Golden Haze : Act One

AN: People are really digging this story, and I'm really digging what you have to say in your responses. Thank you so much for commenting and reading, I really appreciate it. ~ana

There was breath on her lips, fluttering in and out in harsh, shallow gasps (pants). They were slightly parted, her lips, as she inhaled and exhaled quickly, her concentration faltering as she tried desperately (half-heartedly) to derail this particular train of thought before it started. It was too late though, she was only just barely resisting anyway. What would it be like, to take that girl that she had deprived herself of for so long? What would it be like to see her as Fleur now was - full of lust and longing and raw sexual energy just waiting to be tapped into? What would be be like when she came?

She could not shake the train of thought. Sometimes it was good to simply cave to the craving, the want, oh so desperately to possess what she had denied herself to so many long years now. Her breath hitched as the fantasy took her away into a place that those who are not of veela birth do not understand. To a veela, fantasy was a poor substitute but still far more powerful than that of a human being. They could manipulate, control and in some cases (if they were pure enough) even feel their fantasies.

Fleur Delacour was not that skilled. She had never been nor did she have any interest in being that skilled. (lies.) The idea of experiencing something before it actually happened was completely unacceptable in her mind and she hated the fact that should could - on some level - indulge herself without putting in the actual work. It seemed unfaithful, or maybe even a violation of the others essence, to take them by force on the whim of a fantasy.

She didn't want it (yes she did) and this was simply letting go.

She had to - she had to know release or else she would be unable to function when the students arrived tonight. When that damn girl arrived tonight.

Fingers curled up against herself - slowly, quietly, desperately. (Pathetically.) The veela was insisting now, thinking of that girl (the one she does not love), of her splayed out before her, wanting, begging, insane with lust. Thinking of her voice, so brusk and businesslike and bloody British, full of passion and expression in a way that the English language does not really possess. Fleur would teach her the language of her people, teach her how to sing and express herself as fully as possible so that they could share in the expression of love (lust).

She was warm, heated to her core as she caressed that ache. This was so embarrassing, infuriating. She had no control over herself and just the thought of being alone - at any point in time with this girl with the veela pressing up against her consciousness - urging her to do things like this. Her breath came faster now, and her hand moved fluidly, in practiced motions that she liked to pretend did not exist. She did not lose control like this often, but her skill and self-awareness were clearly well-practiced.

She could do anything else in the world right now, but she chose to do desperate, foolish, lustful things.

She was living a lie now. They thought she was married to William, they thought her a non-sexual being. They thought her celibate and committed.

She was going to have to prove them all wrong.

The veela, no matter how diluted and repressed, is still the most sexual of beings.

The touch was wonderful, elating. She was lying to herself again. It would be alright, she knew it would be in the end. If she was right, and the veela was so damn sure of itself, the build up would be the worst part. She knew that there was no way that this would be as easy as giving into her fantasies as she was so tentatively allowing herself to do now.

She finished quickly and urgently. The desperation to get away - to hide from the harsh reality of the sheer impossibility of these fantasies overcame her then and she heaved a dry sob as she came, the release not nearly as good as she had hoped.

She hated herself. She hated the veela that had seduced away her grandfather and had forever tainted her family line. The feelings that she had now were so confusing and god-awful that she longed for answers that were different from the harsh realities that she had known since that first fateful meeting when she was seventeen.

Fleur dressed hurriedly for the day, not much caring for make-up or fanfare on a day where she would be seated, listening to collective lesson plans and discussions on how best to handle the losses and damages to the school that had yet to be repaired. Hogwarts was a memorial now - the fields outside the school now marred forever with the names of those who had perished upon them. They had all agreed to offer their services to any and all that needed them. The children had had a hard time the previous year - they all knew it - but they were a strong resilient bunch. (Adept at hiding it really).

While just barely out of August, the castle was cool enough that she dawned a sweater over her blouse. She'd found a pair of pinstriped pants in London with William and he had bought them for her saying that they were flattering but conservative enough for a place like Hogwarts. Much, if not the rest of Fleur's wardrobe was not, apparently, but her over robes were far older - a neutral gray silk that would suit her well until the weather grew colder. She looked, as she paused to inspect herself in the mirror, decent, professional. (matronly.)

She shuddered.

She could get used to this. She would get used to this.

The staff room was half-way full by the time she arrived. A part of her wondered if they knew - if they had noticed the smell on her, it was everywhere, all around her. Pheromones were something that a veela could detect almost effortlessly, but the smell was so overpowering to her overly-sensitive nose that the others in the room had to have noticed it.

There was the new potions professor, some middle-aged witch who seemed to be deeply engrossed in the text that she had used during her seventh year when she was attending classes at Hogwarts during the Triwizard Tournament. Next to her sat a rather brawny looking wizard who had taken over half of the transfiguration classes from McGonagall - she would still teach the upper levels (No one blamed her, they still needed an actual good teacher) along with her duties as headmistress. His name was Peter Townsend and he seemed to be a fairly decent man, if fully under the power of the veela within her.

"'allo." She said quietly, arranging herself next to him on the beat-up sofa that smelled slightly of mothballs and other unmentionables that Fleur could not quite place. The smell of sex was on her, he could probably smell it, given how his pupils were dilated and his expression had become rather vacant. "Is everyone here yet?"

Townsend shook his head, looking away from her as his face reddened slightly. He was a good man, Fleur knew, and a decent one. He was ashamed - knowing that Fleur was (falsely) married, but he could not help himself. No man could. "Thinkin that Minerva and Filius are still up in her office." He smiled, rather dashingly at her then, "Shouldn't be long though."

She nodded, glad that he was at least speaking to her now. Before it had been a near-constant struggle to get him to talk to her as he constantly became flabbergasted around her. They would get used to it, as William and the others at Gringotts had. It simply took time that Fleur did not think she possessed. It was a game of give and of take. She drove them mad, that damn girl that she would have to pretend to teach (she did not need it) would drive her mad. "I 'ope that they are not long." She said, shifting her weight and wondering, yet again, if this was a good idea.

Something had stopped her from telling Minerva (and only her, she would not suffer the indignity of the others knowing) about what was going to happen when she started to spend more time with the seventh years that saw fit to return to complete their schooling and preparation for the wizarding exams. If she did cave, or have some success with this, she would have to confess - but she was so afraid of what would happen should she be rejected that she did not want to risk acting too soon.

Anxiety gripped her. The dread in the pit of her stomach had started to settle in and she clenched her fists as the day progressed, desperate and full of anticipation.

And then suddenly, it was time. It came not with a bang, but with a whimper. Fleur had gone down to the great hall when the train had first arrived in Hogsmeade, settling down into her chair to wait with a copy of the Evening Prophet to parse through as the students trickled in in twos and threes. That was the number of people who could fit onto those tiny, Thestral-drawn carriages. She lowered the newspaper with practice ease, creasing it in the middle of the pages so that she could peer thoughtfully over it at the students as they made their way to the long house tables.

She knew where the golden trio would sit - if they even came back at all (they would, they were on the class rosters. Fleur had checked. Twice.), and she had her eyes pinned on that spot.

"It's nice to finally have more people here," Edith, the new potions professor, said. She had been reading the paper over Fleur's shoulder since she'd arrived some ten minutes ago. Fleur found it rude and annoying, but she was polite enough, just this once, to allow it. It was rather boring waiting for them all to arrive.

"Mn." Fleur made a non-committal noise, finally closing the newspaper and folding it neatly. She tucked it into her robe pocket and tried, oh so desperately, to ignore the twisting and churning of her stomach. The veela was mad with excitement and she did not exactly share its sentiment.

She had never done well with nerves.

During the Triwizard tournament, before the second task, she had vomited several times, in front of her headmistress and peers. She had vowed to never again show weakness like that, but she wanted nothing more than to go vomit what little she had been able to eat today all over the flagstones in the antechamber she knew was right behind the door to her left.

Fleur glanced over at the door, wondering if she could get away to do just that. Something held her back, as she paused, mid-motion. Her eyes widened and the veela inside her preened. There, there was the one she had been waiting for her entire life. There, as though she had not been gone from this place for a year, a prefect badge across her chest. (Hannah Abbot was head girl, McGonagall could not play favorites). She looked happy to have returned, which made Fleur smile.

William's brother raised a hand to her, as did the boy who had saved the world (as they knew it at least). He flashed her a small, private smile as she nodded at them, her smile, she knew, was almost predatory.

She inhaled once, exhaled once, and waited for acknowledgment from the third member of the little entourage that had saved the world. She looked almost foolish in a school uniform when Fleur had seen her at her best, lavishly dressed for the party several weeks ago to celebrate the living while honoring (spitting on the memory) of their dead. Still, it suited her, the way it clung to her, and the tie was crooked and the sweater was only slightly too small, so it fit her in such a way that her entire body was there, should one chose to look for it.

Finally, a spark of recognition from her, Potter had elbowed her and jerked his head toward the head table to get it, but it was there all the same. Fleur licked her lips. Hermione Granger had met her eyes and had smiled.

Fleur's heart soared.