Challenge of a Young Heart

by Narthal

Fleur arrives at Hogwarts and struggles to get along with Hermione. Fleur/Hermione.

10. Chapter 10

A/N: Hello, everyone. I know, time has really flown away since the last update. Don't worry, though, the story is far from over or being abandoned. Some might be upset about the delay, and I understand that, but I needed the long break and some family time, too.

Many, many fuzzy thanks to all that read, reviewed, or made your presence known, one way or another. Some of you raised very interesting questions that will come up down the road. Also, I usually answer every review and PMs (except anons, which I can't), but this time I didn't follow through. Around mid-November there were personal complications and I went into full shutdown from fanfiction. I will correct that, as soon as I'm back on track. However, it will take a while.

Dialogue in italics is intended for the language used by Veela (very little in this chapter).

---

Chapter 10.

The last black and white frames disintegrate, withering slowly into a blank, but still faster than you can commit them to memory. You're left in a peaceful state, enveloped in comforting darkness and silence.

That must've been a good dream.

Your brain starts a lukewarm debate on the need to wake from slumber, when the choice is removed from your hands.

In a short sequence, you vaguely register soft tapping sounds.

Rather curious, but mostly distant and ignorable.

They fade away.

Blissful silence again.

You smile. Or, at least, you think you do.

But then, there it is again.

The rhythmic disturbance is back. Only now it's gone from gentle drumming to loud hammering.

And getting annoyingly louder by the second.

The noise drills right through the brittle shell of unconsciousness and starts to prod your brain. Insistently. Deliberately.

When you can't ignore it anymore, you open only one eye and take an unwilling peek around. Yup, someone's knocking heavily on the door.

You roll on your side and your hand fumbles around for your wand, but you don't reach it. In fact, you can't even remember where you left it last night.

A muffled voice filters through the door, carrying Alix's unmistakable liveliness, "Wake up, Fleur. You're going to be late!"

"Leave me be," you complain groggily, closing your eye again.

A click from the door and your friend steps into the room, "I can't believe you still use the same locking spell on your door. Our champion should do bet-"

"I vow to change it today," you mumble, lifting a finger off the bed for a bit, and then letting your hand fall down limply on the sheets.

As the silence unusually lingers, you're curious enough to open both eyes and look at your friend.

Alix is standing stock-still at the entrance of your room, wearing both a frown and a gape, "When did your room get in this state?"

You groan. It seems she's intent on not going away.

Giving up, you finally sit and stretch, "What do you mean?"

"Look around!" she exclaims in a concerned tone. "Did you conjure a hurricane in here?"

Reva's head sneaks over Alix's shoulder, a task only made possible when the girl stands on her toes. "Are you okay, Fleur?" she asks in a small voice, stepping around the taller girl for a better view.

"Good morning, Reva," you acknowledge the brunette's presence. "I'll clean up soon. Alix must be in one of those moods, making a big fuss out of anything."

The smaller girl shrugs, watching around in every direction, "I don't know about that, Fleur. It really looks like you were hexing everything in sight. Do you want help?"

"No, it's fine. Thank you," you reply, and the girl nods, turning to leave.

Right then, you notice her hands are cradling a mug of hot coffee. The invigorating aroma alone is more effective to make you want to jump out of bed and get started with the day than anything Alix has tried.

Remembering how long it's been since your last meal, you perk up at the possibility there might still be some of the fresh brew in the kitchen.

"I waited as much as I could to wake you, Fleur," Alix explains calmly. "You'll be happy to know that Cora is now a firm believer that you hadn't slept the night before."

You snort.

"Aren't you an inspiration today?" she replies with a smile and sarcasm to spare, sidestepping the many items on the floor to make it to the window and pull back the curtains. The sudden inflow of light makes you look away and cover your eyes.

"Seriously," Alix says, both hands on her hips and a warning glare aimed at you, "I don't want to be anywhere near your room if Madame Maxime walks in to the sight of this."

"You could start by being less loud about it, Alix. I promise I am going to take care of everything as soon as the rest of my brain wakes up," you reply, rubbing your eyes and holding in a yawn.

"Well, you better. There's a glove hanging from that painting. And the mud pooling around your boots," she says with a disagreeable face, "is not charming. Goodness, how did you get unicorn hair all over the room?" Her stare returns to you, "You know what? I don't want to hear it, Fleur. Just get up and do something."

The yawn finally breaks free, but when you open your eyes again, Alix is bent forward in front of you, almost nose to nose. Your eyes snap wide open in surprise and you jolt backwards.

"Right. Now." The determination in her voice is sharp as a razor.

"Always the old couple," Cora smirks from the door and you roll your eyes. "The girls are calling you, Alix. We're on that part of Charms that you wanted to double-check."

"I'm on my way," she chants back, but the other girl is already gone. Alix looks you up and down, then frowns, "What's wrong with your hair?"

"Nothing, why?" you retort, a bit self-consciously under her weird gaze.

"It's…" she pauses, canting her head, "it's a wild riot. It looks like there's a nest on your head."

You move your hand to ruffle soft strands... and your fingers painfully lock in a web of knotty confusion, making you wince.

Okay, now you're fully awake. At least enough to rise from the mattress, lurch a little with a limp, and take a look around.

No wonder Alix thought your room was a mess. It's not only about your scattered clothes from last night. The duvet is across the room, the sheets are looped twice around your right leg, Hermione's scarf ended on top of the trunk, the pillow is on the wrong side of the bed and your pyjamas look like you fought a battle in them.

Scratching your head until you need to stop from inadvertently pulling more hair again, you try to make heads or tails out of this, thinking back about any strange happenings since going to bed.

No, nothing comes to mind. You were sound asleep all night, and the way you feel rested is good proof of that.

After a careful roll of the neck, you ask her, "What time is it?"

"Eleven," she replies simply.

You consider that for a while.

"It's too early," you finally remark and pull your pillow in position, already lying down. "Wake me up again in half an hour, please."

"No, you don't get any more sleep," she stops you with an inflexible tone. "I've done all the math, girl. We'll only make it in time for lunch if you start getting ready now."

"That's not true. I shower and change really fast," you protest, looking at your bed with longing.

She crosses her arms, "I know, but Madame Maxime wants to talk to you before lunch."

"Oh..." That gets your attention and you forget about the bed. For now.

"Why?"

"We're curious, too," and all you get is a shrug out of her as she walks to the door. "So straighten up your things, dress up, go to her office and you can tell us all about it on the way to lunch."

You groan.

"Such finesse today, Fleur," Alix's smirk is a straight poke to your ego. "Maybe you need to be around Cora more often. You know, learn some of those big words she's been saying."

She barely ducks in time to avoid a flying pillow on her way out. Laughing as she goes. Of course.

Locking the door with a smile that she didn't get to see, you take your wand and start to tidy the mess. In little under five minutes, your room is spick and span. The bed is made with clean sheets and a different duvet, Hermione's impeccable scarf is on your pillows, the jumbled pile of clothes is sorted to be washed, and there isn't a single trace of dirt in sight. You remember to retrieve a small chain from one of the special compartments of the trunk, and then the large case is locked and safely tuck under your bed.

Definitely, nothing compares to magic. Fully content at the perfectly restored order, you are ready for the next step.

A complete sample of your uniform is out of the closet and spread neatly on the bed before you take off for the bathroom. You get started with the shower, feeling a few protests from thighs and back, but the overall stiffness is not that bad. After spending a good part of the previous night crouching down, then standing up and repeating the cycle for a long time, you expected unused muscles to complain a lot more than they are.

Finally, you focus on your bad case of unkempt hair, and choose a good set of shampoo and conditioner to help. Water alone is usually effective to straighten it out, so you allow plenty of the hot liquid to soothe a way through the strands and down your back. Gathering a larger serving of shampoo than needed for regular days, you start to wash it slowly, noticing unhappily that the knots were not undone.

Sighing, you loosen the strands out of their clumps, raking patient fingers from the roots down to the tips, over and over again under the flowing water, until they are docile at last.

When you're done and reaching for the conditioner, you look at your hands and gasp in surprise. Loose hair strands are tangled all over your fingers. And there are more left in the tub, too.

You stare in confusion. This isn't normal. Since you were little, shedding has always been very scarce, nowhere near what just happened.

Did any of your mother's books say something about this? Frowning, you try to recall the memories of the correct chapters in each of them, skimming through images of random pages to see if it gives your brain a boost. Unfortunately, it doesn't. You can't remember anything like this in the parts you read. And Hermione has the main book on physiology, now.

Bundling the remains in a corner, you proceed with the hair conditioner, only to find more of the light-golden evidence on your hands when it's over. Staying calm, you turn the water off, pick up the towel and take care of the moisture on your skin. A spell later and your hair is also dried.

You brush your teeth and comb your hair slowly, avoiding any drastic pulling and tugging, but despite the careful attempt, other stray strands are caught up in the process anyway. Even more surprisingly, no matter how much you comb and stroke, your hair won't stay put. It looks... bulkier. A little head shaking and it waves a lot more than it should.

After a resigned shrug, you go to the bedroom to get dressed, still feeling the tresses in motion.

And then you stop, halfway to the bed.

A few minutes drag and you only wait. The soft tickling against your neck continues. Frowning again, you slowly return to the mirror in the bathroom.

That's where you stay, watching your reflection in wonderment and disbelief. This shouldn't be. No, scratch that. The single reason to believe it's happening is that you're seeing it for yourself.

You tie your hands around your hair, close to your nape, constricting it tightly, and then glide them all the way down, forcing the wisps into a thin cord.

When you let go, the strands slowly start to gain more volume again, waving slightly by themselves, though the window is closed and the air is completely still around you.

The effect is subtle, nowhere near as pronounced as you saw yesterday for the pure-Veela trio, but it is there, undeniable to anyone who can recognize it.

You shake your head, mesmerized by the sight. Now you really need to get your hands on that book again. And there goes one more thing to run by your mother.

Resisting the urge to ruffle everything wildly, you lock it into a ponytail and watch as it settles and seems to behave a little better. The simple hairdo should do for now.

Anyone paying attention will probably end up thinking that you're flipping your hair more than normal. Great. That should do wonders to your reputation.

You check the time in a hurry and bolt back to the room, getting fully dressed and slipping into your shoes. All the hair-handling already took you too long.

When you're done, you move to your desk. This is not the moment to think about the letter to Gabrielle and it won't hurt to do it properly during the weekend. Your stare turns to the small flask holding that baffling potion.

'My worst achievement in Hogwarts,' you think grimly, swinging it up and down as the pearly liquid sloshes inside. The combination of glass and spell managed to contain it.

Carefully, you shrink the flask to the size of your thumb. Picking up the chain, you tap it once with your wand and wait until the soft glow fades away. Goblin-made to the last detail, you touch a special link at the center of the necklace and wait. It snaps open, and then clasps tightly on contact, as you set it around the most narrow part of the flask, securing the object in position.

Sighing, you fasten the chain around your neck, getting used to the extra weight, both in real and metaphorical senses. This won't give you a chance to forget about that haunting class. The unique goblin enchantment makes it impossible for anyone else to see or touch the flask. Not even by magic can it be revealed.

You collect the dirty clothes in a small laundry bag with your name tag and pull the drawstring tightly. A last look around confirms your room would pass with flying marks, even if judged by Madame Maxime's strict criteria. Too bad Alix isn't here to take a look and see this sparkling version, instead of the one she witnessed, minutes ago.

Closing the door, you are now in the long and spacious double-loaded corridor of the students' sleeping quarters. The small flames from the fancy brackets along the way wiggle and sway as you pass them by, reflected on the elegant dark tiling of the granite floor. At every other door there's a white marble bust on either side of the passageway, sitting on a dark fluted pedestal. The sculpted pairs stop chatting as you come into their view, to wish you a good day.

You notice Emeline's door is ajar, but the room turns out to be empty, so you close and lock it properly for her. All the other doors are shut, in the expected wooden palisade usually seen at this hour of the day. Their assigned occupants probably left them considerably earlier. Unlike you, with your crooked sleeping schedule.

After turning two right corners, you go down the marble staircase and land in the middle of the short entrance hallway. To the left, it ends on the door leading outside, but you turn right instead, striding into the octagonal Central Hall.

This is the main room of the carriage, where a domed wooden ceiling arches over the silvery chandelier, sprinkled with a myriad of small candles. The walls are of a creamy color, with a detailed woodwork pilaster on each of the eight corners, stretching from ceiling to floor.

The granite floor is laid out as a wide border of dark brown tiles that surrounds an inner beige area. There's a detailed marble inlay of the Beauxbatons coat of arms at the very center, and an outer ring of small marble medallions featuring fleur-de-lis patterns.

Six of the walls in the hall open into corridors for the other compartments in the ground floor, three to your right and three to your left. The two exceptions are the one connected to the entryway, right at your back now, and the one opposing it, with the built-in fireplace.

It's no surprise to see the dancing flames in the huge stone hearth, the main source of a soft warmth to the common areas of the coach. This has become a permanent occurrence since the day you landed in Scotland. Madame Maxime was adamant about shielding her pupils from the major effects of the cold weather, so the house-elves from Hogwarts assiduously tend to the flames, making sure they never burn down.

Sofas and armchairs are arranged in the space in front of the fire, enough to sit all of the current dwellers and also a few guests, though visitors are really scarce. You find no one in the Hall at the moment.

The sophisticated furniture at first looks uncomfortable and oddly-sized, but it is a delight to relax on and the vast amount of fluffy cushions only adds to the experience. You've spent many late evenings chatting here, until the Headmistress dismissed the group to sleep.

The many portraits adorning the walls, abundantly varied to include a large range of accomplished names, from medieval astronomers to the current national Quidditch team, are all reminders of home. Some of them wave their hands in greeting and you respond with a small nod.

Taking advantage of the walk-through path outlined by the dark granite perimeter, you leave the furniture undisturbed and head for the kitchen, which stems from the farthest of the three corridors at your left, close to the fireplace. It is magically linked to the kitchens of Hogwarts, and always kept well supplied by the house-elves. A small lunch would be quite pleasant now.

On your way, you first pass in front of the corridor to the large main bathroom, then the one to the Practice Room, until you reach and swerve into the third one, your intended corridor. Finding the right door, you open the Utility Room and dispose of the bag of clothes. Hogwarts also takes care of all the laundry of the foreign delegations.

When you're about to make it to the kitchen, you recognize the familiar smell of the beverage you're craving, but it's coming from behind you. Spinning on your heels, you realize the source is somewhere along the direction of the Conference Room. The girls must have taken it with them.

Rolling your eyes to no one in particular, you return to where you started and go the other way around the Hall, now strolling past the corridor to the small library, and finally wind into the passageway for the correct chamber.

Actually, which is now called the unofficial Study Room. It had felt like a waste from the start to let such a convenient space remain locked away without any use, since there weren't any formal meetings or debates expected to happen during your scholarly stay. Therefore, in a rational request, you all talked Madame Maxime into letting you take it over for studying purposes.

The Headmistress bravely resisted the whole of 52 seconds, until your thought-out reasons won her over. Or perhaps it was the combined arguing voices of ten enthusiastic teenagers, plus major pouting and puppy eyes that vanquished her resolve.

You'll probably never know. Even now, the memories still make you smile.

As you're finally lifting your hands to push the very heavy door, it opens at once and you almost crash-land into Alix.

Holding your arms firmly, she takes a step back and looks at you in surprise, "There you are. I thought I'd have to shake you out of that bed again."

"I couldn't resist the coffee," you explain meekly, looking over her shoulder for the source of the tempting aroma.

She laughs and points somewhere into the Study Room, "Sure, you must be famished. Go on and suit yourself, Fleur. We still have some biscuits left."

You nod and wait for the green-eyed girl to guide the way, but she shakes her head, "I have to pick up a book at our library. There's an impasse with the three spells we discussed last week. Remember, from one of the Charms class, back in December? I know I'm right. But I need just the book to convince the girls."

"Okay," you reply and move out of the way for your friend to pass, keeping the door open to enter the room.

Except for the marble and granite bathroom, all the other satellite chambers in the ground level are made of wood, from the parquet flooring, to the panels on the walls, and the beamed high ceilings. This was planned out aiming at an atmosphere of elegant simplicity, with rustic and homey undertones for the tenants' comfort.

The Conference Room, in particular, was built from light-colored yellow birch that doesn't tire the eyes. Two of the three wide windows on the farther wall are open, letting a soft breeze waft in at times, bringing some of the refreshing coolness from outside.

With a glance around, you notice the small group of girls is settled on the long mahogany table, entirely focused on their studies. Only Reva, who is sitting facing the door, lifts her stare to watch as you go.

After a wink and a smile at the petite girl, you find a few coconut biscuits on a small buffet at the other side of the room and fill a mug of very fragrant coffee. In short bites, you clear out three of the treats, enjoying the flavour to the last crumb, then finally walk to the table, sitting down with a generic greeting. "Hello, everyone. Good morning."

Startled heads turn to check you. Stiffening somewhat, you wonder if anyone is going to make a remark about how your hair is defying logic today. To your relief, they only nod and resume their studies.

Cora offers you a sympathetic smile on the spot, "It's good afternoon to you, lazybones."

"Not even you can rile me up today, Cora. I had the most blissful sleep," you say with great satisfaction. Addressing the entire group, you move on to more practical issues, "How's the revision going? Everyone ready for the exams?"

A brief choir of indignant exclamations follows, and then all their faces are already sunk back into books and countless rolls of parchment.

And suddenly it seems quite... odd.

"Why aren't you in the library at 'Ogwarts? Alix went to search for a book in our shelves, but there are many more options at the castle."

Their expressions immediately twist in displeasure, and their answers come out strained.

"Too noisy," is Reva's low excuse.

"Too cold," Lucie offers in a firmer voice, making quick notes on a piece of parchment, and you start to raise an eyebrow.

"Too, uhm, crowded," Félicie is next.

"Not enough boys," is Solenn's last straw, while blowing a few blonde ringlets away from her cheek.

You look from one to the next, carefully sizing up the overall annoyance and irritability, while all the girls are explicitly avoiding your eyes. Even Cora, and that is the weirdest thing.

After a few silent sips of the delicious coffee, you smirk, hiding most of it into the mug, "Madam Pince asked you to leave, then?"

At once, they've forgotten their books and are jumping in to deliver their version of the events, each one speaking a little louder than the one before, flailing their hands and pointing fingers around, as arguments and disagreements bounce back and forth.

Startled, your eyes zigzag from one girl to the other, trying to keep up with the trail of explanations, but in the end the noise just makes you dizzy. It's impossible to understand a single thing.

"Slow down, all of you," you exclaim calmly, standing up and waving your hands up and down, hoping to impose a little order. "One at a time. What is this? What happened?"

The room falls back in a silent state, though the girls are distinctly flustered and very unhappy.

"So unfair. We were discussing Transfiguration," Lucie is the first to speak, rubbing down the length of her long aquiline nose as her nearly black eyes irritably blink too much. "And it was a real discussion. I mean, an in-depth and thorough academic debate, for the sake of learning."

Your eyebrow, now arched at the top of your forehead, is fair evidence that she should provide a better explanation.

Lucie rolls her eyes as if it was obvious, pointing at the girl next to her, "Félicie was in charge."

"Oooh," you reply, in a long drawl, half an octave deeper than normal.

"Yeah, you know," Cora steps in, "Félicie plus Transfiguration equals brain explosion."

Félicie pins a hazel glare on Cora while muffled chuckles break free from some of the other girls.

You smirk. It's time to take care of the rising levels of adrenaline. After a taste of the coffee, you lean back on your chair and look at the girl, "I do know. The same as a certain someone and Potions. Isn't that right, Cora?"

"Tsk," is the offhanded reply, as she flips her hair in a mock flourish you all know quite well.

Shaking her head, Félicie rolls her eyes, but her expression swaps into a large grin. Everyone is giggling at this point, including Cora.

Reva adds in her shy manner, "The other students weren't even studying."

"Exactly," Cora starts, nodding at the brunette. "That's the problem. They're using double standards with us, Fleur. Those Krum fans were laughing, talking nonsense, and plotting more ways to woo him." Her expression is filled with boredom and disapproval. "Insufferable, all of them."

"They just won't give up. I'd hate to be Krum right now," Reva remarks. A few faces lift to look at her and she asks in confusion, "What?"

Cora sits up straighter and makes a show of placing a small piece of parchment over the roll she'd been writing on. After getting her quill ready, she looks seriously at the brunette, "Let me put this on record. When would it be a good time for you to love being Krum?"

The teasing tone is flawless and sprouts a few rounds of chuckles.

"That was mean," the brunette complains, hiding a pout and a blush behind her book.

"They weren't even the worst. A very annoying group of Slytherins was having fun," Félicie's voice then plummets to a whisper so weak you have to lean closer to hear it, and all the while the girl is eyeing the door with apprehension, "over the Skeeter article on Professor 'Agrid. Most were the eldest, sixth and seventh-years."

It's a touchy subject around Madame Maxime, so you've all been avoiding any remarks at the carriage or when there's a chance she could overhear your conversation.

"The things they said were too rude. It took Félicie and Solenn together to convince Alix to ignore them. And I stopped Cora from hexing them myself. Twice," Reva confides proudly, raising two fingers in a very visible 'V'.

Cora tussles the brunette's hair fondly and smiles, "What would I do without you?"

Reva rolls her eyes as she tries to fix her hairdo, but smiles softly all the same.

"And we saw them eating in her library, too," Solenn accuses, cracking her knuckles absently. "But, oh no, she had to pick on us."

"'Ze senior ladies should set an example'." Cora does an overly exaggerated impression of the rigid librarian with her English accent, raising the tip of her nose and crimping her brow at Félicie, who is unwrapping a large candy bar.

"Right. So her senior students are doing NEWTS in a few months, and she lets them get away with all that? " Lucie quips grimly. "Give us a break too, please. Maybe she forgot that these senior ladies are facing our own finals when we go home. Can you believe she kicked us out?"

You sigh, sympathizing with the overall anxiety. This will only get worse as graduation becomes closer, more real, inescapable.

"There must be a better explanation than Madam Pince being biased against us," you argue slowly, playing it low-key to respect everyone's hurt pride. "That librarian doesn't look the kind for double standards. I think she is highly suspicious of any student that is allowed near her books."

Cora exchanges a look with Félicie and Lucie, as if they were telepathically debating the matter. And, clearly, disagreeing with you.

"Isn't it possible," you hesitate, "perhaps," you pause some more, choosing each word, "that you were a little bit, hmm, louder than the rest?"

The girls stay quiet, until Reva mumbles, with her head lowered over her book, "I said that."

Félicie lets out a long sigh.

"Let's admit it, three exams in one week can make us a bit jittery," you continue, glancing at each of the girls that you've known for so long. "Right?"

The rest of the girls join in the silent consideration with the first trio and you pay more attention to your mug while they reach a verdict.

"Fine," Félicie closes her book and slides it to a side. "We might've gone a little overboard. All this thinking is giving me a headache."

Lucie volunteers in a beat, "Yeah. Some time off would be nice now. I haven't relaxed since the start of term."

"I agree, we're letting it get to us. Why don't we think about something else, for a change?" Cora shrugs and sets her quill down, "I refuse to look at another Charms book until after dinner."

"Good idea." You nod and finish your coffee. "Where are the others?"

"Sylvie is with her handsome Hufflepuff boyfriend," Félicie comments, rolling her parchment notes neatly.

"Boyfriend, hmm?" you ask with a suggestive lopsided smile, as the other girls follow her example and start tucking their items away.

Lucie nods, clasping her bag shut already, "Oh, yes. We checked to be sure. Believe it or not, they are going steady."

"They are sweet," Reva offers gently.

"More or less. Particularly on the 'less' side when they're being, you know, gross," Cora deadpans.

Lucie gasps and turns to Solenn at once, "Talking about gross and hideous..."

'Huh? Who said anything about hideous?'

"... did you see that girl at the library, sitting with the flat-faced Slytherin boy?" She snaps her fingers a few times, "I always forget his name."

Solenn forgets her quill and her brain snaps into gossip mode, speaking so fast you almost can't keep up, "Cassius Warrington. The short one with the huge ribbon on her hair? That shocking pink hurt my eyes, I swear."

"But her make-up was well done. So why did she use that thing?" Lucie prattles on. "Someone told me she has this powder that does marvels for her skin, a family secret."

"And the eyelashes? Kind of pretty, too. I wonder if that's a spell," Solenn adds, still in the same speed.

"Oh, and I heard the other guy sitting with them - the cute one with the scar on his chin - is so cool." Lucie bursts in a grin and nearly squeals, "He's available, too."

You shake your head to try to release yourself from the ping-pong exchange and turn back to face Cora, leaving the pair of girls to their high-pitched affairs, "Excuse me, what were you saying, Cora?"

"Huh?" Cora has some trouble to distract herself from the on-going stream of gossip, too, but finally obliges, "Oh. Uhm, their 'glued at the lips' act, Fleur. It's helpless."

The answer surprises you. This is still Cora, but it's not usual for her to deliver a remark like that. There's something edgy, if not bitter, bleeding into her words.

"Actually, it's called kissing, Cora," Félicie promptly corrects the girl. "You know, that goes with passion, and excitement, and butterflies, and falling in love... sometimes, and-"

She stops short when she notices your intrigued stare, blushing softly and looking away.

"No, I'm sticking with helpless," Cora retorts stubbornly.

"You're supposed to be more romantic than that," Félicie provokes the raven-haired friend. "Where's your French blood?"

"In my veins, obviously," Cora says, hiding away her arching lips and standing up to perform a Refilling Charm on everyone's mugs. "And I am a romantic, for your information."

Félicie shakes her head, "Then I don't get you."

"Neither do I," you confess, watching Cora curiously. "I've never heard you talking like this about anyone."

"Because I usually don't, Fleur, okay? This is a unique case," the girl says neutrally, tasting her steaming coffee. "Have any of you seen them together?"

"No," Félicie and you confess at the same time.

Reva contributes a little off-beat, "Uh, no."

"That's why. A kiss, like Félicie so kindly reminded us, is about caring, desire, feelings. It should be beautiful. In their case, it," Cora pauses, shaking her head with a pessimistic expression, "it simply isn't."

Alix walks into the room, hovering several large books to the table. Félicie gets up at once to help her set them in separate piles.

"So the champion has graced us with her presence. How very nice. It was so hard to get her out of bed that I'm still wondering if I tampered with the natural order of things, or the laws of the Universe. We might get another blizzard today. And maybe with thunderbolts that can shake up the walls this time," she taunts playfully, while you shake your head and a few chuckles twinkle through the group at your expense.

"What have I missed?" Alix soon queries.

Félicie starts to check one of the new books while answering. "Cora was talking about how Sylvie and her new boyfriend are helpless together."

"In a gross way," Reva completes.

"Oh, the kissing?" Alix asks loudly, then clamps both hands over her mouth. "Oops. I didn't mean to say that."

It works like a magnet and now everyone is following the conversation. Even Lucie and Solenn ceased their bubbly natter to give priority to Alix.

"See? Someone else pays attention, too," Cora pipes up, looking around.

"Well," Alix whispers, making a rather pitiful face, "it's hard to ignore. Most of the times, it gets too, uhm, wet."

Solenn adds the missing piece in a hush, "So that's what this is about? No big deal, so her boyfriend is a sloppy kisser. I've seen it. She has to wipe her face after."

Félicie shakes her head, "We shouldn't be talking like this. Sylvie will be offended. She really likes him."

"Well, it's not like we can do anything to help. But there were some very good kissers, if she was going for Hufflepuff," Cora adds with a frown. "And there are a lot more in the other Houses, too. She could've asked for advice."

"Who in their right mind asks for suggestions on a good kisser?" Alix asks doubtfully, hands drifting to her hips.

"Maybe they should. It isn't such a bad idea," Cora shrugs.

"People can learn. It must be much easier to find someone with a good character and improve the way they kiss than fall for a good kisser and then try to fix their major character flaw," Alix argues slowly.

"You'd be surprised," Cora quips. She feels compelled to continue when she takes a look around. "I meant about improving the kissing part, not the character thing. They can be both very hard. Just don't assume that improving kissing is all that simple." Now she's frowning. "Okay, you can all stop looking at me like that. I don't have a thing for people with character issues."

"Right. Are you suggesting you could've given her some advice on the quality kissers of 'Ogwarts?" It's clear that Alix is taunting now.

"Why not?" Cora raises an eyebrow. "I could help anyone of you, too."

"And how would you know anyway, Cora? There's an entire castle of students around the corner." Defiant green eyes clash against grey.

"The Alix glare doesn't work on me," Cora warns flatly. "I just know, okay? I notice things and I know people. Call it my special gift. I can always tell."

Félicie crosses her arms, smirking, "Prove it."

"Okay. Tell me how. What do I have to do to make you believe me?" the girl retorts.

Alix grins from ear to ear, "Tell us who are these so-called good kissers. We'll discredit your guesses."

"Do you really want to do this?" Cora asks in amusement.

Slowly, all the other girls start to nod in agreement. You can sense the challenge hanging in the air.

Cora shrugs confidently, as if in the presence of a very naive crowd, "Give me a minute to think."

"Haldor Asenov, from Durmstrang. Tall, strong, handsome. Possessive. Incredible kisser. Plump mouth, great stamina. A bit on the rough side."

Everyone exchanges a blank look.

Lucie clears her throat, "You can't prove anything with a guy neither of us knows in that way."

"Or that we've never even seen kissing anyone else," Solenn adds.

Cora frowns, but gives in to the argument. "Okay, I'll come up with another." After a little more thinking, she smiles knowingly, "I know. Roger Davies. He's the gentle type, that leaves your lips tingling. Right, Fleur?"

You make a face. An unimpressed one. "I wouldn't know," you admit at last.

"Haven't you-" Cora is surprised enough to let her jaw drop. "How's that possible?"

"There you go, kiss-wiz," Alix quickly instigates the conversation ahead after glancing at you. "Any other great example to prove this alleged gift?"

"Can't say I remember a good option right now," Cora remarks, her grey eyes piercing through to Alix. "Let's change this around. You give me a name and I'll share my expertise."

"Very well... Uhm, Lucian Bole, the Slytherin," Alix throws in.

Cora doesn't blink, "Rough and wild, but not sloppy. A little clingy. The kind who likes to be in charge. And there's something twisted about him."

"Sure," Alix counters. "He's a Slytherin. I'm beginning to think they're all twisted."

"Cedric Diggory?" Félicie offers.

"Too easy," Cora smiles softly. "We've all seen him and Cho. Sweet, careful, takes his time, and he likes to say lots of romantic little things between kisses. Come on, the guy's in love."

"Jeremy Stretton, in Ravenclaw," Lucie puffs.

"Who?" Reva asks around, but there are only shrugs in response.

Once again, Cora doesn't hesitate, "He has, mmm, potential, I'd say. A bit shy, but in a cute way, really. That's a boy who can express himself much better with actions than words. And he's been staring at you a lot."

Lucie looks thrilled, "You think? What should I do?"

"He's a nice guy, just don't underestimate his shyness. If you play it cool, chances are he'll really believe you are not interested and give up. Mmm, but don't make it too easy for him, either. He'll find the courage to talk to you."

While Lucie is thinking, Solenn takes a shot, "Let's hear your opinion of the most famous boy around, then. Viktor Krum, please."

Cora nods, "Good kisser. Probably very tender. He isn't my favorite type, but I promise Reva won't have any complaints when they try it."

The brunette's cheeks burn a sharp pink while Cora squeezes her hand once, and no one else says a thing. Her huge crush on the Durmstrang champion is a fact she's been unable to hide since the night of your arrival. And his team of stalkers, in particular, has made things particularly harder. Being the most timid of the group, every glimpse at the flock of girls swirling around him has been nothing short of torture for the girl.

"Why don't we raise the stakes?" Alix takes the lead again, glancing at you with a sly smile that is forewarning you won't appreciate it. "Since you brought him up, tell us what you think about his match at the Yule Ball."

You shoot a well-aimed glower at that taunting smile, as your gut ties itself into a string of knots. The other girls fidget in their chairs, especially Félicie and Reva, sending clandestine glances to check how receptive you are to this line of inquiry.

But their interest in you lasts little, overwhelmed as they are to notice that Cora looks confused, "The Granger girl, Krum's date? I'll have to pass."

Alix starts to cheer and do her irritating victory dance, twirling around with her arms high above her head, but the raven-haired girl stops her right away, "I'm not admitting defeat. I pass for now, Alix. Only for now, until I get a chance to watch her better. I lost the habit of checking students that are a bit younger. But never fear, I know who she is. You'll have your answer."

"Oh, so this gift works with girls?" Félicie chuckles.

"Sure," is the no-nonsense reply, as if it was, obviously, the most blatant thing. "Why shouldn't it? "

"Professor McGonagall?" Reva presents weakly.

Most of the girls explode in giggles.

Including Cora. But it doesn't stop her. "Amazing kisser. Experienced, sweet, very passionate."

The giggling reverts to gaping.

"Cora, you're unbelievable," Lucie mutters. "Don't tell me you can guess about Professor Dumbly-dorr, too."

"No," she confesses lightly, unfazed, "and I appreciate that it works that way. It's too weird to think about kissing him. Karkaroff is another riddle. And Madame Maxime, too. I can't take a guess on any of the Headmasters."

"I wouldn't kiss any of them, either," Reva grouses.

"Of course not," Cora chortles, winking at the shy girl. "You just told us you prefer McGonagall."

The brunette groans, flushing at the remark, but it just leads to another round of laughter.

Yup, the moods are a lot lighter now.

"What about Kristen and Lou-Ann? Are they with their boyfriends, too?" you ask when everyone is quiet again, trying to get back on more concrete topics.

Cora sits upright in a flash, "Now, those are good examples. I should've remembered them. Very good looking boys and terrific kissers, too."

"Don't let them hear you say it like that, Cora. Lou-Ann and Kristen are very jealous," Alix teases, and then turns to answer you. "No, Fleur, they're duelling in the Practice Room."

You put on a sad face, "I missed the fun."

Félicie smiles and suggests in a practical way, "We could all have a go during the week. Once the exams are over, I mean. You should plan out a duelling night like you used to, Fleur. Moody is hinting he'll attack us himself, so we have to stay sharp. And after these holidays, I know I can use the practice."

"Okay, I'll make arrangements and tell everyone," you reply, checking the time and standing up. "Madame Maxime is calling, so I should get going. Give me a heads up, please. How are the predictions today?"

"Are you sure you want to know?" Cora asks, raising an eyebrow.

You shake your head with a grim smile, "I get the general picture. Wish me luck."

"Good luck, girl," Alix exclaims. "We'll get ready to go to lunch."

Pausing on the way out, you address the group again, "Oh, I forgot. Someone please warn Emeline that her door was open."

Solenn nods in confirmation, "She said she was having problems with her locking spells. The grain of the wood and her magic didn't get along, or something like that."

"Where is she?" you ask, realizing no one has mentioned her.

After a long silence, where everyone looks around and no one has information to volunteer, Félicie finally shrugs, "Nobody knows."

"That's weird," Reva mumbles. "She can't just disappear all the time."

"The only sure thing about Emeline is that she doesn't miss classes," Alix returns.

"Or meals," Cora continues. "And she always sleeps in her room."

"Yes, that too," Alix rolls her eyes. "But other than that, it's anyone's guess."

You frown, wondering about your friend with the 'vanishing act', before getting your thoughts back on course. "Will you wait for me while I talk to Madame Maxime?"

"Yeah, we'll be at the Central Hall," Alix informs you, and then her attention goes back to the other girls. You listen her wishful tone, "I'm hoping the desserts are good today."

"A chocolate éclair would be awesome," Reva joins in.

Félicie agrees swiftly, "Or apple pie. Mmmm..."

"I like the jam doughnuts," Cora shares her preference.

"Treacle tart for me," is the last you hear from Lucie, as you close the door.

In firm strides, you return to the Central Hall and divert for the corridor at the right side of the fireplace.

You can't block away your worries, trying to estimate in how much trouble you can be after the mishap at Potions yesterday. Or Professor Snape escorting you to the carriage at the beginning of the week. You've been quite busy.

Slowing down as you walk through the corridor, at last you stop, under the last pair of candlelit sconces. You are now standing before a very wide and tall door, with double sidelights and a semi-elliptical fanlight. These are all stained glass structures, framed by very dark wood.

The glass panels at the sides and overhead show elaborate vine-and-flower designs, while the main panel that takes most of the door depicts a stone path winding to the left through a beautiful garden, with a fountain on one side and many flowery shrubs on the other.

You rap on the door a few times and the glazed panels start to gleam, as if illuminated from behind. After a long wait (which you know is for show), an old man comes walking down the path in your direction and stops to look at you, in silence, patting his long beard fondly.

He's wearing a long black gown tied with a leather belt at the waist, that conceals most of the white linen shirt underneath, except for the collar and the small wrist ruffs at the end of each long sleeve. A heavier black robe, that opens at the front, tops the rest of the outfit, and he's featuring his usual velvety black flat hat.

"Good morning, Monsieur Nostredame. My presence was requested by Madame Maxime," you say respectfully. "Could you please tell her that I am here?"

The Michel de Nostredame portrayed in this enchanted stained glass panel was quite popular in Beauxbatons, fairly known for his dead-on predictions. It was unfortunate that he was hit with a stray Confundus Charm during a duel at the school. Ironically, it happened while he was among the curious spectators in a large hall, waiting to see if his prevision on who would be victorious turned out to be correct.

It did.

However, everyone learned afterwards that the counter spell doesn't work very well on enchanted stained glass. And, accurate as he was before that day, Nostradamus has been wrong in at least half of his foretelling ever since.

That is, when he actually delivers a full prediction. Most of the times his eyes become unfocused through a phrase and any listeners are left guessing.

Some of his poetic streak has been lost, too.

Still, Madame Maxime always had a personal sympathy towards his enigmatic presentations, so she brought him to tend to the door to her Office during your stay outside the country.

As expected, he takes on a pompous poise, and then speaks in a grave and slow voice. "The deep Queen will make the three lions hideous and terrible... No, that was not it."

He looks troubled, rubbing his chin with his left hand while making gestures with his right index finger like he is connecting the scattered dots of some type of puzzle. You sigh and wait, trying not to be too impatient.

After little over a minute, he tries again, "The deep entry of the Queen will make the power and the army of the lions a terrible..."

He doesn't continue and doesn't make much sense, either, but you keep that opinion to yourself. The figure starts to pace right and left, concentrating hard, a deep frown showing under his hat.

"Damus," you say, knowing it's the only way to stop his ramblings, since he never liked the nickname, "please, I need to see her before lunch. My time is running out."

He sniffs loudly, rather displeased at your clear interruption of one of his stellar moments, and delivers solemnly, "The deep entry, made by the great Queen, will make the place powerful and inaccessible; the army of the three lions will be defeated, causing within a hideous and terrible thing."

You raise both eyebrows, running his statement over and over in your mind. Considering his job accomplished after a glance at your struck expression, he throws a haughty look your way and marches up the path, disappearing once he goes over the left border of the glass panel.

"He always gives you the coolest predictions, full of mystery and riddles."

You turn around with a skeptical look, watching Alix and Félicie as they amble through the corridor.

"Oh, really?" you ask, rhetorically.

"Yup, beats mine by a long shot," Alix replies. "Dear Damus offered me a complete description of tonight's dinner menu. And I hope it is one of his glorious mistakes. I don't think I can stomach tomato soup with goat eyeballs and stuffed bat heads."

Félicie covers her mouth, turning a few shades paler, "Don't repeat that. We're about to go to lunch."

You make a disgruntled face, fanning Félicie with your hands until her looks improve. "I think we're safe. He's been more wrong than right, at least with me."

"Ahem-ahem."

All of you turn towards the door, cringing when you realize the messenger is already back, has overheard your comment, and now looks definitely hurt.

"The Madame will see you now, Mademoiselle Delacour," he announces and leaves again, denying you the chance of an answer.

When he's gone from sight, the door unlocks and you hastily whisper to the pair in the corridor as you follow his instructions, "Wait for me."

After you are over the threshold, the door shuts silently in place. Mr. Nostradame confirms your entry and returns to the frame, giving you privacy. When he's not visible anymore from this side of the door, the glass panels shut down, becoming dim and dull.

And here you are, at the Headmistress' headquarters. The ample chamber has been proportioned to accommodate Madame Maxime's needs with room to spare, which means you instantly feel a bit out of place, glancing around at the large-scale compartment.

The Office, like its door, is made from such a dark wood that it nearly looks black, concealing the beautiful and natural pattern of its grain. Every part of it is well varnished, subtly reflecting the light in the room.

Along the wall at your back there are a few large paintings of mountain range landscapes and also a long filing cabinet for her documents.

On the right wall stands a single door, which opens onto the Headmistress' personal chambers, then a fireplace in the middle, and finally an elegant rosewood cordial cabinet, with crystal glasses decorated in golden gilt, and matching decanters exhibiting a wide selection of liqueurs. The brands are Madame Maxime's exquisite secret and always received praise from her visitors at Beauxbatons.

You recall a few girls - especially Cora, for tasting and learning reasons, she claimed - tried on more than one occasion to sneak into the office to sample the mysterious beverages, but Mr. Nostradamus wouldn't have any of that.

Turning your head the other way, you take in the most eye-catching of the walls, in your opinion, the one to the left. It's covered in shelves, from ceiling to floor, with the occasional fitting of three elegant glass orbs, magically filled with shivering whitish flames for illumination.

There are chosen books and magical apparatus arranged on the top and lower levels of the shelves, but the ones at eye level are adorned with Madame Maxime's prized collection of crystals.

The beautiful minerals, in all colors and many sizes, are a connoisseur's dream come true, displayed on special cushions to highlight the specimens. Most are perfectly transparent, with flat faces ending on sharp terminations, and preserved in a spotless state.

And one look is all it takes to realize that not even the large rough diamonds are as treasured by the owner as the unique array of precious black opals, sparkling at the center of her exposition. These were all cut into cabochons, showing off a vibrant flashing palette across their polished surfaces.

Only one column of shelves, the smaller ones and closer to the Headmistress, was reserved for personal photos and plenty of framed awards, diplomas and certificates, neatly organized.

You reach the center of the room, watching as the Headmistress is reading through a few reports and dictating a letter to her eagle quill. She waves her hand at you, in a clear invitation to step closer to her desk and sit down.

One of the armchairs is your favorite, so you set your bag on your lap and stay silent. Trying not to pry into her work, you discreetly glance elsewhere, occupying your mind with the abstract pattern of the frosted glass at the high windows behind her, which are closed at the moment, but gleaming as the panels at the door had done before.

"Address this one to the Ministry himself, with copies to the Heads of the British and French Departments of International Magical Cooperation," she commands the quill, which moves to a corner and proceeds with the instructions, producing roll upon roll of parchment.

Her chair rotates so that she's now facing the desk and she rearranges a few of her things, placing down the reports in one of the many stacks of parchment.

"Good morning, Madame," you start when she seems ready to talk.

"Good morning, Fleur. I am a bit behind schedule," she says, distractedly, searching through the contents of her drawers. "So many documents to prepare and file."

Time trickles away and she's still caught up in her thoughts, so you venture again, "Madame, how are you feeling today?"

At her vacant look, you add slowly, "The potion you took yesterday, did it have the expected effect?"

"Oh, yes, yes, certainly. I am much better today," she dismisses your worries with a smile. "Madam Pomfrey is a great nurse. She brewed a modified Pepperup Potion for me. It wouldn't be proper to spend half the afternoon with steam coming out of my ears with Ministry officials coming and going all the time."

"Are they still investigating the Tournament?" you ask, letting a bit of your objection show. "Is it really necessary, Madame?"

Soft sputters interrupt your conversation and the Headmistress turns to the very wide stone hearth, watching as the flames start to flutter and change color. Her eyes soon narrow on the large global map hanging above the mantle, as wide as the fireplace, and she waits in expectation.

Every time the Floo is activated, a small glowing spot indicates the origin of the incoming connection. Curiously, when a small star marks Paris, you notice Madame Maxime starts to frown.

Seconds later, the embers shape into the face of an old wizard with an extremely curly mustache that greets her formally. His arm quickly extends from the puffing green flames, offering many rolls of parchment to the Headmistress, and as soon as the delivery is complete, he says a few parting words and the flames return to normal.

Madame Maxime reads the headlines for each roll, sorts them into the correct piles on her desk, and her forehead becomes even more heavily creased.

A long sigh escapes her before addressing you again, "I would like your opinion, Fleur." She takes a sip from a mug of tea that looks absolutely cold now and glances at you, "What do you think about Mr. Potter entering the Tournament?"

"Hmm..." you buy a little more time to contemplate the boy in question and your memories about him since the decision of the Goblet of Fire. "At first I thought he'd been very clever to find a way to be chosen champion. But then I noticed he was miserable about it. I think he didn't want to be in the Tournament at all. It cost him dearly, too. His companions, even his friends, turned their backs on him."

"Yes, I agree. He wasn't very popular among his peers for a while," she says, thoughtfully. "If 'Ogwarts had planned to add another contestant to the dispute, the school showed its support in a very unbefitting way. Between you and me, they would've chosen an older, more seasoned student for the job, wouldn't they?"

"Probably, Madame," you confirm. "Is that what the Ministry is considering?"

"Unfortunately, it isn't. Mr. Potter will remain a very unpopular wizard with our Ministry," she replies moodily. "This has many unwanted repercussions."

"For Mr. Potter? Why?" you ask, concerned for the young boy.

"Oh, no. For me," she adds dramatically, heaving a long sigh. "I have piles of documents to sign, reports to fill in, and explanations to give to at least four different Departments at the Ministry."

You chew the inner lining of your cheek to keep a hold on the small smile that is threatening to see the light of day at your Headmistress' predicament.

"Madame, Mr. Potter was made a champion by the Goblet of Fire and nothing can overrun that decision. I really don't see the use of turning it into such a complicated matter," you rave rather heatedly. "Maman had a lot to handle last year already. And now you, too?"

"They won't let this go easy, Fleur. It's all paperwork, bureaucratic headache and assuaging hurt prides. No one can make accusations without proof, but everyone wants to cause plenty of trouble so it is not forgotten. The Tournament has turned into a grey area. Politics and Diplomacy..." she shakes her head. "I should have known better the day I accepted to be Headmistress of Beauxbatons."

"You do look tired, Madame," you say softly.

Through the corner of your eye you see something gliding in, through a small swinging door on the left wall. It stops, takes a curious look around, and then curls into a ball and rolls to Madame Maxime, presenting her a roll of parchment.

"Ah, Guille. Is that his-" her voice fades into silence when she slowly retrieves the parchment, looks at it for a while and sets it aside on her desk, though not completely out of reach from your sight.

With hunched shoulders, she picks up the creature on her lap and starts to pat his back, absently.

Taking advantage of her distraction, you check the messenger's commission as inconspicuously as you can, noticing at once the roll of parchment carries the Headmistress' personal handwriting and looks still sealed.

Soon, you start catching faint hints of a foul smell that seems familiar. You inhale deeply a few times, regretting it at once when your brain pieces it together as Hagrid's unique brand of eau-de-Cologne. And now that you know what it is, you can't block your senses from feeling it over and over again.

You bravely resist pinching your nose, though you try to hold your breath for a while, wishing it loses a bit of its kick. It's a wonder a witch like Madame Maxime can appreciate something like that.

Each to their own, it seems.

You bring your attention back to the parchment, thinking of its implications. So this is an undelivered message, returned to the sender in its original state. The Headmistress is trying to stay in touch with the Gamekeeper of Hogwarts.

With an even face, your stare slowly climbs to the tall witch sitting at her desk. Displaying one of the saddest expressions she's probably ever revealed in front of a student, Madame Maxime remains scratching the small prickly creature's head and letting the tips of her fingers roam between the pointy quills on his back.

You know from personal experience that her Knarl - Guille, short for 'Aiguille' - is particularly stingy. Many advised her against him, but she simply finds him too cute. It wasn't an uncommon display at Beauxbatons to see his snout poking out of the outer pocket of the Headmistress' robes. And his quills don't bother her, probably because her thicker skin is an amazing natural protection.

Sensing that you're spending too much time here for no reasonable purpose, you softly clear your throat and noisily change your position on the armchair. It works, and she glances at you again, setting the pet down. Guille rolls somewhere behind her desk and you can't keep track of his trail.

When you look ahead, Madame Maxime is watching you quietly, tapping her fingers on the table. Bringing your spine as upright as possible, you unconsciously tighten your hold on your bag and wait.

"There's something else I need to discuss with you. I've had a few days to think of late, Fleur. And I can't stay quiet anymore. I believe I gave you enough opportunities to come clean about it by yourself," she speaks softly, though the words are heavy as lead. "When were you planning to tell me of your escapade into the Forbidden Forest?"

You swallow loudly, feeling even smaller than usual under her fixed stare. "Madame?"

"The Veela told Dumbly-dorr what happened," she explains. "They warned him of their intentions to visit 'Agrid. And the Headmaster shared the information with me, as I am responsible for you."

Nodding, you breathe slowly and return, "I suspected there was a Veela village in the forest and that they would know the Gamekeeper. When Rita Skeeter published that article to hurt him, I thought they were the best option to help. I should have told you where I was going, Madame, but our villages are kept secret from outsiders."

"And so you kept it from me," she replies, even more slowly.

You wring your hands together and frown, "I am Veela, Madame. I couldn't do any different."

The Headmistress gives you a patient look. "Fleur, your intentions were good, I never doubted that. I am also aware that you are of age and very independent. However," her voice becomes sharper, "as one of my students, when it comes to your well-being, I must report to your parents. This adventure of yours was carried out alone, well into the night, without permission, and you left no indication of your plans or whereabouts. Suppose something - anything at all - went wrong. How would I explain that to Apolline?"

You open and close your lips a few times, but remain unable to speak. And here you are, beaten down about your little field trip. Or field flyby, to be more fitting. You consider for the first time your mother's reaction if anything had gone wrong, though it's hard to believe it could have happened.

Was it a mistake to go after that village?

"I... I didn't think about that," you finally admit.

"No, I suppose you didn't, because I am sure that if you had thought of that, the champion of my school would have adopted a more sensible approach." One of her eyebrows lifts with authority, "Isn't that correct, Fleur?"

"Yes, Madame," you reply humbly, in a low voice.

She calms down and the hardened lines of her features soften slightly, "I have known your family for many years, Fleur. I don't want you to take any more risks than you already do at this Triwizard Tournament. From now on, you will discuss with me any plans that involve the Forbidden Forest or other Veela. And you will do so before you act on them. Any activities that are not a part of your curricular program must have my approval. Do we have an understanding?"

"Yes, Madame," you say again and make to stand. "Will that be all?"

"I would like to ask you one last thing before you go," she continues.

"Of course, Madame," and you tense up once more.

She searches through the documents on one of the piles closer to the fireplace, speaking without looking at you for a change, "Is there a problem with the girls, any reasons for complaints? I have noticed more anxiety than usual lately. The term has only started. After such wonderful holidays and the Yule Ball, I expected happier faces in this carriage."

You nod and are about to explain, but there's a weak bump against your right ankle and you look down instead, watching Guilles uncurl and raise a curious snout at you. Smiling, you lower your hand to pat the eager little creature, who is nearly standing on his hind legs to reach it.

The moment you touch his head, an inner switch seems to click, setting an easier reaction in motion through you than any time before, more coordinated and thorough. This time you feel each step of the change taking place.

Your senses sharpen to the point where you can make out the words Mr. Nostredame is chanting on the other side of the door and Hagrid's cologne is detectable as if he was standing in the room. There's a slight pressure in your eyes, indicating the shift from blue to silver. You feel the magic navigating under your skin, tingling through your fingers to warm up Guilles. The little creature nuzzles your foot, almost... cuddling? And his quills remain down and relaxed.

"Guilles always took to you, Fleur," Madame Maxime says and you straighten up again, willing the change to reverse.

As easily as it took over, it recedes now. The Knarl soon rolls around the desk, probably going to his cozy indoor habitat, spelled to resemble the natural one at Beauxbatons.

Looking down at your hands, set comfortably on your lap, the temptation to do it again and test yourself is barely short of irresistible. But not now. You hope you remember to try it eventually, when alone and time isn't a constraint.

"Thank you, Madame. He is very friendly," you remark, in an attempt at levity. "About your question, everyone loved the holidays and the Ball, too. The current mood swing is related to classes. We have three important exams next week. The girls are so worried that they've organized a study group. Saturday afternoon we'll stay in the carriage to prepare for Potions, Charms and Transfiguration. The session will probably last late into the night."

She nods, in an overly grave fashion, "My obligations will keep me in this office while you study." She takes a deep breath. "I will talk to Dumbly-dorr to arrange refreshments for you tomorrow. They will be served at the carriage so you have more freedom to work around your needs."

A soft crackling from the fireplace alerts you to another Floo call. Madame Maxime fixates her stare on the map above the fire with visible apprehension. You realize she's repeatedly mumbling under her breath, and it sounds something along the lines of 'Not London, not London, not London'. The mantra ends and her face is taken by a large grin as soon as a small triangle glows in a location near Cannes.

"Beauxbatons," you exclaim in a light tone.

She is still smiling and watching the flames carefully. "News from home, at last."

Without much expertise, a lean arm fumbles from the flames and throws a large amount of charred envelopes into the room, disappearing right away. Madame Maxime flicks her wand and the envelopes land neatly and repaired on her desk.

"Maurice," she says wearily, waving her wand again to open the windows and let the stench of burnt parchment clear out, "I explained the way to use the Floo in my absence. He might learn before we return home."

She doesn't go on, so you slowly get up and walk to the door. When you're hoisting a hand to knock and say good-bye, you hear her voice again.

"Fleur, please, how," she pauses, hesitating, before completing her sentence in a whisper, unlike her conventional stentorian tones, "how is he?"

You whirl right there in surprise, "Madame?"

She shakes her head and waves her hand dismissively, looking like she's regretting having said anything at all. "Never mind. I was thinking out loud."

Frowning, you take a few paces in her direction and guess right away what she wants to know. Unfortunately, there isn't much for you to tell her. "He is not doing too well, yet, but the Veela said he will get better soon."

Her eyes slide up to your face and some of the sadness abates, though she quickly glances somewhere else, "Oh. Those are great news, aren't they? Yes, very, very good news."

"Yes, they are. Good-bye, Madame," you say, suspecting she wants to be alone.

"Good-bye, Fleur," she replies reflexively, her stare already lost in the glowing embers of the fireplace.

You nod and leave, closing the door with a soft click. As you cross the corridor a few broken words reach you from the Central Hall and you're soon in the company of most of the other girls. Leaving your bag on a couch, you go to the bathroom to wash your hands, meeting the missing ones there, still touching up their make-up.

Alix had been right. If you had returned to bed, you'd never make it in time.

The group leaves the carriage at a leisurely pace. You casually watch the clear sky above and the thinning coating of snow on the grounds. Without much to occupy your mind, you start to mentally organize the things you have to do in the castle before lunch, when Reva points at Hagrid's hut and suggests trying to see him. You've all missed him lately, and that includes his playful 'pup', as you usually call Fang.

The detour is short and brings you to the same clearing from the previous night. There aren't any vestiges that indicate what took place here, and the cabin looks locked as usual now, without signs of cooking, smoke from the chimney or any barking.

Félicie knocks on the door a few times and silence is her only answer. Solenn and Lucie join her, while Cora and Alix try one of the windows. You skirt the forest, looking around, and then see deeper in-between the trees a trail of massive footprints in a patch of unmelted snow. They lead straight into the woods, apparently followed by Fangs'.

Interesting. He left his home, at last, probably to go to the place where he feels most comfortable. Perhaps he'll run into the Veela again, by himself. Or he might find the source of that foul stench. You throw your head slightly back and inhale deeply as you think of the memory.

And, yes, there's something there. Richer this time, and just too strange to ignore. It's rot, alright, mixed in with petroleum, and some sulphur, and an unpleasant tinge that you can't place. You pull out your wand, letting it hang in your hand, pointing down, and take small steps forward, choosing carefully to set your feet where there isn't any snow left.

There is not even a single moving twig, or bird tweet, or soft wind whooshing through branches and bushes. The scenery is dead and still. Too much so, for your taste. Tightening your hold on the wand, you keep a sharp watch for any traces of movement, through and even up the trees. The bad smell is strong as before, but not stronger, and you can't tell the direction it's coming from.

You stop before landing another step ahead and take a large tree for cover, concealing yourself. Somehow, you can't shake the feeling of being observed. And it gives you the ultimate creeps that you can't tell who or what is doing it, or where they are.

All of a sudden, this is looking like a very bad idea. Frowning, you start to retrace your steps, walking backwards to the clearing, your wand now clearly raised in front of you, eyes and ears attentive to everything. And that's how you hear hurried footsteps coming at you. From behind.

"Fleur, what are-aaaaah!"

You spin just in time to catch with widening eyes the sequence of Reva running, losing her footing, and flying off straight at you.

"Hmppphff."

That's all you have to say after she collides and brings you down, landing splayed on top of you.

"Uhmm. Sorry. We were calling you back. T-to lunch, right?" she asks with flushing cheeks, trying to get untangled and stand up.

Still winded, you breathe slowly and as deep as you can to get rid of the awful sensation of having squashed lungs. Each pull feels like you're taking in fire, instead of air. A few seconds later and you have at least six more pairs of eyes witnessing the results of the acrobacy, some worried, some holding back humor. You finally lift a hand and the brunette helps you up.

Looking down, you're a total ruin. From shoes to hair, there's snow, mud, pebbles, twigs and countless other samples of wild nature clinging to you. And that's why it's amazing to be a senior student and have dependable friends. Reva and you stand quiet, while wands turn and flip around you, cleaning every bit of anything that shouldn't be there.

"Thank you all," you say with a satisfied smile.

"Anytime, Fleur. Did you find anything here?" Cora asks, taking a look around.

"I saw footprints that probably belonged to 'Agrid and Fang. But I didn't see them," you reply. "I was already going back when Reva decided she had gone too long without a hug."

Time for some giggling and to see Reva blush.

Cora soon winds her arm around the brunette's, "Come on, I'll make sure you arrive in one piece at the castle. And when you want a hug, next time just ask."

Reva smacks her friend's arm softly, but accepts her company back to Hagrid's. The other girls follow their example and you stay at the rear, throwing cautious looks over your shoulder every now and then. After a few steps, you stop and stare one last time through the trees. A soft breeze blows at you and the odor is gone. And now there are birds chirping merrily.

You sigh. If you have the chance, you'll bring it up with Hagrid sometime. Perhaps he can explain it.

Heading for the castle now, a talkative Cora is explaining in detail the best ways to protect oneself from the effects of Veritaserum. Professor Snape's warned you all lately that he's trying to get permission from the Ministry to show its effects in class. And that his method of choice would be by testing a dose on one of the senior students. The possibility of baring the inner workings of your minds to him, in particular, has you all feeling a bit nauseous.

The front doors of the school soon come into view, though still a bit far away. You pair with Alix and slow down on purpose to put some distance from the rest of the group.

While keeping track of the size of the gap so it's enough to talk privately without raising suspicions, you run your fingers through your ponytail, releasing a few more loose strands in a sudden gust, and start with a basic opening remark, "It's a beautiful morning, much better than yesterday. We might have a warmer weekend."

"I hope so. We've had enough of the carriage and the castle this week." She points her wand at the trail to get rid of a large mud puddle and finally speaks her mind, "Well? What did Madame Maxime want with you for so long?"

You frown. The Veela topic is still out of bounds. "She was busy, going through her mail. Lots of letters to sort, and more incoming while I was there. She asked about our collective anxiety and I told her we were worried because of the exams."

"That was all boring, then. You should know she wasn't the only one searching for you this morning," she shares with a smirk. "During breakfast a certain English brunette kept looking at our table and at the doors. I guess she didn't expect your absence."

"Really?" you smile, while a sense of happiness swells in your chest. It makes you feel light as air and even the pangs from your ribs seem weaker now.

"I'll have an eyesight check with my Dad's mediwizard at home," Alix claims, shaking her head and flashing you a teasing smile. "When you as much as think of her, your face lights up like fireworks. And you're blushing. It's tough to believe I missed this."

You return coyly, rearranging the bag on your shoulder, "Just… leave it alone, okay?"

"I don't want to, Fleur. It isn't every day that something like this happens to you." She sees your uneasiness and adds, "But I'll be discreet and keep it between us."

"Thank you. That's all that I ask," you reply quietly, knowing she will keep her word.

"I can see you really like her," she says, chuckling at the sight of Reva and Lucie darting after a couple of agile squirrels. When she continues, her tone is softer and encouraging, "Isn't that right?"

"Yes, it is, Alix. We have been together for a short time, but she just…" you pause to measure your words, but then reconsider. You don't have to keep things under wraps with her. This is Alix, after all. "I look at her and I see such a beautiful girl, so perceptive and thoughtful, so full of compassion. The kind that can be brave for others, even though she's still a little shy about herself, you know? It's easy to be around her, and I mean 'easy' in the sense of comfortable, and pleasant, and exciting. I am constantly thinking of her… And she has the prettiest eyes, Alix."

You sigh, thinking of that delicately-cut face, the wild hair with a will of its own, her sparkling stare, the softest of lips, and once again, you can't lock your mouth in a straight line. "'Ermione just… makes me smile. All the time, sometimes for no reason at all. And it makes me want to see her smile, too."

Green eyes glance slyly at you, and then Alix nudges your shoulder playfully. "This is only the beginning, girl. You still owe me every little detail about those pretty eyes," she whispers by your ear.

"And I will give them to you, Alix," you reply calmly, turning your stare to the girls ahead.

After a long silence as you fall into step side by side, you remember something else. "Sorry for changing the subject, but this might be a good moment to talk about it. What's gotten into Cora? She's... weird today."

She sighs, nodding, "She had a row with Yvonne right after breakfast."

"Those two, yelling at each other? In public?" you frown, as you're crossing the covered bridge, where a few students are chatting in small groups, some looking down at the ravine or beyond that, at the school grounds. "That's quite hard to imagine."

"Only Yvonne did the lashing out, and you're right, she isn't one to yell. But anyone could tell it wasn't a fun chat," Alix responds, waving at a few Durmstrang boys. "Cora just let the girl be done with it. After it was over, she didn't say a word on the library. Not even when she was about to hex the skin off some-"

"Slytherins gossiping on the Skeeter thing," you cut in. "Reva said she made her stop."

"Yeah, that was it. Cora didn't say much on the way to the carriage, either, and then she stayed in her room for a long time. The most we saw of her was when she turned up to study with us, right before I went to wake you up."

You look at the raven-haired girl, telling something to a trio of smiling young Gryffindors, and you can't help but remember about your own bad period with Hermione. As soon as she thinks no one is looking her way anymore, the happy expression reverts to the more serious and thoughtful one you'd witnessed last night.

"She doesn't look too good, does she?"

Alix only shakes her head, while entering the Entrance Hall and instantly lowering her voice so it doesn't echo out of control, "We should cheer her some."

You nod and tell her you have a few errands to run. Without explaining further, you go up the Grand Staircase and turn in the direction of the Hospital Wing.

As you stroll, the feeling of being watched, even stalked, starts to bother you. It's noticeable that people hush up and stop what they are doing as you pass, to follow your every move. Anonymous stares drag on your figure, rapidly drifting elsewhere when you glance over your shoulders, but nailing again onto your back as soon as you turn ahead. It's a dreadful sensation that you hadn't experienced in a while, and you go that much faster to be rid of the unwanted attention.

Your breathing is a bit labored when you finally reach the nurse's office, and you don't lose time to steady it before knocking on the door.

You stay at the threshold and speak when she looks up from a book, "'Ello, Madam Pomfrey. I was sent by Professor Snape."

Searching in your bag, you retrieve his signed message, offering it to the older witch.

"Good morning to you, Miss Delacour. Let me take a look at that." She reads the roll of parchment carefully, and then frowns, "He's asked me to provide a large vial of Sleeping Draught. This isn't a new type of experiment, now, is it?"

"Non, Madam," you reply defensively, though her stern stare doesn't release you. "Ze professor simply asked me to collect it."

"Very well. Wait here and I'll have it ready for you soon," she says, going into the Hospital Wing.

You catch a glimpse of the large room with spartan accommodations, the wide windows, the high ceilings, the few torches and candle chandelier, the obvious cleanliness, and you're simply drawn there.

Despite the request for you to remain in the office, you step into the Hospital Wing and check every one of the few details available to the eye, guessing the nurse has gone into one of the small doors close to her office, probably a storage room for potions and pastes.

"You're looking around so curiously, Miss Delacour," the nurse's soft voice startles you, coming from somewhere right behind you. "What do you think?"

"Oh. Je suis désolée. I did not mean to stare," you apologize, turning to face her and sweeping your hand around. "Zis infirmary is different from ze one at Beauxbatons. I like it."

Even as you speak to her, you're still glancing around, now carefully memorizing the spacing of the beds, their feather mattresses, the screens and small drawers.

"Do you have an interest in Healing?" she asks with a kind but very tiny smile.

You nod slowly, "Oui, Madam. It runs in my family."

She seems very pleased by that information. The nurse walks further into the Hospital Wing, inviting you to tag along. She takes you to every corner and back, and then shows the books in her office and opens the well-provided storage room for you, speaking fondly, "Our Hospital Wing looks small, but it befits the school very well. We have access to any instruments, materials and potions of regular use. And what we don't have at hand is quickly searched and brought to the castle to fulfill any special demands. The Headmaster and the long-term staff are truly concerned for the well-being of our students."

"It clearly shows, Madam," you comment respectfully, looking at the impressive inventory.

"Naturally, it helps that most students aren't regularly in too much trouble, apart from a few recurrent names. And accidents are bound to happen in a school environment," she sighs in resignation. Walking you through her office, Madam Pomfrey offers the one item you came after. "Here is your potion, Miss Delacour."

"Merci, Madam," you reply, accepting the dark vial.

"Half a cup is the dose for a good night of sleep," she instructs, now taking you to the door. "Before you go, Miss Delacour, bear in mind that the champions of the Triwizard Tournament are at high risk of earning a long stay in this Wing. Be careful and avoid that, won't you?"

"I will do my best, Madam," you answer as you set the potion in your bag. Smiling, you continue, "Your infirmary is a nice place, but I 'ave no intention to be your guest 'ere."

She nods in approval. "Professor Snape should be satisfied with the Draught. Now, off you go, Miss Delacour. It's almost time for lunch."

"Of course. Zank you again, Madam Pomfrey," you say and take your leave.

Checking the hour again, you have just enough time left to meet Dobby before making it to the meal. The corridors are empty now and you breeze through the Entrance Hall, the basement and into the kitchens.

As you'd expected, it's bursting with activity, a large group of house-elves undertaking the last preparations for serving lunch. The noise of cutlery and steaming pots with jumpy lids is positively deafening. Almost giving up on your task, you suddenly recognize a wild tea-cosy dangling in your direction.

"Miss is back," the short elf wearing the colorful cloth as a hat grins widely.

You crouch low to be at eye level with him. "'Ello, Dobby. 'Ow are you?"

"Dobby is well, miss. We is taking care of lunch. Miss will like it today," he replies with enthusiasm, offering you a goblet full of a rich crimson liquid. "Here is cranberry juice, miss."

"Merci, Dobby." In small gulps you soon empty the tasty dose and return the large goblet to him, "I do not know 'ow to zank you for all zis."

"Dobby is proud to help, miss. You is liking the arils, yesterday?" he asks, and his eyes look even larger in anticipation.

"Je suis désolée," you reply in a low voice. "Ze flask you gave me wiz ze arils was destroyed in class. I cannot give it back, but I would like to replace it wiz a new one."

He shakes his head, flapping his ears from side to side, "We is making more when one is missing."

You give him a hopeful look, "Are you saying zere are more exactly like it 'ere?"

Dobby smiles and nods repeatedly, guiding you through the kitchen while evading the other working elves. The aromas in your path make your mouth water so much that you nearly stop in your tracks to appreciate them longer.

But the house-elf promptly distracts you, opening the creaking doors of a small cabinet, filled with identical flasks. "We is having many more, miss."

Your lips stretch into a very wide smile, and a large weight seems to have been lifted from your shoulders. "Dobby, zis is important. Can you prepare me anuzzer one wiz arils, just like ze one you gave me yesterday? I need it to explain to ze professor what 'appened."

"Dobby can talk to the suppliers, miss. Dobby gets more pomegranates. I is going now," he squeaks, ready to snap his fingers and Disapparate right then.

You hold his hand and try to calm him down, "No, please do not do zat now, Dobby. Anytime in ze weekend is more zan I could 'ope. And if it is not possible until later zan zat, it will be okay. When do you regularly receive fresh supplies?"

"Sunday, miss. Dobby will gets it Sunday, miss," he offers, slightly uncomfortable at not fulfilling your wish instantly.

"Zat would be terrific, Dobby," you say, and quickly kiss the top of his tea-cosy in gratitude. "Zank you so much."

He smiles shyly, and then accompanies you to the portrait out. Time to rush again. Now you still have to find Hermione and get a look at that book.

As luck would have it, when you reach the Beauxbatons assembly in the Entrance Hall, you get a glimpse of that familiar bushy hair at the top of the staircase. Hermione sees you, too, and hurries down with her friends, smiling one of those smiles that says she's really happy to see you.

It brings back that treasured memory, of the night when you watched her float gracefully down the stairs, wishing it had been you the one to wait on her.

And now you are.

Before you even register it, your lips curl in a wide smile and you are already pacing in their direction, until your vision is obscured by a blood-red barrier that you try to ignore and bypass, but just won't go away.

"Fleurr," a deep voice calls and your stare finally sets on the obtrusion, taking in the boy standing in your path.

"Krum! I-I mean, Viktor," you stutter with some alarm, watching the young man draw near with his regular slouch, in the company of one of his more muscular friends.

If you remember correctly, the last time you talked to him, during the holidays, there was a brunette you'd been avoiding at his side.

It takes a while for the initial surprise to wear off, and then you continue in a firmer voice, "You spoke my name ze correct way."

"It vos Hermy-own-ninny. She told me I haff to be careful vith the names. But I practice and her name I still can't say vell," he answers humorously, attempting a joke.

You indulge him with a small smile as you consider his words, "Viktor, I cannot pronounce 'er name, either. It is too much of a challenge for my accent."

He nods, smiling a little too, and then claps his companion on the back, hauling him closer to you. "This is a great vizard and my friend, Iordan Levski."

"Ze one zat is dating Lou-Ann, non?" you ask, as the bulky boy performs a formal bow. The Durmstrang champion apparently doesn't know that you were introduced already, so you play along, "I 'eard many good zings about you, Iordan. And I noticed your girlfriend 'as just arrived, over zere."

"Vare?" His somber face instantly changes into a huge grin, flanked by marked and rather cute dimples.

Already leaving after her, the boy mumbles a few foreign words, probably to excuse himself.

"Are you better today?" Viktor starts again, as you both watch the excited boy speed away.

Going through today's earlier memories and Cora's remarks on the couple, you are quick to agree with your friend's opinion. That is an undeniable example of awesome chemistry and great kissing.

"Hmmm?" you finally reply to Viktor, unable to keep track of what he just asked.

There's gritty, forced coughing somewhere, and your gaze wanders, chasing after the source of the noise. It turns out that several girls are monitoring your on-going chat. Tamsin Applebee included, glaring daggers at you.

"You vere sick yesterday. That vos a difficult potion to do ven sick," he elaborates, in a reassuring way.

"Oh, zat. Oui, I am feeling well now," you answer, instinctively frowning at the exasperating girls, but not missing his concerned tone. "Zank you for asking. 'Ow did yours go?"

"Ve almost didn't finish in the time limit. It vos okay in the end," he says, and then becomes quiet.

During the awkward silence that follows, you notice Hermione walking by with an inquisitive expression at you, once she catches a glimpse at who is your current company. The only thing you can do is shrug furtively at her, hoping Mr. Krum didn't see the exchange. With caution, you steal a glance at the boy to check.

And what you see is enough for you to rush from speculative to upset. One look was all it took to convince you that the Durmstrang champion is neither noticing you, nor pondering what to say. He probably doesn't remember any longer that you're standing beside him.

No, the truth is that he's completely absorbed in watching the charming brunette on her way to a large group of Gryffindors.

You pin an icy gaze on the boy and crisscross your arms, waiting with growing impatience for him to remember that he's supposed to be talking to you. Not flaunting his admiration for your girl in broad daylight, to all and any in the castle to see.

This time you recognize all too well the rush of jealousy spiking through the roof, plus a strong flare of magic that channels straight to your balled fists. Surprisingly, the boy remains oblivious while you're seething, rooted where you stand.

Next comes a squeeze at the irises, then the ticklish sensation of the ponytail brushing against your stiff nape, and at last you realize your charms are starting to act out, too.

High time to bring things to a stop.

It has gone too far, too quickly, and it's too much for you to handle at once. Closing your eyes, you relax your arms and breathe in a steady and slow rate, repeatedly, until you're calming down.

It takes a while to recover, more than it happened earlier with Guilles. Sneaking a peek around once again, Mr. Krum is still following Hermione and there are now several glazed-eyed boys gazing at you in the Hall.

You clear your throat loudly and the champion finally blinks a few times, breaking through his distracted daze to look around, trying to ground himself again.

And then his face becomes even more serious as he turns your way. "I vant a talk vith you."

"Really?" You ask rather bitterly, but still wanting to know his motivations for all this. "And what would you want to talk about wiz me, Viktor?"

"Her," he mumbles.

You give him an incredulous look, unable to believe your ears, "Hmm?"

He takes a deep breath and speaks again, more evenly, "Hermy-own-ninny."

The name has barely escaped his lips and screeching warnings start to go off in your head. Your teeth clench tightly, you can feel the hairs on your nape bristling, and the tingles that faded only minutes ago start to spread down your arms again. But unlike before, now you wonder if you'll be able to contain them, should this turn bad. Or if you'll really want to.

"Fleur, you 'ave to 'ear zis!" A loud voice interrupts Viktor's attempt at speaking, and he turns to search who's calling you.

Quick footsteps. A tight hold on your left hand. Soft but insistent yanking.

With some effort, you look away from the boy and find Alix smiling at you, dragging you with her. "Je suis désolée, Viktor. I will take Fleur from you."

The boy's face falls, but he slowly nods.

"I should go, Viktor," you say to the flustered boy.

"Of course, Flurr-" He stops and tries again, "Eh, Fleurr. Some other time."

You give him a curt nod and stalk away with your friend, trying to control your emotions the best you can, until you breathe freely again.

"Thank you for the rescue," you confide to the auburn-haired girl.

"Sure, Fleur. But he should be the one saying that. I think you were getting ready to practice some hexes," she replies with a knowing smirk.

Before there's time to reply, you shiver at the sudden sensation of someone creeping behind you.

"Why would Fleur do that to him?" Reva asks innocently, and you know she's frowning before you can even see her face.

Alix dismisses it with the most casual expression possible, "It was a joke, Reva, because of the champion thing. Don't take it seriously." Her face then crumples into a frown and she touches her temple, apparently thinking hard, "Oh, and Félicie is looking for you. She said there's something wrong with your homework."

"That can't be. Are you sure?" the smaller girl asks in concern. "It took me hours to do. Whole hours. Where is she?"

"That way." You point towards the tall hazel-eyed girl you just spotted, and the petite brunette nearly leaps away.

"You should be thanking me again," Alix adds, once Reva is out of earshot. "I wonder what she'd do if she learned about your twisted intentions with that particular champion."

"It wasn't so bad," you protest, trying to tone things down, though it doesn't sound convincing even to your own ears. "And he brought it on himself."

"Whatever you say, Fleur," she says, surrendering at once. The look on her face is totally skeptical, but she knows you enough to stop insisting. "Go talk to your Gryffindor, already. She's been stalling over there with her friends. And you better move before she sees us talking this close and starts to wonder."

That earns her some major eye-rolling, but Alix only chuckles, pushing you away, "You don't have much time left. Lunch starts soon."

You take the advice to heart, pacing in the direction she indicated. Surely enough, there's the brunette, in the middle of a chatty Gryffindor bunch, now wearing a very serious frown.

The mere sight of her has your lips stretching as far as they can go. How can she affect you so much by simply… being?

"Bonjour, 'Ermione," you say softly, and then salute her friends as well, "'Arry. Ronald."

"Hello, Fleur," Harry replies.

"Good afternoon," Hermione continues, relaxing her expression into a dainty smile. It has a great effect to soothe any leftover anxiety from your previous encounter.

Ronald looks at you with such an expression of awe that you search down for anything misplaced on your uniform.

The brunette doesn't seem too amused at the way the ginger is affected by you, but her stare doesn't linger on the boy, fanning out instead, as if searching for someone else through the Hall, "We didn't see you at breakfast. How long have you been up?"

"A little over an 'our," you state honestly, looking around for anything unusual, too. But you find nothing.

Her attention returns to you and her eyes widen momentarily. She finally chuckles, "You were really tired yesterday. Did you sleep well?"

She notices the boys are listening in, their eyes wide with curious wonderment at her easy interaction with you, and the brunette starts to bite her lip again.

"Like a baby," you answer seamlessly, very aware that your well-rested state must show. To smooth things down, you address the boys, too, "I saw you all used ze cloak yesterday. Was it a safe walk to your Common Room?"

"Yeah," Ronald whispers, avoiding your eyes. "Quick and easy."

A pair of Gryffindor boys about the same age as the trio hurries by, crowing loudly over a recent exciting match involving a Quidditch team that must be a big hit for them. Harry and Ronald are soon very interested in the description of some fanciful Seeker stunts, subtly leaning towards that conversation to catch the details. It doesn't take long for them to drop any attempts at subtlety and turn to join that chat.

Which means the brunette and you just earned a little privacy.

She takes full advantage of the opportunity to share her mind. "You know, I'm looking at you and I see something that wasn't there yesterday. You are, uhm, almost..." the brunette's voice peters out as she bites her lower lip, leaving you on edge.

"What?"

"I can't really explain it. Did you do something to your hair?" She has an intent gaze on your ponytail, "It's a little bouncy, I guess."

You swallow slowly. She managed to notice.

"You're more striking, if that's even possible," the brunette elaborates. "Your features, your eyes, there's this new thing about them. Haven't you noticed?"

Features? Eyes? That's new to you, too. You shake your head at once, "Zat is strange. I only feel well rested."

"Your pheromones aren't the same either, Fleur," she murmurs, leaning in subtly to take a deep breath with her eyes closed. "I think there's more than almonds, now."

"Really? Perhaps zey are a bit flowery?" you ask in a hopeful tone.

"No, I don't smell flowers," she says slowly, bringing your expectations down. And then the Gryffindor breaks down the possibilities, "It's fresh, rather wild. Not as sweet as the almonds, nor citric. Er, not pungent or anything unpleasant, either... Maybe woody describes it better. I... I'm not very good at this, sorry."

You nod in silence, mentally registering all the information she's offered. A single fingertip runs over the hem of the long sleeve of your blazer, disengaging shortly after meeting the bare skin on your hand. Her warm touch brings your thoughts back from the sanctuary of your mind and you find her serious face.

There's concern lacing her voice. "What was going on earlier?"

It takes no more than one guess to know what she's talking about. The answer is already falling from the tip of your tongue, "Viktor wanted to talk to me... about you."

The brunette seems shocked, "Why?"

"I do not know." Your brow crinkles up and you make an effort to filter out the annoyance from your voice, "My friend called me before 'e 'ad a chance to say."

"He's usually very shy. I've never seen Viktor talking to anyone outside his school," she murmurs. "So odd."

"And very awkward, too," you add. Sighing, at last you give air to a particularly vexing question, "Did 'e say anything to you?"

"Me? No, we haven't talked since last week." You watch closely as an earnest tone marks every one of her words, "I told you I stopped the act to the fan club, didn't I?"

The sequence of nods is a slow one, even though you believe her without doubt, "Oui, I remember."

"Please, don't make that face," the brunette says with an innocent smile. "It's probably nothing. He's a good guy. He even took the fake break up really well."

You can see she believes that. Too bad it isn't as easy for you to agree after what you saw in his face a moment ago, just as it isn't easy to hear her standing up for him so plainly.

Perhaps this is a good moment to push for a change of subject. "'Ermione, is ze book on Veela wiz you?"

The girl frowns, temporarily at a loss for words. Her stare glides from one of your eyes to the other, devoting a good amount of time to read your expression.

After the careful pause, she takes a firm step closer, moving into your personal space, and whispers, "It makes you uncomfortable when I talk about him, doesn't it?"

The stricken look on your face probably answers the question on its own, but you know she wants to hear you say it. And what else can you do, except tell her? She's entitled to the truth, after all.

"I cannot 'elp myself, but it does."

Her voice becomes even weaker, "Why?"

Your eyes flick to the ground until you choose words that won't seem too much. Images from last year, the Yule Ball and the holidays rewind in your mind. Heavy memories filled with anxiety and distress. "You 'ave some 'istory together, non? It is 'ard to ignore."

Before you can say anything else, she holds your hand and the sad shadow over her eyes makes your heart squeeze. "Do you believe me when I tell you I'm not interested in him?"

"Oui," is your simple reply, which sounds more confident than you really feel. Better keep it simple, short and to the point, than risk chocking on words. The major problem, anyway, is the other part of the equation. That boy doesn't look like he's over her at all.

The hand drops apart, but her stare remains relentless on your face, drawing out the shared moment. You realize she's deliberately turning a blind eye to everyone and everything else, even though you're talking this close and basically in a Hall overflowing with students now. "And you know it's the complete opposite with you, right?"

"Of course," you exclaim with better determination. This one was a lot easier to answer.

The words, her attitude and that heartfelt look won't wipe out those memories. No, they never will. Nothing can do that. But said memories belong in the past, while the brunette in front of you and all that she's doing are a part of your present. And they open possibilities for the future.

The left corners of her lips rise in a half-smile, "You don't have to be mad, Fleur. Just tell me if there's something bothering you and we'll deal with it, okay?"

"Mm-hmm. I 'ope you do ze same, 'Ermione," you smile, and sort of draw her into a compromise, too.

More students arrive from the Grand Staircase and, little by little, many groups start to drift into the Great Hall. It soon becomes a troublesome task to listen to each other over the rumble of voices.

"That's just about fair," she agrees, coiling an arm around your right elbow. It's a very practical way to stay close enough to avoid shouting, while also shuffling along to lunch.

"And, uhm, you shouldn't turn a conversation one eighty degrees to drop an unpleasant discussion like that," she admonishes shyly, as if unsure of being at liberty to do it.

"Well," you smirk now, speaking almost directly into her ear, "zat was a legitimate request, actually."

"Oh?" she asks in surprise.

You nod and go on, "I would like to check a few pages on zat book, if you do not mind. Can I see it? Zis will not take long."

Hermione bites her lip again, "Sorry, Fleur, but I don't have it here. It's in my trunk. Would you like to go with me and get it now?"

You see Harry, Ronald and Fierce-girl laughing and trying to cut through the thick crowd towards Hermione. They'd probably planned to sit together during the meal.

The boys wave at you from their distance and you nod in response, but Hermione has her back turned to them and misses their approach. The ginger girl, however, freezes at the sight of a calm brunette linked by the arm with you. The smugness you feel at that just made your day.

As if hit with a wide-reaching Summoning Charm, the large gathering moves as one towards lunch. You get mentally ready to stay in line for a while and be patient with some jamming, too. Hermione's friends are caught up in the crowd and raise their hands, signaling they'll go straight inside.

Lowering your gaze to Hermione again, you consider her tempting offer, "It would be an excellent excuse to stay longer wiz you, 'Ermione, but we might be late. Zis can wait, it is not urgent. Your friends are pointing at ze Great 'All. I zink zey mean to warn you zey will meet you zere."

"I can bring it down for dinner," she volunteers, waving her hand at them. "Would that work for you?"

"Zat would be great," you reply, with a wide smile. "Merci."

Searching the mass of students at your back, Alix and Cora are at the lead of the Beauxbatons group and blending in with the Ravenclaws. You should be with them, but you won't be able to go against the heavy current of people, so plan B - meeting them inside - is a more reasonable option.

When you step through the doorframe, scrumptious smells are already wafting from the generous plates of food. The students are joyfully sitting down at their tables, and there's a significant muffling of noises on this side of the doors.

The chatting still going on isn't as perceptible as it was in the Entrance Hall, and the softer chink and clatter of cutlery is taking over. That is the best confirmation that many have stopped talking in favor of the delicious meal.

Your empty stomach starts to ache and you can't wait to find your place and correct that. Hermione's friends are heading for the Gryffindor spot and calling her. You feel her arm releasing you and get ready to see her go, when a dreamy voice right ahead makes a curious remark.

"Oh, look, such an unusual bird. Is he lost?"

It comes from Luna Lovegood, and you follow her indication high up to the wooden truss of the ceiling. There it is, a small and quiet bird, watching the students below.

"How strange. Isn't that a falcon?" Hermione asks in amusement.

The bird hovers in circles close to the roof, setting down on a different spot to continue its search. The bluish-grey feathers on the back and wings, and the buff-stained head and front are unmistakable.

"Oui. A Merlin falcon," you reply.

A Huntress' bird. No wonder it looks so lost in the school. This messenger probably never made a delivery to one of the students.

Taking your wand out, you transfigure the soft fabric of your right sleeve to turn into leather, from elbow to wrist. You remove your cap to show yourself better, raise your left hand when the bird is turned your way, and then snap your fingers. The falcon swoops down at once with a shrill cry, soon landing on the improvised perch you've offered him.

Luna follows his descent and smiles at him, until a Ravenclaw her age passes by and invites her to go sit together.

There's a small roll of parchment tied to one of the Merlin's legs and Hermione collects it. You rearrange the small hat over your hair and then stroke the trembling bird's head, calming it down as he takes in the large number of teenagers moving about.

The brunette examines the parchment carefully and you realize something has caught her attention. Taking a peek, you see there's an unconventional sealant locking the letter, like a small swirling mist, at times almost transparent, but mostly solid-looking and gleaming in different colors.

Hermione slides a fingertip over the strange spot and her hand jerks away with a groan. There's pain and surprise in her face. It fills you with concern.

"What 'appened? Did it 'urt you?"

"I'm okay. That was... an electric shock," she says, holding out her finger. "My skin went numb."

That doesn't make sense. If this is what you think it is, there shouldn't be anything dangerous about it. After little consideration, you reach your free hand around the brunette and touch the same area gently. Soft tingles play on your skin and you smile at the familiar sensation.

"It is not an electric discharge. Zat is Veela magic. I zink zey used a special protective measure to recognize ze same pattern," you reason. "Zey wanted to make sure I would be ze one to open zis."

"So this bird really is from them," she says, carefully mouthing the 'them'. The girl had suspected its origin from the start.

She continues, mumbling under her breath, "I wish I knew why they're surrounded by so much secrecy."

You couldn't agree more.

Behind closed eyelids, you try to repeat the slow and controlled change as it happened with Guilles. A fresh trickle of magic spreads out to your hands, only this time faster and stronger than you intended.

The Merlin flaps his wings, though he doesn't take flight, and pecks your glove lightly. Somehow, you know he's acknowledging your inner shift, and soon the anxiety is ebbing away faster from the little creature.

Smiling, you open your eyes again and whisper in a language he should be used to, "Thank you for delivering their message."

The bird blinks a few times, bobbing his head back and forth sharply, like he's nodding.

You frown and tilt your head, saying some more, "This castle is very different from the woods, isn't it?"

More head bobbing. The falcon really seems to have understood every word you said, and it isn't exactly the same as your trained owl does. When he leans towards you and opens his beak, you feel suddenly nervous. Can this be an attempt at communication?

You stand still and hold your breath expectantly, until another typical soft cry is all you can hear, and you nearly crumble down in relief.

'Unprepared' is the best word to define your condition for hearing anything else. Too many changes at once can be overwhelming. The extent of any peculiar abilities should evolve slowly so you have time to absorb each one. For your own sanity's sake.

"You don't look too good," Hermione points out in an urgent whisper. "And your eyes are silver. Are you feeling well?"

You nod hastily and set your thumb on the seal, dissipating magic through your skin. The effect is so evident that even before you're done, Hermione's eyes are gleaming with excitement.

The round material starts to swirl faster and faster, until it gives off a soft white glow, and seeps into the parchment. You're now looking at a standard wax seal, roughly the size of a galleon, where two mountain peaks, an overhanging moon and three stars are neatly in display.

The girl studies it carefully, "I don't recognize this."

"Zat is ze crest of ze Calenica Clan, ze view from ze entrance to zeir village," you say, struggling to reel in the ripples of magic. Perhaps it's because of your momentary anxiety, but this time it isn't happening as effectively as it should.

"Anca," she says, tearing through the seal to open the letter.

When Hermione unfurls the parchment, a small bluish-grey feather is released from the roll, floating away before she can hold it securely. You immediately summon it back with your free hand, using the magic so readily at your disposal.

And then your cheeks nearly burst in a heavy blush when you notice Hermione's wide eyes and hovering eyebrows.

"Fleur, did you mean to show that here?" she whispers, hiding the feather and checking if anyone else witnessed your feat.

"Non, I went for ze feather, but I did not zink about where we were," you explain lamely, also looking around.

There are still many students moving through this area, but no one seems interested, you're glad to establish. Right from the bottom of your self-conscious and awkward moment.

It takes a bit more of a struggle, and the surge of magic apparently tones down. The falcon pecks your glove again and you pat his head before looking at the brunette.

"Well, I think it's alright," she says with a calmer expression. "The food must be so good today that nobody even saw you."

Now, that's something you can't complain about. "I 'ave ze 'ouse-elves to zank for it."

"Slave work," she grumbles, shaking her head. The brunette sees the odd look on your face and takes things in a different direction, "Don't forget you still have to show me how you do that."

"I will," you promise. "We 'ave ze weekend ahead."

She nods and lifts the parchment in a way that you can read it together.

'Dear Mss. Fleur Delacour and Hermione Granger, and Messrs. Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter,

Thank you for such a gratifying meeting. May this message find you well rested and thriving with your academic activities.

Our journey was a calm and uneventful ride. More of our comrades joined us along the way, and we arrived home as a very large group. The Forbidden Forest is still as beautiful at night as I can recall.

New circumstances arose at the village, and they will require careful attention for a few days. Our next visit should be scheduled shortly.

To Fleur, in particular, I would like to reinforce that the offer of company and advice will not expire during her stay at Hogwarts. We expect notice anytime that her decision has been reconsidered.

Yours sincerely,

Anca Calenica

PS: This is Peppy, a tercel that has been with Katalin for many years. He is a very capable messenger. Fleur can send for him through the feather attached in this parchment. He will know how to find her.'

"So that's your name. Hello, Peppy. This is 'Ermione... and I am Fleur," you tell the bird.

The falcon looks at both of you and utters another shrill cry.

"Are you hungry?" you continue, and Peppy snaps his head from left to right a few times.

The brunette cuts in, looking intrigued, "What are you saying?"

"I introduced us both and I just asked if 'e wanted to eat. I zink 'e meant to answer 'no'," you reply.

"He's such a beautiful bird," she says, rubbing his back in long downward strokes to keep from ruffling his feathers.

"Did you hear that? She thinks you're beautiful, too," you address the Merlin, who blinks at Hermione and bobs his head a little. "You can go home now, so they know we received your post."

Peppy then spreads his wings once more and you raise your hand to give him some impulse. In an agile flutter, he's already soaring high and leaving the Great Hall.

"They made it," the brunette says in a light tone.

"Oui. And went straight into some tough situation, it seems," you reply, rereading the letter. It leaves you curious, wondering what are the new circumstances taking place there.

She nods, "They must be used to a lot of ups and downs. You said that life isn't the same for them."

"It is ze truth," you shrug. "My village is not any different."

The brunette reveals the falcon's loose feather, rolling it between her thumb and index finger by the quill, and then hands it to you, "They wanted you to have this. It was very thoughtful, to make sure you have a way to reach them. And you're the only one here who can use it. That's kind of cool."

You smile and store it into the outer pocket of your blazer. "Merci."

"Harry, Ron!" she exclaims.

You look up from the sleeve you're untransfiguring and see her friends a few feet away.

The brunette smiles at them, "I thought you'd started without me."

"I wouldn't, Mione." Harry says, and then Ronald comes into full view, displaying puffed out cheeks while chewing frantically. "And, erm, Ron tried to resist the food. He said it was too good to wait so much."

Before Hermione has time to process that into an answer, the boy goes on, "We saw the bird. Was it from, you know, them?"

The two friends trade a knowing look and Hermione nods, "Uh-huh. Anca sent us all a letter."

Apparently, his tactic worked and distracted the girl from making any remarks about Ronald. That's when you notice the ginger becoming so purple around you that it crosses your mind he might've just choked badly and could be on the verge of fainting.

"Are you okay, Ronald?" you whisper in concern, shaking him by a shoulder.

Which is something you quit doing when Hermione crosses her arms and scowls, "Honestly, Ron?"

It has no effect. The red headed Gryffindor is stuck in a terrible gape, until Harry pinches his arm. Quite harshly, considering the degree of rotation.

Ronald wails in pain, rubbing the abused spot. He looks at Harry, takes in Hermione's scowl, and then shyly glances at you, but his gaze quickly drops to the floor. With flaming red ears, he spins on his heels and nearly runs away into the swarm of students.

Harry and Hermione are as surprised as you are, but the Gryffindor champion regains his wits faster, "Uhm, Ron hasn't been feeling too good."

"Oh, I see," you reply. Of course you don't buy it. You're simply too unwilling to make a fuss over this.

For some reason, Ronald has always been particularly sensitive to your charms. You recall that his reactions to your presence were superlative last year, to a point where he landed himself in foolish situations and couldn't do any better.

But just like the rest of the school, he got better in time. The constant exposure helped him develop a good resistance. And it was a plus that the boy hadn't shown any unusual signs since the Yule Ball.

Until now. Now he's at it again. The charms are changing and they have grown stronger. Ronald's sensitivity puts him right in the line of fire, one of the first that would manifest a relapse so plainly.

You sigh. This is only the beginning. Others are bound to be just as enthralled. It appears you'll have to deal with all that. Again.

"Fleur, can I take this to show Harry and Ron?" Hermione asks, holding out the roll of parchment.

"Certainly," you agree, realizing your friends are already sitting down for the meal. "It is getting late and ze day will be a rush today. We should 'ave lunch, non?"

"Yeah," Harry nods, staring as many students gather generous servings on their plates. He then glances at you, "Bye, Fleur, and thanks. I had a lot of fun yesterday."

"We all did, 'Arry," you smile. "Bye, 'Ermione."

"Later, Fleur," the girl replies. She looks ready to say more, but shakes her head and goes after the boy.

You raise a hand so Alix notices where you are and she beckons for you to hurry up. It's a bit easier to move through the Great Hall now, and you're soon taking your place at her side.

"Can you pass me the pie, Fleur?"

You examine the plates and bowls around to learn where everything is, and hand the right one to Yvonne, sitting opposite you.

"Everyone should try it. The elves make a killer shepherd's pie," the blonde says conversationally.

You follow her suggestion and help yourself to a sizeable portion, with some very colorful salad on the side. Who knows? The icy pumpkin juice might even agree with the meal today.

One forkful later and you're humming away a wholehearted approval. Yvonne chuckles from across the table, and you see the blonde is making the most of her meal as well.

Undeniably, the food fulfills all the expectations you had. It's simply scrumptious, and the uncommon silence in your group forgoes explanation. You take your time, cut the vegetables and the pie neatly in small bits, and then chew carefully, drawing as much flavour as you can.

"Was zat a tardy post?" Alix asks out of nowhere.

You look at her with a peaking eyebrow.

"I saw you get ze bird," she says, adding a significant smirk, "wiz some friendly company."

"Oui. Fresh arrival," you answer in-between bites.

"Good news?" she drills on, and you see she's making an effort to get a conversation going. "Zey look very interested."

You follow her suggestive stare all the way to the Gryffindor table, where three students are hunched over something that the brunette in the middle is holding on her lap. No need to take a guess.

"It was only a small message, nothing much," you drone on, still unwilling to forward any information concerning the Veela.

"I'd never seen a bird like that here," Cho Chang, at Yvonne's side, tangles into the chat, unaware of Alix's current frown.

"Really? I 'eard zey are very common in Scotland, ze falcons. Eagles and owls too, but zey are not easily seen in ze winter," you counter. With a friendly expression, you seize the opportunity for a change of subject, "We 'ave not talked lately, Cho. What is up wiz you? 'Ow are zings wiz Cedric?"

"They're great, thanks. We get along so well," she replies with a sweet smile. "I'm counting the days until the next Hogsmeade weekend. It'll be our first date outside the school."

At the mention of 'date', a few more heads turn to listen in. It's a word that never fails to conjure interest out of thin air.

"I zink you look cute together," you compliment the girl. "So, please tell me, 'Ogsmeade is a good place to go on a date?"

And that gets the conversation going, as now many of the girls currently dating trade remarks, praises and a bit of gossip, too, about their experiences at the small village and its many shops and pubs. By unspoken consensus, exams and studying are absolutely banned from entering into the conversation.

"You're getting better at evading me," Alix mumbles under her breath, in French. "Nice going with the tip on 'Ogsmeade. Are you planning a date anytime soon?"

"Just drop it. Please," you reply in a low and rather final way.

"No, I won't," she counters with a smirk, and you see she's getting ready to stand her ground. "I'm trying to talk to you, here."

You shake your head and seek out another friend. Game on.

"I saw Iordan today, Lou-Ann. Ze uzzer day, Alix was telling me," you intone a bit louder than necessary, adding an airy inflection, "zat your boyfriend is not only 'andsome, but zat 'e seems to be very athletic. She asked something and I was not sure... I zink she still wants to know, is 'e a Quidditch player, like Viktor?"

Everyone looks at Alix and you smile innocently at the girl, whose eyes nearly pop out when she finds herself to be the center of attention.

She corrects her gape and turns to Lou-Ann, "Uhmm, I-I was curious. 'E 'as ze right physical build."

Lou-Ann nods and indulges her straight away, sharing in an elated voice, "'E is a Beater at Durmstrang and zey are on ze same team. Viktor says 'e is one of ze best to 'andle ze bludgers. It is a pity we cannot see zem play 'ere."

"I agree, it's been a while since I last went to the pitch. The Triwizard Tournament changed our routine this year," Cho Chang adds her two knuts. "There are four teams in Hogwarts, one for each House. We used to practice for hours, through rain and snow. It was a blast. And there were official matches to win the Quidditch Cup. I wish you could've watched the House Championship." The Ravenclaw girl smiles at the friend at your side, the one with the overly-teasing vibe, and does you a favor without knowing it. "Cedric and I are Seekers for our House teams. Do you play, too, Alix?"

There. Problem neutralized.

You smirk into your goblet as Alix becomes tied up in long explanations of the Quidditch matches at Beauxbatons.

It's going to cost you later, but you're willing to pay the price. All you have to do now is sit back and listen to the harmless chatter. And pretend not to notice Alix's formidable glares at you.

Oh, well. Lunch time should be about over soon, anyway.

There's a sprout of loud giggling to your left and you idly seek the source, looking around. Luna is halfway down the table, reading her father's magazine upside down in silence, as usual, enclosed by a group of younger Ravenclaws that is nearly rolling on the floor with fits of laughter, listening to Cora and one of her infamous tales.

You lift the goblet for another taste of the orange juice, and catch Yvonne glancing at the same scene. A small frown is in display, but if you know what to look for, so are a bit of sadness and a lot of yearning. You almost roll your eyes at the girl.

To widespread surprise, in that moment the Applebee girl shows up and interrupts the lively chat, offering a short announcement. "Professor McGonagall expects us in classroom thirty-four this afternoon, on the third floor. Don't be late."

And then she's gone to the Gryffindor table, while you look at each other and check the time.

It takes a combination of shrugging, groaning and mumbling for the senior students to acknowledge the meal is over and stand up. You among them, of course, and getting ready to file out of the Great Hall as fast as possible to maintain a healthy distance from Alix.

But one thing keeps you from doing that: Yvonne is resolutely walking in the opposite way, up to the staff table.

That's curious. Your stare follows the blonde girl as she seeks out Professor Snape for a short conversation. You wonder whether to be a part of that, but the blonde seems to have it all under control. And being within Snape's grasp isn't the most appealing thing just yet.

As soon as they break apart, she spins and narrows her eyes while looking at your group, grinning at last when she sees you are waiting for her. The blonde waddles at you, this way and that, flawlessly moving through the students now leaving the Hall, not bumping on anyone.

You fidget with the wrinkles on your sleeves, considering quietly what might be going on, and run a hand through your ponytail. That particular activity results in more loose strands caught up in your fingers (which you had temporarily forgotten about until now), and it does nothing to improve your nerves.

At least Yvonne doesn't make you wait long, and the excited Ravenclaw is soon clinging to your right arm, "I talked to Snape."

"Oui, and you look positively beaming," you say, hiding a twinge of distaste the best you can, while pulling her to trail after the rest of your classmates. "'Ow can zat be possible?"

"Guess what! He said we are allowed to go to his classroom before dinner and set up our things," she says smartly. "Do you know what that means?"

"Hmm... Non?" you ask, puzzled with the blonde's high spirits.

"We get to pick all the ingredients, collect the tools, and get our table ready ahead of time," she tries again.

"And you are so cheerful because...?" you still ask, struggling to see what's so great about rushing awkwardly into an on-going class to set up your table, when it can be done orderly right after dinner, in silence and in private.

"Fleur, that way we won't stay there a minute more than necessary. Haven't you heard? The dungeons are freezing at night," the blonde replies with a shudder.

"Oh... Right. I 'ad forgotten we will be staying very late," you say, with drooping shoulders. The farthest part of your brain starts to estimate how many warming charms you'll need to do to get through the potion. "But we will not 'ave much time, Yvonne. Professor McGonagall only lets us go ten to fifteen minutes before ze bell rings."

"That's why I came up with a plan," she continues as if she had anticipated it all along. "If we do things just right, and explain that we have Snape's permission to prepare for the potion, she might release us sooner. The one thing we have to do is stay in her good graces."

You look at her confident demeanor, and get ready to go up the Grand Staircase, "And I assume you already know just 'ow to do zat?"

"Sure. Let's stick close to Félicie," she says, and you can tell she had the answer ready to roll from her tongue. The blonde must've put a lot of thought behind this. "She and I will come up with some profound scholarly discussion, then you impress McGonagall with your grand wandwork, and... voilà."

You shake your head, but a small smile sneaks out just the same, "I see you are a shifty one, Miss Bampton."

"Fleur, you haven't seen what I'm capable of, yet." The blonde positively simpers. "Cheer up. Today we'll show Snape how that potion is done. And I suspect you'll have more reasons to like my plan before we go to dinner."

Your inquiring expression receives only laughter as reply, and the girl abandons you to go after Félicie. Probably, to set another part of that plan in motion.

---

TBC

A little liberty was taken with Nostradamus' quatrains. The bits and pieces used in the fic are for fun purposes only, and in no way related to their original intention (proved or assumed, according to the many interpretations attributed to his work). Please, read them in the context of the story. This is not intended to prove or disprove Mr. Nostradamus, nor to bother anyone who is a firm believer of what he published. In the few scenes where 'Damus' makes an appearance, he will always be portrayed as a fantasy version of the famous Alchemist, which sustained magical injuries that meddled with his 'mind'.