Chapter Text
CHAPTER XLVII:
Fleur's POV:
... and I miss you, Fleur! Home is so much more lonely with you gone, and the whole of France feels emptier without you. Mamman and papa say we will be coming to see you for the Second Task, though, which is so exciting! Will you be coming home for Noël? I've asked for a pet this year, after you wrote to me about those beautiful abraxans that pull the Beauxbatons carriage. Mamman has been letting me have horse riding lessons and papa has hinted that they are going to build a stables on the grounds of the chateaux in Rochefort-en-Terre, but do you think they are preparing for a horse or an abraxan? I would love either, Fleur, I really would, but can you imagine how much fun it would be to fly? I'd love wings; is there a spell that lets you grow them? I would grow wings and I would fly every day for hours—
Fleur gently traced the loopy, babbling script on the scented parchment with a single fingertip. Letters from Gabrielle were always a balm on her soul, filling her with warmth and love. Her classmates had teased her in the past for being so wildly protective over her baby sister, but they were all clueless– they had no idea of the paralysing grief and fear she had suffered on that awful day when Gabrielle was only five years old, herself a tender eleven, and she'd thought she'd never see her sweet baby sister again.
Even thinking about that day made fire burn under her skin, made her perfectly manicured nails itch with the urge to form into talons while her face tingled like it had a bad case of pins and needles. Fleur wasn't capable of a full change, her Veela blood was too diluted for that, but she'd inherited enough of her grand-mère's nature to grow claws and for the beautiful features of her face to twist and sharpen to something far more bird-like, unnerving in the extreme. She didn't particularly care about either of those, other then to appreciate the 'hidden' weapons her talons could be utilised for.
No, it was the fire she loved. Veela were creatures of fire, and the dilution of her blood meant nothing in the face of this. Fleur didn't have her mother's ability to burn an attacker to ashes without lifting a wand or saying a word, but flames would never burn her and she could create spheres of flame from nothing but her will, a gift of the blood that burned in her veins, an instinct thousands of years old that sang in her heart.
From a very young age Fleur had adored playing with fire, but she'd always had good control over her abilities. She hadn't actually burned another living being with her flames until age eleven, when a slaving group that went by the moniker 'White Lilies', who were known for their work in the illegal sex trade– specifically in trafficking Veela and part-Veela to be sold to illegal brothels– had snatched up her sister and tried to snatch her too. Fleur had escaped, giving the man who'd dared to put his hands on her third degree burns on his face and hands in the process, but sweet, little Gabrielle who caught spiders in cups to carry outside, who cried over a butterfly with a torn wing and an ant she'd trodden on; her dear, darling Gabrielle who couldn't even bring herself to squash a fly, had not been so lucky.
The following forty-eight hours had been the worst two days of her life. All young Veela and part-Veela were given a sex education when they were young– sex and sexuality were both very important to their kind– and they'd heard enough horror stories of young Veela being kidnapped and never seen again for it to be at the forefront of the minds of everybody involved. The agony of thinking about what could be happening to her little sister as she waited and prayed for Gabrielle to be found had been petrifying and utterly heartbreaking. When Fleur finally learned Gabrielle had been located, alive, she hadn't been able to stop her hysterical crying until she saw her baby sister again.
It wasn't until later that she learned her Papa was having difficulties with bringing the men responsible for the bruises on kind, beautiful Gabrielle's slender wrists and inner-thighs, for the terrible hollowness in her glassy eyes as the tiny blond girl curled up under the cotton sheets in her hospital bed because she was too afraid to move, to justice.
Upon learning that the men might yet escape any proper persecution for what they had done to her precious baby sister, Fleur had been so furious that the fire burning under her skin had startled even her as it flared to an inferno inside her. To this day she remembered the expression on her full-blooded Veela grand-mère's face; she remembered Adèle Turenne's focus and fury in the face of her missing granddaughter, remembered her desperation and drive in the days that followed, her strength and her sharpness, her terrifying beauty and her terrible rage.
Papa had wearily explained to a daughter who should have been too young to have to learn this, how the abductions and rape of Veela children and teenagers so rarely went punished, though he swore– and he'd fulfilled his vow to her– that the White Lilies would not be getting away with what they had done to Gabrielle. The sheer injustice of this had turned all the fear and grief Fleur had been drowning in to a sickening mix of hatred, fury and an overwhelming, burning need for revenge, to ensure those who victimised her people, especially the ones so defenceless like her baby sister, would pay dearly for it.
She had to move quietly, fully aware even at just eleven years old that her actions would not be appreciated by those in power in the French government. But she wasn't the only one out there who was angry, the only one who burned with the desire to get even and to change the circumstances of their people.
It was inspired in part by the White Lilies, the slave traders who had been responsible for opening her eyes to the harsh realities of what being part-Veela meant for her and her future, that the image she chose to represent the slowly but surely growing group she had started was a lily. Her mother had taught her the language of flowers when Fleur was younger, though, and the petals of their icon were not the pure and unblemished white the traffickers had chosen to represent the innocence and purity of their stolen 'wares', but rather a bold, vibrant orange with crimson stamens and crimson tipped petals, like someone had dipped the flower in blood. Orange lilies represented hatred and revenge, and hatred is what Fleur and her people felt, and revenge is what they would have.
Aurèle hooting softly brought Fleur's attention back to the letter before her and she gave the tawny-eyed, pale-feathered avian an apologetic look before turning her attention to the final few lines of Gabrielle's correspondence.
I hope you are well, Fleur, and that you are enjoying Hogwarts, which I just know is wonderful! Please be safe and happy!
Lots and lots and lots of love,
Your sister,
Gabrielle
Fleur couldn't help her smile at Gabrielle's enthusiastic words. Her younger sister was almost hopelessly optimistic, a miracle really considering the horrific trauma in her past, but in this case she couldn't say that Gabrielle was wrong. Hogwarts actually wasn't awful; not like she'd been expecting, anyway, despite her half-hearted hopes– unlike her sister, Fleur had little use for optimism. It was certainly cold– November had smudged into December in a miserable parade of wet, grey days and it had started snowing that very morning, soft, silent, thick flakes swirling lazy patterns through frozen air– but the company, and this was certainly something she'd never thought she'd say, was shockingly pleasant.
Harry Potter was certainly a darling, an odd and contradictory one– both soft and hard, with kind smiles and hard, weary eyes– but a darling nevertheless, and Hermione Granger... she was a treasure. A very confusing treasure, actually– despite their playful dance of flirtation, Fleur had thought that the younger girl had been fully devoted to Harry Potter, and just enjoyed their clever, saucy exchanges. And then the day after the First Task, which sweet Harry had warned her about– unnecessary, for Madam Maxime had already told her what she had to prepare to face, but sweet nonetheless– Hermione had approached her in the halls of the castle and, practically out of nowhere, kissed her.
What happened next they didn't even discuss. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, Fleur wasn't particularly sure, and at the time she hadn't particularly given a damm, far too distracted by the way Hermione had arched against her when she glided her hands along the younger girl's sides, too focused on the way Hermione pulled back slightly, just enough to catch her bottom lip between blunt teeth.
Fleur closed her eyes and shivered, remembering the encounter.
The younger girl had bitten her lip hard enough to draw blood and Fleur had felt a flash of sharp pain, enough to drag a small cry from her throat, one muffled by their joined lips, and then Hermione was licking the blood away and tugging at her, pulling her towards the nearest girl's laboratory.
They hadn't bothered with going into a stall, and while Fleur was grateful that they didn't end up having an audience, at that point in time she couldn't really say that she'd have protested too much if they had. She'd discovered rather quickly that it was very difficult to think even remotely coherently with Hermione's hand up her skirt and inside her panties, slim, clever fingers rubbing at the bundle of nerves that turned her to jelly. Just the right amount of pressure and Hermione's mouth on her neck was enough to make Fleur tremble in anticipation.
It was hot and dirty and quick, and Fleur came the moment she felt Hermione's teeth break her skin, the rush of endorphins accompanying the pain enough to tip her over. She came with her blood in Hermione's mouth. She came with her fingers tangled in Hermione's curls. She came with Hermione's name on her lips, and she wasn't the least bit ashamed of that fact.
Hermione's below-the-knee school skirt was hiked up then and the British girl pressed herself against one of Fleur's thighs, grinding against her, and Fleur had been able to feel how wet Hermione was, even through the thin cloth barrier between them. She had then grasped onto Hermione's hips and helped her, moved with her, until Hermione was moaning and panting and shuddering, and then she went still, save for the tiny post-orgasm spasms.
Eventually, Hermione had lifted her head and Fleur found herself licking blood from the younger girl's lips.
They hadn't had much of a conversation following that, Hermione leaving almost immediately, but Fleur had both heard and understood what had remained unspoken between them during their brief, intimate encounter, that the physical pleasure had been a way for Hermione to express her relief that she'd completed the First Task, both successfully and without being harmed. The other girl, Fleur had quickly figured out, was not accustomed to voicing her emotions aloud, and she could understand that, didn't mind that the girl chose physical means to express her emotions, far too satisfied that the younger girl felt the emotions in the first place. The understanding that Hermione had felt at least a degree of concern for her gave Fleur a thrill of hope and satisfaction.
Because to get the revenge that she sought, that her group sought, to get the justice that their kind deserved, Fleur was smart enough to know they needed allies– strong ones, with strong influence. Hermione Granger and Harry Potter fulfilled both those categories– all she had to do was convince them that she and her kind deserved their aid.
It was time, she decided, tracing Gabrielle's writing with her fingertips and steeling herself with fiery courage and burning resolve; it was time to gather her research together to present to the pair, along with her case for her cause. She owed it to her people, and she could only hope they would be prepared to take the risk to stand at her side.
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Harry's POV:
"A ball." Harry repeated numbly, looking up at a scowling Snape in horror. "Dancing. At a ball."
Snape scowled even harder, his arms crossed against his chest and his eyes narrowed. The start of December had brought wind and sleet to Hogwarts and, like the weather, Snape's mood had gotten progressively fouler with each day that passed. Students in his class had been docked points for as little as breathing too loudly, and nobody was safe in the corridors, whether it was uniform infractions, tracking mud or walking too quickly. Even the Slytherins weren't exempt from his ire, so when he'd ordered all the Slytherin fourth years and above to meet in the common room at six pm, not a single member of the house of green and silver had dared be even a second late.
When the meeting started, Snape had announced an upcoming event apparently known as the "Yule Ball", a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament that was an opportunity for socializing with the foreign guests. It was to start at eight o'clock on Yule, and would finish at midnight.
"And if any Slytherin dares bring shame to Hogwarts and our House, I will have them scrubbing toilets with a toothbrush for the rest of their school years!" Snape had concluded his speech, with a fierce glare. It was little wonder that Harry had been terrified when Snape ordered him to stay behind as he dismissed everyone else. Hermione had grinned and mouthed that he was on his own before disappearing with Daphne, Tracey and the boys to the boy's dormitory. Snape seemed to pretend not to notice the flagrant breaking of school rules, much to everyone's relief.
Harry had been desperately trying to figure out what he'd done to bring Snape's ire down on him, when instead his head of house had given him the most awful news imaginable– the Champions and their dance partners opened the ball. Hearing that, he had had a sudden mental image of himself in a top hat and tails, accompanied by a girl in the sort of frilly dress Aunt Petunia always wore to Uncle Vernon's work parties, and immediately felt physically nauseous.
"Professor, I– I can't dance." He said, desperately.
"Then I suggest you find a teacher." Snape replied coolly, "I expect nothing but excellence from my students, and you will not shame the noble house of Slytherin by fumbling about in front of the entirety of Hogwarts and our foreign visitors."
"I think I'm going to be sick." Harry whispered looking down at his feet, genuinely terrified at this point. His insides seemed to have curled up and shriveled, and he was starting to wonder if he really did need to make a dash for the closest bathroom. Snape's hand suddenly coming down to rest on his shoulder was unexpected enough to make him flinch slightly in surprise, and he looked back up at his professor to see that his face had softened. Well, softened as much as Snape's face ever did.
"I've seen you dance before, Harry, at the Malfoy's galas." He said, voice much kinder then his brisk tone from before. "You need some formal instruction, but you have the basics down. You will be fine, and there are more then enough students around here who will be able to teach you– every pureblood will have training in the traditional styles of dance, and I cannot see any of them refusing to help you. You reflect our house, and we are all proud of you and what you have accomplished so far."
"Thank you, sir," Harry said, a warmth growing in his chest that suddenly made the sick feeling in his stomach much less overwhelming.
"You're welcome." Snape said. "Now off with you, child. Go tell Miss Greengrass, Miss Granger and Miss Davis that I expect them to return to their own dormitories before curfew." Harry nodded hurriedly, and Snape swept from the common room in his usual dramatic billowing of dark robes.
Harry made his way to his dormitory where his friends were all sitting around. "Are you in trouble?" Draco asked immediately when he walked in. He shook his head.
"No, Snape just needed to pass on some awful news." He said. "Apparently the Champions are supposed to open the Ball."
"Ooh, tough luck." Theo said, with a wince.
"Thanks," Harry sighed, going over to sit beside Hermione on his four-poster.
"We were just discussing what Snape said, when he was telling us when the ball was," she told him.
"Yeah, he said it was on Yule, right? Isn't that the wizarding version of Christmas?" Harry asked.
"Do you remember how the Ministry passed Mr. Dagworth's law, the one about how the traditional holidays have to be celebrated at Hogwarts?" Draco asked and Harry frowned slightly, thinking back.
"I think I remember that," he said, slowly. "Though I didn't really notice anything different about Halloween– I guess I was kind of distracted by the whole Tournament mess."
"Well, that's the thing, isn't it?" Draco said, leaning forwards eagerly, always in a good mood to spill some juicy gossip. "Dumbledore didn't let the school celebrate Samhain, he did Halloween again. He broke the law. Apparently the Ministry was pissed, but they didn't want to kick up a fuss with the two foreign schools here– but for Yule, Dumbledore's been told that if Hogwarts celebrates Christmas instead of Yuletide, foreign visitors or not he'll be suspended."
"Wouldn't that be the day?" Harry said, wistfully. "It would be my Yule wish come true."
"All of our wishes, mate," Blaise said glumly. "Well, that and for Snape to cheer the bloody hell up."
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Hermione's POV:
Can we meet after classes today in the library? If you could, please bring Harry along as well xoxo ~Fleur
Hermione frowned as she looked again at the note that had been delivered to her that morning by an owl with pale feathers. Her relationship with Fleur had continued since the first time she'd dragged the older girl into one of the girl's bathrooms and got them both off, but it was mostly a physical thing, with not a lot of talking involved. As far as she'd been aware, they were both happy with that.
And the sex was fucking fantastic. They suited each other perfectly. Hermione liked to hold Fleur down against whatever desk or wall or even a mirror that one time that they were shagging on or against, even though both of them knew it was more or less a farce; she didn't have the physical strength that the older girl did. Fleur was older and not entirely human, and she could break her hold in less than a second if she wanted to, but she didn't. Fleur allowed Hermione to grip her wrists and hold them above her head while she showered kisses along the part-Veela's neck (and then bit down and sucked purple bruises into the creamy skin); Fleur allowed Hermione to hold her hips down while she flicked her tongue over her again and again– slow and then faster, only to slow down again. Hermione liked to draw it out, liked to make both of them work for the older girl's release. There was a sense of power that came with it, but also some strange sense of utter satisfaction. Fleur trusted her enough to allow her to do these things, and that made her happy.
So Fleur interrupting their usual routine of meeting, finding an empty classroom, broom cupboard or bathroom, shagging, then kissing and leaving, had Hermione understandably... wary. Especially because Fleur had requested she bring Harry with her.
Still, she felt she owed it to the girl to at least see what she wanted, and had written back an agreement and they'd arranged a time to meet in the library. She and Harry had arrived first and Hermione, unable to sit still, had found herself pacing as they waited for Fleur to arrive
"I'm not sure I've ever seen you this worried about meeting someone," Harry commented as he watched her from where he was leaning against one of the desks students could sit at to do their homework. "Well, except that one time in our first year, when we met that person in the Forbidden Forest. But anyone would be worried about meeting that person. You really like Fleur."
"I know," Hermione sighed, just as confused by her own behaviour as Harry was. "It's utterly bizarre to me too. I'm friends with Daph, of course, and Tracey and the boys, and even Luna a bit, sweet little thing that she is, but it's... different with Fleur. She's one of us, Harry; a kindred spirit, of sorts. She may have grown up with servants to wait on her, and silk and pearls and diamonds to wear, but her life... it hasn't been easy. Everywhere she's looked down on, for being less then human. Like she's not worth it. The only reason she's in Beauxbatons is a combination of the fact her father was an important government official, and that Madam Maxime has a soft spot for so-called halfbreeds."
"Because she's, er, half-giantess, right?" Harry said, carefully.
"No, she just grew a lot during puberty." Hermione scoffed. "Of course she's half-giantess. The French government can bloody delude themselves all they want, there is giant blood in that woman, and I don't even want to know how that happened."
Before she could continue along that rather disturbing train of thought, Fleur arrived in a swish of pale blue silk. Her achingly lovely face was solemn, though she brightened slightly when she saw them both waiting. Hermione saw, as she got closer, that she was holding a thick sheaf of parchment to her chest.
"Zank you for taking zee time to meet." The French girl said.
"I figure it has to be important." Hermione returned, ceasing her anxious pacing.
"To me, eet eez very important." Fleur said softly. They were in a quiet corner of the library, out of the way, and the only person who might walk by was Madam Pince. Still, Fleur flicked her wand, murmuring a silencing charm under her breath, and Hermione felt tension rise in her stomach in response.
"I'm really feeling the suspense here," she commented, her tone sharper then she intended in her uneasiness.
"Ah, I apologise." Fleur said, looking genuinely apologetic, "I just wish zat we are not disturbed." The blonde girl took a deep breath, seeming to steady herself. "I assume zat you know I am part Veela, oui?"
"We do." Hermione agreed. Fleur took another deep breath.
"When my leetle sister, Gabrielle, was five she was taken, from right in front of me, by a group of men who wished to let people pay to 'ave sex wiz 'er." She said, her face terribly blank. Hermione felt her stomach start churning with something other then tension as Fleur continued. "I fought off my own attacker, but I could not save her. Papa 'ad enough connections to track down and save Gabrielle before anyzing was done to her– zey found 'er at an auction. Zere were eleven Veela children– zee youngest was only four years old."
"That's just sick," Harry said, his face pale. Hermione didn't say anything; she felt sick, and her nails were digging into her palms.
"Papa pushed," Fleur said, her face turning fierce, "he made sure zee monsters were sentenced. But zee problem eez zat Veela are not seen as 'people' and do not 'ave zee same rights. You saw zem at zee Quidditch World Cup, all zee Veela– paraded around next to zee leprechauns like mascots! A– a zing to bring good luck!" Fleur spat, her expression one of fury. "I am allowed to be a student of Beauxbatons because I am only one quarter Veela. I will not be allowed to inherit zee Delacour ladyship title– and more importantly zen zat, nor will I ever be able to hold a position in government.
"Papa 'ad to resign from 'is position in zee government when 'e married my muzzer. But 'is connections meant zat zee ones responsible for 'urting my leetle sister were somewhat punished. After all, an auction eez different from a single attack, so zee could not blame zee allure for zee actions zey took. It was a political mess at zee time– and in zee end, zee slavers were given zee same sentence zey would for trading exotic animals. Better zen nothing, but still not enough."
"I'm sorry," Hermione said, quietly. "That's... that's beyond horrible."
"Zank you." Fleur said, after taking a deep, calming breath. "When I came 'ere, I 'ad 'oped zat Britain would be different from France, zat zee famed Albus Dumbledore would be different," she shook her head, disgust clear on her pretty face. "I am zee daughter of a politician, not many people remember zat. I investigated zee British Ministry's laws, and crossreferenced wiz certain International laws... It's easier to show you, and zen explain." Fleur placed the thick sheaf of parchment she was carrying on the table.
Recorded on the stiff paper, Hermione could see, was a long timeline. The first date, 1900, was recorded in blue ink. Spreading out from each date were laws written in blue, green and red.
"Zee green shows when zee politiians are elected to office," Fleur said, tapping the parchment with her wand so it hovered in the air in front of them, spreading out so the entire timeline was visible. "Zee blue laws advanced muggleborn rights and zee rights of magical creatures. Zee red laws took rights away."
Fleur then tapped under 1945, where green ink proclaimed 'July 13th: Albus Dumbledore named Chief Mugwump'.
"Before nineteen forty-five," Fleur said grimly, "I recorded most of zee laws in blue. About a quarter of zem were repealed later, but zere was still progress. After, 'owever... red." Hermione hissed through her teeth in shock and anger at was Fleur was implying. Beside her, Harry made an equally shocked and horrified sound. "Not pretty, non?" Fleur said, bitterly. "Zee supposed champion of muggleborns and magical beings is zee one 'indering us zee most."
"Why are you telling us this?" Hermione asked through her clenched teeth, a numb sort of seething rage boiling inside her as she looked at the timeline hovering before her.
"You both loathe zee Headmaster." Fleur said, simply. "It's what made me start investigating in zee first place. You 'ave seen zee students of Beauxbatons– zey all despise me, because I am smarter and richer and more beautiful zen zem, capable of making every boy look my way, and even zeir boyfriends drool over me. When I came 'ere, I predicted it would mainly be zee Purebloods who would be bigots, but zey were all perfectly welcoming and courteous. I know I 'ave you to zank in part for zat, but zat doesn't change zee fact zat zey are genuine in what zey say, and 'ow zey treat me. It isn't a well known fact, especially outside of Veela communities, zat we 'ave a certain skill in sensing zee emotions of ozzers. Your fellow Slyzzerins truly hold no animosity towards me."
"I've never read that before," Hermione said, surprised at the information. "About Veela having empath abilities."
"It's a fairly closely guarded secret." Fleur said, simply. "It 'elps to protect us from those who wish to do us 'arm."
"Why did you tell us, then?" Hermione asked, warily.
"You barely know us." Harry pointed out.
Fleur just smiled at them, knife sharp. "Ah, but it eez like I said, I am a politician's daughter, 'Arry. You zink I am not aware of zee fact you, zee Boy Who Lived, are zee most important political player in 'Ogwarts, barring zee Headmaster 'imself? And zat 'Ermione is your partner– in everyzing? And, of course, zere eez 'Eermione's personal connection to zee up-and-coming politician T'addeus Dagworth? I am telling you, 'Arry, I am trusting you, because I intend on changing zee laws for my people– and I intend on you helping me do it."
"How do you know about Thaddeus?" Hermione asked, sharply. As far as she knew, her supposed relation to Voldemort's alias was not a well-known fact.
"I investigated you both." Fleur said, with a small shrug. "Eet eez a matter of public record zat 'e eez your uncle." Hermione frowned but nodded.
"Alright then. What makes you think we'll help you?" She asked, with a raised eyebrow. Fleur arched a slim eyebrow right back at her.
"Because I 'ave talked to you– both of you. And I slept with you. I may not know you well, but I do know you enough. You know what eet eez like to be a victim. Do you know 'ow many Veela are raped every year? How many of zem are children? And zee government don't ever imprison zee rapists– zee worst zey get slapped with are fines, because of course it was zee Allure zat made zem do it."
"That's so fucking wrong!" Harry exploded from beside her, making Hermione glad Fleur had thought to put up those silencing charms. "What the fuck? That is just– fuck!"
"Zat is why I came to you." Fleur said, head high and proud, blue eyes fierce. "Zat is why I choose to trust you. Will you 'elp me?"
"Yes," Harry said, instantly. "Of course, yes, Fleur."
Hermione gave Fleur a long, considering look before speaking. "If, at any point, it came down to wand against wand... would the Veela community stand behind Harry and I– and, by extension, Thaddeus?" She asked quietly. Fleur swallowed and nodded, head still high.
"I only speak for zee younger community, Ley Lys, right now when I say yes, but if Meester Dagworth sent delegates to talk to zee leaders of zee French and Bulgarian Veela communities... I am confident zey will agree, so long as certain Magical Oaths are given to ensure zee law changes are kept and to ensure zat zey are all given safe refuge in Britain."
"Ley Lys? The Lilies?" Hermione asked, brow furrowed. Fleur smirked, and there was something wicked about the look in her azure eyes.
"Zee full title eez zee Orange Lilies, but to add orange makes it too... obvious. We are zee next generation of Veela, and none of us are happy." Hermione laughed, startled, then turned to Harry to explain.
"In flower language, orange lilies symbolise hatred and revenge." She informed him and he let out a surprised laugh of his own. Hermione then turned back to Fleur, calmer now that the tension brought on by the seriousness of their conversation had been broken. "You help us and we'll help you." She said. "And that's a promise." Fleur smiled again, and there was a fierce triumph to her smile and fiery resolve burning in her eyes.
"Excellent!" She practically purred, "I do 'ave one question, before we finalise zis deal of ours." Before Hermione could reply to that, Fleur had moved forwards and pinned her against the desk bodily, her mouth heated against Hermione's, catching her in a kiss before she could even quite process the contact. One slim, perfectly manicured hand cupped her jaw, holding her head in place as kiss quickly became filthy.
Hermione, far more used to being the one who used her sexuality against others, found herself trying to catch up to Fleur. She had instinctively gripped the older girl's waist to push her away, not appreciating not being the one in control, but found herself instead hesitating. Then Fleur's knee slipped between her legs and the French girl used a bit of leverage to apply just the right amount of friction against the junction of her thighs. Startled, Hermione's fingers automatically tightened their grip and she pulled Fleur's body closer to her with a breathy moan. She broke away, just briefly, to say, "I don't actually see how this is your question."
"I wanted to ensure zat our business would not get in zee way of our pleasure," the French girl murmured, her lips still brushing Hermione's. "A new professional relationship will not 'ave any impact on our personal one, non?"
"Non, indeed." Hermione grinned, then licked at Fleur's lower lip, making a low sound when the older girl caught her tongue and sucked hard, before breaking away.
"Excellent," Fleur purred, before her mouth– hot, wet and sensual– was pressed back against Hermione's. Hermione barely noticed Harry's presence as she let Fleur lift her so she was sitting on the desk she had been pressed up against. Fleur broke the kiss in order to step back slightly and flip up her skirt, practically yanking Hermione's knickers down past her knees, all the way to her ankles. Without the obstruction, Fleur then pushed her legs apart so she was standing between them and knelt down so she could bury her mouth between Hermione's thighs.
Hermione let out a moan that was positively pornographic, because– "Oh my fucking god, yes, yes, right there!"– Fleur was, in her opinion, without a doubt the absolute best ever when it came to this. The French girl didn't give head like it was something she was trying to get over with, she revelled in it, teasing and kissing, sucking dark bruises on the exposed skin of her hips and inner thighs and making sharp nips to the flesh before moving back in, taking her time, and Hermione was only human, for Salazar's sake, and the French girl was eating her out with determination to make her– "Oh, oh fuck," Hermione choked out, and came.
"Yes," Fleur practically growled, fierce and breathless and so devastatingly proud and beautiful as she licked a second wave out of her, and then a third, and Hermione could only writhe on the desk, could only reach down with weak hands and yank desperately at the blue silk collar of Fleur's uniform, urging her up.
Fleur followed her wordless plea, standing back up, her stunningly lovely face never more glorious then it was now, wet and near-about glowing with satisfaction. The older girl leaned forward and kissed her, her mouth still slick, lips red and kiss-swollen. Hermione used the long, silvery hair to pull Fleur's head back, to cause the other girl to gasp and arch her neck as she took the time to lick the French girl's face clean. Fleur shivered and moaned, bracing her hands on the desk, on either side of Hermione's hips.
"Guys, Madam Pince is coming over!" Harry hissed, urgently.
"Shit," Hermione muttered, pushing Fleur back slightly so she could stand back up, tugging her knickers back up from her ankles, smoothing down her hiked up, rumpled skirt with sweaty palms. "We really need to get around to actually using a bed." She noted.
"Yeah," Harry said, voice strangled as he sat down heavily and grabbed a book to cover the front of his pants just as Madam Pince walked by, giving the three of them a suspicious look as she did so. "Probably a good idea."
"You are the absolute best at that, Fleur." Hermione said happily as she sat down next to the flustered Harry, boneless and satiated.
"Someone once told me zat a man can become quite skilful at using 'is pénis but when it comes to 'is mouth, tongue and fingers, all 'e could ever be is satisfactory, while even zee most innocent girls are natural chatte pleasers, and wiz a little practice a woman can drive anozzer crazy wiz just zee simplest of zee touches."
"Was that 'someone' your first female lover, by any chance?" Hermione asked, amused and already looking forward to sharing it with Tom when she next saw him, knowing it would most certainly lead to a very pleasant evening with Tom attempting– and likely succeeding, the older boy was determined and prideful like that– to prove it wrong.
"You zink you are not my first?" Fleur asked playfully.
"I think you were far too confident not to have previous experience." Hermione shot back.
"I am not your first lover eizer, I zink," Fleur mused, not agreeing or disagreeing. "But I am zee first of zee same sex, non?"
"Mostly true." Hermione agreed. "You're my first time with a girl when I've actually reciprocated– Bella had very little interest in me doing anything but getting off on her fingers." Fleur laughed.
"Zat certainly sounds like quite zee story!"
"Bella is quite the unusual woman. I half think she might have cursed me if I'd tried touching her." Hermione said, thinking back on how she'd ended up a tear-stained, trembling, boneless lump of pleasured aftershock on the floor of the converted dungeon, half drowned in endorphins from the Dark magic in the air and the orgasm humming in her veins.
"You two are shameless." Poor Harry groaned, his face still burning red. Hermione just laughed.
-
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Voldemort's POV:
Over time, Voldemort had found that the less soul he had, the less colourful the world became, and the less human those around him seemed.
Even in the manor he remembered to be relatively bright it was all grey walls and grey floors, and in the monochromatic space he was always surrounded in it was hard to see humans sometimes– they just blended in. Grey, flat things that moved and made noise and danced along the periphery of his vision most of the time. Sometimes they got in the way. Sometimes animals and plants and rocks got in the way too. He did the same with the humans as he would a troublesome branch– he moved it in the most efficient manner.
What felt like a lifetime ago, back when he was still practically an infant, back at that loathsome orphanage, he'd explained it to a visiting doctor just once, before he knew better, that of course he could tell the difference between a human and a rock, he just didn't see what the difference was in kicking a human and kicking a rock. What fundamental difference was there in breaking a stick and breaking an arm? Neither the rock nor the human mattered to him. Neither the branch nor the arm was a thing he cared about. Why did it matter that the body parts mattered to others? What did that have to do with him?
For Voldemort, even before the world started to lose its colour, its life bleeding from his eyes as he tore his soul over and over, most humans had been little more then objects in his eyes. There were precious few who he had viewed as actually people– and as they eventually died, thanks to his soul's mutilation it was practically impossible to form any new... 'attachments'. Now there were only a finite number of humans who weren't just black and white objects taking up space, like so many of the other things in the world. Those humans had sharp focus and full colour and actually managed to be people to him. Those humans, those swirling collections of colour, stood out from the things and the objects as alive, though he would easily admit that even those he recognised as people were still messy and complicated and not worth much of his time.
They were, however, unlike the vast majority of the population, worth a bit of his time, and they were distinguished in his mind from a tree branch which made him less likely to break their arms. Not impossible, of course– just because they had colour and he saw them as living humans didn't mean he cared for them. Didn't mean he'd hesitate to kill them or that he'd feel upset about them being killed.
No, it was an even smaller number of people who had actually managed to find themselves in that position; just five people over the entire span of his life so far that he would hesitate before murdering, five people whose deaths would– and had, in two cases– left him... upset. And highly murderous. Lucretia and Cygnus Black had attended Hogwarts with him, those many, many years ago. He had been... very displeased when they passed on. Bellatrix, dear Bella, had always reminded him of Lucretia... it was what had made him notice her in the first place, but it was her devotion, her sadism, her passion and her raw power that had kept his attention, had made him start to view her as her own person, not a pale imitation of the one he'd lost.
Harry Potter and Hermione Granger-Dagworth he had never looked at, instead they had seared their way into his sight, vibrant and alive and oh-so amusing in their determination. Bright streaks of colour in an otherwise bland world. It was little surprise to him that his diary Horcrux had latched onto them; 'Tom' was, perhaps, the most human part of his soul and he had, at that age, experienced the same desires of the flesh as most adolescents, though he'd never stopped so low as to be ruled by his hormones. He did wonder, occasionally, what the world looked like from 'Tom's' eyes, but he'd never cared enough to ask.
He had been keeping 'Tom' busy, lately, and it amused him how irked his Horcrux was at being kept away from his two little lovers. But 'Tom' understood duty, and part of the plan to overtake Britain included the establishment of his identity, because it would be needed very soon.
And of course, now there was a new angle he had to look into. The Veela.
Personally, held no animosity toward the magical species, and the clever little Veela girl that had written up the timeline that Hermione and Harry had sent to him, along with the agreement they had made with the girl, was very interesting. Very thorough and very, very interesting.
That little French schoolgirl had made a connection in her research that he himself had not noticed. Everybody in Britain knew that Dumbledore was the champion of the underdogs. It was a trap that even he had fallen into.
So what was Dumbledore's real angle? What was the old man really trying to achieve? It was... frustrating, to have this core piece of knowledge set asunder. Infuriating, even.
The Veela, at least, was simple enough. He had always wanted to preserve magic; to preserve the integrity of the magical world that had freed him from the filthy muggle one he'd had the poor luck of been born in. Muggles were his only true hatred– muggles and disgusting muggle-lovers. He couldn't care less about mudbloods; they were just a convenient way of gathering followers, and he had a similar lack of any animosity toward magical beings and creatures, Veela included. Even better, most Veela were able to use wands– they would add numbers to his ranks, and their allure was a weapon all of its own, one that could be directed at the enemy in a fight.
Yes, he decided, he could certainly see the benefits to adding Veela to his ranks. It would be a process, of course– he was not Minister yet, though it was a matter of time now. Once he was, he'd replace all the key department heads with loyal Death Eaters and permanently remove the more troublesome thorns from his side. With proper planning, he wouldn't even have to engage in open warfare.
Dealing with Dumbledore, of course, would be... problematic. But if he destroyed the man's reputation first, well, it would certainly make it easier to get rid of the old wizard when the time came.
And it would come. Dumbledore's days were numbered, because the wizarding world was very nearly in his grasp, the pieces all falling nearly into place. On the evening of the first day of the new year he would summon his followers to his side for the first time since his rebirth. It was time for them to face their Lord's displeasure, to be reunited with their brethren freed from Azkaban, and to start, once more, to serve him loyally.
Dumbledore's era had reached its bitter end, for the era of Lord Voldemort was about to begin.
And to think, it had all started, had all been made possible, because of Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived; his accidental Horcrux.
-
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Harry's POV:
The last two weeks of term became increasingly boisterous as they progressed. Rumors about the Yule Ball were flying everywhere, though Harry didn't believe half of them - for instance, that Dumbledore had bought eight hundred barrels of mulled mead from Madam Rosmerta. It seemed to be fact, however, that he had booked the Weird Sisters. Exactly who or what the Weird Sisters were Harry didn't know, never having had access to a wizard's wireless, but he deduced from the wild excitement of those who had grown up listening to the WWN (Wizarding Wireless Network) that they were a very famous musical group.
Some of the teachers, like Professor Flitwick, gave up trying to teach them much when their minds were so clearly elsewhere; he allowed them to play games in his lesson on Wednesday, and spent most of it talking to Harry about the perfect Summoning Charm Harry had used during the first task of the Triwizard Tournament. Other teachers were not so generous. Nothing would ever deflect Professor Binns, for example, from plowing on through his notes on goblin rebellions– as Binns hadn't let his own death stand in the way of continuing to teach, they supposed a small thing like Christmas wasn't going to put him off. It was amazing how he could make even bloody and vicious goblin riots sound duller then a flobberworm. Professors McGonagall and Moody kept them working until the very last second of their classes too, and Snape, of course, would no sooner let them play games in class than adopt a Weasley. Staring nastily around at them all, he informed them that he would be testing them on poison antidotes during the last lesson of the term.
It was when he was studying for the Potion's test in the library with Hermione that Viktor Krum approached them.
Viktor, along with the other Bulgarians, were still sitting at the Slytherin table for meals, and Harry had had some fun conversations with the older boy. Once Viktor relaxed, he didn't seem quite so surly, more just awkward about his fame and popularity. Harry could relate to that, and the pair of them had formed a sort of friendship based on mutual understanding. Harry hoped one day that Viktor might want to go flying with him, but he hadn't asked yet– like he said, the older boy was quite awkward about his fame.
"Can I talk vith Harry?" Viktor asked politely, after greeting them both.
"Of course," Hermione said, standing up. "I need to go get another book anyway." Viktor waited a moment for Hermione to be out of earshot before turning back to Harry.
"I vos vundering if you vere taking Herm-own-ninny to the Yule Ball." He half-muttered, looking a bit embarrassed to be asking. Harry blinked, surprised and unsettled. Viktor's words had conjured up an odd feeling in his stomach, and it took him a moment to realise what it was– jealousy. He really did not want Hermione going with Viktor to the Yule Ball– desperately so, in fact. Hermione and Tom, they were his everything. They were his family and his best friends and his lovers. And one day, he knew, they would be his husband and wife. They were forever, for him, and he'd never want it any other way.
"I am planning to ask her," Harry said to Viktor, a bit stiffly.
"It is not like you are thinking," Viktor said, awkwardly, "I am not vanting to date her. She is very lovely. You are very lucky. I just vanted to ask a girl that vould not vant anything but to dance. Back in Bulgaria, I have some-vun. Ve are very in love, but hide it from press. I vould not take a date if Champions did not have to open Ball."
"Oh," Harry said, relieved that Viktor wasn't after Hermione. That ugly feeling in his stomach had settled, though he still felt a bit... wary, almost. He hadn't ever felt jealous like that before; not over Hermione. He'd been jealous of Dudley when he was younger, back when he wanted the food and toys and bedroom and love that his cousin was given so freely and he had to desperately slave to receive even scraps– and as hard as he'd tried, as good as he'd been, it had never been enough to earn him his aunt and uncle's love.
"There are some girls I know who are betrothed," Harry suggested to Viktor, "maybe you could take one of them?"
"Be-tro-th-ed?" Viktor sounded out the word, puzzled.
"Um, it means their parents have arranged a marriage for them." Harry explained. "Daphne– she's the blonde that I usually sit near– hasn't got a date yet for the Ball, and she's betrothed to some older guy who's already graduated."
"She vould be happy to be date for me?" Viktor questioned.
"I'll ask her and tell you at dinner." Harry said, and Viktor smiled, looking relieved.
"Thank you." He said. "It has been nightmare. Every girl it seems is asking me if I vill be date for them. I am hiding in library vhen not in class."
"We're in the library a lot, Hermione and I," Harry said sympathetically, "feel free to join us whenever."
"Thank you." Viktor said again.
Hermione came back over as the Bulgarian shuffled away, a curious look on her face. "Am I allowed to know what that was about?"
"Helping him find a date who doesn't want to jump his bones." Harry said and Hermione laughed.
"You know, Fleur asked me the same thing a few days ago."
"Well I told Viktor I'd ask Daphne– she's already betrothed to that Ravenclaw who graduated a year or two ago." Harry said. "Who did you suggest for Fleur?"
"Longbottom." Hermione said, casually, and Harry blinked.
"Nev?"
"She asked for someone who needed a date and was an excellent dancer," Hermione shrugged, "I told her he'd need a make-over beforehand, but she'll have a bit over three weeks to work with the raw material."
"Neville's a good dancer?" Harry asked, surprised.
"Augusta Longbottom is his grandmother." Hermione said with a scoff, "I can guarantee that he knows how to dance. He can probably play an instrument and speak passable French, too."
"Maybe he'll be able to teach me to dance," Harry said, perking up a bit. He hadn't found someone to teach him yet, and it was getting closer and closer to the dreaded Ball– or, as he'd started referring to it in his head, the 'Unexpected Task'.
"Let's go find him." Hermione said, flicking her wand and making her books soar into her satchel. Harry copied her, then slung his book-bag over his shoulder.
Neville, when class wasn't in session, could always be relied upon to be found in one of the greenhouses. Today he was in greenhouse three, and Harry and Hermione waved to the cheerful Professor Sprout as they walked past her on their way in.
Neville was pruning some sort of daisy that kept making an annoying honking noise. When he looked up and saw them he smiled shyly.
"Hi Harry, hi Hermione."
"Hi Nev." Harry greeted him cheerfully.
"We'd like to ask you a favor." Hermione said, in lieu of a greeting. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her as she just steam-rolled ahead. "Two, actually. Harry needs someone to teach him how to dance and I have a friend who needs a date."
"Oh," Neville said, surprised. His round cheeks turned pink. "I– I can teach Harry to dance, but I'm probably not a very good teacher." He mumbled.
"I'm sure you'll be fine." Hermione dismissed. Harry elbowed her.
"What she means is we know you'll be amazing, Nev. You're brilliant at explaining Herbology to me."
"O-Okay." Neville said, going even pinker. "But I... I'm not... are you sure your friend wants to go the Ball with me?"
"You're one of the only people at Hogwarts who can think past a Veela allure that hasn't already got a date." Hermione said. Neville's eyes widened.
"M-Miss Delacour?" He said, weakly. "Y-You... her... me?"
Hermione let out a sharp sigh beside him. "Look, Neville, here's some advice I was given, when I was a buck-toothed, bushy-haired little know-it-all nobody– smile, no matter what you're feeling inside. Don't let anyone else see if you're hurting. No matter what anyone says to you and no matter what they do. Even if they trip you or push you and you fall on your damned face, just get up again and smile. You don't let anyone look down on you. As long as you smile and laugh, they'll get tired of saying things about you. As long as you smile, you can get through anything.
"Of course, while I smiled I planned out the bloody and brutal retribution I would one day rain upon them, but you actually need some self-esteem first, so baby steps. Fleur wants a date who isn't going to drool over the front of her stylish robes and won't step on her toes. You need a date, you can dance and you can throw off the allure after a moment– your pureblood Occlumency training, I presume. Any questions?"
Neville shook his head slowly, his eyes almost comically wide now. He then took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, a look of determination appearing on his face. "No questions." He said, voice strong and clear, and Hermione smiled, a quick, sharp smile.
"Excellent. I'll let Fleur know. She'll want to catch up with you sometime later today, to start sorting out robes and... other things. We also need to arrange those dance lessons for Harry."
"We both have Wednesday afternoons free," Neville suggested, "and weekends. Though I have to study for Professor Snape's test."
"I'll help you study after." Harry promised.
He already felt lighter as he left the greenhouse, waving goodbye to a very pleased looking Professor Sprout, who he suspected had heard the whole exchange. There was only one more thing he needed to do, and that would require Daphne's help.
That evening, Harry pulled Hermione to the side and took a deep breath as he held out three flowers– a gloxinia, a forsythia and an iris. They meant, according to Daphne, love at first sight, anticipation and hope. "Will you be my date to the Yule Ball?" He asked. He thought he should feel anxious asking the girl he loved to the Ball, but instead he felt calm and at peace. There was a soft smile on Hermione's face, and the gentle kiss she pressed to his cheek was brief and chaste but filled with a breathtaking and humbling love.
"Harry," she murmured, "nothing would make me happier."
A/N: Hope everyone enjoyed the chapter! It was an absolute pain to write– I'm trying and trying to reach the Yule Ball but plot keeps on happening! I'll get there next chapter, though (hopefully).
~ Cheshire Carroll