A/N: Hello all. I have been gone for quite awhile, I know. It's been a wild few years for me. Between COVID and anxiety and just the general current state of the world. I was also recently diagnosed with ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder). And I have been undergoing a lot of challenges with daily functioning and figuring out how to deal with a lot of my symptoms of that. Being diagnosed with ASD has also helped me understand why it's so difficult for me to just sit down an write the way I want to. I've always struggled with processing and expressing emotions. And it's also been very difficult for me to read other people's emotions (via body language or facial expressions or other various social cues). And that has very much translated to my writing as well. I realized that a big part of why I put off writing is because I have to go a do a whole bunch of research on facial expressions and emotions and how a person (that isn't me) would express them. I used to think everyone had to do this, but now I recognize that it's just another part of ASD for me. And having to go through all that effort for every sentence I write can get very exhausting. But I'm also a perfectionist and I always try (to an unnecessary extent) to express what I am trying to say as clearly and as authentically as possible. I also know that I have a tendency to write things too factually and leave out the emotion and metaphor that really draws a reader in and helps them connect with a character. Before my diagnosis I would get very discouraged when I would edit what I'd written if it didn't sound exactly the way I was trying to express it. And if I couldn't rework it the way I wanted I would just get frustrated and leave it by the wayside for extended periods of time until I felt ready to try again.

All of this to say, please bear with me. I am trying. I enjoy telling this story. I enjoy writing. But I am also learning how to not be so hard on myself for not doing things in a way that I think other people will perceive as perfect. Writing (in this way) is a challenge for me. But it's a challenge I find worth taking. Life is a long, hard journey, and we are all doing our best to make it through one day at a time.

Please continue to comment and follow as we continue this journey. The story is not over just yet.

Chapter 13

If the eyes are the window to the soul, then thousands of them peeked distrustfully through the half-closed blinds of their eyes like nosy neighbors the very moment Hermione Granger stepped over the threshold and into the Delacour Tempêtes de la Nuit ball.

Just as soon as she had arrived, she had wanted to leave. Being the focal point of a room full of Veela stares was proving to be far more daunting than she'd ever imagined it could be. Her ears resonated with the high pitched thrum of clinking glasses. Her feet vibrated with every clack of high heeled feet against the marbled floors. Her chest hummed with the low undertone of unsubstantiated gossip. And while it was hard to make out over the wide array of things dominating her senses, something deep in the back recesses of her mind buzzed softly of danger. Her legs-without any conscious guidance from her brain-slowly stepped backwards towards where she had entered. Her body collided gently with a soft yet firm form behind her. As she turned to face the obstruction, she was met with the glittering smile of Fleur Delacour. A smile, she realized, that felt less friendly and more predatory the longer it slithered the expanse of her very form.

"You look absolutely ravishing tonight, ma bichette. They cannot take their eyes off of you," Fleur purred in that mellifluous tone that could easily bring anyone to their knees. The words wisped so sweetly against Hermione's ear that she felt her own knees weaken.

She closed her eyes and took a moment to gather herself among the fervor of stimulation. In any other situation, if someone "could not keep their eyes off of" someone else, it would imply that the person being observed was as equally admired for their beauty as they were for their presence. And after giving it some thought, Hermione felt the lines between compliment and admonition begin to blur exponentially. Because, yes, it was indeed true that every eye was on her and loathed to stray. But she could feel each and every one boring through her skull as if she were the unfortunate spruce tree infested with a hundred burrowing bark beetles. However, it was similarly true, that between the rather thick lines of the French woman's coquetry, lay a tentative bubbling of apprehension that was rather difficult for Hermione to ignore. It was then she fully understood her situation. She was a deer grazing in an open field under close scrutiny of a group of patient hunters with Fleur being the only obstacle between her and the kill shot hit of a well-aimed bullet. A realization that was clear and communicated between them both.

Though Fleur, in her long golden dress, looked every bit the magical French heiress that she was. She was regal in the face of adversity. She was unbothered by the attention. And she was ever-confident in her own ability to rise higher than the rising storm. So with nothing more than a wink and an offer of her arm to her rather perturbed partner, she led Hermione wordlessly through the gawking crowd; that same brilliant smile from before lighting their way to the bar.

By this point, the English witch was used to being flaunted about on the older woman's arm. That was her duty, after all, as the Veela's (for the sake of survival) "mate." It was a game they had all but mastered at this point. Though in some unexplainable way, tonight felt different. It seemed odd to her that the room was filled with Veela and only Veela. Usually they were accompanied with the presence of at least a few of the other men and women who were also burdened by the duty of being a Veela mate. And with the rapt attention she was receiving from the guests around her, she could not help but feel (once again) as if this were not a place she belonged.

"Somehow I don't believe they are staring because of how beautiful I look," Hermione whispered offhandedly to herself as a sort of coping mechanism for the anxiety she felt raging inside herself.

"But of course it is most certainly not," a voice interjected stating what had become the obvious, "They are staring because they are not used to seeing a Veela mate attend such a prestigious and private social event."

Yet another familiar figure floated by, much in the same manner that all Veela presumably do. Her light blue gown billowed restlessly around her small frame as she came to a stop in front of them.

"Ah, Gabrielle, my dear sister. Ça va?" Fleur chirped.

"Ça va bien. Et toi?"

"Mmm. Very good, actually," the elder French witch hummed. Her eyes skimmed across Hermione's body like skates across a frozen lake. The hollowness within them well-hidden behind the longing and desire.

It made Hermione shift uncomfortably in her own skin, sending a not so much unpleasant as unexpected shiver down her spine that shook her so much she struggled to remain upright. To be watched by a room full of ruffled Veela was one thing. But to be the object of Fleur's predatory gaze was something else entirely. And she didn't think she'd ever fully adjust to it and how it made her feel.

A part of her knew that the French woman was only trying to distract her, and marveled at the spectacular display of skill in doing so. But then another (larger) part of her had to remind herself that this was no woman at all. This was a creature. A creature with the ability to play with a mind and mold it into whatever she wished it to be in order to suit her own needs and wants. That being said, Hermione also reminded herself that she didn't need a distraction. She needed answers. And she wouldn't allow Fleur to dissuade her from getting them so easily-not without some sort of a fight. She shook her head free of the fog that started to cloud her thoughts in a rather dizzying attempt to stay on track.

"Wait. Yesterday you spoke of a gentleman who would be accompanying you. You discussed matching color palettes with Fleur," she directed at the younger French witch, curiosity and confusion eating at what was left of her insides.

"Oui. J'ai fait," Gabrielle responded her smile as large and glittering in the light of the ballroom as her older sister's had been earlier, "Mais it is still early in the night. It is not customary for mates to attend until the end of the evening-when the dancing begins. Maximillion will not be present for a few hours more. Surely ma sœur 'as explained this to you, non?"

Hermione didn't know how to respond. Because, no. Fleur hadn't explained any of that to her. In fact, there was an ever-growing list of things Fleur hadn't explained to her. Most of which would have been extremely beneficial to know before an attempted coup on a pitiless Veela clan. And it's not as if an opportunity had never arisen. They had been up late the night before discussing each and every finite detail of this evening's plan. From the moment they entered the ball to the socializing they would have to do with the guests in order to maintain their façade. All the way to the moment Fleur would challenge her Matriarch and defeat her in a duel, when she would then be deemed the new Matriarch of the clan. So the fact that the French witch had left out a detail as important as "mates aren't allowed to be present for the entire first half of the ball" felt oddly intentional; which was as good as lying in Hermione's book.

Although, from the moment they first met, the French woman had a way of being deliberately enigmatic that Hermione had originally dismissed as just another facet to the woman's infuriating personality. And it was only very recently that she realized that there was a much deeper cultural influence there. More importantly, Fleur had not given her any reason not to trust her so far. However, that (in and of itself) didn't make it any easier to trust her now. At the same time, she had no reason to believe that Fleur would lie to her maliciously. There had to be something behind it-some reason why she felt the need to withhold such critical information. A headache started to creep its way into her head past all the burrowing beetles and imperious thoughts. No doubt the curse of a higher mind.

Hermione turned to her counterpart with the hope of being able to vocalize some of her internal monologue and the intent of finding more answers. But she was met only with the scent of honey and vanilla that outlined the spot where the woman once stood.

Suddenly, a microphone let out a high-pitched, attention-seeking squeal that commanded silence of everyone in the room.

"Good evening everyone. I 'ope you are all 'aving a wonderful time tonight," Fleur's smooth voice echoed off the ornately decorated walls, ringing musically in the ears of the hundreds of people in attendance.

"Despite what you may think, I will not be giving the traditional Tempêtes de la Nuit speech tonight," she continued airily.

Every guest in attendance shifted warily at the declaration. A cacophonous mixture of harsh whispering and the ruffle of expensive fabrics erupted throughout the hall. Hermione, however, was frozen in place. Her ears burning, her eyes widening with each word Fleur spoke. Is she really doing this now? This hadn't been a part of the plan at all. She had expected them to mingle with the guests, dance a little; maybe even have a drink or two to calm their rapid-firing nerves. What she hadn't expected was for them to get down to it roughly fifteen minutes after arriving. And certainly not before explaining that the plan had changed.

Yet here they were. There Fleur was. Dress glistening beneath the spot light. Eyes lit with a fire that everyone in the room could clearly see but—as of that moment—only Hermione actually understood.

"We are not monsters."

The room went completely silent. No more whispers. No more rustling. Only a sea of listening ears eager to hear the very next word that would be spoken.

"Though that is what they would 'ave you believe. That we murder in the name of self preservation. That we seduce in the name of fleeting passion. That we are incapable of love—of compassion. That we must constantly be at war with our own sisters for the glory of our own names and beliefs. That is what they think of us and our kind. Those are the only stories they tell. All the wizards and witches. All the muggles. And yes, even your very own Matriarchs. They tell those stories and would 'ave you believe them. They tell you that you are an animal so that you believe you are an animal. So that you behave like an animal. Because animals are easy to control. They make you believe you are a monster so that you behave like a monster and hide in the dark. So that you feel shame in who you are. So that you never question anything different. As a means of control. Because control is power. Power over an entire army of strong, intelligent, and artful creatures. Creatures that with one look could bring the strongest man to 'is knees and have 'im do 'er every bidding until death. But that is all they are. Stories. We are so much more than their weapons. We are so much more than their worst nightmare. We are so much more than monsters."

The room remained silent. The mood shifting even further into quiet and ambiguity. A sense of danger lurked in the air. It filled Hermione's lungs with a sudden storm that made it difficult to breathe. She let out the smallest gasp for air. And it rang out loudly in the stillness of the room. Her hand jumped to her mouth tightly, smothering down another. She would rather die of asphyxiation than draw even an ounce more attention to herself. Luckily Fleur was quick to draw any and all attention away once again.

"We are control. We are grace. We are beauty. We are individuals. Individuals capable of independent thought of independent action. Individuals capable of peace and love and virtue. Look at us. Look at 'ow deeply we love our daughters. 'ow we raise them. We guide them. We love them with every inch of who we are. If I am capable of that, why am I not capable of loving another? Why am I not capable of loving my sister from an opposing clan? Why am I not capable of loving another creature? Or a mate?"

Blue eyes met brown crisply and lingered there for what felt like an eternity, but, in reality, had only been a few milliseconds of time. From the moment those words had been spoken, there was a meaning in them so sharp that it cut a pint-sized hole through Hermione's chest and burrowed deep into her rapidly beating heart. The meaning created this unfamiliar feeling inside of her that her brain struggled to comprehend. From where she stood, for a brief moment, it appeared as if Fleur was going through the exact same thing. That they were struggling together. But this moment was much bigger than them. And as the blonde's eyes wandered off into the crowd to continue her speech, Hermione suddenly felt the uncomfortable weight of solitude settle over her like a heavy woolen blanket on a hot summer evening.

"If we want a better life for ourselves and for our daughters, then we 'ave to change the narrative of who we are. They will see us in whatever way we carry ourselves. And today I choose. I choose not to be a monster. I choose love—even if it hurts. I choose compassion. I choose to stand by my Veela sisters instead of waging war. And I choose to call out all who stand against me."

Fleur barely had time to finish the last sentence before the Matriarch of her clan made herself known, parting the crowd as if she'd been summoned from the deep dark depths of hell like a demon.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est?" She asked with the slightest hint of mirth in her tone. A playful yet cautious glint glowed in her eyes as if she were on the receiving end of a joke she didn't quite get.

"Madame Duplantier, you 'ave done nothing to quell this war, choosing to ignore it all together instead. Your clan fights and dies by the numbers. Mais regarde autour de toi! 'Ow can you continue to ignore the dwindling numbers? 'Ow can you be so blind to the fact that we are a dying race!? You 'ave raised us to be callous. You 'ave raised us to take shame in who we are. You encourage us to mate, but we die off faster than we can even reproduce. Then you turn a blind eye as your clan numbers rapidly decrease. As your sisters give their lives and their daughter's lives. You are not a Matriarch. You, Madame…vous êtes un lâche."

A chorus of gasps echoed through the hall. And this time, none of them belonged to Hermione. Because she didn't even know what a lâche was. But she sure as hell moved out of the way as Madame Duplantier, ever the poised creature that she was, took to the stage with a propriety that commanded subservience from everyone in the room. Her long white gown billowed around her with that air of authority that she flaunted ostentatiously. And the look she gave Fleur could bite harder than a Hungarian horntail guarding a nest of young.

"Qu'est-ce que tu fais, petite fille?" she probed calmly, without even a hint of agitation other than the ever so slight narrowing of her forest green eyes.

"I am challenging you, Madame, for the title of Matriarch. You are not fit to lead this clan and I would be remiss to allow you to continue to do so."

"And you are?" The Matriarch's switch to English was so abrupt that it paralyzed Hermione where she stood; frozen in time and place; the only movement being that of her eyes which bounced around the room rabidly unable to find the proper place to land.

Though, it should be noted that, the elder veela had not asked for lack of knowledge. She had asked for the sake of clarity. There was no mistaking what was about to happen. The pretense of rebellion hung so heavy in the air where Fleur had so publicly exuded it. It would be impossible to have misunderstood her intentions. And the undeniable undercurrent of malice to the Elder's tone, ripe with the desire to squash that rebellion, signaled that she had not been ignorant to it either. This was an offering. A last chance put forth. The gracious gift of mercy before they reached the point of no return. Because, according to their laws and customs, one of them-inevitably-would not return.

The tension building in Hermione's back was so intense, it caused each vertebrae in her spine to snap into alignment until it formed a ramrod straight line of unease. The position making every muscle in her shoulders coil so tightly. They ached in a way that the tension could not even be released if she tried. She was stuck like this. Paralyzed in place with every desire to move, but no ability to act upon the desire. She was the deer and they were the hunters. And this was the moment the gun had gone off and she just knew she was about to be shot. Her stomach became heavy with the lead of anguish.

An internal battle tore through her, urging her to say anything-do anything. But this had not been the plan. This was not how it was supposed to go down. Improvising had been so much easier when it came to her adventures with Harry and Ron. It was so much easier when it was in a world she knew and understood because of having been raised in it. But she was way out of her element here. What could she do-that wasn't already about to be done? What could she say-that hadn't already been said? Finally, after several moments of internal struggle, by some force that was not of her own conscious doing, she felt herself push past dozens of bodies and move closer to the stage. As of now, this is what she was able offer. Her moral support projected out of her with a vengeance. Fleur caught her eye with a mischievous wink.

Madame Duplantier continued her gentle diatribe darkly, drawing her wand, "Well then, you know 'ow this will go, mademoiselle. Jusqu'à la mort."

Fleur's eyes narrowed. Her nostrils flared.

"Jusqu'à ce que justice," she echoed back, wand at the ready.

There was a brief pause as the Matriarch watched the girl curiously. Her eyebrow arched in contemplation as she tried to figure out her opponent. Before a challenge, it was customary (in their culture) for both parties to repeat the phrase "Jusqu'à la mort." It was a verbal recognition of life. It was the verbal acknowledgment that one of them would not be walking away with theirs.

And so it confused her why the younger Veela had not done so. Fleur would have been well-versed in the Veela tradition. She had been born into it. She had been raised by it. She would have known that this was not how a challenge for power normally began. Surely she wasn't so blinded by her rebellion that she would even stray from what is considered to be the absolute core of being a Veela. Then again, when had there ever been anything normal about Fleur Delacour?

Madame Duplantier took a moment more to ponder. She should have rid herself of the renegade the moment she knew she was different than the rest-when she had been but a child at her most vulnerable. The girl's mother, ever the loyal disciple that she was, wouldn't have done a damn thing to stop her Matriarch if she had decided to end the little one so early in her life. She certainly would have saved herself a lot of trouble if she had. Though there was little she could do about that now short of killing the youngling-of which she aptly planned to do soon.

On the contrary, Fleur Delacour fought for one thing and one thing only. Justice. And she would continue that fight before and long after death.

Veela tradition stated that the one who initiated the challenge should be the first to cast a spell-a rather "put your spells where your mouth is" type of custom meant to place responsibility on those who wished to so brashly take it for themselves. However, Fleur was not playing by the rules. Therefore, this would be a traditionless duel. This would be a lawless duel. That being so, the Matriarch decided that she would be too.

"Expulso!" she called out haughtily and without any further warning.

Given her upbringing, Fleur had expected to partake in the veela traditions she'd been taught her whole life. She knew that not partaking in them was considered an insult to the species. What she hadn't expected was for the Matriarch of her clan-the very upholder of those traditions-to free herself of them as well. Fleur's jaw practically came unhinged by the startling contradiction.

She was so taken aback that she hadn't enough time to defend herself from the charm that was hurled in her direction. But she had been quick enough to dodge out of its direct line of fire. The spell hit the grand piano that had only recently become Fleur's shield. And being the receiver of the dangerous charm, it burst apart in a flash of blue light. The resulting blast flew out from the explosion and threw Fleur back into a pillar a few feet behind her.

She was quick to recover, dusting the excess rubble from her shoulder as if it had been no more than a few crumbs. Not that it hadn't been painful-after all, there was a Fleur-shaped imprint in the pillar as she stepped away that would disprove otherwise. And she was sure she would feel it tomorrow (if she managed to even live that long). But she knew it would do her no good to let her pain show. And besides that, she was running high on the fuel of youth and adrenaline.

"Prolicio!" she shouted boldly.

Madame Duplantier paused for only a moment, having never heard such a spell. She then quickly cast protego to shield herself from whatever may come, not willing to find out what that may be.

But nothing happened. She was only allowed the millisecond it took to recognize that fact before Fleur quickly cast the conjunctivitis curse. And it landed with achingly good accuracy. The Matriarch would have been proud of the girl had she not been on the receiving end of it. She let out a different kind of curse (under her breath) as her eyes reddened to such a swollen state, they became encrusted entirely shut.

"Episkey," the older woman cast without hesitation. A warm sensation burned at her eyes. As she reached up in pain a cooling sensation washed away the fierce burning. And after another few seconds, her eyes were fully functional once again. All traces of the conjunctivitis banished for good. Though the younger woman wouldn't allow her a moment more to gather her senses. At first sight, Madame Duplantier was met with a valiant Fleur, who was casting as many curses as she could one after the other.

She danced across the stage sending spell after spell towards her former leader with an ease so practiced as if she'd done it a thousand times before. The elder Veela blocked each spell with grace and cunning, unable to do much else in the wake of her opponent's fluidity. But Fleur's stamina eventually began to wane and her spells became less and less frequent as time passed. Madame Duplantier watched and waited patiently like a lion observing its prey. She studied her opponent's steps. Watching her patterns-learning them. And when the perfect opportunity presented itself, she cast deprimo right in the next spot that Fleur was expected to land.

A giant hole blew through the stage. The younger Veela dropped down roughly 15ft. The height and unexpectedness of the fall causing her to land on both of her feet at an awkward angle. There was a loud pop as her feet hit the ground and then another loud thud as her body followed soon after. Her wand slipped from her grasp and rolled off somewhere in the storage room in which she laid helplessly. She cried out in agony as she tried to move herself to get up, determined to keep going though she was greatly at a disadvantage both severely wounded and without her wand.

Two floo-powder green eyes set above a large cheshire cat grin appeared over the edge of the large hole.

"Levicorpus," Madame Duplantier chanted.

Fleur's body zipped up quickly and she dangled upside down by her swollen ankle in the air above the stage. Hermione's heart was beating furiously inside her chest. This was not how this was supposed to go at all. Fleur was supposed to be winning. From the way things looked in that moment, it didn't seem as if there were any outcomes that would turn out in the blonde girl's favor. Every other Veela around her watched knowingly, as if expecting absolute failure in regards to a challenge to their Matriarch.

"You are a creature capable of so much power with the ability to trap anyone in your web and do with them as you please. And yet here you are…nothing more than a weak fool that has spent most of 'er time trapped in the web of someone else," the Martriarch said bitingly, "Tell me, Mademoiselle Delacour…are you ready to die?"

The younger Veela started to choke out an answer-that would likely be as rebellious in nature as she felt.

But before she could, a penetrating shout echoed out through the grand ballroom, "Expelliarmus!"

Madame Duplantier's wand shot away from her hand. The room once again erupted into a chaos of whispers. All eyes, including the elder's, searched the room wildly for whoever had been bold enough to cast a spell during a challenge. But what with the large number of people in the room-all of whom seemed as equally surprised by the outburst-the search would be fruitless.

Fleur saw this as an opportunity and took advantage of the brief reprieve, "Accio baguette!"

Her wand flew to her hand and the very moment wood touched skin she cried out, "Petrificus Totalus!"

The matriarch's body froze still. Her eyes widened in shock, thoroughly unsettled about how the youngling was able to so easily and cheaply get the upper hand on her. The younger Veela quickly cast liberacorpus to release herself from the jinx in which she had been caught, and dropped to the stage with a grunt of pain. Depletion took a quick hold over what was left of her energy. Every bone in her body ached from a duel hard fought. And with what remained of her reserves, she stared up at her old matriarch. The disdain looking harsh across her beautiful features.

"It seems as if I 'ave you beat, Madame Duplantier," she said, gasping for air, "Veela law dictates that I kill you. But that goes against what I believe. It goes against the change I would like to bring. You will live. And you will go far away and never return to this clan."

And with nothing else said, Fleur held up her wand and disapperated the old woman as she was to an undisclosed location.

That would be the last spell that she would be capable of casting for her body and mind were set to collapse. Hermione rushed up the stairs to her side as she did, pulling the French witch into her lap, inspecting her injuries.

"Je…suis…" Fleur croaked out pitifully as she lay motionless in the English woman's lap. But she wasn't able to finish that sentence. The last thing she saw were the worry lines on Hermione's brow as she looked her over.

That was the second time a part of Fleur Delecour died within the past week. She would arise as the Matriarch of a Veela clan.

Translations:

Ça va? - How's it going?

Ça va bien. Et toi? - it's going well, and you?

Oui. J'ai fait - Yes. I did.

Qu'est-ce que c'est? - What is this?

Mais regarde autour de toi - But look around you.

vous êtes un lâche - you are a coward

Qu'est-ce que tu fais, petite fille? - What are you doing, little girl?

Jusqu'à la mort - Until death/to the death

Jusqu'à ce que justice - Until justice/to justice

Prolicio (latin for "lure" or "decoy") Fleur uses it to fake out her matriarch.

Accio baguette - accio wand. In French wands are called une baguette magique. I literally pulled "accio baguette" from the French version of The Half-Blood Prince.