Fleur blinked. That was all Moody needed â“ he whisked them years forward and miles across Britain. They landed in the middle of a thick snowstorm. Fleur shivered for a moment in her cardigan and skirt before Moody cast a Warming Charm over both of them.
âWhere are we?â Fleur asked, her whisper cutting through the cold air like a razor through tissue paper.
âHogsmeade,â answered Moody. âChristmas Eve of the year two thousand eighteen. Here you come.â
Fleur turned on her heel. A shadow in the snow slowly darkened. It gradually became discernable as a woman. Fleur shook her head â“ no, that couldnât be her. The woman was dressed in a frumpy, shapeless black coat. Her hair was pulled back in a horribly tight bun, and she wore the most horrid little pointy-toed boots Fleur had ever seen. Fleur continued to stare into the snow a moment after the woman had passed, certain that someone else was coming.
Moody laughed. âNo, princess, thatâs you.â
Fleur turned and stared at the womanâs retreating back. There was something familiar about the gait, she decided. Without warning, Fleur took off running, chasing the woman. She slipped several times in the snow â“ despite her own personal grace, her leather flats werenât meant for this sort of thing. As the woman Fleur still wasnât entirely sure was herself rounded a corner, Fleur fell. She skidded across the ice until she finally hit someoneâs front step. She gasped, feeling at her leg where she had made contact. Her fingers came away bloody.
With a whoomph of displaced snow, Moody knelt next to her. âHere, now, youâre all right.â From a pocket of his overcoat, he produced a roll of white gauze bandages. He held some snow against the wound to staunch the flow of blood â“ the cut really wasnât that deep â“ and then wrapped Fleurâs leg tightly in the bandages. He had been murmuring through this whole process, a half-nonsense continuous vocalization that Fleur realized was supposed to keep her calm. She felt her admiration for Moody grow several notches â“ clearly, paranoia wasnât the only thing being an Auror had taught him. âThere now, up you get,â he said, standing. Fleur took his proffered hand and got to her feet, trying not to look at the bloodstain on the snow.
âZank you,â she said quietly.
âAny time,â Moody replied. He half-smiled at her. âNow, letâs go find your future self. I have a fair idea of where sheâs going.â
They walked together through the streets of Hogsmeade, After a few minutes Fleur lost recognition of the location. She and her friends from Beauxbatons definitely hadnât gone to this part of town.
Moody led her to the wooden door of a tavern, the Hogâs Head. He pushed the door open and gestured for her to go before him. As she entered the warmth of the tavern, Fleur felt herself relax considerably. She couldnât tell what the floor was made of, finally settling on the answer that it must be centuries of dirt and grime piled up on stone.
Her gaze wandered over to the bar. A small man wearing a long, floppy hat sat at the bar. It was only when he turned to greet the woman whom Fleur had not yet admitted to herself was her that she recognized him as George Weasley. She gasped and looked at Moody, who nodded.
ââOw âas zis âappened?â Fleur whispered, horrified. âWhat are we doing, âere in some common bar instead of at ze Burrow?â
Moody shook his head. âYou started new traditions.â
âNo,â Fleur breathed. âNo, zis cannot be.â
The frumpy woman sat down beside George. She ordered a pint, and despite Fleurâs unwillingness to admit that this woman was her, she recognized the lilt of her own voice.
Fleur sat down next to her frumpy self and watched. When the frumpy woman â“ Fleur refused to associate her own name with this monstrosity â“ received her pint, she and George clinked glasses.
âHowâs Bill?â George asked.
ââEâs fine,â the frumpy woman said. ââE and Muriel are over at Harry and Ginnyâs.â
âWhoâs Muriel?â Fleur inquired of Moody, who had taken the seat next to her.
âYour daughter,â he replied quietly and, truth be told, a little sadly.
Fleur grimaced, scrunching up her nose. âBut zat name â“ it is after Billâs great-aunt. I would never name my daughter after âer.â
Moody shrugged. âHad you gone to the Burrow all those years ago, she would have been named Victoire.â
Fleur smiled. She liked that name, Victoire. She supposed it must be because her daughter would be born on the anniversary of Harryâs defeat of Voldemort.
George continued to speak with the frumpy woman. He asked her about more members of the Weasley family. She answered, although she couldnât provide responses for many of his questions. Fleur felt herself sink deeper into despair. Neither of them knew their families anymore. Had she really caused this?
âItâs not all your fault,â Moody replied, as though he could read her thoughts. âYou never kept George back from visiting his family. But you never encouraged him to, either.â
George bid farewell to the frumpy woman and left the pub. Moody nudged Fleur in the side and gestured toward the door. She followed him, though she asked as she went, âWhat will â“ what will zat woman do now?â
âYou,â Moody replied, placing careful empasis on the word, âwill proceed to buy several more pints, get yourself stark raving drunk, embarrass yourself greatly by dancing on the bar, and then fall asleep on that same bar.â
Fleur stared at him.
âBill will come in the morning, before your daughter is up, and collect you,â Moody continued. In response to her astonished look, he stated, âHeâs been doing it for five years now. But what I really want you to see is quickly vanishing down that street.â
Fleur followed Moody outside, where Georgeâs retreating figure was just barely visible in the snow. They hurried to catch up with him. Just as they drew level with him, he ducked into an alley and Disapparated, landing somewhere in Diagon Alley. They followed him down the alley. Soon, Fleur realized they were in that blurry area that was neither Diagon Alley nor Knockturn Alley â“ apparently it had grown from a single walk to an entire region of its own.
George paused by a set of stairs before staggering up them. The door at the top didnât need a key. George only had to grip the handle tightly and heave with his shoulder at a certain point in the door for it to creak open. He walked inside â“ this had been a shop before the war â“ and crossed the room to a corner, where he sat heavily on some newspapers. He pulled a bottle out of his coat pocket and took a slug.
âThis isnât the end of his night,â Moody informed Fleur. âHeâll probably go out later, find himself a cheap date.â
Fleur stared at him, not wanting to believe it. âYou mean George will â“â
Moody nodded, gazing at her. âAs things stand now, this is how your future will be. Come, letâs go outside. No reason to stay in this pit.â
They walked back out into the snow. Her spirits completely deflated, Fleur collapsed onto the top step of Georgeâs new front porch. After a moment, Moody sat down too.
Fleur took a minute to just look around at the street. This wasnât the Diagon Alley she knew. Half the windows were boarded up, and the whole area radiated a general atmosphere of neglect and decay.
Fleur looked over at Moody helplessly. âSurely zis isnât all my fault?â she asked weakly.
Moody shook his head. âNo, it isnât all your fault. You werenât the only one to give up after the war, though. Many people did. The surrender of the seemingly perfect French Weasley made others feel it was acceptable for them to do the same. And then â“ when the whole Weasley clan fell apart⌠but none of you realize how much you matter to the wizarding community, do you?â
âWhat are you talking about?â Fleur demanded. âThe Weasleys didnât fall apart â“ zeyâre one of the most close-knit families I know.â
Moody sighed. âThen why arenât you saying âweâ?â
Fleur stood, suddenly resolute. âShow me ze Burrow.â
Moody stood. âAre you sure you want to see that? Iâm warning you now, princess, it isnât pretty.â
âShow me,â Fleur commanded.
Moody cast his gaze heavenward for a moment and then nodded. He took Fleurâs hand and they vanished, reappearing in the middle of a wide, empty field.
Fleur turned on the spot, staring into the darkness. âWhere is it? Where is ze Burrow?â
Moody sighed. âItâs gone, princess. The Weasleys moved out.â
Fleur shook her head desperately. âNo. No. What do you mean?â
âJust what I said. After that first Christmas without you or George, it became easier for the other Weasleys to make excuses. At last, it was only Harry, Ginny, Hermione, and Ron who came for Christmas. Molly and Arthur began to question the wisdom of having that big house if nobody was going to use it. And then, when Arthur fell down some stairs and hurt his back, that clinched it.â Moody stared at the spot in the field where the huge house had been, shaking his head. âThey sold the house. Apparently the new owners didnât feel it was wise to keep it either.
Fleur sniffled. Without her knowledge, she had begun to cry. She began trembling, though she didnât realize it until Moody had wrapped his arms around her. She hardly registered it when the air warmed considerably and she was standing in her own sitting room once more.