The Osiris Song

PROLOGUE: The Anniversary

"Bill?"

The house was unusually quiet, bathed in an unnatural dark for late afternoon, but Fleur Delacour-Weasley wasn't fooled. It was their one year wedding anniversary, and if she knew her husband - which she did - then he was planning something very special to celebrate.

"Bill?" she called again, shaking some errant Egyptian dust from her coat before hanging it on the appropriate hook in the entryway. For fear of losing their best curse breaker once he got married, Gringotts had given Bill and Fleur this modest, two-story home outside of Thebes as incentive to stay. They'd even offered Fleur a job as Chief Charmer at their Egyptian branch office; a position she'd willingly accepted. Bill had pretended to be an "arrogant fathead" for a month afterwards, never ceasing to comment on how "IMPORTANT" he was to the wizarding bank, and how much they couldn't afford to lose him. He would swagger around with an egotistical, utterly fake smug smile on his face, which would never cease to make her laugh. Fleur herself was expected to kiss the smile away - which she did without hesitation - and remind him that if she hadn't come along, he'd still be living in a one bedroom apartment in Cairo, so SHE was the important one in the household. Bill would pout, she'd kiss him again, and most nights they'd end up curled up and spent on the woolen rug in front of the fire, because they rarely made it to the bedroom. It became routine for them, though never boring, so that even after Bill had stopped overdramatizing his importance, Fleur found herself spending ungodly amounts of time with him on that rug. They were, as Bill's brother Ron liked to put it, sickeningly happy.

"Bill, I am 'ome!" She set her purse on the kitchen table, and began to unbraid her long, silky, white-blonde hair. She wore it bound during the workday, as goblins seemed immune to her quarter-veela wiles and didn't care for their Chief Charmer walking around with a curtain of gorgeous hair hanging down her back. They seemed to think it was too distracting to their customers. "Where are you,

mon coeur?"

When there was still no answer, Fleur giggled with excitement. Tiptoeing into the living room, she saw an envelope on the mantelpiece, and quickly scurried forward to pick it up. Tearing it open, she shook out the single slip of parchment tucked inside.

Upstairs was all it read, but she recognized the playful, jaunty tilt of her husband's handwriting, and her heart fluttered.

Twirling the note in her fingers, she floated up the steps to the second floor. A path of fresh red rose petals led the way from the stairs to their bedroom door. "

Diable charmant,*" she all but cooed as she followed the petals to the door. "Vat are you planning, Bill?" Stretching luxuriously, she laid her hand on the door knob and turned it slowly. Her voice took on a lazy, disinterested tone. "It 'as been a long, deeficult day, Cher. I zink you will need to work very 'ard to get zese knots out of my back..."

The door swung open and she leaned in the doorframe, affecting the most dramatic, desirable slouch she could muster. Her husband was propped up in bed, blankets tucked up to his stomach but leaving his chest bare. He was leaning back against the headboard, head tilted in her direction, a faint smile on his lips. Rose petals littered the floor and all but covered the bed, like a velvety scarlet duvet.

Fleur purred. "Zo?" she said smokily, stepping into the bedroom and slinking towards the bed. "Are you prepared to work,

monsieur?" She sat on the edge of the mattress, batting her lashes at him.

Bill didn't answer. Instead, he tipped onto his side, face unmoving, eyes vacant and staring, hands frozen in a lazy curl. As though he'd fallen asleep without knowing. As though he'd been posed that way. Fleur stared at his face, and realized for the first time how pale it was in the waning light of the golden afternoon.

"Bill?" she murmured, her voice shaking a little. When he didn't answer, she felt a burning lump of desperation rise in her throat. "Bill?" she tried again, adding to the question with a gentle touch of his shoulder.

He was cold as ice.

Tears sprang to Fleur's eyes. "No!" she cried, sliding off the mattress to land on her knees by the bedside, cradling his milk white face between her hands. "No, Bill! My Bill!

Ne mourez pas, mon coeur! Queest-ce que je ferai?** Bill!"

Her screams were in vain. Bill Weasley was dead, tucked naked into their marriage bed, the Dark Mark of the Dark Wizard burned into the back of his neck. He lay still as stone in his wife's arms as she sobbed out her anguish to the universe, and red rose petals spilled over the edge of the bed like blood.

TBC...