A/N: Another day, another chapter. Thank you to all who recently reviewed/favorited/followed my story. I love hearing your thoughts. And it makes me super happy to know people are into this story. I hope to continue to do it justice. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Still not mine. Still doing it for free. Please don't sue me.

Chapter 10

"'Ermione! Please, open up! Please don't go!" Fleur pleaded with a closed door that she was well acquainted with by this point. The familiarity of the situation further fueling her persistence as she banged her fists anxiously against the hard wood. And though this routine was not new to them—given the same scenario had occurred a little over a week prior—she was met with what had become an equally mundane silence.

Hermione slumped to the bathroom floor—ignoring the muffled pleas for entrance. This wasn't the first time she found herself in a position such as this—sitting on a floor, against a door that just so happened to be the only thing barricading her from the object of her wildest desires. But it was the first time she was on the running-away, bathroom-end of it.

Her head dropped heavily to her open hands. She hadn't had the necessary time to process how she felt. She had fallen asleep, some things had happened, and then the next thing she knew, she was awake lying next to the perpetrator of those very things that had happened. Things she very much wanted to happen. But things that should have never happened to begin with. That being so, it wasn't very clear to her in that moment why she had run away. All she knew was that she had crossed a line that wasn't meant to be crossed. And she woke up and those coruscating blue eyes peered into her without even the slightest inkling of shame or remorse. Those eyes—the person behind them—constantly muddled with her brain, making it hard to think. She had made a mistake. A mistake that required deep thought—deep understanding, deliberate planning—given the type of creature she had made it with. In an instant—with or without her approval—Hermione had been on her feet and on the move, urgent to put as much space as she could between them.

That is what she needed in that moment. Distance. A few solitary seconds to breath fresh air that hadn't graced the lungs of the gorgeous blond; to think thoughts that didn't contain images of porcelain skin and a mischievous smile; to feel a heartbeat that she could be absolutely sure was hers and hers alone.

But no matter how she tried, she also knew she would never be able to shake herself free of the sirenic French witch. And now that she had crossed that line, she was irrevocably and unequivocally consumed by all that was Fleur.

And that truly troubled her.

So she sat on the opposite end of that barrier, trying to make sense of things and utterly failing. Perhaps if she repeated it enough, it would eventually stick. Fleur is a Veela. And while she may not mean to, her very nature is detrimental to the human psyche. And while she is very pretty, we mustn't kiss her or even so much as think about kissing her. And while that orgasm was wildly intense and real and soul-shattering—and Gods! The shameful things we would do for just one more little taste—it isn't safe to engage in such things with a Veela. She would repeat this over and over in her head. It would become her new mantra. But thinking about what had happened—in any context—excited her. To the point that she was only mere seconds away from ripping the door open and ravishing the blond woman in ways she'd likely never experienced before—in ways Hermione herself had never experienced before. And had her legs not felt like lead and had her heart not been beating at near heart attack levels, she surely would have. She needed to stop. This had to end. And the truth is, she could keep telling herself that until she was blue in the face and she likely would. But at the end of the day, she knew there would always be more to it than that. There would always be something more to she and Fleur. And it wouldn't just disappear with a well-chosen mantra.

"Zere are old stories zey used to tell us when we were petites filles about L'Appel Du Vide," Hermione's ears perked up at the sound of Fleur's voice that was muffled by the door, "Zee term literally translates to 'zee call of zee void.' But it means so much more zan zat. And while there is no real English equivalent, I suppose zee best way to describe it is zat sudden inclination one 'as to do somezing no matter 'ow dangereux or deadly it may be."

The French witch paused long enough that Hermione thought she had finished speaking. She opened her mouth to speak, but then Fleur's voice was heard again, sharper and more direct through the solid wood, "All zis time, I've only ever seen it from zee point of view of zee siren. Being zat call of zee void zat lures people to danger. But zen I met you, mon désir, and now...I'm beginning to understand what it is like to be on zee ozzer end of zat call," Fleur's words started to flow out quicker in a higher pitch, as if she were choking back as much emotion as she could manage, "And what 'appened in your mind... Mon Dieu—I wish zat I could say zat I feel ashamed—zat I would take it back if I could—but, mamour, I do not feel any of zese things. Zee truth is, I would do it again. A thousand times over. Until zee sheer exhaustion of it all killed me. I would even fight my very nature to zee death to be wiz you like zat forever if zat is what it took. Je suis profondément désolée, 'Ermione, mais I am so incredibly infatuated wiz you. Zee consequences mean so little in comparison."

Fleur gripped tightly to the door, speaking her words against the grain of the wood, hoping the brunette had heard them for what they were.

"Fleur..." the blond's head raised at the sound of Hermione's voice that was almost deadened by the obstruction between them, "In the dream—in my mind—you mentioned the word 'love.' And you suggested that you questioned your ability to do so...because of me..."

This was a topic Fleur was hoping the English woman wouldn't remember. It was a topic she had hoped to avoid. Because it was a topic she could not readily explain. There was so much about Veela nature that Hermione didn't fully understand—there was so much about her own nature that Fleur had yet to understand. And just as her head started to fall in defeat once more, the door opened and Hermione's face came into view. Her eyelids looked heavy and her eyes were puffy. There was no distinguishing whether that was a result of crying or from a lack of sleep—though it was most likely the latter. A line appeared between her brows.

"Fleur..." She took a few steps closer, an impetuous swell of bravery controlling her movement, "Are you in love with me?"

The Veela's jaw tightened.

"Laisse tomber. c'est pas grave! Zat is not important," she blurted—a slight tremble in her voice—as she wandered to the opposite side of the bedroom pretending to busy herself with the mangled sheets and bedspread. Suddenly it was she who felt the need to put space between them.

"It is important, Fleur," Hermione persisted, moving to be closer to the blond, needing that eye contact as they spoke about something as serious a topic as love, "It's important to me. I mean, how do I know if it's really you or the Veela that feels this way?"

"C'est n'importe quoi! Zey are one in zee same—'ow can you not see?! I am zee Veela. Zee Veela is me. Our wants, our dreams, our desires, zey are always zee same because zere is no difference between us!"

Fleur suddenly stepped unnecessarily close to the English witch, grabbing the girl's face in her hands in what appeared to be a desperate attempt to hold onto a reality that had long since vanished. She drew her lower lip between her teeth as her eyes lowered to Hermione's lips. Those same lips that had kissed hers fully a number of times. Those same lips that called out her name in the throws of ecstasy. Those same lips that had just recently all but condemned her of rather monstrous behavior. She stared at those lips wordlessly for a long, uncomfortable moment; her eyes knitted close together in thought. She wondered how something so deliciously tempting could be so undeniably cruel.

"And even if we were two separate entities," she added softly, her eyes never once straying from Hermione's lips, "would zat really even matter? Zee feeling would still be as it was all zee same. Love is such a powerful and profound emotion in and of itself, does it really matter all zat much who is zee bearer of such feelings?"

Hermione was well-versed in many things. She knew the ins and outs of many a muggle as well as magical concepts. But love? Love was a magical creature in itself that was just as equally mysterious and misunderstood and often terrifying as the rest. Sure, she had exchanged desultory "I love you's" with her parents every now and again and Harry had always told her "love you" in a very brotherly fashion. But that would hardly prepare her for the more romantic nature of the word. Ron had said it to her once. Though what had been between them wasn't even remotely close to love. And she had been quick to express her lack of the feeling in return. Ginny had not only told Hermione she loved her, she showed her in so many ways on more than one occasion every day until the day they parted ways. There was even a brief moment where Hermione felt as if maybe she could feel the same way. But even then, it wasn't quite the right feeling to be considered true love and she was left completely lost.

After that, the war and the aftermath of said war took up the majority of her time and energy. Rebuilding a life after having almost been destroyed didn't leave much time for extracurriculars. And while most things came relatively natural to the girl, love was and would always be unattainable. Or at least, that was true of the kind of love she had always been taught about growing up with muggle fairy tails. But this—what she had with Fleur—wasn't anything like a muggle fairytale. Or rather, unlike any fairytale she had ever heard before.

So while Hermione would normally run from the feelings behind such a bold declaration—having no real understanding of them and having had no real time to become practiced in experiencing them—she, oddly enough, found herself empowered by Fleur's declaration. Perhaps it was the Veela charm or perhaps it was something more. Either way, she was sure she had never felt this way before and she was curious to further explore this territory that had so long gone uncharted. She watched Fleur, watching her.

"I suppose I'm still so unsure as to whether what I feel is my own genuine feelings or a rather fortuitous side effect of you and what you are," she whispered, not really considering the effects of her words.

It hurt the French witch to hear it. That her thrall might be the only reason someone cared for her. But it didn't surprise her. This was the life she had always known. Still, that didn't make it hurt any less. She turned her head away sharply as her eyes squeezed shut, so that Hermione's next words were spoken to her cheek instead.

"I don't know why I feel the way I do, but that won't stop me from feeling it. I very much care about you, Mademoiselle Delacour. I care about you more deeply than perhaps I should and that concerns me—but not for the reasons you may think. And regardless of why I feel the way I do, I want you to know that I'm not going to fight it. It is so unlike anything I've ever felt before, and it scares me. But I want it. I want more of it."

Hermione began to trail light but lingering kisses down the woman's cheek. The gesture was meant as a symbol of sympathy. It quickly grew into a symptom of empathy. And for the briefest moment they were finally able to recognize one another's mutual affliction. Not one to deny the English woman anything, Fleur slowly turned her head until the kisses trailed a path to her own lips, remembering the healing power they held within and hoping to alleviate some of the agony brewing in the air where the two witches stood. And when their lips finally met with that first sweet but sultry kiss, it was as if all the apprehension had been washed away from them like the scrubbing of the tides.

That was until a shrill, frustrated scream sounded throughout the room, startling the two women apart. Both of them knew it couldn't have come from them given the preoccupation of their mouths. So they looked about the room for the source of the intrusive noise.

A painting—that normally only contained the scenery of an old oak tree beside a serene lake—now contained an overly-emotional woman. She was pacing back and forth with an undisclosed fury. Her elegant green dress whipped around violently with the motion of her body as she stomped and huffed around the tree. Hermione didn't recall ever having seen her before in this particular painting in Fleur's bedroom. And judging by the mystified look on the French witch's face, she too was perplexed by the lady's presence.

"Who is that?" Hermione wondered aloud, not particularly searching for an answer.

"The comtesse d'Houdetot. A distant relative of the Delacours," Fleur replied, "zough she usually resides in zee painting in maman's study..."

Both women were entranced by the fitful comtesse, who continued to curse and protest, obviously in some sort of distress. A few times it seemed as if she were about to slip into the lake, though she never quite took the plunge. Fleur thought it might be for the best if she did. Perhaps it would help to cool her temper. But Hermione, in worry of the lady's safety, stepped away from the Veela and towards the painting.

"What's wrong?" She asked the lady, with the hopes that, at the very least, it would distract her enough to keep her from accidentally harming herself.

"What's wrong?! What is wrong?!" the comtesse shrieked, reaching vocal levels not too far off from that of a freshly opened howler, "I will tell you what's wrong! Every time zat disgraceful woman 'as 'er secret little meetings, she flips my portrait around. Zee nerve! Flipping my portrait—MY portrait! Me! A Comtesse! Zinking she is above me, flipping my portrait, throwing out commands at people like a barbarian, talking about la guerre as if she controlled zee world around 'er..."

The lady continued to ramble on in her outrage. But one thing she had said in particular stood out to the French witch.

"Pardon, Comtesse," Fleur interrupted, hoping to garner the lady's attention, "You mentioned zat zey were talking about 'zee war.' What exactly did you 'ere?"

The Comtesse flipped her hand impatiently at them, not much in the mood for sharing, only complying because she desired an easy outlet for her discontent.

"Somezing about a rival clan not following zee original command to kill 'zee girl.' And 'ow zee war must continue or somezing like zat..."

She spoke more, but it was all incomprehensible due to her anger.

Recognition dawned on Hermione's face.

"Fleur, you don't think..." she started to say.

"Zat someone is purposely causing zee war between Veela clans?" Fleur's face hardened.

"Is that even possible?" The English witch questioned.

"Oui, it is every bit as possible as it is probable."

"Who would do such a thing?"

The question was asked, but the answer was already well known. There was only one person with the authority and the resources to be able to pit entire Veela clans against one another, according to their hierarchy of command. And Fleur was certain the Grand Matriarch was behind this. Not that she had ever had much trust invested in the great leader.

The real question was why? Fleur knew the Grand Matriarch to be well-informed and wildly cunning. Any and every move she made was always highly meticulous and not without purpose. But what purpose did it serve for all Veela clans to be at war? Especially when the real fight was in the creature wars against the entire wizarding world. What could one possibly gain by the destruction of one's own people. And furthermore, who was supposed to have been sacrificed for the purpose of this civil unrest? Fleur's pupils flared.

"Zere's only one way to find out," the French witch said with a hint of an edge. And before Hermione could even react, the blond took off down the hall.

The brunette followed after her, every bit as curious to understand what was happening. But the Veela was on a mission and keeping up with her was quickly becoming harder and harder to do through the maze-like hallways of the grand mansion.

Just as the English woman was sure she was about to lose her, Fleur came to a sudden stop in front of the door to her mother's study. There were muffled voices on the other side that grew progressively louder over the short time they had stood there. And as Fleur raised her hand to knock, the door swung open. The Grand Matriarch stepped out first—as originally suspected—followed shortly by another figure.

"Maman?!" Fleur called out in confusion.

Translations:

1. petites filles = little girls

2. Je suis profondément désolée = I am deeply sorry

3. Laisse tomber. c'est pas grave = Just forget it. It doesn't matter!

4. C'est n'importe quoi = That's nonsense!

5. la guerre = the war

6. Pardon = excuse me