Chapter Twenty-Six
Persecution

I have to drag myself to Muggle Studies on the first day of the new term- even though I'm running late, I'm in no hurry. My bed was so warm and inviting when I woke up that I couldn't resist lying there for a few minutes longer. But Gabrielle shook me awake just as the dormitory was emptying. So, I waved her away and told her I'd get up on my own. A dozen or so minutes past, and I seemed to wake up and realize that I would miss breakfast and the beginning of class if I didn't get up. By the time I had scrambled into some clothes though, breakfast was nearly over and I was contemplating whether or not I should even leave the Tour at all. I'm not looking forward to the first day back from holiday, and I'm allowing myself the small luxury of being late for my first class- I'm in no mood to be running through the halls when I'm having trouble keeping my eyes open.

Outside the open-air corridors, the sky is a jewel-like blue and the sun is shining brightly, but the morning has a sharp coldness to it that diminishes the brightness of the sun's rays. I try to ignore the snow that still blankets the ground, and focus on the fact that it can't be this cold for too much longer. Then again, it was awfully cold in October when we arrived, so who knows how long their winters last here. I grimace at the thought and pull my capelet closer to me.

Surprisingly enough, I'm not late for Muggle Studies. When I enter the classroom everyone is seated in their chairs, but Professor Burbage hasn't yet arrived.

The moment I step inside, the volume of everyone's chatter seems to lower just a bit, and I notice Laure sitting in the back of the room, with a group of students from each school around her. She's whispering and hissing at them with a malicious smile on her face, and several eyes turn my way as she speaks, as if I'm being sized up.

Ignoring this, I make my way down the aisle toward my seat in the front, spotting the newspaper in Laure's lap as I pass.

Is there something in the paper about the Tournament? About the champions? Me? Something about the Minister, or my father as Ambassador?

Shaking away any thoughts about Laure and her strange behavior, I sit down and take out my parchments, preparing myself for the English note-taking I'll have to endure for at least an hour.

The door opens and Professor Burbage comes bustling inside, shooing everyone out of their chattering clusters and into their seats. She reaches the front of the room and turns on us, smiling sternly, but at the same time, good-naturedly.

"Class, I hope you've all had a good holiday," she says. "And I hope you're rested and rejuvenated, because we're starting a new unit on cleaning house!"

A few students grumble from the back of the room, but she seems unable to hear them.

Starting up, she asks, "Now, who can tell me how you clean house at home- that is to say, if you were to do it with magic?"

"House elves," someone calls out, causing a few people to laugh.

I glance back and see that it's one of the boys sitting near Laure, and I roll my eyes a little.

"Well, yes," Professor Burbage says. "I suppose that is one way." She looks around the room, "Someone else?"

The timid girl beside me raises her hand. When Professor Burbage calls on her, she says, "My mum usually charms the dishes to wash themselves."

"Good! Very good!"

"My aunt charms the brooms and the dusters!" someone else calls out.

Professor Burbage nods with a smile, saying, "Right, right! What else?"

I raise my hand. Professor Burbage looks at me and nods encouragingly, so I say, "My muzzer uses scourgify."

"Excellent, Miss Delacour!" she says, turning to write all the suggestions everyone's said on one half of the blackboard.

"'oo knew 'er muzzer leeves een a 'ouse."

The moment I hear it, I know who's said it. Turning, I see Laure sitting in her seat, with a smug smile on her face, surrounded by snickering students.

Raising an eyebrow, I retort in French, saying, "Excuse me?"

"Your muzzer," she says, looking like she's just won some kind of prize. "She's 'alf veela, n'est-ce pas?"

"Qu'est-ce que c'est que ca?" I snap.

She shrugs, "Eet's juste- your muzzer eezn't even 'uman, pas vraiment."

I'm suddenly on my feet and staring at her with a fiery anger in my eyes, demanding, "Who do you think you are?" in my native tongue.

"Miss Delacour?" Professor Burbage comes over to me. "Is there something wrong?" She puts a comforting hand on my shoulder, but I'm vibrating so furiously in heated anger, that she pulls her hand away, and follows my eyes to where they're resting on Laure. "Girls?"

Looking innocent and sweet, Laure says, "Professeur, I 'ave not ze faintest idea what eez wrong."

"Like hell you don't," I shout in French.

"Fleur?" Professor Burbage questions, obviously not understanding me.

Feeling as if I'm about to combust with anger and heat and feral screams, I abruptly turn to my teacher, saying, "Je regrette- I'm sorry, Professeur. Might I go to the bathroom for a moment?"

Looking at me as if I'm about to explode, Professor Burbage nods and says, "Of course, dear."

I swiftly turn from my seat and stalk down the aisle, careful to remain as far away from Laure as possible on my way towards the door. Once I'm outside of the classroom, I allow my angry footfalls to stomp across the stone floors, echoing all around me in harsh, erratic patterns. I know there's a girls' bathroom on this floor, and I make my way to it in record time, slamming the door behind me upon entering. Luckily, I'm alone, so I can let out the animalistic shriek that's been building up inside of me, and slam each one of the stall doors, before turning to grip one of the porcelain sinks in both of my shaking hands.

Looking at my reflection, I know- despite the anger that's throbbing within me- I'm beautiful. Though my hair is in a neat ponytail, pieces are falling around my reddened face, as if I've just been caught in a windstorm. My eyes are glassy- widened and glaring with rage. And my heart is hammering in my chest, making me breathe fast and strange.

Who does she think she is, saying my mother isn't human? Who does she think she is, saying those things in front of the class- in front of people who don't know any better? And why now? Why today? Usually she leaves the human remarks to Angele, but today.... Did it have something to do with the newspaper? Was there something in the newspaper about my being part Veela?

I suddenly feel sick. Visions of everyone in Hogwarts- host students, Beauxbatons girls, Durmstrang boys- whispering about my heritage fills my mind. I think of the satisfaction Laure and Angele will get- this is what they want, isn't it? Mama and Papa- they'll be humiliated that our bloodlines have been smeared throughout a newspaper- degraded when there's nothing bad about them. And- A new realization hits me, and I can see the horror seep under the features in my face. What will Cedric think? He already knows I'm part Veela, but if it's in a newspaper will that change the way he thinks about me? Will this change things for me where the Tournament's concerned? Will everyone always know me as the Veela who was a part of the Triwizard Tournament?

The panicked nausea becomes too much, and I run for one of the toilets, choking up bile and stomach acid- suddenly thankful that I didn't eat breakfast.

After sitting in the deserted bathroom for the remainder of the period, I rescued my books and things once the bell rang, apologized to Professor Burbage, and headed for the hospital wing. It was relatively easy to convince Madam Pomfrey that I felt too sick to go to class, and after about ten minutes, she gave me a set of pajamas, opened up a bed for me, pulled the curtain around it, and gave me a basin if I was to throw up again. And here I am now. Missing classes that I'll doubtless be unable to catch up in later, feeling a nauseating mixture of anger, embarrassment, depression, and shame.

I listen to Madam Pomfrey tending to other students in the hospital wing, and I miserably think about what that newspaper could have said- what could have made Laure mention my Veela roots and embarrass me so horribly the way she did.

For now, I choose to ignore it, burying my face in the scratchy material of the pillow, and thinking of a spring day at Printemps Mignon- of picking flowers and lounging around the pond with Gabrielle and some of the dogs.

"Miss Delacour."

I wave off the voice, wanting to bask in the warm glow of the sunny Printemps Mignon a little longer.

"Miss Delacour, you have a visitor."

I'm gently shaken from my reverie, and I realize I actually fell asleep. Rubbing at my eyes, I look around, seeing only Madam Pomfrey in my little curtained room.

Swallowing past the dryness in my throat, I ask, "What hour eez eet?"

"Nearly four," she says. "You must have been quite ill, Miss Delacour, you slept all day."

I take in this information, sitting up and trying to unfog my disoriented brain.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, putting a cold hand to my forehead.

Remembering that I did feign nausea this morning, I reply, "Better, merci."

She nods, "Feeling up to eating something?"

Now that she's mentioned it, I'm ravenous. I nod.

"Good, because there's someone here to visit- and he was kind of enough to make a trip to the kitchens for you," she says with a definitive smile. "Mr. Diggory, you may come in."

Cedric parts the curtains and smiles at us, holding a ceramic container of food.

"I noticed you weren't in Potions, so I figured you must be in here," he says, seeming unassuming- as if he doesn't have any hidden feelings for me, as if he's just a golden boy who is being kind to a fellow champion. "I asked Madam Pomfrey what you'd be up to eating- I hope chicken broth and dry bread is good?"

I nod with a weak smile, saying, "Merci beaucoup."

Madam Pomfrey nods, "Only eat if you feel like you're up to it- Do you feel as if you need an elixir for the nausea?"

I shake my head quickly, "Non. I am feeleng better now- juste 'ungry."

She's about to say something else, but the doors of the hospital wing burst open outside of my little room, and the sound of someone panting fills the ward.

"Ma'um Po'fee!" someone shouts, sounding as if they're holding their tongue. "'ed an' 'orge ma'e my 'ongue 'ell!"

She looks horrified as she says, "Oh dear!" and hurries out of the room, meeting a commotion of people with swollen tongues, waiting for her able hands.

Cedric and I fall silent in my little curtained room, and he awkwardly pulls a chair up beside my bed.

My stomach growls loudly, and I break the silence by asking, "May I 'ave my soup?"

He smiles a little and hands me the ceramic container. Lifting the lid, I find an empty bowl, separated into two sides. When I lift the lid completely away though, one side fills up with soup, and bread appears on the other side. In the middle, balancing between the two sides, is a spoon.

I tear at the bread and chew it greedily and he watches me. After a few moments, he says, "You're not really sick."

I don't answer, just drink a spoonful of my soup.

"What's up?" he wants to know, his voice low enough that we won't be heard.

I shake my head, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Fleur," he says, his voice so quiet that I know I'm the only one who can hear him- I'm the only one who can hear the concern and the determination in the way he says my name. It makes my stomach flop, and I reluctantly meet his eyes. "Needed a day off?" he offers.

I nod, but then it somehow morphs into me shaking my head, holding the bread in my hand, with the soup on my lap, looking miserable.

"Talk to me," he says. His face softens and he tries, "Parler?"

This makes me smile, but only for a second, and I look back down at my soup, breaking off a tiny piece of bread and chewing it thoughtfully.

When he doesn't press it anymore, but stares at me intently for a few moments, the sound of students with swollen tongues entering and bustling around the ward all around us, I break a little.

"Do you 'ave un journal?"

He stares at me for a minute, eyebrows knotted, and he asks, "A newspaper? Today's Daily Prophet?"

I nod, staring at the surface of the broth.

"One minute," he says, and then gets up, leaving the little room.

When he's gone, I try to take another sip of the broth, but I have absolutely no appetite anymore, and the food is beginning to taste metallic, so I put it all on the table beside my bed, and twist my fingers together in my lap. It doesn't take long before Cedric returns with a Daily Prophet, saying, "One of the first years with a swollen tongue had one."

I try to smile at this, but only manage to jerk my cheeks up a little. He hands me the paper and sits back down.

Nothing on the front page attracts my eye right away, there's some huge headline about the Minister and his thoughts on something or other- It's not important. There's some quidditch scores, an interview with a famous witch who's just been arrested for tampering with love potions, an expose on a new magical creature reserve opening in New Zealand, and- I freeze.

"What?" Cedric says. "What is it?"

I ignore him and go to the right page, my eyes roving over the words angrily- but I can't properly read English, and I'm far too frustrated to be a competent translator.

Shoving the newspaper at Cedric, I say, "Read eet to me- please."

He looks down at the article, his face registering a hint of something, and he looks back up at me, inquisitive.

"Please," I say, folding my arms across my chest. "Just read eet."

He reluctantly obliges, and though my English isn't fluent, I catch every word and every nuance of what Rita Skeeter is writing, and it makes my blood boil and my stomach acids churn threateningly. I listen as Cedric quietly reads about a teacher at Hogwarts- a teacher I hadn't even known of up until now- and his history with the school and his position here now. His voice slams against me as he reads words from students and quotes from Hagrid himself. I don't miss a thing when he reluctantly reads the part about Hargid being part-giant- nonhuman, dangerous, unpure, dirty. And when he finishes reading all of it, looking up at me with sympathy in his eyes, I feel my throat constricting and my eyes burning dangerously from what I've learned- from the realization that has hit home.

"Fleur, it's not-"

I shake my head and stop him.

We sit in silence for a long moment.

Swallownig hard, hoping the tears aren't pooling too noticably in my eyes, I ask, "Are zey going to fire 'im?"

"Hagrid?"

I nod.

Cedric rolls the newspaper up like a baton and holds it in his hands, saying, "I heard some kids talking- I don't think he was here today."

This makes me suck in a breath and look away from him.

"Fleur...."

"Eet eez because he eez 'alf-giant- because 'e eez not pure, not 'uman," I say.

Cedric looks at me sadly, at a loss for the right words.

A tear falls onto my cheek and I briskly brush at my eyes, taking a deep breath and saying, "Eez zis what ze wizardeeng world eez coming to? We fire people because they are not pure and whole?" I slip into French at the end, but I think he knows what I'm saying. "Eez zis what I 'ave to look forward to when I find a work?"

He leans forward and takes my hand, "No- Fleur, no, you won't have to worry about this-"

"Pourquoi?" I demand, my voice clotted with tears.

"Because-"

I cut him off, "Because Veela are beautiful? Because people like to look at us? What eez to stop zem from putting us in cages and treating us like creatures?!"

"Fleur," he says, squeezing my hand. "You're getting hysterical."

I am. I know I am. But all I can think of are Laure's words today, and Angele's words in the past. If I'm not completely human, will someone rip my job away from me one day? Will I be discriminated against because of my bloodlines and what I essentially am a part of? It makes me sick to think about it. It makes me worry for the future- worry because things aren't getting better as far as persecution goes.

Brushing violently at my eyes again- ripping my hand from his- I say, "I am fine." He looks worried and unconvinced, so I repeat myself, "I am fine," though I don't know how true that actually is.

January is turning out to be very threatening, and I worry for the weeks ahead.