Chapter Text
“And now, please join me in extending a warm welcome to the lovely ladies from Beauxbaton’s Academy of Magic and their Headmistress, Madame Maxime!” Dumbledore’s voice easily pierced the heavy oak doors, giving the blue-clad girls their cue. Fleur Delacour snapped herself from the awe the huge corridor had struck her with, hurriedly taking her place as the women filed into the Great Hall, beginning their routine.
Fleur spaced her steps as practiced, performing like a confident athlete. Her lithe body was happy to comply with her wishes, such grace rested in her movements few believed it was possible for anyone to look so perfect, until of course, they laid eyes upon this incarnate of perfection itself. The blonde moved with angelic grace and almost military precision; nearly every set of eyes were locked on her, either wide with admiration, or narrowed with envy. The Frenchwoman was used to such looks; being part-Veela, it was to be expected. Even the meager friends she had were only her companions for their own benefit. All she truly had was her younger sister, whom looked nearly identical, except she bore more traces of their father, but had yet to reach that troubling time when the Veela beauty turned her abundant friends either into parasites or enemies.
Fleur’s outward beauty was enough to make anyone stare, and because of this blessing-curse, never had there been one who could truly get to know her; the real her, the kindred heart that clenched at the sight of baby animals and the sounds of children laughing, or loved to stare at the setting sun, being captivated by its warmth and beauty even on the coldest days. Never being witnessed in this light, Fleur had learned to harden that heart so she wouldn’t be hurt by the rejections of other females, her hopeful spirit never dying, instead living in a nerveless type of limbo. There would come a day, she knew, when that tomb would crumble, when her mate’s heart would revive her own. When someone would see her for who she was, not what her blood made her. When she could finally share sunsets and kittens playing, bathe herself in intelligent conversation, rather than be surrounded by either drool or jealously. That one would be her only. Or, perhaps, she may happen upon someone who already knew their mate at this strange new school, someone whose heart would not relinquish a beat at her passage, but alas, she would be surrounded by peers who were just as young as or younger than herself, hardly enough time to have begun the search for their counterparts. She knew it was a feeble hope to have.
She thought all this as she performed, the movements so rehearsed that they were second nature; a habit of twirls her body had fallen into. She bowed deeply to the school body as they finished; her eyes meeting a bright, beautiful brown gaze on the way back up. These eyes stared, not with envy or lust, but with true admiration and intellect, seeming to look beyond the routine and into the real art of ballet.
A blush rose to the pale cheeks, making the girl dressed in red and gold robes look most adorable. The brown eyes broke away, a sheepish smile crawling its way over her lips. But Fleur knew to whom those eyes belonged long before the girl could hide behind her mane of auburn hair. Oh, yes, she had seen her face in numerous places. It was Hermione Granger, the heroine of the Golden Trio.
The Veela turned away as the girls were directed to a table called Ravenclaw, but cast another look over her shoulder, catching the girl gazing after her again. Fleur strode to the seat beside her sister, folding her hands together, studying the wood grain patterns of the table absently. Something had changed. Something had been given, and then taken away, but being offered to take back again. But for the life of her, she didn’t know what it was.
From across the Great Hall, Hermione looked down at emblem of the Gryffindor lion, her stomach rolling slowly. She, too, felt as though something was missing, but not entirely absent. She didn’t know what had happened, what was lost, or what had possibly been gained. She felt as though hunger had gnawed her to lightheadedness, although she found the idea of food revolting. Another loud booming of the doors drew her from her thoughts.
A band of males, introduced as the Durmstrang Bulgarians, entered after the women had been seated. They marched with measured steps; staves struck the ground at rhythmic intervals, sending sparks flying. A tall bearded man followed a surprisingly large young man, instantly recognized as the hailed Seeker, Viktor Krum. As he passed, dark eyes found Hermione’s, predatorily studying her. A shiver threatened to run down her spine, but she refused to allow any discomfort to show through. She mirrored his stare with her own intense scrutiny; her brows knit together, eyes narrowed slightly. He continued, eventually breaking eye contact, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. Another Bulgarian summoned a phoenix of fire, leaping flames and a wave of heat trailed the beast as it swooped around the Great Hall, disintegrating with a shrill cry before the Headmaster of Hogwarts.
“Now that we’re all sorted and seated, please allow me to explain why we are gathered here.” Dumbledore intoned. He gestured to a cloaked object behind him. Barty Crouch came to his side, impassive expression plastered to his face. He removed the cloak, revealing a goblet that held a blue flame after the covering was removed. The sounds of cutlery and plates being pushed back echoed as the pupils’ attention was stolen by the unveiled object.
The ancient wizard continued after giving the student body a few moments to appraise the goblet with wonder and curiosity. “Hogwarts has been chosen to host a legendary event, one that has been neglected for years. This event is known as the Triwizard Tournament. This contest consists of three tasks, tasks that will challenge and test the courage, valor, and survivability of the contenders. In order to enter, a student must write his or her name a piece of parchment and cast it into the Goblet of Fire…” Murmurs broke out over the student body, muffling the rest of Dumbledore’s speech, excited faces and worried glances were cast around the great room. The proud Gryffindors raised their chins, the Slytherins jerked their thumbs at the object with glee, the Ravenclaws began their intense scrutiny of the object, and the Hufflepuffs ducked their heads shyly, insisting that another should seek the Goblet’s acceptance. The Durmstrang males rolled their shoulders back and held out their chests, while the Beauxbaton females narrowed their eyes and straightened their spines at the accepted challenge.
Hermione narrowed her eyes in hate and disgust, wondering how her gentle headmaster could allow such dangers to be brought to his school. She listened intently, hoping, praying, for rules, for standards in order to enter.
“However, there are rules. Mr. Crouch, if you will.” Silence stole over the room once more.
“With the dangers of said tournament taken into serious consideration by the Ministry of Magic, it has been ordered that no student under the age of seventeen shall be allowed to put forth his or her name into the Goblet of Fire, therefore, shall not be permitted to compete in the Triwizard Tournament.”
Groans and protests were thrown forth, hateful, angry words spewing from young, would-be possible contenders. Hermione sighed thankfully. The boys were safe. Perhaps this year would finally be one that passed uneventfully. She was ready to graduate, to begin her life, but she was incredibly relieved that it was their fourth year, and that she herself was only fifteen, thus saved from having to accept any challenge taunting her. She looked out over the student body, studying faces carefully, seeing who was more upset than others and who wished Crouch dead, simply for being the bearer of their legal limitations.
Hermione turned her gaze down at the small, half-filled and largely untouched plate before her, stomach even more unsettled after Dumbledore had finished speaking
“Blimey…” Ron sighed in front of her, a dreamy tone in his voice and a clouded film over his eyes. “She’s gorgeous, ain’t she? Just look at her! All blonde hair and blue eyes… And those curves! I tell you, I’d love to―”
“Ronald!” Hermione snapped, turning to the boy incredulously. “God, could you stop drooling all over yourself like a dog for three bloody seconds to appreciate what she really is?”
“What? I said she’s gorgeous―”
“I explained this to you at the Quidditch Cup, but, again, you were too busy drooling over them.” She said in exasperation. “A Veela, Ron, she’s a Veela.” Ron looked at her blankly, drawing a sigh from the girl’s lips and again, she explained what she knew. “The Veela are a very secretive culture. No one outside the Veela tribes knows much of anything. They’re descendants of sirens, such as mermaids, and that’s why they’re so beautiful and alluring, even to both sexes.”
“Then why aren’t you affected?” He asked; his first and probably last intelligent question for the year.
Hermione shrugged. “I have better things to worry about, I suppose; school, exams, University, my future career, the list goes on.”
Ron rolled his eyes, gaze going back to the Veela. “Blimey, ‘Mione, I don’t see how you can think about school with her in your line of sight… but you are a girl, after all. I suppose you’re just jealous.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, sighing heavily. Normally she would have fought back, insisted that she wasn’t jealous, which was the case. But instead, remained silent, uncharacteristically unfocused. She poked and prodded at her food, stomach unbelievably empty but giving no sign of accepting nourishment.
“C’mon, ‘Mione,” Harry whispered, nudging the brunette gently as Ron’s back was turned to them so he could gaze after the girl. “Let him fantasize like the schoolboy he is.” Hermione cracked a smile.
Eventually, his stomach overpowered his guttered mind and dug into the feast, joining conversations two or three words at a time around mouthfuls. Half an hour passed before Hermione announced that she was retiring to bed, many other students heading off to their quarters as well. The boys bid her sweet dreams, promising that they’d evade trouble till morning.
She stepped though the double-doors, students bustling around, fighting to reach their respective house towers. She paused for a moment, her feet taking another course. It was a familiar one, one she had trod countless times during her years at Hogwarts. The only place she truly felt welcomed and free, surrounded by history and the scent of ink-soaked parchment, even the sharp smell of dust welcomed her upon entrance and grew more potent as she continued on her way to the quiet, secluded corner she so dearly loved. As she turned the final corner, a flurry of blue robes collided with her, French curses fell from an accented French tongue, spewing apologizes for both language and inelegance.
“Mon Dieu! I must beg your pardon, mademoiselle. A rug didn’t appreciate my stepping on it, I lost my balance!” A tall blonde, blue-clad witch exclaimed as loud as a library whisper could allow, trying to steady herself and Hermione.
“No, no, I understand. That one used to hate me as well.” Hermione chuckled, righting her robes and looking up into crystalline blue of the other witch’s eyes, amazed at their proximity. Her cheeks burned as she stepped away, seeing that the one who steadied her was none other than the talented blonde who’d caught her staring. Recognition flashed in the blonde’s eyes.
“Ah, you were the brunette so entranced by our performance, non? More so with admiration than envy or lust?” The other witch’s accent was very pronounced and inflated some words, but easily interpreted by the Gryffindor.
Hermione nodded, stubbornly fighting her blush. She had been entranced, more than she should have allowed herself. “It was incredible.” She replied casually, but genuinely. “I’ve always admired the art, but never had the body for it.”
The blonde tsked, stooping to retrieve Hermione’s dropped items. “No one is born with the body for ballet, but the heart for it. I can teach you if you like.”
Hermione shook her head rapidly, laying a hand defensively on her things in the other woman’s arms. “I don’t even know your name.”
“I must beg your pardon a million times! Fleur Delacour.” She proclaimed, handing the books back to the Gryffindor gently. “There is no need for your introduction, Miss Granger.” She said, softer now.
“Hermione, please,” She replied sheepishly, shifting her load to her left arm, offering her hand. Fleur looked at the offered hand, confused. Realization dawned on her after several long moments. Of course! She is English.
Fleur took her hand gingerly, unsure of the known but unpracticed gesture, even more unsure as to why the brunette seemed determined to break her fingers, but squeezed back to ease the surprising pressure. When Hermione released her hand, she leaned in and placed a chaste kiss on Hermione’s cheek, chuckling at the blush on her face when she pulled away. The room felt humid and hot to Hermione, but the Frenchwoman seemed perfectly at ease and unaware of the temperature change.
“That is how we say ‘hello’ and ‘good-bye’ in France, Miss Granger. Surely, someone of your intellect knows of our customs, yes?”
Hermione nodded, snapping herself from the shock. “Of course, the French, I just… wasn’t prepared.” Come on pull yourself together, Granger! Hermione stumbled, searching for a way to get out of the suddenly cramped library without offending the kind witch she’d just met. How desperately she yearned for her private corner…“Well, it is getting late, I’d best be off.” The English witch said, wincing when the clock only read 8:45.
“Oh, please, stay and talk a moment? There are so many questions I would love to ask you.”
Hermione fought back another sigh. She wasn’t used to celebrity status, and certainly didn’t want the attention, but she couldn’t bring herself to reject the bright, curious eyes of the blonde. “I suppose a few wouldn’t hurt. Would you mind walking with me? I really mustn’t say long.” She found herself wincing inwardly. The whole reason she’d come to the library was to rid herself of tension but now she was giving up her haven to answer questions from a foreign student so that it’d be as short and painless as possible. Her longing for the quiet corner intensified.
The blonde witch smiled kindly and asked Hermione to lead; as it was by mistake she ended up in the room full of books to begin with. The pair exited the library; Fleur occasionally struggled to keep up with the brunette as she was briskly led through unfamiliar passageways. While they walked, Fleur asked her numerous questions, which Hermione initially answered with either ‘yes’ or ‘no’ but soon began blabbering on and on about which University she wished to attend, and what career she wanted to pursue. The French witch never once interrupted her, smiling kindly and her steps stuttered less frequently as the pair’s stride had slowed, wishing to draw out their conversation.
“Have you ever considered being an Auror?” Fleur asked.
Hermione laughed heartily. “Oh, no, not me, I hardly have what it takes. Besides, I don’t want to end up like Professor Moody.” She whispered the last statement, earning a chuckle from the Frenchwoman.
“I think you could do it, even make it look easy.” Fleur offered. “For someone with your intellect, it would hardly be a challenge.”
Hermione was flattered but rolled her eyes dismissively. They arrived at the foot of the staircase that ascended to the Gryffindor Tower, and Hermione turned towards her new acquaintance with an apology on her lips.
“I’m sorry the conversation was so one-sided. Whenever anyone asks me questions, they usually pertain to Harry. Perhaps, if it isn’t too much trouble, we could get together again and I won’t blabber so much?”
Fleur nodded with a smile. “I would like that. Tomorrow, in the library?”
Hermione grinned happily. “Yes, that sounds lovely.”
The Frenchwoman’s eyes lit up. “Wonderful. After dinner?”
Hermione nodded. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Fleur. I hope you have a good night.”
Fleur leaned in once more and kissed Hermione’s cheek gently. “And I you, Miss Granger. Bonsoir,” The blonde turned and began walking down the corridor, following the noise of students’ voices in the Great Hall round the corner. Hermione stood rooted to the spot, unconsciously stroking her cheek with her right hand. She stared at the flagstone Fleur had stood upon, her brows knitted together in thought.
How strange… she thought. Perhaps she’s a full-blooded Veela. She willed her heavy feet to climb the stairs, questioning her knees’ ability to hold her steady. Her body finally realized the Veela’s thrall, perhaps it had been assisted by the proximity, but the effects harbored in her limbs and joints as she steadily made her way to the Gryffindor Tower, where she quickly put out any and all thought of the strange delayed effects of Fleur.
Upon arriving in the Gryffindor Common Room, Hermione settled by the fire with Ginny, books spread out all round them, as Ginny, unusually attentive, wished to review last year’s material. Hermione’s ginger tomcat leapt from her lap when Ron stormed in, face redder than his hair. It hadn’t been half an hour since she’d left the Great Hall, and they had promised to avoid trouble.
“What’s wrong, Ron?” Ginny asked, looking up from her studies. Her brother paid no attention to her, angry eyes locked on Hermione. Harry hurried in behind him, apologetic look already on his face.
“Bloody hell, Hermione!” Ron bellowed. Hermione’s back went ridged and her chin lifted, every indication that a challenge had been accepted. Ginny also tensed beside her, eyes narrowing suspiciously. The two rose to their feet, the books lying neglected and discarded at their feet. “That French bitch kissed you? Who the hell does she think she is? Just because she’s Veela does not give her a right to kiss you! Don’t even deny it, I saw―”
Silencio!” Hermione cut him off, brandishing her wand, effectively silencing everyone in the room. Spectators had joined, and she didn’t need any more voices of unreason. Ginny nudged her gently, and Hermione brandished her wand again, relinquishing the spell’s effect on the other female. Never before had she used a silencing charm to fight an argument, but Ron’s accusations were preposterous and could not be tolerated. He couldn’t listen to reason because he spoke too loudly to hear it himself. Hermione was doing him a favor. She pinched the bridge of her nose as if to hold back a headache before she spoke.
“For the love of God, she’s French, Ronald!” Hermione shrieked, resisting the urge to grin when she saw Ron’s jaw flapping. “That’s her custom! Don’t think it didn’t surprise the hell out of me, because it did! It’s not like she had her tongue down my throat!” Her own use of the vulgar expression made her yearn to cringe and left a foul taste in her mouth, but she refused to allow him any satisfaction.
“Even if she had kissed her like that, what would it matter to you, Ron?” Ginny asked from Hermione’s side, her voice taking the same timbre as her mother. “She’s not an object for you to protect or manipulate. Neither of them are! Hermione or, what’s the girl’s name?”
“Fleur.” Hermione said quietly, glaring at Ron.
“Yes, that’s it. Neither Hermione nor Fleur are your property to control or contort. If Fleur chases Hermione or vice versa, who cares! At least you don’t have to ask, ‘what does she have that I don’t?’ because the answer is quite clear, you sexist, condescending, narcissistic dolt!” Ginny turned her back to her dumbstruck, speechless brother, a dangerous glint in her eye. A flick of her wand sent her books back into her bags as she gathered them up.
“Anything else you’d like to add?”
Hermione shook her head, returning her wand to her robes. “Good night, everyone. I trust you’ll sleep soundly.”
That night, after the study session and a more in depth recall of the blonde, Hermione lay in her bed, staring at the moon in her window. The blonde Veela’s face remained in her mind’s eye, giving birth to the question of the jelly-like substance her knees became when she bumped into her. When she’d kissed her cheek. When the unfamiliar heat rushed down her spine upon the first glance at her. Admiration and lust had taken hold of Hermione. For the first time, she didn’t understand herself. Was that the power of Veela thrall? Why could she speak clearly to the Veela without stuttering, but feel such a pull towards her? Or was this some silly schoolgirl admiration just now rearing its head? Or could it be more…? Though she’d never truly felt attraction to a male before, could that mean she was, indeed, what so many shunned and hated for reasons that were beyond her comprehension?
Hermione tossed and turned in her bed, trying to delve into the secrets her subconscious so expertly hid. Strange images and thoughts never relented as she so desperately tried to free her mind from the blonde’s unknowing and seemingly unintentional clutches. Fleur seemed to be very sweet, and certainly meant no harm in kissing her cheek, but Hermione couldn’t help but think that there had to be some ulterior motive behind her actions, (perhaps some desire to use her to speak of Harry as so many had done already) nor could she bring herself to cancel the appointment already made to see her again.
She had never been faced with these questions, or any like them before. She never asked herself if she was heterosexual, simply because she didn’t care; she had too many other things on her mind. School was always her first priority, keeping herself and the boys alive had overshadowed that at times. But of course, that in itself depended heavily on her schooling, always motivating her to study harder and longer. But even surrounded by her studies, she knew something was missing. Her mind, usually so vigilantly organized and structured, lost its focus and all sorts of possibilities poured through the open cracks in her concentration. Possibilities that had never been considered leapt into the realm of near-reality. Possibilities of love and happiness and futures and plans were quickly squeezing into the already cluttered shelves of her conscious and, unbeknownst to her, unconscious mind. Her mind was a scientific one indeed, and always gave each possibility validation and fair chance. But this? This chance that she could harbor such feelings for a mere acquaintance, for a woman?
She plagued herself with questions she’d never asked before, questions she’d never had a reason to ask before. Could another female make her happy? Could another human make her happy, or was she better off alone? Crookshanks’ companionship satisfied her plenty, and at times he could be quite the furry nuisance himself. Would a female require more attention than her pretentious feline? Would she have time to give her, or anyone for that matter, the time and attention they deserved? Would they interfere with her studies? Would they understand the need for such strict habits, knowing that it could cost the whole bloody world if one spell was incorrectly summoned?
Hermione threw herself onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. A charm had been cast so that nebulas formed and stars died for her to watch and ponder. The beautiful Cat’s Eye now displayed itself among a field of stars. The Veela’s eyes wandered back to the center of Hermione’s mind. The deep, beautiful blue, set with a wreath of long, dark lashes upon a canvas of pale skin. She did not recall the orbs with lust, but with an unquenchable, curious hunger. Were they the orbs of the ancient sirens from whence the Veela came? Into which time and dimension would they take her if she stared deep enough? How old was the Veela’s soul? What made it soar? What made it weep?
Hermione sighed, watching as the Cat’s Eye morphed into the Mystic Mountain. Surly she wants to make a friend while she’s here… that’s the main point of this bloody Tournament. International cooperation and all that… perhaps she’s just as curious as I am, perhaps she's just as lonely as I am. Perhaps she just wants to learn… surely she’s not looking for love here. Surely she doesn’t fancy me of all people. She threw herself onto her side again, facing the window.An irritated sigh lifted her breasts and shoulders. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to have an opinion. But she didn’t want to lie either. The blonde witch enticed her, prodding at her curious appetite for knowledge. She settled to believe that her lust was merely for the knowledge of the unknown that she found so tempting.
Stop over-analyzing things, Granger. She told herself firmly. It means nothing. Even as the thoughts were formed, a small, mute part of her knew there was something deeper, and the pit of her stomach knotted around the concept of the Veela. Something her conscious mind demanded to dismiss, but unknowingly was bound and determined to uncover as she somehow found sleep.