Ok. So. I've been gone for awhile. And I don't mean this as an excuse but more as an explanation for why that is...I recently got married and went on my honeymoon, and all of that other wedding/newly married stuff that goes along with weddings. I know that I kind of killed off a character and went awol. But I hope my wonderful followers can understand why that happened and forgive me. Because now I'm back. :)

Note: There is an instance in this chapter where a French-speaking person speaks in English at a time when it wouldn't seem like a logical thing for them to do. Without giving away any future details, please note that sometimes I write things a certain way very delibrately. This character speaking English is very intentional.

Disclaimer: All the same still applies.

Chapter 8

A great man once said, "It is the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more."

It was true. There was only one thing Hermione feared in that moment and it was precisely that. The unknown. In fact, there had been an abundance of unknowns in the wake of Fleur's legally declared death. And all of them were equally terrifying.

But she was Hermione Granger. Winner of wars. Savior of the wizarding world. She had fought Death Eaters, Dementors, and the worst scum of the Earth including—but not limited to—Dolores Umbridge, Voldemort, and Bellatrix LaStrange. She had lost so many loved ones to the battle against the Dark Lord and faced so many unknowns as a direct result of those deaths. And yet, here she sat at the mercy of the Veela's death. And still she feared it so. So much so, that it didn't matter how many times she'd stood face to face with it. It didn't matter how many different ways it presented itself. The fear of that which was unknown would always remain prominent all the same. Even a savior could feel fear. And often times it is that very fear that drives a person to act as they do.

Most would say—and Dumbledore would have equally agreed—it is what you do with that fear that defines you. Hermione didn't know whether or not that was true. She felt as if it would be too difficult for her to know what did and didn't define her when so much of who she thought she was had been chipped away by war and loss. And she didn't feel as if further characterizing who she was would do much of anything for anyone given the current circumstances. It wouldn't save her from the swarm of Veela around her. It surely wouldn't bring Fleur back.

Hermione didn't need definition. She didn't need to understand the ins and outs of why it was she felt the way she felt and did the things she did. She was scared. She was scared because she didn't know what Fleur's death meant. For her—or for Fleur. Right now, Hermione needed sanity. She needed to stay grounded. If she had any hope of survival—if Fleur had any hope of recovery—now was not the time for panic. Which is why she pressed herself to focus on that which she did know.

For one, she knew from the Tales of the Three Brothers and her own personal experiences that death was—for all intents and purposes—inescapable. Once you crossed a certain line, there was no turning back. And no amount of magic, hope, or wishing could change that.

However, Hermione also knew from her medical training that there was a fine line between dead and, well, DEAD. All her expensive and extensive medical training had taught her that should one persist with resuscitation—even after a patient was declared legally dead—one would have up to forty minutes time to successfully restart the heart. Because the brain—the magically wonderful bastard that it was—would indeed live on for a short while after the heart stopped beating. Though it should be noted that this finding was set at a fifty percent success rate. It was by no means a full proof plan. Still, a fifty-fifty chance of reviving the blond was better than none. Hermione had ultimately decided that if she had any chance of medically toeing that line, she would take it. It was only the positive portion of that fifty-fifty probability that truly mattered anyways. That is what would keep her grounded. That's what would keep her sane.

So yes, she needed sanity. Yes, she needed to stay grounded. But there was one thing in particular Hermione needed—even more so than those other things combined. Her wand.

Much to her dismay, however, she was surrounded by a sea of emotionally unstable bodies. Hostile ones that wouldn't trust too many sudden moves from a stranger like Hermione. Given this obstacle, she knew the only way she would get her wand as quickly as she needed it was to use the summoning charm. And while she hadn't used very much wandless magic—and she certainly hadn't been very practiced at wandlessly summoning her wand—she knew it was possible. She'd executed similar spells wandlessly a few times before. Her chances of pulling this off successfully were about as much as her reviving the French witch from the dead. And since she was willing to gamble with the outcome of that then surely she could with this too. She was Fleur's only hope. At the very least, she had to try.

Hermione closed her eyes and cleared her mind of everything except her wand. She tuned out the large number of Veela gossiping wildly in a flurry around her. There was no death. There was no Fleur. Only Hermione and her wand. A single bead of sweat fell down her brow as she concentrated with everything she had in her.

Accio! She called out in her mind.

Nothing happened.

Accio! She repeated in her mind over and over again. Almost chanting the word silently as if it were a ceremonial godsend.

In a matter of minutes, as if by magic, the wand appeared next to her face. However, it wasn't the summoning charm that had produced it. A delicate manicured hand held tightly to the handle, offering it out cooperatively to the brunette. Hermione's eyes jumped up to the familiar sky blue. They weren't the eyes she longed to see—and that made her heart sink ever so slightly. They appeared unusually calm given the criticality of the situation. But there burned a certain ferocity and confidence that set fire to the English witch's very skin.

"Thank you, Gabrielle," Hermione said as she took the wand from the girl.

The young French witch said nothing in return. She only gave but a nod in acknowledgement. What was there to say? Hermione knew how close the two sisters were. She could only guess how distressed Gabrielle was feeling. If she were anything like her older sister there's no doubt she desired nothing more in that moment than for Fleur's recovery. Which is why she had brought Hermione's wand in the first place. A sure sign that despite her current standing and regardless of her intent or pursuit of freedom, Hermione was trusted in this moment to use the most powerful weapon at her disposal in front of a gathering of creatures who would not normally be so fond of such an idea. And for that, the brunette was infinitely grateful.

Because more than anything, she too wished for the elder blond to live. More than her own freedom. More than her own safety. Granted, they had their differences. And there was still much she did not know about the French witch. And danger seemed to follow Fleur Delacour around like a lost puppy. But that didn't mean she was a bad person. Nor did it mean that she deserved to die.

Hermione placed the tip of the wand to Fleur's unmoving chest and her free hand hovered over the woman's well-defined sternum. She refocused all her magical energy into her wand until a slight jolt left the wand and entered Fleur's body, making it jump from the floor. After the shock, Hermione placed her hand down to the chest before her and channeled her magic in a way that was meant to further stabilize her patient. She repeated this same procedure over and over again. Hoping with each jolt that it would be the final one to bring Fleur's body back to life. All the Veela watched with rapt attention, hoping the same for their fallen sister.

The longer Fleur laid there unresponsive, the harder Hermione's heart started to beat and the more desperate she became in her attempt to bring the blond back to life. Her movements soon became erratic and less coordinated as the reality began to finally sink in that the person she was trying to save might very well be beyond saving. But it just couldn't be. There had been a chance. A chance that she would live. That had to have been enough. Water gently blurred her vision as a single tear fell to the chest that still rested unmoving beneath her hands.

Hermione leaned down close to the blond woman's ear. She was only mere seconds away from being forced to accept defeat.

"Please," she sobbed softly.

She clenched her eyes shut to mollify the tears threatening to flow forth. Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it in the tips of her fingers as she held the wand firmly to Fleur's chest. She focused all she was into one more burst of magic that sent a convulsive shock through the blond's body. And as her other hand came down for the stabilization part of her ritual that she had all but exhausted, she heard a light gasp of breath as if it were being taken for the first time.

Then, a crystal blue she thought she'd never see again met Hermione's worried gaze. A sense of relief oozed through the English witch's body like hot magma down a steep volcano. She couldn't help herself. In an instant, her lips collided with the back-from-the-dead blond's.

"Bonjour to you as well, mon rêve," Fleur replied weakly from her limp place in Hermione's arms. A hint of a playful smirk appearing with a twitch of her lips

Hermione released a well-deserved amused laugh and gave the blond one more deep kiss. The English witch had never felt such relief in her life. And kissing the French woman made it so much more real. It overwhelmed her. It exhausted her. But most notably, it made her realize just how important the French witch was to her. And knowing something as raw and immaterial as that was almost more terrifying than the unknown.

Hermione sat in a chair beside the sleeping French witch and stroked a stray blonde hair back behind the woman's ear. She found herself wondering how a person could die, come back to life, and then still look so well put together as if nothing out of the ordinary had even happened. Only someone like Fleur could die and still look as if she belonged on a magazine cover. Hermione released a long sigh.

She had been doing that for the past few hours now. Sighing. It started shortly after the Veelas helped her move Fleur's body upstairs to her bed. And since then, Hermione felt as if she could run a marathon but at the same time as if she needed to sleep for a week straight. She sighed once more to try and expel all of the excess energy that had built up inside of her over worrying so much as to whether or not the blonde would live. Though it clearly didn't work as much as she thought because she hadn't yet stopped.

Upon bringing the wounded woman to the room, Hermione had immediately kicked into full healer mode. She had applied every healing spell she knew. She had given the woman as many potions as was deemed medically acceptable. She had tended to the blonde's open wounds with various salves and creams. Under the English witch's watch, Fleur Delecour would be more than well taken care of. And the more Hermione tended to the woman, she thought about the possible string of events that may have led up to this situation. She knew Fleur was rash and impossibly headstrong. She just didn't understand how the blonde could be so careless. It reminded her greatly of Harry and Ron and how they would always run head first into danger as if their own lives were not so much as a thought.

It bothered her, really. How affected she had become by the consequences of this woman's actions. She wanted to scold the blonde—remind her how selfish she was being by not fully considering the impact her decisions had on both of their lives. Though, at the back of her mind, she didn't feel as if it were her place to do so. Now was not the time for those types of conversations anyways. The woman had only just been practically dragged back from the land of the dead. Perhaps they would discuss it in more detail when Fleur was feeling more fully alive.

Suddenly, a loud crack rang out somewhere in the room behind where Hermione sat, causing her to jump a little in her seat.

"Fleur!" A voice screamed out in terror.

What appeared to be an older, more mature version of Fleur and Gabrielle combined rushed to the sickly blonde's bedside, all but shoving Hermione out of the way.

"Maman?" Fleur responded deliriously, still considerably weak and extraordinarily tired.

The strange woman muttered quickly in French. She was in such a tizzy. She would grab at Fleur's cheeks and shake her head one minute and other times she would just stroke at the younger blonde's hair. Then, suddenly, a pair of piercing pale blue eyes met Hermione's. Not in the same way Fleur's would with curiosity and frivolity. But with a burning intensity and purpose as if this woman were on a critical mission and wouldn't allow for any deviation from her goal.

In an instant, before the brunette could even respond, a spell was cast and Hermione's wand was ripped from her hand.

"Go! Go fetch her some water!" The woman commanded of the English witch, waving the confiscated wand in the direction of the bathroom.

Hermione suspected that she wasn't truly being sent away to fetch water. It was evident in the fact that the woman had taken her wand. They were magical, after all, so if water was what she truly needed as urgently as she called for it in that moment, then she would have gotten it the way any other sensible witch or wizard would have—via magic. It was clear she meant for Hermione to leave the room so that she could be alone with her daughter. The English witch understood this need. And as peeved as it made her, it had happened so much lately, she was already used to her wand being taken away unexpectedly anyways. So she headed off to the bathroom in order to give them whatever time they wished to have alone between them.

"What 'ave you gotten yourself into you silly girl!" Hermione heard Fleur's mother call out through the open bathroom door.

"Maman, je suis désolée. I was—" Fleur tried to answer, her voice shaky and course.

"Do not strain yourself, mon biquet. You must save your energy for when zee Grand Matriarch arrives. You will need to tell 'er zee entire story," the older blonde interrupted, concerned for the state of her daughter's health.

Not wanting to seem as if she was listening in on their conversation, Hermione grabbed a wash bowl from one of the closets and began filling it with warm water. But she was, in fact, listening in, curious as to what the latest visitor might have to say.

"I do not 'ave much time. I was summoned to discuss strategy wiz zee Matriarch. And when I 'eard you had been killed, I almost died zere wiz you. I 'ad to check. To make sure you were okay," the elder Delacour explained, her eyes misted over as if she would start sobbing at any moment, "I cannot believe you went out and almost got yourself killed—en permanence! 'Ave I done zat poorly as a mozzer?! Did I raise you to be so careless?!"

"It is okay, maman. 'Ermione saved me," Fleur responded. Hermione just knew the blonde was looking towards the bathroom. She could practically feel the sultry gaze penetrating her through the door.

"Qui?" Fleur's mother questioned.

"Doctuere 'Ermione Granger. She is zee one zat I told you saved Gabrielle. And she 'as also saved me."

"Mmm. Oui," the elder blond began, judgement lacing each word, "Listen, Fleur, I've been meaning to talk wiz you about zat."

Interested that the topic of conversation had moved on to her, Hermione turned off the faucet and leaned closer to the door to better hear their quieting voices—no longer caring if she was caught eavesdropping.

"You really need to do somezing about zat girl, mon biquet. You know our laws. She cannot live 'ere forever. And zee ozzers. Zey 'ave noticed. Zey 'ave been talking. Zey do not understand why you are not yet wiz child."

"Maman, I do not wish to 'ave zis discussion wiz you," fleur protested fitfully. Hermione could hear the sheets rustle from how feverishly the younger French witch was moving around.

"You 'ave always been different, ma petite. And I know 'ow 'ard you try to fight it. But zeese are very dangerous waters you are playing in, child. Especially wiz one of zee most well known witches in zee magical world. Zee minute you are well, you will need to do somezing about zis. It cannot go on zis way," her mother told her warningly.

Hermione didn't know what "doing something about it" meant exactly, but she guessed that it wouldn't be anything favorable to her. She quickly began to feel rather offended. It's not as if she had asked Fleur to be here. It was odd that she hadn't really tried that hard to escape, but that was a different matter entirely. And she was still working on fully fleshing out why that was. But that didn't detract from the fact that had she never been brought here to begin with, they wouldn't have had to "do" anything about her because her presence wouldn't have ever been an issue in the first place. It wasn't fair that she had to suffer for someone else's poor decision. It wasn't fair of them to talk about her as if she were a dog about to be put down while she was right there in the other room. And she didn't know Fleur's mother, but she was damn tired of everyone else discussing her fate without her.

She grabbed the wash bin full of water and a clean rag and pushed her way through the bathroom door; making a show of her return into the bedroom. She set the wash bin on the table next to Fleur's bed and began dunking the rag in the water and ringing it out. Her grand entrance had stopped the conversation, but it was up to her to express how she felt. And the problem was, she didn't quite know where to start. There was so much that had gone unsaid lately that when the opportunity to finally let it all out presented itself, Hermione was at a complete loss for what to say.

Fleur's mother looked down on the brunette with utmost disdain. The English witch could practically feel her eyes burning through her skull. The intimidation of it all making it even harder to think.

In attempt to escape the woman's intense focus so she could gather her thoughts, Hermione went back to caring for Fleur, carefully dabbing the damp rag to the woman's forehead. But she wouldn't cease to be the center of Mademoiselle Delacour's attention so easily. As the brunette leaned over, the hen harrier necklace dangled precariously about her neck as if it had a mind of its own and wished to be seen at that very moment. The elder blonde noticed almost immediately and reached out to further inspect the pendant that had been a symbol of her family for centuries.

"She is not even under your thrall," she scoffed.

Hermione's heartbeat increased exponentially. How did she know? Fleur had warned her that it was imperative that absolutely nobody find out about this. What would happen to her now that someone knows? Should she say something? Should she do something? Hermione's mind raced with a never-ending reel of anxious thoughts and questions. Though her body stayed frozen next to the younger blonde who didn't seem as affected by the unexpected declaration. Hermione half expected to be drowning so deeply in thrall. But when that time never came, her heart dropped even further in her chest at the implications of what that might mean.

"Dangerous waters indeed", Fleur's mother began again, "Elle va mourir. And at zis rate...vous allez aussi."

She said nothing more. With a wave of her wand and a dramatic turn of her robes, she vanished.

It was only in the elder Delacour's absence that Hermione finally found the ability to speak.

"So, she was," Hermione started to say, drawing out the pause, searching for the right word, "interesting."

"She is somezing," Fleur responded weakly, closing her eyes as Hermione went back to dabbing the warm rag to her forehead.

"What do we do now?"

"Please, mamour. Do not concern yourself wiz zis. I 'ave promised to take care of you and zat is what I will do. Despite what my mozzer thinks, she does not know everyzing."

Hermione thought on this for a moment. She was tired of Fleur being so cryptic. She was tired of not having a plan. It bothered her greatly that she didn't know when she would be able to leave and whether or not she would make it out alive. So many questions were still left either unanswered or only partially so. She was alive. Fleur was alive. And still, here she found herself again. Anxious and fearful of what she did not know. Her fear burning into anger. That anger boiling beneath the surface into something much worse. If Fleur wouldn't do anything, then she would.

"Fleur," Hermione spoke quietly, gazing down on the very debilitated but still very beautiful Veela.

"Oui?"

"Your mother is right. We have to do something."

Translations:

1) mon rêve = my dream

2) mon biquet = my lamb

3) en permanence = permanently

4) Elle va mourir = she will die

5) vous allez aussi = you will too

6) Qui = who