deadweight on Hermione's wrists. Victory tastes sour on her tongue.
Later, long after they've cleaned the red from their skin, Fleur is still dressed in blood.