Golden Haze, Act One, Scene Five

AN: And now we move into the meat of the matter. Department of backstory abounds and there is a decided lack of M rated material.

Music of the Story: One Week – Barenaked Ladies

Fleur did not get much sleep that night, far too preoccupied with the ache between her legs and the golden haze that had now apparently permanently settled upon her vision. Until the veela was sated, there was no fighting the haze. It was there to stay – she had paid her grandmother enough mind to know that much about her heritage at least. She wished she had listened instead of rebelling against the words of that wise old woman. She had no idea how to maintain her control, she had come so close to losing it and she hated that feeling.

That night, the yearning that she had felt was palpable, like she could reach out and touch it. She had cried out in lust, alone in her rooms and very much aware of it. She hated that feeling, hated that she was alone and miserable and that she had let the best chance she'd had at satisfaction slip through her fingers out of some bizarre and misguided sense of duty and purpose.

Hermione had been so wet too, Fleur mused, her mind now plagued with images of Hermione's face, full of lust and want. They were hard to shake away. She knew that she should not be entertaining these thoughts at all, that what she had done was going to potentially be the ruin of whatever tentative trust she had so carefully built between herself and Hermione Granger. Yet, it would have been so easy; to move in and take what was offered so willingly.

She lay awake hours after relieving herself, wondering if there was a solution to her problem. Wondering if she could correct this. Hermione was not likely to forgive her easily. She had to understand that it was not a spell that did this to her. The spell could not create emotions, only feed on them.

She groaned and rolled over, wishing for nothing more than dreamless sleep.

x

On the first day after their encounter, Fleur was greeted with angry disbelieving stares from Hermione Granger over breakfast. They were so violent that that Townsend leaned over and asked if she had done something particularly horrible to the seventh years in class.

"No, just Mademoiselle Granger," she said with a private smile half hidden behind her steaming cup of coffee. "And it is a personal disagreement."

Townsend shook his head and reached across her for the jam. "I don't really understand you."

Fleur shrugged. "It is a common problem."

x

On the second day, she asked Hermione to stay after and demanded that she at least try to remain professional in class. She knew that it was a lot to request and that she was nowhere close to being the model of professionalism herself, but she knew that she had to at least pretend to be professional herself to stop a sullen and angry Hermione Granger from ruining the classroom cohesion that she was working so hard to create.

Hermione had refused to even speak in class. Fleur had gathered the seventh years in a circle trying to break a particularly nasty curse that Fleur had put on a trunk full of Honeydukes chocolate. This was a teamwork spell, as no one wizard could break the curse without an intense concentration that only Goblins could achieve through hours of meditation and careful planning. Hermione, however, had spent the entire class with her arms crossed across her chest, shooting death glares at Fleur whenever she thought that Fleur wasn't paying attention.

(What Hermione still failed to realize, however, was that Fleur was always paying rapt attention to her. She was too beautiful even in anger to look anywhere else.)

As Harry and Ronald filed out of the room with nervous glances over their shoulders (how much had she told them?) Hermione remained seated, her fingers white-knuckled, curled around the edge of the desk. Fleur did not make a move towards to her, instead leaning against the comforting shape of her own desk. She closed and locked the classroom door with a flick of her wand. "I do not mind that you are mad at me – I may even be deserving of it, but it is 'urting my class now."

"I don't care." Hermione grumbled, not looking at her. Fleur wondered if there was ever going to be a moment where she would be able to speak freely to Hermione without the haze clouding her vision. She hated how Hermione was able to play her emotions so perfectly, to be so angry at her without a verbal confrontation. "I … I can't believe you." Hermione said quietly, her brown eyes turning to meet Fleur's for the first time that day. The hurt was clearly evident in her eyes.

Fleur frankly did not believe herself either. She had taken a risk, a gamble, and it had not paid off the way that she had exactly hoped. The spell had ruined everything, and the sooner Hermione realized that the spell was not a set of artificial emotions, the better. She searched her mind, trying to find a way to express in words that fact.

She met Hermione's angry, hurt, stare evenly. "Be 'onest," she began – cursing her accent and the fact that she still did not have as good a grasp on the English language as she would have liked. She wanted to be comforting, to make the girl feel better. Still, she could not contain the veela's air of haughty arrogance that slipped into her voice. She was smugly proud of the fact that on some basic level, she been able to drive Hermione to the point of almost complete loss of control. "Would you really want me to do it then and there? You would 'ave regretted it instantly."

Fleur knew Hermione (and probably Fleur herself) would have had regretted it, even if the sex was as mind blowing and amazing as she anticipated it being. She wanted Hermione to admit that in order to feel what she was feeling, there had to be a mutual attraction between the two of them. Perhaps she should try explain it?

"I…" Hermione began, looking away hurriedly. Her eyes were uncertain.

Fleur pursed her lips. Hermione was teetering on the edge, Fleur knew, the expression had been so clear across her face that day with Fleur's hand in places where it (really) should not have been. She had wanted what Fleur had offered, had tried desperately to get it, and Fleur had pushed her away. It was a cruel game she was playing. She wanted to offer a solution, a remedy to that logical brain of Hermione Granger. She did not know what to suggest other than trivializing her own involvement in the situation. The two (probably) most important people in the world to Hermione had just left the room with long looks over their shoulders as Fleur had spelled the door shut and silent. "You 'ave Ronald," She said quietly, trying to keep her tone even and conversational. Saying this hurt her deeply, as she hated to think of Hermione as being involved with someone else. Hermione seemed to contemplate this for a moment before Fleur took a deep breath and voiced an assumption that she had had for a long time about Hermione Granger – one that she wished was not true. This was a test of the waters, so to speak, to prepare herself for an even more complicated seduction if it came to that. She had ever confidence she would win – however. Ronald was certainly not the brightest the Weasley family had to offer. "You are involved with Ronald."

Hermione gave an indignant snort. A harsh barking nose as though she could not believe that Fleur was even suggesting such a thing. Fleur wondered why she was reacting this way when it had been so obvious to everyone involved that she and Ronald were at least interested in each other for many years. "I am not," Hermione said quietly. Her cheeks were flushed and she seemed very embarrassed to admit this fact.

It was all a ruse?

"Non?" Well now. This was an interesting development. Fleur could not believe it. She had anticipated this being as central issue to her courtship of Hermione Granger, but the force of Hermione's retort seemed to imply that it was a source of some contention between the two friends. William had been convinced that the two of them were going to get married – Molly Weasley obviously expected it.

Hermione fiddled with the collar of her robe, her hair falling into her eyes and obscuring her face – she was hiding from the truth of the matter – from the expectation of literally everyone in the wizarding world that she would someday end up marrying Ronald Weasley. Fleur was impressed that she would admit it so freely. Perhaps the pressure bothered her like it bothered William? "It … it was like doing something with my brother. Insanely awkward." Hermione was muttering now, so much so that Fleur pushed away from the desk to move closer. She sat on a desk across from the one that Hermione was still sitting behind and swung her feet back and forth as she stared at her student.

"Ah." Fleur tapped her index finger on her chin. This was an intriguing prospect. "Then I shall continue without guilt." She smiled at Hermione in what she hoped was a friendly way (it really wasn't).

Hermione snorted and folded her arms across her chest once again. She looked even more indignant than she had (if it was even possible) when Fleur suggested that she and Ron Weasley were involved. "You put a spell on me, Fleur," she said, her lips jutting outward in what was very quickly turning into a (completely adorable) pout. "I am not acting of my own will."

Ah. That was where she was wrong. Dead wrong. Fleur leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap and a very serious expression on her face. "Tell me," she began a little hesitantly, "did you enjoy it? I made a… a mental error when I used the spell, but what you were feeling were true emotions. No spell can create emotions – only mask them or warp them to the caster's advantage. That particular spell is intended to draw upon emotions that are already present within both the caster and subject's mind. It cannot be faked."

It had come out like word vomit, but at least the truth was out in the open now. She had spoken quickly, but there was curiosity in Hermione's expression, and Fleur could tell that she was resisting the urge to open her class notebook and begin taking notes once again. Fleur kept her expression neutral as she watched Hermione process the information with little shakes of her head and contemplative looks. It was as though the younger girl was at war with herself – like she could not decide if she actually believed Fleur or not.

"May I see your research? I was aware of the effects of the spell when I cast it but I 'ave not read the analysis that you 'ave found." Hermione's eyes instantly grew fierce and she met Fleur's questioning gaze with a stare that said quite a lot about how she felt about sharing her research which Fleur had rejected without even looking at it previously. (That had, of course, been in favor of driving this beautiful girl before her to near orgasm with the simplest of touches and sultry words – but Fleur understood her pride, really she did.)

Fleur smiled her best smile and waited. She was not going to be refused. Despite everything that Fleur hated about being part-veela, it did have its benefits. She could get almost anything she wanted out of those she chose to show affection to. Hermione, being far more than one's average blushing innocent girl, was no different. Inside, the veela smiled, but Fleur hated it. Fleur would have relished the challenge of getting Hermione to show things to her. It would have been a challenge of baited breath and hidden glances. It would have been fun.

"I… I guess." Hermione did not look at Fleur's expectant stare and pleasant smile at first, but eventually her eyes moved up from the desk in front of her to meet Fleur's with a passive look of defeat.

(No one can resist me, beautiful one. It is sweet of you to try, though.) Fleur hated the veela too as Hermione dug in her bag and handed over a small sheaf of papers with some reluctance.

Fleur stood and crossed the small space between them, taking a gamble that perhaps she should not have taken. She leaned forward and caught the underside of Hermione's chin with her finger. Tilting the girl's chin upwards so that her eyes met Fleur's, she said, "I am sorry, 'ermione. I did not mean to lose control of myself like that. I, like you, enjoy winning."

Fleur held her there, keeping Hermione's gaze matched evenly with her own. Hermione seemed to be fighting the urge to say something, she kept swallowing and blinking – her cheeks flushed bright red. Finally, after a good minute of contemplation, Hermione admitted, "I… I didn't really mind."

Had she been anywhere else, Fleur would have let out a happy squeal in excitement at such a pronouncement. As it was, a wide smile grew across her face as she bent down, so her face was even with Hermione's own. "That," she said, leaning in as close as she dared, brushing her lips against Hermione's bright red cheek, "that is good to know."

Fleur Delacour stood up, the veela gleeful that she'd stolen a kiss, and, with one last look at Hermione's rather shocked expression, tucked Hermione's papers under her arm and swept out of the room.

x

On the third morning, Fleur received a note over her bowl of oatmeal. She opened it with eager fingers and smoothed it against the hard wood of the table.

"I did not realize you read the classics."

She turned over the words in her head a few times, thinking to how wantonly Hermione had looked at her, had offered herself so willingly in the wake of Fleur's spell. The thing with that spell, Hermione, is that it takes two to make it do what it's doing to you. She thought of their conversation the previous day and remembered how hesitant Hermione had been to believe her insistence of that point.

It was interesting to see that Hermione chose to ask a perfectly benign question after what they'd talked about yesterday. After the kiss that Fleur had placed so innocently on her cheek. Perhaps she was trying to talk about things without actually talking about them? Fleur liked to think of herself as an expert in that field.

Fleur borrowed a quill and ink from Minerva and responded after a moment's contemplation. "I am descended from sirens. It is best to know the stories of those who once bested us."

The next note came mid-way through her first class of the day. She was in the middle of a lecture on Jordanian curses that were used by the ancient Bedouin sorcerers who had built tombs throughout the middle eastern desert. "My name came from Shakespeare, not Ovid." Fleur vaguely recognized the name.

"I have not read his work - is he Muggle or wizard?" Fleur sent back when she dismissed her class.

x

On the fifth day, a package appeared on her desk after her seventh year class with no note attached.

Hermione. Fleur thought, running several checking spells on the package out of habit. She did it with all her mail – most who had ever worked in cursebreaking at least ran cursory checks on their mail before they opened it. They had seen too many bad things come in innocent packages.

The spells checked out, and Fleur ripped the brown paper open to find a paperback book with a worn cover. A Midsummer Night's Dream, proclaimed the faded green lettering. The pages were torn and frayed, and it was obviously well thumbed. Inside the cover, in childish handwriting, was an inscription: "This book belongs to Hermione Jean Granger. Do not take it."

Fleur wondered how old Hermione had been when she wrote that as she turned the page again.

Ah, she mused. So this is Shakespeare.

x

Fleur was reading the book that Hermione had left on her desk after class a week after their encounter, curled up on the couch with a blanket on her lap. The gramophone that her parents had given her when she graduated from Beaubaxtons had been wound and was currently playing soft jazz into the room. Fleur liked this more traditional device in comparison to a wizarding wireless (not enough variety) or a more modern record player (records were out of vogue in muggle society now, so finding any music outside of wizarding bands was quite challenging). The phonograph, however, was a classic. She could sit and read and listen all day to the sultry sounds of a very talented group of wizards from Spain while she read or graded papers, and it never got old.

She had just turned to a new page in her book – Puck had just been instructed by Oberon to place magical juice (some sort of potion?) on Helena's horrid lover. This was engrossing and astoundingly good for muggle litterature, a combination of the classics Fleur had known since childhood and what appeared to be a uniquely British set of mythos and characters (if the foot and historical notes that dotted the pages were to be believed).

Her fire fizzled behind her, a telltale sign that someone was trying to floo call her. Fleur did not want to be disturbed; she wanted to enjoy this play and return the book to Hermione so that she would have an excuse to talk to her about what she had read.

The fire fizzed once again, and a sharp voice that Fleur recognized all too well (and really did not want to talk to) tutted before announcing (loudly. Fleur winced at the disruption of her peace.) in French, "Are you going to just sit with your back to the fire and ignore me?"

Fleur closed Hermione's book and exhaled loudly, blowing air upwards so her bangs blew every which-way. "Is it not working?" she asked, turning to lean over the back of the couch and meet her mother's floating head with an annoyed look.

"Non, Fleur," Her mother seemed undeniably smug at the fact that she had managed, despite all of Fleur's skillful avoidance of her calls up until this point, to have gotten a hold of Fleur. "Why have you shut us out?" she demanded, her tone filled with more annoyance than hurt.

"I don't want to talk about it." Fleur shrugged and tucked the corner of her blanket into her place in the book. There was no avoiding this conversation now.

She really did not want to parse through this conversation (again.) with her mother. They had been through it so many times now that it was like a broken gramophone record. Repeating the same things, day in and day out like it was new and exciting was not Fleur's idea of a good time.

Her mother sighed. "Child, it is really not that horrible, to be in love with someone."

Humph. She knew she was acting childish, but she did not want to have this conversation. Emphatically did not want to have this conversation. She folded her arms across her chest and hoped that her mother wouldn't notice the sullen pout on her face.

"Fleur…" Her mother's tone was now reproachful, as if daring Fleur to continue to act out like a spoiled child not getting her way.

Fleur sighed, wondering how much she could conceivably tell her mother without completely launching the woman into a panic over the fact that she was so far gone into the haze now that her control was minimal at best. Her hand finding its way that far up Hermione Granger's panties also implied that, but Fleur was not about to mention that particular excursion to her mother. Rather, she would keep the conversation as to-the-point as possible. "Maman, I would take her against her will if I had the opportunity. I almost did once and that was why I think that coming here was a horrible idea."

In that time, the time that Fleur did not like to think of when they had holed up at Shell Cottage and Hermione was so, so sick, Fleur's control had been at its lowest point to date. She had had to leave the cottage to pace the beach for hours at a time sometimes to calm herself down and to shake the haze from her vision. Hermione had acted as though Fleur's absences were nothing then, but Fleur could see the hurt in her eyes every time Fleur left her side to clear her mind.

Her mother tutted, sadness in her eyes as she stared at Fleur with the look of one who was not quite sure where she had gone wrong. "You would do no such thing. You are veela – you are a picture of control, always – it is in your nature." (Stop being a drama queen and accept your heritage, Fleur.)

Angry hurt eyes, facing her mother's sad eyes. "I made a mistake, Maman."

"You never make mistakes," Her mother retorted quickly before her brow furrowed. She looked concerned when she asked, "What did you do?"

"The Adamor spell…" Fleur trailed off as her mother's look of confusion quickly became one of alarm. "I used it on her."

"You know what that spell does to our destined ones!" Her mother's tone was frantic and disbelieving as Fleur hung her head in shame. She should have known better, should have had better control. It was foolish, a gamble that Fleur was not able to accept the risks of. She had wanted Hermione to know – and yet things were moving too fast now – it was all so sudden.

"I think that that was why I did it, maman." She said quietly. As hard to admit as it was, she wanted her mother to not judge her for her lack of control, but rather how desperate she was getting to have Hermione for her own.

"Then you are a fool, Fleur." Her mother's judgment rang through the room as the gramophone finally ground to the end of the record, a few long seconds of screeching as the arm adjusted itself to spin off the center of the record and return, magically, to its resting point. "You must become one with your heritage, and you will finally be at peace. I promise you."

"I do not want to be a veela – I want to be a girl," Fleur shot back, sounding (she hated it) like a child. They had been through this argument so many times now that it was almost as though they were just doing it for show. They both knew where the other stood on the matters most important to them both – as mother and daughter usually did.

"You cannot deny yourself like this," Her mother sighed. "You will lose your control eventually."

Fleur worried on her lip, chewing it until she tasted blood. She would not admit defeat, but the golden haze was getting to the point where Fleur knew she was going to need help before long. She finally admitted in defeat the crux of her problem, "I see the gold every day."

Her mother seemed thoughtful, if a little taken aback that Fleur had admitted something so important. She seemed to reflect on her words for a moment in a way that only mothers could do before meeting Fleur's gaze full on and saying, "Tell the one you love about the veela. About what you are denying yourself."

"She does seem interested in magical creatures…" Fleur responded, tapping her chin thoughtfully. She had given Hermione the book on veela that she had corrected (an accident, of course) in a fit of anger some years ago, that book contained the bare necessities. If only she could prompt Hermione to ask her about it. She pursed her lips, that could be doable, if the circumstances were right.

"Then you have your in." Her mother's head turned, as though it was about to remove itself from the fireplace and terminate the conversation.

Fleur wasn't ready for that, she had not fully prepared for what was going to happen when she suddenly found herself very much alone with the knowledge that her mother (while not exactly approving) did not disapprove of what she was doing either. It was so strange, to know that her mother, for once, was not judging her on her past actions, but rather on what was happening in the now and the present.

"Maman," She said quickly, wait.

"Mn?" her mother turned back to face her, her eyebrows raised as though daring Fleur to make a request of her.

Breathe. "I am sorry. I just… I hate this." Fleur closed her eyes, afraid to meet her mother's expectant gaze. She had apologized for all of this. For the first time in her life, she had admitted that she could not control these urges she felt almost constantly. It was a weight lifted from her chest and Fleur could barely contain the feeling of relief.

How did I make this so hard on myself?

Her mother's shoulders came into view along with her floating head as she shrugged expressively. Fleur understood her exasperation, her confusion and the fed-up look in her eyes. "You are an unusual child, Fleur. You run away to England out of a misguided sense of duty to that Diggory boy, you are forced to get married there to protect yourself from their barbaric laws, and you deny your heritage as though it is a curse rather than a blessing from your grandmother and I."

She hung her head, "I know."

Her mother pursed her lips in an expression that Fleur recognized very quickly as one she herself made regularly. "How is William anyway?"

"He has met someone. A nice man from Wales." Fleur did not see anything wrong with sharing the truth with her mother; she was bound to find out sooner or later anyway. These things had a way of getting back to the people you were trying to keep them from, so honestly was sometimes the best policy.

Her mother's face blossomed into a brilliant smile. "That is excellent. When are you separating?"

The nerve of that woman. "Maman!" Fleur exclaimed, her eyes wide in disbelief that her mother would even suggest such a thing. "I do not know."

"Well think about it, that lie will stand in your way with your destined when the time comes." Her mother retorted, indignant at Fleur's indignantly.

"I will." Fleur said quickly, her cheeks flushed. "All my love to Papa." She added as an afterthought. Her father probably would be disapproving of her not at least writing him – he who wanted nothing to do with the veela situation in their family and would rather dote on Gabrielle and herself. She would have to get on that, and soon.

"Of course, mon petit chou." Her mother smiled.

Her brow twitch at the childish nickname. I am not a blasted cabbage, mother. French endearments were always so bizarre when translated into other languages. Living in England had completely ruined that nickname for her. "Please don't call me that."

"Always, Fleur." Her mother smiled and disappeared from the fireplace with a pop and cheerful crackle.

x

Fleur was prevented from continuing on her way to dinner at the end of a particular grueling lesson with her seventh year students. They were all so capable that sometimes Fleur thought that she was really unable to teach them much more than they already knew. This was most assuredly not true, the logical voice in the back of her brain said, but Fleur could not help but see seeds of doubt when they managed to master almost everything she put before them in record time. Perhaps it was time to switch gears, to talk about advanced dealings with magical creatures – to give herself the in that she had been so desperate for with Hermione. She was tired now, however, and wanted nothing more than to go to the Great Hall and get something to eat before retreating to her rooms to fall asleep on her couch listening to her gramophone and finishing off her book.

"Professor, do you have a minute?" Hermione Granger's voice cut across the quiet buzz of students leaving the classroom's conversations on the lesson, dinner and each other's weekend plans.

"Yes, Mademoiselle Granger?" Fleur set down her bag on her chair and raised an eyebrow as Hermione very pointedly waited until the last of the students had left the room. Draco Malfoy was among the last to leave, and he muttered something under his breath as he passed Hermione, who gave him an annoyed look and flicked her wand at the door he was pulling closed after him – it slammed on his ass.

Fleur smiled, impressed at Hermione's magic and her lack of tolerance for Draco Malfoy's attitude towards her.

"The more I think about this. The more I think that it can't be a spell." Hermione said without preamble, coming to stand near, but not too close to Fleur, her black outer-robes wrapped tightly around herself as she stared at the door she'd just slammed on Malfoy's back.

Fleur saw the black circles under her eyes, so familiar to nights of nightmares and unpleasant memories that Fleur had to shake her head ever so slightly to remove them from her mind's eye. She knew what Hermione Granger looked at at her worst, but now she just looked tired and confused, as though she did not know up from down. "You have not been sleeping again, 'ermione." Fleur said quietly, stepping closer to Hermione and reaching out to touch her shoulder with a hesitant hand.

She did not want to move too quickly and scare her off.

"How can you tell?" Hermione asked, leaning into the touch ever so slightly. Her cheeks were red, but her eyes were full of a question that Fleur did not want to answer.

"You did not sleep, very much, that time either." She said simply, looking away from that questioning stare. They never talked about what had happened when Hermione had been recovering from her time at Malfoy Manor, and it was understood that they would never talk about it – for Fleur knew things about Hermione that not even Harry Potter did. She had ammunition and were she ever feeling spiteful she could use it. Hermione had not trusted Fleur more than to reach a silent accord to Not Talk About It with the older woman and leave it at that. "I know the signs."

"Oh." Hermione's eyes flashed dangerously, as if daring Fleur to say more. Fleur held her tongue and waited, grateful that Hermione was not shying away from her touch as she started to make comforting circles with her thumb. "You're right, I didn't." she admitted, defeated.

Gryffindors do not like to admit weakness, even more than Slytherins – they put on a brave show for all around them and pray that no one notices how hurt and scared they are. This was an insight that Fleur had gained spending time with the Weasleys and in her short time teaching here (Had it been a month already? Merlin, time flies.) at Hogwarts.

Fleur knew she had to change the subject, and fast, before Hermione started to dwell in those memories for so long. She smiled, and moved her hand to cup Hermione's cheek. "I take it that you are not sleeping for an entirely different reason now, non?" Teasing, no matter how blatant, would bring Hermione back to the present and force her to think about the spell and what Fleur had done to her the week before.

"I…" A brilliant blush blossomed across Hermione's cheeks. "Yes," she looked down, her face warm under Fleur's palm.

Fleur smiled. "That is what I had 'oped." She said sagely. "As long as you are not 'aving the nightmares again, then all is well."

"It is not all well." Hermione pulled away from Fleur's hand with a scowl. "I can't sleep."

"And why is that?" Fleur raised an elegant eyebrow with a carefully neutral expression on her face. It was fun, talking to Hermione like this, to have layers of implication and teasing in her as many ways to distract her from what had happened in those harrowing days.

"You." Hermione's answer was blunt and to the point, her face however was anything but. So many emotions played across her face at that moment. She looked hesitant, shocked and deeply embarrassed all at the same time. It was a strange play of emotions, and yet they were beautiful across her face.

Fleur smiled gently at her, her fingers unable to stay away from the soft (oh so soft) skin on Hermone's cheek as she spoke. "Ah." She couldn't think of anything else to say – everything else would ruin this moment of their eyes meeting and such an intense connection that was being made between them. Hermione's brown eyes were wide and full of an emotion that Fleur could not place – but she smelled of longing and of late summer sun. Fleur inhaled deeply.

Hermione's eyes flicked downwards and then upwards once again – as if she was thinking quite hard about something. Fleur made a move to withdraw her hand but Hermione's insistent eyes made her pause as the shorter girl began to speak.

"Seventh years can go to Hogsmeade any weekend we want – you know, since we're all of age anyway. Would you… um, come with me this weekend?" She spoke quickly and by the end of it had scrunched her eyes closed.

A smile dawning out of the look of confusion on her face, Fleur took her time as she said the words carefully. She had to be sure, ever so sure, to say the 'H' in Hermione's name. It would be more poignant that way. "Hermione Granger, are you asking me out on a date?"

Hermione sighed, biting her lip and opening her eyes to meet Fleur's inquisitive gaze. "Yes. I think I am."