AS IF NOTHING HAPPENED AT ALL
DISCLAIMER: Some violence and gore (still within T rating)
…
Fleur sighs and pulls the slip dress over her head.
It's the night before the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, and while she wouldn't say she's nervous, as such, she is apprehensive.
It might have something to do with the tip she received this morning saying that she's to face a dragon tomorrow.
A dragon.
She releases a string of pearl-clutching curse words under her breath and searches for her shoes underneath the carriage seats. While at Hogwarts, the Beauxbatons students elected to sleep in their carriages which are enchanted to be larger on the inside, the cushioned benches folding out to create beds. Most students are bunking together in twos and threes due to there not being enough vessels for all of them, but Fleur has the luxury of a whole carriage to herself as she was chosen as a Triwizard champion.
Well, she says chosen, but there wasn't really much choice in the matter.
She finds her shoes – a pair of plain white plimsolls – and does up the laces deliberately before leaving the warmth of the carriage. The November air is a cool against the exposed skin of her arms and shoulders, and she shivers. She wishes she could have brought a coat with her. Or a blanket. Anything, really. But it's forbidden - at least for this particular ritual. And now that she knows she's up against a dragon, of all things, tomorrow, she doesn't want anything to go amiss.
She can't afford for anything to go amiss.
"Bonsoir, Philippe," she whispers at the gargantuan horse who's tied up nearby. He lifts his head and whinnies as if to say, 'good evening to you too, Fleur', and she smiles at him before taking a breath and turning to leave.
And then she's heading into the Forbidden Forest.
It's not ideal, having to be furtive about any nocturnal venture such as this one, but it is essential. If anybody from Hogwarts or Durmstrang or the Ministry of Magic found out, they would surely be disqualified from the Triwizard Tournament – at a minimum. Beaxbatons' reputation would undoubtedly plummet, and Madame Maxime would be pushed out and replaced with someone appointed by the French magical government.
As if they don't know what goes on at the school themselves.
(If it can even be called a school in the first place.)
For Beaxbatons Academy of Magic is the largest cult on the continent.
It isn't so surprising though, really, is it? While the teachings of the institution are unconventional, so to speak – telling its students how to cut corners and maximise the use of ancient ritual magic – it's most definitely worth it in the end. Nobody wonders at how every student to grace its halls is so alluring, practically glowing with magic, and nobody thinks that the consistent number of high achievers attributed to the school is odd or unlikely. Nobody wonders because why would they? The changes are so subtle, so nuanced, yet so obviously there, that they are invisible unless one knows precisely what to look for. Beaxbatons teaches its students how to get whatever they want through the use of magic – a shortcut if you will.
And Fleur can't really afford for tonight's shortcut to fail.
She walks carefully over the gnarled roots and pine needles that make up the forest floor. If she falls and scrapes herself, even just the tiniest amount, then all of tonight's effort will be useless. Not a drop of her own blood can be spilled to symbolize no blood being spilled tomorrow either – of course, the dragon could just burn her alive, but it's still wise to take the precaution. After a while, she spies the occasional flicker of light through the trees, light bending around the foliage to beckon her forward.
She's arrived.
Madame Maxime and a few trusted students have set up in a clearing. Candles enclose the area in a large circle, and in the centre is a large slab of rock. Next to it stands Madame Maxime herself clutching a length of rope in her hands, the other end of which is tied around the neck of a goat.
Fleur nods once at her, and she returns the gesture. Not a word is said.
Madame Maxime, along with the other students who've gathered, are all wearing periwinkle robes as is customary at rituals. Amongst them is Fleur's younger sister, Gabrielle, who has been present at all of Fleur's ceremonies thus far. Fleur sends her a small encouraging smile, knowing the toll this magic takes on her, before stepping up to the stone slab and signalling that she's ready to Madame Maxime.
The students move into position, forming a circle around Fleur and her headmistress and the goat and the stone, joining hands to seal in the magic. They begin the chant at a low volume, barely a whisper on the night-time breeze. Fleur closes her eyes.
There's a dull thud of something landing on the stone slab in front of her. Probably the goat. Madame Maxime must have petrified it so it will stay still during the ritual, and upon opening her eyes again, Fleur sees its own dark irises whizzing around rapidly as it strains to move its limbs and run away from the crazy people surrounding it.
Fleur used to feel sorry for the animals. Used to think about the suffering they go through late into the early hours of the morning, revolted by it. But by now she's used to it. Numb.
Madame Maxime joins the chant, and Fleur steps closer to the stone. A knife is handed to their headmistress by one of the pupils around them, and the chanting increases volume. The goat is still straining against the magic holding it down, and Madame Maxime raises the knife above its throat.
It's time.
The chanting increases volume yet again. Fleur joins in now, her voice ringing out around the clearing too. A bucket is nudged into the centre of the circle, sitting beneath the ridge of stone where the goat's head is.
And then Madame Maxime brings the knife down.
The goat barely makes a noise as its throat is slit, blood trickling over rock into the bucket below. Fleur sees her sister wince out of the corner of her eye and wishes she could pull her into her arms and tell her not to look, that it'll be alright, that the animal died quickly. But they can't break ranks now or the result would be fatal. Their headmistress pulls her wand out of her robes and breaks chant to mutter a spell to draw all of the blood out of it, the rest of them increasing volume of their chant once more, words repeating over and over, the candles surrounding them flickering in tandem.
Once all the blood has been drained into the bucket, their Headmistress picks it up and comes to stand in front of Fleur.
The chanting reaches fever pitch. A dissonant jarring against the quiet backdrop of the night.
Fleur takes a breath.
Madame Maxime tilts the bucket, and suddenly the warm blood is being poured over her head.
All over the white slip dress and her white shoes, over her pale hair and even paler skin, running in rivulets that look like veins. Fleur can't break the chant for the ritual to work, so some of it inevitably trickles into her mouth, thick and metallic. She resists the urge to wretch, shutting her eyes and concentrating on her words and putting as much of her magic behind them as possible.
And then there's no more, bucket clattering to the ground. Fleur stops chanting, as does everyone else in the clearing, and opens her eyes to see all of the candles extinguished, the scent of smoke carrying on the breeze. At once, she's struck by the stark contrast – that strange feeling of a spell bedding in. Absent of noise, the ring of people around her seem very young, and she can almost pretend that they're nothing more than a group of teenagers playing dress up or practicing for a school play.
Until she looks down and notices the blood.
Fleur sighs. It's drying already, tacky and sticking to everything in odd clumps, and she knows it's going to be an onerous task to wash it off when they return to the carriages. Madame Maxime smiles in her first show of emotion all night, and Fleur returns the gesture, albeit hollowly, as her inner panic at what faces her tomorrow returns in full force. Will this be enough? Should they have sacrificed something larger, like a cow? Used a different chant or a sharper knife?
It's too late to worry about that now. All Fleur can do is pray that tonight's invocation has worked, that she'll be protected from harm tomorrow so she can somehow outsmart a damned dragon.
And so they pack up and leave the clearing, back to wash themselves and go to bed, to fold their ritual attire and store it far out of sight where nobody will think to look.
As if nothing happened at all.
…
A/N: This was written for the QLFC, team Tutshill Tornados.
Prompts used:
(Beater 2) Cult
5. (setting) Forbidden Forest
6. (character) Fleur Delacour
14. (word) Venture
Word Count: 1521
Thanks!
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