A/N: Fair warning, this chapter contains sexually explicit content and as such is 100% NSFW. For those of you who are not into that kind of thing, I apologize profusely. It happens towards the end of the chapter. I would not be hurt should you choose to skip over it. For those of you who are into it, enjoy. :)

Disclaimer: I don't own it. I don't make money off of it.

Chapter 9

Fleur Delacour was not easily affronted. She came from a family where everything was discussed. There was no limit to what could be verbally expressed—even if it meant someone got hurt, you spoke what was on your mind. So there wasn't much that could be said that would shock her. But, something about Hermione Granger agreeing with her mother (of all people) that something should be "done" about their relationship was just about the most shocking thing she had ever heard.

She sat there, mouth agape, unsure of how to respond. She had assured Hermione's safety. There was no way Fleur would ever dishonor that commitment. And what her mother was implying—that she just give into her natural Veela nature and ultimately end Hermione's life—she wouldn't make that mistake ever again. She physically couldn't allow herself to.

But how could she express that to Hermione? She had her words but they hardly meant anything in comparison to how she felt. Not to mention she had just been killed and then brought back from the dead. Which was far more physically, emotionally, and mentally draining than most would have you believe. She was in no condition to fight or argue with anyone, much less this woman she wished to protect. But even with all that being true, she still had to try. Why did it have to be so difficult? Her heartbeat increased exponentially. She found breathing was becoming more and more daunting with each second that passed with the words left unsaid.

"'Ermione, you mustn't think—I can't—Zat's not—Why—"

She fussed and fidgeted about in her best attempt to rid the English witch of any doubt in her ability to protect her from an ill fate. But Hermione would hear none of it. She could see the blond's exhaustion was clearly evident.

"Shhh. Settle down now. Settle down," Hermione soothed, placing a hand to the French witch's chest, pushing her back down to her place on the bed.

Fleur's heartbeat slowed and her incoherent rambling faded to nothing. The more calm she became, the harder her exhaustion hit her until she could hardly keep her eyes from closing any longer. She needed to talk with Hermione. She needed to tell the young witch how she felt and reiterate that she would always be safe under her protection. But now was not the time for that. Now was time for rest and recuperation. She would have her chance. Later.

As Fleur was drifting off to sleep, Hermione crawled into the bed next to her. As if by instinct, the blond's head searched for the comfort of the English woman's chest and she soon nodded off. She was alive. Hermione was alive. That was all that mattered in that moment. That and a deep, much needed sleep.


Hermione's eyes snapped open. Not because of a noise or any unusual light that had caused her to do so. But because the lack thereof. A pitch black obscurity invaded all the space around her, pervading her senses like a sickness. Not even an inkling of sound could be heard in the depths of the blackness. It was as if she had fallen into a hollow of absolute nothingness.

Where am I? She thought to herself.

She could feel the weight of her body resting on her legs, so she knew she was likely standing. But where was she standing? There was nothing but darkness all around her. A darkness so black that her eyes just couldn't seem to adjust no matter what feeble attempts she made. She moved her legs forward, but the area around her was so devoid of light, she was unable to tell if she was truly moving at all—much less if she were moving in any direction worth going to. Then, miraculously—as if by magic—there was something in the nothing. The sound of light breathing swirled past her ear no louder than a pin drop. Though it was more like a lion's roar in the complete absence of sound.

A hint of excitement bubbled in Hermione's chest. It couldn't have been her own breath because the sound hadn't been in sync with the movement she could feel in her chest. Someone else was here with her.

"Hello?" She spoke out into the vacuum of space, surprised to hear her own voice in the dead silence, "Who's there?"

But no one responded. To Hermione it seemed as if no one was there. No one and someone simultaneously. As much as she could witness, there was still nothing there. However, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. And in a strange way, knowing that certain someone was there brought a type of comfort to her. She felt unusually safe.

This was ridiculous. Why would she be in a place that was nowhere with another being that was nothing. How could she—or anyone else for that matter—exist in a place like that? She was someone. She was something. Her eyes had to be deceiving her. All of her senses had to be deceiving her. Or perhaps she had gone blind and could no longer see the world she perceived around her. Hermione rubbed at her eyes, hoping to adjust them in some way to the void she was in.

The moment they opened, she found that she was no longer standing. And it was no longer dark. Instead she was sitting in a train car looking out through the window into the miles of trees and grass. Though this was not just any train. In a strange, unexplainable way, it felt wildly familiar to her somehow.

Dark grey seats. Pictures of magical creatures hung precisely on the walls. Lamps as old as Dumbledore himself collecting dust above her head. Then the trolley witch passed by the open door with an abundance of sweet goods. Even without sight, she'd recognize the smell of cauldron cakes and pumpkin pasties anywhere. And in that moment, Hermione knew exactly where she was. She was on the Hogwarts Express.

What was happening? Was this a dream? She didn't remember falling asleep. Granted, that doesn't necessarily mean she hadn't. But if this were a dream then surely it wouldn't feel as real as it does. She'd never experienced smells quite as vividly as she was now. In fact, all of her senses were on overdrive in the presence of the old method of school transportation. She certainly hadn't had dreams this vivid before. Hermione was confused. And a little unnerved.

"Do not be afraid, ma foi," a voice spoke softly, coming from an obfuscated figure that had gone unnoticed in the train car until now.

The character was dressed much like the students from Beauxbatons who visited Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament during Hermione's fourth year. She inquisitively searched for any indication as to who this mysterious being was. But the stranger's face was hidden in the shadows of the train car. And their eyes were covered by the classic Beauxbatons school cap.

"Who—" Hermione began to say.

She was cut off by the mysterious figure's sudden movement forward out of the shadows. A new strand of blond hair glimmered with each new beam of light that uncovered it from the shadows. And once the being was fully bathed in light, the cap was removed and a deep pair of ocean blue eyes completed the unfinished portrait laid out before her. Hermione was more than familiar with the face staring back at her. It was the very same one that had been haunting her for weeks now.

"Fleur." She had meant it as a question. An inquiry as to why the blond was here in this surreal dream with her. And in Hermione's mind it was repeated as such. Though it came from her mouth as a statement. As if she expected nothing less of the blonde witch. Which in all honesty, how could she not have seen this coming? Fleur was a Veela. And she had an image to uphold. The two women were always together. So much so lately, that Hermione started to wonder if they would ever be apart.

The blond replied with a radiant smile. So bright and warm, it practically washed away any and all trepidation the English woman felt. And with Fleur sitting there, all dressed up in her school uniform, giving her that look, Hermione couldn't help but smile back.

"Fleur, what are you doing here? What are we doing here? Where is here?" The brunette asked.

The French woman's beautiful smile immediately fell and her face looked pained as if she were fighting with herself internally on how to respond to the onslaught of questions. She was always so careful with Hermione. So careful to say things in a certain way as not to frighten her. So careful in her movements as not to startle her. She always took her time thinking things through before acting on them. This time was no different.

Fleur leant forward in her seat as if she meant to stand, then sat back. Then she leant forward once more, and back again; repeating this same routine multiple times before finally settling on a decision. She stood and moved to the open seat next to Hermione, being sure to graciously tuck her skirt beneath her as she sat. Before the English girl could comprehend what was happening, a small, soft hand rested over her own.

The blond spoke softly, "We are in your mind, Docteur."

Hermione's face fell. Her mind? She was dreaming? About Fleur? This was not a place they should be. Not at all. The brunette sighed as her head dropped to her open hand.

"So now I'm dreaming about you? Great. This can't be a good sign," she muttered more to herself than anything.

"Oh, you are not dreaming, Docteur—I mean, it is technically a dream—you are asleep—'owever I am very much not a dream. I am 'ere and I am real," Fleur took the brunette's hand in her own and slowly brought it to her face as if to solidify her statement.

Dream Fleur or not dream Fleur, real Fleur—whoever she was—was still so unbearably beautiful. Hermione's breath caught in her chest the moment her fingers touched the soft skin. Her eyebrows furrowed as she marveled at how real it felt against her fingertips. It was just like how it had felt in real life; right down to the very burn that set her skin aflame. It practically melted her into a puddle in her seat. She had to be real. And if this was a dream, but Fleur was real, then that could only mean one thing.

"You're a legilimens?" Hermione asked, already rather sure of the answer to her own question. She asked not because she wanted to know if it was true, but because she wanted to understand more about why it was true and what that meant for her. Most dealings she had had with legilimency up to this point were not the most positive of experiences. And she deserved to know sooner rather than later the intentions of the being practicing such an act on her. As enchanting as Fleur may be, the brunette would need to be prepared to remove her from her mind if she wished to bring about any harm.

"Not consciously," the blond responded. Hermione quirked an unsatisfied eyebrow, prompting Fleur to further elaborate, "It is just anozzer product of my Veela 'eritage. We do not consciously practice legilimency. It 'appens naturally when we are called out to by our lovers. I cannot control it. And so...'ere I am."

That was strange. Hermione did not recall ever having called out in any way for Fleur; in this odd-beyond-all-reason dream or otherwise.

"I called out for you?"

"Oui. Your soul—it sings like zee most beautiful of songs. Like the sound of a quill dancing across a piece of freshly cut parchment or zee sound of pages turning in an old leazzer-bound book."

Hermione didn't realize her soul had been singing. From the way it was described, it sounded truly beautiful. She wished she could hear it the way Fleur did. If she could hear it—despite the beautiful sound it made—then perhaps she could know when it was happening and try to stop it as not to further torture the poor woman who already struggled so much with her natural instincts.

She looked up to Fleur's bewitchingly serene face. It was always so easy in moments such as these to forget what she was. To forget why it was she was so unattainable. Hermione could no longer ignore her intense attraction to the magnificent blond.

Why did they always have to battle with instinct? Why couldn't they—just for one night—give in to what they were feeling and let the cards fall however they would? Veela heritage be damned. Did it really even matter that the only possible way for it to end was for it to end in death? It could be something so beautiful—so magical. Wouldn't it be worth having something like that if only for a brief moment? The answer was yes—and no. And yes. And no.

Hermione didn't know. Being with Fleur in any way was dangerous. It meant inescapable death. And she would be a fool to so willingly jump into the Veela's web of chaos and fatality. But maybe she was a bigger fool than she'd ever dare to admit.

It was in that moment Hermione became abundantly aware of her hand that was still resting on the French woman's cheek. She was already enamored with the woman. If she let this go on, how much longer would she have to be herself before she was as nothing as the darkness she experienced before? Even if this was a dream, she had to stop whatever this was and she had to stop it now. She couldn't let it get too far or she might not ever be able to return—to her friends; to her family; to the life she had before Fleur. She jerked back quickly as if she had been scalded by a hot iron.

The blond interpreted this sudden reaction as a sign of distress and jumped at the opportunity to further console the girl.

"Mais, you 'ave nothing to fear, mamour. I am not 'ere of ill will. I do not wish to intrude or invade zis space in any way. I am 'ere simply because you want me to be. I will not 'arm you."

Hermione's immediate thoughts were flooded with an onslaught of random thoughts and unknown questions. Almost as if some remote part of her brain were forcing her to remember the direness of the situation she was in. Fleur was a Veela. And Veela have thrall. That thrall is almost like a drug in the addictive affects it has on a host. Those affects slowly disintegrate the brain until the host is no longer truly living. She had been under the influence of Fleur's thrall—more than once. What stage in this process could she be at that she is unknowingly calling out to Fleur in her dreams? How much longer does she have before she too is no more than an empty shell of a human? Why did Fleur have to be so goddamn beautiful and tempting?

Hermione panicked. She stumbled to get to her feet, tripping over herself repeatedly as she headed for anywhere other than where she was.

"You'll have to excuse me, Fleur. This is a little much to take in at once," she spluttered in her clumsiness.

She exited through the train car door. And as she did, the scene around her changed entirely. Where she expected to see a train hallway was replaced with a scene of one of her most favorite places in all the world. The floating lanterns and candles created just the perfect amount of warmth that one could comfortably nestle into a remote corner of the large room and read without need of a cloak. The smell of old books and leather permeated the air and Hermione had to close her eyes just to be able to handle the intense swell of memories that just being there again stirred.

"Zee Beauxbatons Library is nozzing in comparison to zis. I wish I could 'ave studied 'ere instead."

Hermione's eyes snapped open at the ghost-like flow of Fleur's voice and turned around to find the blond still standing only a few meters away.

"How did you know?" Hermione asked the French witch.

"'Ow did I know what, ma douce?"

"That the Hogwarts Library is one of my favorite places to be. Why did you bring me here?"

Fleur raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at the question.

"I did not bring you 'ere, 'ermione. I did not bring you anywhere. Zis is your mind."

"Then how did we get here? Why are we here?" The brunette scrambled for answers in a place and circumstance that likely didn't have any.

Without drawing too much attention to herself, Fleur slowly started to close the large gap between herself and the brunette.

"Zis is your mind, mamour," each word was punctuated with a small step forward, "If we are at zee 'Ogwarts Library, it is because zat is where you want to be. Similarly, if I am 'ere, it is because zat is what you want. I would not do anyzing in a place as sacred as zis wizzout your permission. You are in complete control."

She spoke slowly and precisely like a lion tamer trying to soothe a wild animal. Hermione surely felt as wild as an animal—or at least her heart was beating with the wild intensity of such. And before she knew it, the distance was almost fully closed between the two women. They were so close, she could feel Fleur's light breaths against her face. She could smell the french woman's intoxicating scent of coconut and vanilla. She could hear a heartbeat—whether it was hers, Fleur's, or both she was unsure—beating loudly between them like the single thread that was holding them there together.

Between the scene around her and her growing attraction to the French woman, Hermione wanted to kiss her—really kiss her—with everything she had. She wanted to do so much more than kiss her. She wanted to touch her—every last square inch of her. She wanted to feel the fire light a path across her skin as Fleur touched her.

It was too much. It was too intense. She couldn't allow such nearness. It would break any and all resolve she had. There had to be a line somewhere. And it couldn't, under any circumstance, be crossed. So, for every step Fleur took forward, Hermione took one step back, hoping to put that distance between them once more. Hoping to keep that line in tact.

But Hermione was running out of space to move. And the deeper she looked into the Veela's eyes, the more passion she saw and the more desire she felt. That line was dwindling the closer they came to touching.

Hermione gave a feeble attempt at stopping it, "Fleur, your thrall. Please. You can't."

But there was no meaning behind her empty words. She would have readily drowned in the French woman if that was what she wished. The brunette trembled in her last ditch effort to save herself.

"My thrall is like a pheromone, mon désir. I am physically unable to use it 'ere...in your mind," Fleur responded, her voice low and sultry, sending delightful chills throughout the English woman's body.

That couldn't be so. It had to be thrall. If not thrall, then what was it that made Hermione feel so compelled to the beautiful French witch.

It was her. It was all her. She wanted Fleur. Regardless of her Veela heritage and the thrall it produced, Hermione Granger wanted Fleur Delacour in all her glory with a burning passion. And knowing that was almost more frightening than falling prey to a Veela.

The English witch continued backing up until the backs of her legs hit a solid object behind her and she could no longer move backwards. In a new way, the blond was able to close that distance between them and she did with a delicate ease unlike Hermione had ever before seen. She felt eager hands curl around her thighs as she was gently lifted onto the table that had blocked them from moving. She almost squealed out in surprise but somehow managed not to. As the older woman squeezed tighter at the sultry flesh in her hands, a shiver raced up Hermione's spine in a lustful torrent of ecstasy.

"If anyone is under zee thrall of anyone, mamour, it is me," the French witch purred from where she stood between the brunette's legs, "And zee thrall belongs to you."

She cupped the young girl's face gently in her hands and rested their foreheads together. Her lip was snatched up in her own teeth and her eyes folded shut at their nearness. Needing that contact. But allowing one last opportunity for the girl to escape if she so wished.

"Fleur," Hermione rasped, her voice almost unrecognizable to her own ears, "I don't understand."

How could she still not understand? What would Fleur have to do to get her to clearly see what was like an elephant in the room right in front of her?

"Mon dieu, 'ermione. Don't you see?! All my life I 'ave been taught zat a creature like myself is incapable of love," her words were barely above a whisper though she longed to shout them from a mountaintop, "And yet...'ere I stand before you in flesh and blood—in all zat I really am—questioning the credibility of such a claim."

Hermione could barely focus on her words. She was mesmerized by the feel of the blond's hands on her skin and the movement of her succulent lips that looked as if they desperately needed to be kissed. Her heart sank as those very lips soon disappeared down lower out of her line of sight.

"Fleur," Hermione gasped as those lips barely grazed a sensitive spot on her neck, "I don't know what to say."

She was so aroused, she didn't know how she was even able to speak.

"Everything I 'ave done 'as been for zee good of my clan. Or for zee good of zee Delacour name. I have spent my entire life doing what ozzer people wished of me," the French witch whispered against the brunette's neck, "I am 'ere. And I am 'ere because you want me to be 'ere. And I feel zis way right now because for one, zey are my true feelings and two, it is 'ow you want me to feel in zis moment in your mind. Zat you are controlling. Now, I do not expect you to return any of zeese feelings...but you must excuse my selfish desire to hold onto mine for as long as possible."

Hermione shuddered. She could feel her wetness soaking through her panties. In an instant, Fleur's lips were tightly pressed to the brunette's—a collision of fire and chaos. It was everything the English witch wanted. Everything she had hoped it would be. Their first real kiss—without the influence of thrall. And she wanted more.

Hermione kissed the veela hungrily, taking everything she could from the woman. Her hands were buried so deeply in the golden locks of hair, they couldn't be seen. Her tongue reached in and out to lick and lap at the roof of the other woman's mouth, only to be sucked in each time it withdrew. It was only after what seemed like an eternity, Fleur broke the kiss, drawing a whimper from the English girl along with it.

"Please," she said in a low, silky voice, "Let me show you, mon trésor," she slipped slowly down Hermione's body; down to her knees, "Let me show you how I feel."

The brunette stared wide eyed at the French witch, both knowing what was about to happen and equally unsure at the same time.

She should have stopped the blond. But for whatever reason, Hermione couldn't find it in herself to do so. Because thrall or no thrall, she did want this. She wanted her. Great Merlin's beard did she want her.

She watched intently as Fleur's steady hands reached up under the skirt of her school uniform and grasped the band of her panties. She helped the brunette lift her hips so that she could gently slide them down. And as they descended, Hermione's legs trembled in anticipation. The French witch spread them further apart, and the brunette could feel the cool air hitting her incredibly wet and undeniably bare center. She did nothing to stop the loud moan that ripped through her.

Hermione watched. And waited. She wanted to see what the French woman was doing to her. She wanted to see her beautiful face near her most secret of places. She couldn't turn away from the gorgeous sight.

Both of them unconsciously held their breaths as Fleur's face neared Hermione's most intimate of areas. Light breaths tickled at the brunette's opening, teasing her further into a state of arousal. She wished Fleur would do something—anything. She couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't go on being so close and not being touched.

After only a few more torturous moments, Fleur ran her flattened tongue over the length of Hermione's wet slit, making the younger woman gasp at the contact. She was immediately hooked. This was the point of no return. She would die for the veela. She would do whatever she wanted. And not because of thrall, but because she genuinely would—that and it felt so damn good. So damn good that when Fleur pulled away—only for but a second—the brunette's hips reached and twisted; desperate for that same contact—vehement for sweet release.

But Fleur was not as ready and willing to give the girl what she desired so easily. She ran her tongue lightly over the pink lips, sucking and nibbling along the way. Her tongue danced up and down Hermione's slit like a ballerina. And when it would dance a path down oh so close to her center, the tongue swirled lasciviously around the brunette's opening, cautiously avoiding any real penetration into the spot where it was needed most.

Arousal leaked from Hermione like the opening of a floodgate. Her eyes were clenched shut. She whined and whimpered with each caress of that soft and steady tongue. She felt as if she were going to implode—burning from the inside out. Then Fleur dipped the tip of her tongue ever so slightly into the brunette's wet and waiting hole. Hermione's breath caught in her chest with a sharp inhale and she groaned heavily in her throat. It was such a wonderful feeling. She wanted more.

But the blonde's tongue withdrew. Hermione whimpered again. She wanted more. She needed more. And then Fleur's magical tongue swirled teasingly around the opening before dipping in only barely entering once more. Hermione gasped. Her hips shot off the table. Her hands clutched desperately to the French woman's hair. With her head lolled back and her mouth hanging open, she was the definition of desire and unbridled lust. Her legs quivered with impatience.

With a smile, Fleur repeated this same routine a few more times. The titillation of her tongue tantalizing Hermione into a frenzy. She knew that in this moment, the girl was hers. And she would do anything and everything in her power to remind her of that fact. Even if it meant she had to tease the orgasm out of her, Hermione would be hers and she would scream only her name if only for awhile. If only for now. Fleur desperately wanted to hear her name spill helplessly from the English woman's lips as she writhed in her most pleasurable release.

So in one long, firm thrust the blond buried her tongue deep inside the girl's warmth, wiggling it against her inner walls; sucking at all the sweet wetness that had gathered there.

"Oh, God!" Hermione cried out. Her hips shot upwards, easily finding a steady rhythm to the ceaseless penetration of the blond's greedy tongue.

Fleur licked and sucked at the brunette with a passion she'd never expressed before. Not a single drop of the girl's wetness could escape. Everything she felt—everything she desired—spilled forth into the pleasure she was giving Hermione. And in return, the English witch sucked all of her in and rode out every carnal feeling being so ceremoniously offered to her.

"Oh! Oh God! Oh. God...Fleur!"

Hermione felt the tight coil bursting in her stomach as she fell over the edge. Wave after wave reverberated throughout her entire body, washing away every feeling she had ever had except for that of pure ecstasy.

She didn't even have time to come down from her high. In an instant, her eyes shot open. She sat up from where she had fallen asleep on the bed—paying no mind to the blond who had been comfortably nestled up against her. That same orgasmic bliss had left remnants all throughout her and she shivered in its presence.

When she finally worked up enough courage, she looked over to her French counterpart and saw two mirth-filled, unapologetic blue eyes staring back at her intently.

What had she done.