Golden Haze : Entre Acte

AN: I'm impressed with the response and feedback. This is still such a new story to me, but I love and crave reviews. Please enjoy this next installment of what is sure to be a very good story.

Thank you to those who did review, when I am not so busy later tonight, I will send you all responses. ~ana

Again, a huge thanks to shetan83 for her awesome Beta!

The rooms of the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry left much to be desired in their small and shabby appearance, but they were cozy, tucked into an alcove on the third floor with a fantastic view of the lake. The rooms were on the side of the castle protected against the winter winds. It would not get as drafty here as it did in some other parts of the castle. For now, in the cooler days of fall, the rooms were nice, cool and quiet. Far away from the reported chaos and traffic that would soon flood the corridors when term started.

It was probably a good thing, because Fleur (now Professor. It had a nice ring to it) Delacour was going to need some moments of peace in the hell she was about to inflict upon herself.

William had taken her out, to a gay bar no less, for their final huzzah before she started her new job. They'd danced (with each other, and others), and it had been lovely. What she'd truly needed, to cut loose and forget who she was for a few precious hours. He was so sweet with her then, so wonderfully and delightfully gay. It was nice to see him finally admit it to someone. Maybe now he had a chance at happiness.

She'd taken off her ring long ago - not wanting it to get lost or William killed had she been captured during the war. He'd only taken it off for the evening, but it felt really good to just be friends again. To not lie. (This farcical charade could only carry on for so long before someone was bound to notice).

Maybe she would notice, she was keen and intelligent and highly observant. (All good qualities to have in a potential whatever-she-apparently-was to the veela inside Fleur's consciousness. Not a mate. Never a mate.)

Denial.

Fleur slumped down into the leather-backed chair behind the barren desk and drummed her fingers on the worn wood. She had ideas for lessons, but she honestly would have to spend at least a week ascertaining the skill of her students. This was commonplace according to Minerva, as was a new teacher each and every year. No one had learned much of anything last year either. Severus Snape had tried, but he could not do much to stave off the Dark Lord's plan for the school. When Harry Potter had told them of this, she had been shocked but not surprised, for she had always thought of the dark potions master as being somewhat of a noble man, despite his dreadful personality. Perhaps she had simply not known him well enough to hate him as the others did.

Yes, she had a plan now. She could fake this on pretense for at least a week or so until she could find the time to make up for the fact that she was woefully under-prepared for the rigors of such a job. Flecks of gold swam before her as she shook her head ever so slightly. It was odd (the mate was nowhere in sight), she'd been seeing the golden haze her mother, aunts and uncles had warned her of throughout her childhood (and adulthood). They'd told her to fear it and to fear the inner veela that so obviously plagued their own consciousness so strongly. She was stronger than them and had never really been plagued with this affliction (or was it merely a problem?) as they had as children. Or at least Fleur liked to delude herself that this was the case.

This would only get worse as time progressed here at Hogwarts. There were too many complications ahead of her and not enough behind her. They all thought she was married, but their stares would come anyway, openly. There was a reputation that she had to constantly maintain. She was French after all. They did things differently from the English, and their nations had been at war with each other for ages on and off again as if to prove this point.

This was no good.

Deep within herself, Fleur Delacour had always known that this day was inevitable. She would have to face those eyes, of William's friend - her (shudder) brother-in-law's best friend. That girl who somehow could not understand, even back then - when Fleur was a mere girl herself - what had transpired between them. That girl who was content to ignore that moment when Fleur's veela heart had cried out to her in the most pathetic and horrible of conversation attempts. (Pick-up lines should be stricken from all languages, especially English).

There was something about her. That girl (the one she loved. Did not love.) was brilliant in her own right, and Fleur knew that while she herself was older, it was only a matter of time until Hermione Granger eclipsed them all. Fleur only hoped, oh so desperately, that she would be able to find the words to express herself before she lost control completely.

They were all adults now, but that did not matter.

Her fingers drummed harder. She did not want to admit the fact that she probably would need to investigate this attraction (love) that she had of Hermione Granger sooner rather than later, as she was running out of time to act and search out her destined one if it was not, indeed, the golden girl of the golden trio.

The beast swelled up within her and she was almost certain that she was correct in her assumption. There was no mistaking attraction to a veela, even if one's blood was tainted like hers was. Fleur Delacour was simply good at denying herself what she had longed for since just after her seventeenth birthday - it had been almost five years, and she had gotten adept at even being around the girl without showing outward signs.

The crescent-shaped scars on the inside of her palms from clenched fists not withstanding. She was a horrid liar even then, but hiding behind an accent and a fake marriage had done wonders for her confidence and mental fortitude.

Still, the word slipped out from between gracefully parted lips as she sank further into her chair. "Merde." She was screwed, fucked six ways to Sunday without William there to act as her protector and shield the world from her obvious affliction that she had yet to find the courage to tell him about. He had his own issues as the eldest son and heir by wizarding law of an old family. It was unfair to force her own upon him when they seemed so trivial.

That girl, that girl who plagued her every thought when she left England to return to her native France. That girl who came to her sham of a wedding and was probably at least romantically inclined toward William's brother. She'd never picked up on that though - in her limited interaction with the girl.

Perhaps this was a sign for the better.

Perhaps it meant that she would be able to finally, finally, make a move for her own personal betterment.