Golden Haze: Act One, Scene Three
AN: Another long chapter. I got a review saying that there was very little action in the story as of yet. As a writer, I tend to write more cerebral stories, as dialogue is at times difficult for me. This chapter has a lot of both. Enjoy.
Shetan83, the wonderful and amazing beta that she is, has pointed out to me that while we go back to and correct the earlier chapters to add clarification and ect. that I have neglected to tell you all about it. So yeah, if you want to re-read, there are some changes in the earlier chapters.
Shetan83 beta'ed this to death. It is much better now.
Soundtrack to the story: Goldfrapp, Telepopmusik and Sia
One night after a particularly grueling evening out with some of her fellow mastery students, Fleur Delacour had taken out one of the many books she had been studying on magical creatures and corrected the section on veela. She had been somewhat drunk and rather depressed at the time, and the comments in sarcastic, biting French remained there to this day, a testament to how much she had hated that time in her life. The awkward, transitional time when she did not know who she was or what she had wanted to do with her life still stood out to her as a stark reminder of what happened when she did not do things for herself.
She had been pushed, after her poor showing in the Triwizard Tournament, to complete her education in order to salvage what was left of her reputation. She had embarrassed herself, her family name, and the school in finishing dead last in that tournament. Her family said that it did not matter, but Fleur was no fool. She saw the way that her classmates had looked at her upon her return to Beauxbatons, and she vowed to never be that weak, that incompetent, ever again.
In her moment of weakness the previous afternoon, Fleur had realized that she had… perhaps accidentally, but probably on purpose, put that book into the stack that she had loaned to Harry Potter and his friends. She had been embarrassed then, and had thought to ask for it back, to say that she had mistaken it for another. There was a problem with that though, and the veela inside of her held her back as she watched them with sick horror from a half-hidden alcove in the library, perusing her offering with interested eyes.
I will never live this down. (You want them to know.) Granted, she had been drunk when she wrote all over her book, and the section had been very wrong about the finer points of veela physique and habits. Not to mention the psychological toll that it took on a person to have the blood in them, to be completely and totally sexually inept until that one person comes along. The public had to know, her drunken mind had thought at the time, and now Hermione Granger was going to know far more about being at least part veela than Fleur had ever wanted to share with her.
There was no denying it; Fleur Delacour was rather dreading her final class of the day. The seventh year NEWT preparation class was on Tuesdays and Thursdays at the end of the day for a solid two-hour long block. Fleur liked the length, for it would give her a chance to really flesh out the knowledge that her students had before they left to take the exam and to graduate into the real world. As it was on the second day, and last of her classes, by the time that students began to file into the room, Fleur could barely contain the butterflies in her stomach. This was the class that she had come to the school to teach, but it was the one that she feared the most.
She sat behind her desk, a quill in her hand as she waited for everyone to arrive. She had been working on a response to Gabrielle for two days now and still was dissatisfied with how it sounded. She did not want to say too much, to get her sister's hopes up, but she did want to tell her that she was hoping that she was moving towards a solution to her problem.
The class filled up in twos and threes. Harry Potter had arrived fairly early and by himself. He made a point of pulling a book out of his school bag and sitting towards the back. He wanted to be left alone, Fleur realized, not really blaming him. He had never seemed the type to enjoy the limelight, and now it was trained on him more than ever.
There were very few seventh-year Slytherins that had returned, two boys and three girls. They came in as a group, led by the tall blond boy that Fleur dimly remembered as being a Malfoy. (They all looked the same and probably had some veela blood in them, as Draco Malfoy had been one of the few boys that she had ever met that had been completely and totally immune to her veela blood.) The frown that had pulled across his pointed face turned upward ever so slightly as he looked at her, before settling down to sit near but not too close to Harry Potter.
Fleur smiled back at him politely. It was strange that he was sitting near Harry Potter, as they clearly did not get on very well. Harry had huffed and adjusted himself in his seat, pushing his chair back and shoving the book he was reading up against his knees. He did not look at the blond-haired boy, but there was a quiet sort of companionship between the two of them – a mutual respect that had not been there even a year ago. Fleur wondered what had happened during the war to make them finally at peace with each other.
The final students trickled in; William's brother came in with Neville Longbottom in tow. They were deep in discussion about something, but quietly took their seats near the front of the class – Hermione had trailed in after them, apparently consulting an arithmancy assignment she'd been given. The numbers and runes that were drawn across the top of the page made Fleur's head hurt. She had always had to work quite hard in that class in school – and while she was decent at the subject, it had always been one of her worst in school. She'd only managed an E on her OWL for it, and the subject was still sore between herself and her mother.
Fleur raised her quill and counted the people in the room quickly. There, fifteen – all who had returned were accounted for. She stood up, her chair scraping against the floor as she did. She'd chosen, perhaps foolishly, to wear heels that morning. They clicked on the floor as she moved around to stand in front of the desk, her hands clasped behind her back.
Taking a deep breath, Fleur began to speak as she felt fifteen pairs of eyes train onto her every move. "Bienvenue." She paused, waiting for silence to completely fall in the room. "Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts. As you are all in your final year here, I assume you understand how this works? There is a joke that this position is cursed."
Gentle, quiet, nervous laughter. Fleur scanned the room with curious eyes. At least she could make them laugh. That was something, was it not? It was odd that laughter could be so welcoming, but Fleur rather liked it.
"Please, I know that all of you must at least remember your fourth year here at 'ogwarts? I must admit, my performance as a champion left much to be desired, but I do remember some of your faces, which is something, is it not?" In truth, this had been the year that she had most liked at Hogwarts; the upper classmen had been far too interested in cheering for Cedric Diggory and Hogwarts as a whole to actually bother to interact with the students from the other schools very much. The (then) fourth years had been far more open than their elder peers and had at least been welcoming. The younger students that had been given permission to come on the year-long exchange to Hogwarts had, for the most part, made great friends with their classmates.
Fleur's outer-robe, midnight blue with faint silver embroidery, swished around her ankles as she paced in front of her desk. Pacing was a nervous habit of hers, but she supposed it made her look like a better teacher and not a just-barely-out-of-school twenty-one year old. "My name is Fleur Delacour. I studied at Beauxbatons and then completed a mastery certificate in spell creation in Paris before taking a position at Gringotts as a curse breaker." She hated sharing her life story, but when teaching those who were so close to her in age it seemed like it was better to impress them with her schooling (false bravado, again) than to let it show that she wasn't nearly as qualified for the job as clearly Minerva and the other professors at the school truly felt she was. She was too young, too inexperienced, a horrible teacher.
(Confidence. If you don't have it, fake it.)
She folded her arms across her chest and paused in her pacing. "I have no interest in the relationships and preconceived notions that you are having about each other in this class. I am here to foster what I 'ope will be a community of equality and learning. You are here to learn. This is optional schooling now." She was here to teach them, even if it was all an elaborate ruse in the end. She remembered the petty house rivalries from her time at Hogwarts and she wanted no part in that. It was what had started the war, to some extent. There was no unity in the school, and Fleur hated it.
(I will change this.) She did not know why she felt so compelled to correct a situation that was so completely out of her control, but she had seen how those petty rivalries had carried into the real world with William's father and brothers (and even William himself, although he made a concentrated effort to not act like a complete imbecile around former school rivals most of the time.) Fleur had sighed and not really understood when the house rivalries of Hogwarts had been explained to her when she had first come to Hogwarts by a very eager fifth-year Ravenclaw student who had a rudimentary grasp on the French language from primary school. Now she still did not understand it, but it seemed like there was a general consensus from many of the professors that it was a marked problem and they had to endeavor as best they could to fix it.
"Any questions?" The class was silent, staring at her with wide, expectant eyes. She had been avoiding really looking at them, hating how they all seemed too captivated with her. It was the veela, not her, that they were attracted to – and until they grew used to (and to some extent immune to) that aspect of her character that Fleur hated so, it would be difficult to really teach them much of anything. "Excellent. As I do not know any of you very well, I was thinking that we could spend some time getting to know each other a little better, yes?"
She smiled brightly at them, and leaned against the front of her desk, scanning the room. She looked down, as if assessing the lamentable state of her fingernails (they needed to be painted, for they were chipped and in poor condition. Fleur longed for a nail file). "'ow many of you are considering continuing education after 'ogwarts?" she asked at length.
This was an important curiosity of many professors who taught NEWT-level classes. There was not a lot of talk at Hogwarts (or other schools) of continuing magical education because there was simply a push to get the students a basic education and to get them out into the real world. They could pursue that sort of further professionalism on their own time.
Fleur hated that attitude, but she smiled when several hands rose. This was promising.
"Yes, Monseiur…?" Play it safe, pretend to not remember their names. She pointed to the brown-haired boy who had come in with Ronald Weasley.
"Longbottom, ma'am." Fleur smiled kindly at him and nodded expectedly. She remembered him as an unsung hero of the battle for Hogwarts, leading a resistance within the school against the Death Eathers who had controlled it. The Herbology professor, Sprout she had said her name was, had boasted that he was by far her best student and to forgive him if he was ever late to her class as the NEWT-level Herbology class was right before Fleur's class. "I was planning on studying Herbology in Brazil at the horticulture school there."
Fleur had known students at Beauxbatons who had tried to get into that school and had not succeeded. He spoke as though he already had been accepted. If Sprout's boasting was any indication of his skill, he probably had. Impressive.
She'd noticed that Draco Malfoy, from the back of the classroom had tentatively raised his hand when she had first asked the question. He had put it down hurriedly, but she had seen it and he would not shy away from actually speaking in her class. She stared at him evenly, as if daring him to risk not answering her. "'ow about you, Monsieur Malfoy?"
He sighed, obviously exasperated that she had called on him. She supposed that he knew of her marriage, as the Malfoys were very aware of what was happening in the wizarding social scene. So his exasperation might have come from the fact that she was, however loosely, connected to the Weasley family. Fleur hoped not, for it would make their relationship as Professor-Student far more difficult to forge. "Potions and Herbology," he said quietly, bridging his fingers in front of him and not looking at her. Fleur hated his attitude instantly.
"Any particular reason as to why?" She ventured, trying to continue to the conversation
He shrugged, still refusing to look at her.
(Pick your battles, Fleur.)
"Well, I am sure that you 'ave your reasons." Obviously he was uninterested in continuing the conversation. She would endeavor to get him to come out of his shell within the next few weeks. She had to at least make an effort. She clasped her hands together and met the eyes of the girl that she had been avoiding looking at since the start of class. Her vision, which had been blissfully clear up until that point, became tinted gold.
She was getting sick of this. The best remedy that she could think of was to spell her vision clear and pray that she figured out a solution that did not involve veela coupling with Hermione Granger. It was an act that she did not want to inflict (would not have minded) on anyone as the powerful magic that was involved was irreversible and terrifying for any non-veela to even begin to comprehend.
This was probably why the veela was so fixated on her, though. Fleur had reasoned that it was Hermione's intellect, and nothing more, that attracted the veela too her. (Lies.) She was smart enough to comprehend what Fleur would be asking of her, should Fleur's resolve ever falter. "What about you, Mademoiselle Granger? What do you want to study?"
Hermione Granger folded her hands neatly across her desk, resting them primly on top of a book that Fleur recognized and knew well. Her stomach sank. "Magical Creatures," she said with a bright smile.
Had she not been standing in front of a class of students who expected her to remain professional at all costs, Fleur Delacour would have groaned. Loudly.
The second seventh year class of the year was going much more smoothly than the first one had gone. There was a lot less awkwardness as the students had obviously been forced to interact with each other a lot more. Fleur Delacour was grateful for that fact as she paced up and down the rows of seats in her classroom.
"Tell me, Monsieur Malfoy," she asked, continuing her line of thought. He was the best one to answer this question, as he would not be afraid to admit the answer she was looking for. She hoped that he did not think that she was singling him out because she knew his name and because of his family history – she was not. "What is the inherent problem with Defense Against the Dark Arts?"
He looked bored, but answered as though he was actually engaged in the conversation. It was a step, albeit a small one, in the right direction. "One has to know what one is defending against, in order to properly defend one's self."
"There are other things, but yes, that is correct." Fleur nodded. There were other differences that she would teach them in time, but for now she wanted to drive home the point that one could not defend against what one did not know.
She had reached the front of the classroom where she stopped, tapping her wand on her thigh as she spoke. It was a nervous habit that she had developed in school a long time ago. When she was in her first year and not all that good with magic, she had set her skirt on fire doing it – but that was long ago and now she merely tapped out of nervousness, and as a way to direct her line of thinking. "Today I was thinking that I would test your spell-work and your skills so that I can assess what I will be needing to teach you." She raised her wand, preparing to clear the desks off to either side of the room. "Gather at the front of the classroom if you please."
The students looked intrigued (Harry Potter), annoyed (a Slytherin girl named Pansy who rather looked like a toy breed of dog), or flat out terrified (one of the Hufflepuffs whose name Fleur had yet to remember) as they gathered at the front of the classroom. They shoved their bags into the nooks and crannies of the cleared desks, and most had their wands out and at the ready.
Fleur walked to the far end of the classroom and nodded to the first student who stepped forward – a Ravenclaw who she remembered from her seventh year in school. He looked resolute and prepared – but not entirely sure what to do. Had they no dueling classes before the NEWT-level in this school? The idea horrified Fleur.
"To begin any duel," Fleur said quietly, bobbing her head and shoulders in a slight bow, "one must bow." And with that statement, the evaluation process began in earnest.
Harry Potter was as good as Fleur had expected. They traded spells and explosions for several minutes before Fleur realized that he was both holding back and toying with her ability. She had not yielded – a professor never does to a student – but rather had agreed to the impasse that they seemed to have reached. There were things that he could still learn, however, and that brightened Fleur's spirits. Potter's spellwork had a belligerent style that lacked finesse. She could teach him that, and it would probably be for the better. Draco Malfoy knew curses that even Fleur did not know, but lacked in actual defensive skills. Neville Longbottom was by far the most formal and obviously classically trained duelist, holding his own with her for several minutes before she relented against his surprisingly good battle strategy. She only wanted to test their skills, not actually fight them to the death.
Some of the Slytherins looked apprehensive to be dueling their professor and obviously held back. Most of the Hufflepuffs were decently skilled if a bit foolish in their attack, and the Ravenclaws clearly knew the theory behind their spells but lacked real-world application. William's brother was also very good at dueling, but he was far more a strategist than anything else. He looked for weaknesses and played the duel like a game of chess. There was thought behind each of his attacks, no matter how little time elapsed between them, and they were built upon what he obviously had observed of her dueling style up until his turn. She'd have to teach strategy at some point, and he could probably help her. The rest of the Gryffindors were of various skill levels – but all were quite good for their rather lamentable education in the subject up until that point.
Finally, and not for lack of trying, Fleur stood on the opposite side of the classroom as Hermione Granger. She knew Hermione's skill; there was no point in doing this. And yet, she had to keep up appearances. She bowed, ever so slightly, as was good form.
Across the room, Hermione did the same.
Fleur stood, watching, waiting. She did not think that it would be wise to take the first move in such a fight. (Coward.)
A razor-sharp flash of light flew by her face, a highly efficient cutting curse Fleur's mind realized in the heat of the moment, her body leaning backwards to dodge the spell as she cast her own in response. An ice-based spell that would effectively create a small puddle of water around the opponent's feet and then immobilize them in a combination of freezing and sticking spells. The spell was advanced and largely unused outside of more intimate dueling clubs in Paris – Fleur reasoned it would buy her a moment to erect a protection spell. (To brace herself for the next attack.)
The veela did not understand, and the questions were constantly pushing against her consciousness as Fleur cast several protection charms in short, non-verbal succession. From what she could gather, Hermione had just done the same, even though she had conjured a small blue flame and was currently holding it to the bottom of the foot that was still stuck to the ground in Fleur's expertly placed puddle of water.
"Reducto," she whispered, pointing her wand almost lazily at the flame in Hermione's hand. The flame vanished, and Fleur sent a quick, non-verbal cutting curse right after it with a downward jerk of her wand.
Hermione reached down and undid the strap across the flat she was wearing in one motion and dived out of the way of the cutting curse. It hit the ground and left a deep gash in the flagstone where it landed. Couched behind a desk, Hermione smiled triumphantly at Fleur, her shoe was still stuck to the floor, but she had managed to get away from Fleur's trap.
Clever girl.
Suddenly, the ground underneath her feet was moving, jerking back and forth as if it was trying to buck Fleur off of it. She set her jaw, her hair flying every which way as she spun, moving to a different spot on floor. Finally she found one that was not shaking – and she paused a moment to see what Hermione was doing before going on the offensive once again. That was an interesting spell, one that she'd not encountered before – and it had distracted her long enough for Hermione to rescue her shoe.
With her bushy hair flying every which-way, Hermione's mouth was a resolutely thin line, and from her semi-protected location she sent hexes and jinxes the likes of which Fleur had never even heard of before in a near constant bombardment against Fleur's shields. She was so beautiful in battle, and the room around her seemed to fade away before Fleur's eyes. Gold clouded her vision as the veela inside of her screamed for Fleur to relent.
Fleur closed her eyes, praying that it would stop. She did not want to keep this battle up any longer, for Fleur had seen enough – she just wanted to prove to Hermione (if no one else) that she was a skilled duelist and not just a pretty face. The spell Fleur used next was one that she had never actually thought that she'd use in person (and especially not on Hermione Granger in a demonstrative and skill-assessing duel in the middle of a classroom) – as she'd only ever read about it in her books on veela. "Adamornor," The word sounded harsh across her lips, but a smile grew across her face unbidden even then. (Come to me. Come see me how I see you.)
Dimly, in Fleur's outer consciousness, she realized that casting this spell on one that the veela was so attached to might not be an entirely wise plan. The haze was pressing up against her from all angles, and the veela seemed very satisfied with itself as it watched Hermione Granger's head roll to the side, her eyes blinking rapidly. Fleur couldn't think – couldn't quite remember what was so bad about this spell in relationship to a potential mate.
The curse was meant to create confusion in the foe, lasting just long enough for the veela to get close and strike the fatal blow. Some books that Fleur had read said that originally sirens had used it, before their blood became integrated with the veela and they lost their own identity. They'd used it to overpower men who dared come to close.
In three quick and precise strides, Fleur crossed the room and pressed her wand against Hermione's neck. "Do you yield?" she asked mildly as Hermione tried to blink what Fleur could only imagine were brightly colored spots from her vision and a haze upon her mind. "Sometimes," she added in quiet French as she bent down to look Hermione in the eyes, "it is better to surrender." She could not help slipping into her native tongue. Part of her did not realize what she was even doing, let alone saying any more. The language of seduction flowed far more easily off her tongue at the moment, and the passion was thick upon it.
Hermione Granger stared at her with wide eyes and nodded slowly (admitting defeat), her lips forming words that Fleur did not understand. After a moment of trying, the words finally tumbled out of Hermione's mouth. "What – the bloody hell - was that?" she demanded, looking completely and utterly horrified. However, so close to Hermione's face (lean closer, little one. Let me taste you for the first time), Fleur could see the slight dilation of Hermione's pupils and her rapid intake of breath (The duel? Fleur [smugly] did not think so). To the untrained eye, it would have been lost, but the veela inside of Fleur was triumphant.
The color, what little there was that remained in Fleur's face, drained from it as she recalled the one drawback to the spell that made it rarely used in the present day.
The visions that those under the influence of the Adamor spell saw were creations of the caster's mind – the most horrible nightmares imaginable, visions of fantasy and… Oh Merlin…
In her push to win, she might have ruined everything.