Challenge of a Young Heart

by Narthal

Fleur arrives at Hogwarts and struggles to get along with Hermione. Fleur/Hermione.

11. Chapter 11

A/N: There were parts in this and the next chapter that were almost physically painful to write. I might have stumbled on the true meaning of 'writer's block'. Two small clumps of less than 1k words each took me a very long time to sort. I'd been so happy that a long chapter would be out faster, but at the final edit something didn't click. So I nearly broke my brain to correct the first bit (see how painful that seems?), and when that was fixed, it made a second part fall out of context, so I had to work on it, too.

Add some personal matters, and here we are, at last, with an update. Not proud, I tell you, but still here.

And thankful to all that read and contribute in a way or another. I couldn't answer to all who reviewed the last chapter. I'm on my way to fix that.

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Chapter 11.

"'Ow nice to see you 'ere, brave sir."

At the sound of Emeline's airy voice, you lose interest in the many portraits you'd been watching quietly and glance up, to look for the pale girl. There's that soft creak and rumble in the background, as another flight of stairs is set in motion, changing the connections from floor to floor.

You see her a few steps ahead, just past the first-floor landing of the Grand Staircase. And realization hits that you hadn't been aware of Emeline's presence through lunch, even though you were all concerned about her whereabouts earlier in the morning. Lately, she has been going unnoticed a lot.

"Good morrow, my lady!" is the peculiar and loud answer, right from a large picture in front of her.

"You look well today, sir, riding your pony," the girl continues cordially, coming to a stop to better engage in conversation.

"A fiery - hic - steed, good lady!" the male voice cries.

Cora, Lucie and Reva interrupt their progress to gather around Emeline, while Alix is so curious that she actually backtracks to join in, leaving Yvonne and Félicie to their discussion, now held close to the second floor. Very little later, you reach them and blend at the back of the group, inspecting the picture, too.

It's a wide painting, featuring a tract of cultivated land - apparently a vineyard - and an old cruck house farther away. Some festive folks are dancing at the center, and there's a troupe of musicians to the left, playing a lively tune with flutes, drums, a bagpipe, and a few string instruments that you can't make heads or tails of.

"Who are you talking to, Emeline?" Reva asks in a whisper, just as unsure as all of you are about the other partaker in the dialogue.

Through the corner of your eye you see Yvonne and Félicie hopping down the stairs as they are calling out Alix's name. They soon become intrigued by the scene, sticking their heads in any crack between the other girls to steal a glimpse.

"Zat is Sir Cadogan, a knight wiz King Arthur and ze Round Table," Emeline explains, indicating somewhere to the right side of the picture.

That's where you see a fat and very mottled grey pony, grazing lazily as his tail swooshes to and fro. The animal is turned the other way, so his rider is desperately twisting on his saddle to keep Emeline in view.

With a mighty tug on the reins he finally achieves an improvement, though wobbling dangerously in the process, and the pony pivots into a better position.

Now you can see a knight in shining armour, short and stocky enough to fit in perfect proportion to the size of his mount. There's a long sword at his waist and he slowly raises the visor of the helmet to reveal himself.

"Zese are my friends, sir," Emeline mentions softly, showing you off with a wave of her hand. "We are all guests 'ere, from a foreign land."

"Good greetings, gentle ladies," the knight's booming voice roars, making you all jump.

He bows gallantly, and his visor immediately clanks shut, muffling any further words. Alix and Félicie trade a humorous glance, but both refrain from making a sound. The knight corrects his faux pas with a slightly shaky hand and, following Emeline's lead, the group smiles back at him.

The pony looks thoroughly bored.

"You must 'ave good reason to be away from your own picture," the girl remarks, studying him carefully. "Are you, maybe, on a mission?"

"'Twere the monks in the third level, my lady. A barrel of fine ale, they said, and then back - hic - to my private lands," he yells proudly.

"But zis is ze first floor, Sir Cadogan," Emeline states with amusement. "Your painting is at ze top of ze castle. 'Ave you lost your way?"

The knight squints and rubs his chin thoughtfully, taking in his surroundings with a doubtful look. As if checking for landmarks, he guides his stare to the stairways and the portraits higher up in the tower.

This distracts you from watching him and you realize your assembly is bottling up the passageway, slowing everyone else down. The English students take no interest in the painting in general, or the pony and Sir Cadogan in particular, and they slowly shuffle along. But you can't say the same for the Durmstrang seniors. Curiosity works quite a grip there, just as it did to your group, and their tall heads start to pop around, adding to the huddle.

At the sight of the boys towering and leaning over your group, the knight all of a sudden becomes very agitated and slams down his visor noisily. "Get back, you rascals! Back, you arrant rogues! Be gone from these lands!"

"Vy is he saying that?" one of the boys whispers in a rather squeaky voice.

His answer is only silence. No one seems to understand the drastic change in attitude. Even Emeline looks taken aback.

After seconds that stretch for too long, Sir Cadogan impatiently removes one of his gauntlets and throws it down, close to the front hooves of his pony. A hollow clank announces that the metallic glove just landed on a rock. And from the sound alone, it's easy to guess how badly dented it must be now.

Cora lowers her head and pinches her nose to stop herself from laughing. It isn't very discreet of her, even if she's making an effort, and since watching her react like that is usually contagious, you fasten your lips in a tight line and look away as a precaution. The others in the group seem to be in better control, or perhaps they are all trapped between shock and surprise.

The pony, by the way, doesn't even flick his ears.

Ignoring the remains of his piece of armour, the scowling knight puffs out his chest and thunders aloud at the young wizards, "By my sword! Draw, if you be men! Stand and fight, you varlets!"

"He vonts to duel vith us?"

"I vos thinking it vos a joke."

"You mock me!" Sir Cadogan cries his outrage, raising the long sword high above his helmet, and then flails it in circles in an intimidating way. "For the honor of these good ladies!"

That earns him complete silence. The portraits around fall into a hushed, scandalized muteness. Your friends glance uncertainly at each other and you have the impression that all the students in the tower have stopped in their tracks to watch the riveting display.

"Away, you mangy dogs!" the knight hollers still, now swaying his sword up and down, hacking at the air.

Everyone is stunned, staring at the enthusiasm of his thrusts. Up and down, up and down, a quick arc, then left and right to change it a bit, and up and down again. And so on. And so forth. And more.

Until handling the heavy sword finally takes its toll, and Sir Cadogan starts to look increasingly sweaty and tired. He careens precariously on his perch, especially when his arms are most outstretched. And even this stalwart knight, with such a temper and vigor, must yield to the most basic laws of physics.

Such as gravity.

The knight topples over, crashing in a disheveled heap, as the sword escapes his grasp and slides away, carving a deep groove through grass and soil. At last, weapon and wielder become quiet and still.

The pony? Snorts and turns his back to the fallen man, snipping another mouthful of grass.

A cheerful Gryffindor boy, Tanner Van something-you-can't-remember, claps the Durmstrang seniors' backs to encourage them to get moving once more, while smoothing out any misunderstandings, "Don't mind Sir Cadogan. The brave act is part of his persona, and it goes stronger when he's had one too many."

The boy blurts in good humor, directly at the picture, "Loosen up, mate. We're only going to class, right by those monks and their fine ale."

"An escort, then, my ladies!" the knight exclaims with excitement, getting up and ignoring the chunks of grass clinging to the much less shiny armour. "If that be true, I shall lead the way."

Sir Cadogan goes after his sword, grips the handle and yanks without mercy. It doesn't budge.

He tugs and struggles, huffs and goes red, until a stronger pull yanks the blade free and sends the knight whirling backwards, unsteadily on his heels. He throws his arms out wildly for balance, then trips on his gauntlet and smacks right onto his pony's hindquarters.

Hard.

Needless to say, the poor beast went from peaceful stupor to loud shrieks, kicking and strutting away in offended indignation.

"Ah, well - hic," Sir Cadogan says in a deflated voice, raising his visor to look at the distancing image of his fleeing mount. "On foot it shall be, Lady Emeline!"

His sword points forward and he starts to run, disappearing through the right frame of the painting. From then on, he reappears in other pictures, with Emeline in close pursuit. "Sir Cadogan! Scabbard your sword. You can 'urt someone like zat!"

And so they go, up to the third floor - the knight skipping in and out of portraits, and the girl zigzagging around anyone in her way.

Unable to stay quiet any longer, a shaking Cora does a poor job of disguising her gurgling chuckles into a coughing fit. Reva's figure hides behind her, temporarily battling a similar predicament, and then the small girl pushes Cora ahead, to accompany her up the stairs. Félicie rubs her face with both hands, grinning, and the other girls mask their reactions better, although most seem to be smiling and a few are blinking away tears, just like yourself.

A good part of the students have their eyes trained on the unusual knight as they depart, resuming their way to the classroom, and the rest of the group breaks up when the bell rings. Soon, the Grand Staircase will abound in noise and movement.

"Oh, dear," Alix intones, as you watch the curious pair move away. "What did the monks slip into his ale?"

Lucie adds with eyebrows still way high, "Whatever it was, he had a lot of it."

You're still staring at the agile knight. "What if he's always like that?"

You glance at each other and finally give in to a small bout of laughter, climbing the stairs together. Hogwarts never stops with the surprises.

"Vy vos he vonting to fight for them?" a Durmstrang student asks, half a stairway in front of you.

"Crazy man. He doesn't know ve vish to keep the honor of the ladies, too," Iordan speaks in a clear voice, baring a slightly resentful tone and curling an arm protectively around his girlfriend's shoulders. Lou-Ann just about swoons, leaning her head on the crook of his neck. The gestures give away the comfort and intimacy about them.

You shift your gaze elsewhere, trailing down the tower to watch the gaps between the staircases, and release a long, aching sigh. It never crossed your mind that one day you'd envy one of your friends.

All you think about now is the one person you would like to be holding like that, keeping to your own private world, even when surrounded by friends and enchanted portraits. Especially while you were in the middle of something as ordinary as a walk to classes.

It would be nice to have that, the simple things. A casual conversation in the castle. A sweet kiss when the mood hit. A chance to hold hands as you went anywhere, and to see her brighten up the way with a cute smile. To look at her with everything that you feel and not a care or concern over who might be watching.

Hermione should experience all that, particularly for a first relationship. It should be a good one for her.

You remember the earlier incidental episode with the Krum champion and your head starts to throb. No. That relationship should also be with you, who really want this, and really care for her. For all of her. Her ideas, her feelings, her small hands, her concerns, her laughs, her magic, her obstinate hair, her presence, her curious stare...

Your heart cracks a little. Why are you missing her so much? You've just talked to her, before lunch.

Another sigh.

How much longer until you see her again?

Weak twinges of magic start to fill your hands, but you wring them together and fight it away.

You check the hour and frown.

How much longing can a person stand?

There's louder chatter now, coming from the lower levels, and more students start to scrabble up the stairs. You're tempted to search down, but you know she won't be anywhere to be found. The Gryffindor you want has double Potions this afternoon, at the dungeons.

Perhaps if Yvonne's plan works, you might get a glimpse of the brunette, and sooner than the usual prospect for a Friday afternoon.

"Are you still there?" Alix remarks at your side, interrupting your daydream. You nod and the girl continues when she's confident she has your attention, "I'll be generous. A whole galleon for your thoughts."

Now you just have to smirk. There's nothing she can do or offer that will convince you to say more about Hermione today. You've told her enough.

Sir Cadogan's encouraging yells are still storming above, and the knight warrants the perfect subject for discussion. "It's strange, Alix, isn't it? This morning we didn't know where Emeline was, and she hasn't been sitting at the Ravenclaw table with us. I really can't remember talking to her in over a week... Can you?"

Her expression becomes serious. She probably hadn't foreseen this. "No."

"And she has the same schedule we do," you reason out loud.

"Except for Divination," she cuts in, glancing at you with her light greens. "She's the only one of us to sign up for those classes."

"Divination... I had forgotten that," you nod, considering the information. Now, that is something you'd never do. You can't pluck a correct prediction from your brain to save your own life. "So, how weird is it that a knight in a portrait knows her by name? And he's willing to fight for her honor, too."

Alix shakes her head, "You're one to talk. Peeves' been your personal stalker since we set foot in 'Ogwarts. If I didn't know better, I'd suspect your Veela charms can lure him in."

You snort. "Please." Your mind goes through your last strife with the chaotic spirit, including a forceful soaking in icy water, balloons, and three Slytherin boys. Who later stole your sketch.

Alix's voice reels you back from another moment of abstraction, "I'm serious. That poltergeist makes up new pranks especially for you."

"This could never compare," you retort, rather emphatically. "Peeves goes out of his way to make my life the hardest he can. This knight, on the other hand, really likes Emeline. I'm sure you saw his concern, right before he went yelling all over the place. Perhaps there is something platonic going on, at least from his end of the deal."

"Yes, it could be," she concedes, shrugging. "And maybe that's Peeves' way to show affection, too."

"'Ogwarts forbid," you groan.

Alix laughs for a while, shaking her head at your expression. She finally bumps into your shoulder, jumpstarting the conversation, "What do you think of Sir Cadogan? I'd never seen him."

"The same goes for me, which is curious. I thought I knew this castle very well by now." You crease your brow in thought, "But I'm almost sure I've seen that pony before."

"Recognized by a pony," she says in jest, and you chuckle in cue. "That should take care of his ego."

The knight's yells are gone now, probably because he's reached the right corridor and left the stairs. You wonder if he'll be tempted to more of the monks' beverage after delivering the girl to class.

Alix is frowning slightly. "Do you think Emeline knows of our plans to study tomorrow?"

You shrug and shake your head, "No idea. We have to tell her."

"Yeah," she replies with a thoughtful expression, "I'll try to talk to her in class."

The third floor comes into sight and you hear a sharp cry ahead, instantly looking up. The stairs started to swivel again, and the latest issue of 'Transfiguration Today' has just zoomed before your eyes, sweeping down the steps. You can only assume it slipped from Reva's grasp, since the girl is giving chase, in a flurry to catch it.

Alix sends the warning just before it happens.

"Watch where you-"

Too late.

In a dive, her right foot sinks through the trick step, locking her in place. The girl loses her balance and the hold on her things, that scatter and fall through the handrails, to the void below.

Alix and you hurry to the brunette, pulling her out of the trap clutching her limb, and Lucie is already bending over the banisters, summoning her stray belongings. Yvonne and a pair of Durmstrang students are soon helping as well.

"Are you 'urt?" you ask, while Alix helps her sit down and studies her leg for injuries.

"Non, everything feels normal," the brunette replies, rotating her ankle testily and flexing her knee. "Actually," Reva confesses in a whisper, looking around with a small pout, "my pride 'urts a little. Does it count?"

You smile at the admission and Alix tops that with a good laugh, "I will 'ave to ask if Madam Pomfrey 'as something to 'elp wiz zat. Zere are only a few scratches 'ere. You will be fine."

Reva steals an anxious glance in the direction of the Durmstrang champion, who is at the top of the last flight of stairs, and blushes helplessly, although the boy appears to have missed the accident. When she stands again, her things are returned slowly, and the brunette looks equal parts grateful and concerned.

"Is ze journal still in one piece?" Reva asks. "Zat is a special issue. Félicie 'ad to discuss an article wiz Professor McGonagall."

"Looks brand new to me," Yvonne says, presenting the magazine with a wink. "I took care of all the dog-ears."

The brunette grabs the precious item with both hands, making sure it stays presentable, "Merci, Yvonne. Let me return zis right away. I am not taking chances wiz it anymore."

The stairs are reordered now and you'll have to go a few more ups and downs through the modified maze to find the right way. Reva bounds through the rest of the staircases, and dashes down the corridor, probably to catch Félicie as fast as possible.

Alix realizes Yvonne is getting ready to talk to you and excuses herself, "I will go after Emeline."

You nod and the blonde falls in step at your side. Once she's convinced no one is snooping, she reports in a hushed voice as you reach the corridor, "All set. Félicie agreed to give us a hand. I'll talk to McGonagall when we get there."

"Okay, we can do zis," you remark in an optimistic tone, getting ready to play your part in the Ravenclaw's plot.

Your mind skims through the latest transfiguration spells that you might need to perform in front of the professor, and you start to make simulations, moving your wrist in sync with the incantations mumbled under your breath.

Professor McGonagall and Félicie are standing outside the classroom, leafing with interest the magazine you'd seen tumbling down the stairs moments ago. The girl was probably warming things up for your arrival, and there's a quick nod at Yvonne as soon as she sees you.

The blonde doesn't need a second hint and goes straight to the professor, striking up a conversation. You follow Félicie inside, greeting the elder witch as you pass.

This classroom has seldom been used by the Transfiguration professor, at least with the senior students. There are huge windows behind the professor's desk, very high ceilings, elegantly carved white stone walls and a perfectly smooth floor. Even soft whispers can cause remarkable echoes in the handsome chamber.

On the few times you were here, the location had been reserved for long practice sessions, since it's larger than regular classrooms, and there's very good natural lighting. It gives you an inkling on what to expect today.

At last, the professor strides in, directly to her desk, where she takes off her hat, organizes her things, and then whips her wand at the blackboard. No longer entertained by the small talk from a couple of Slytherin girls discussing plans for the incoming weekend, you look at Yvonne. The blonde just sat down with a jolly expression, and does a well-hidden double thumbs-up gesture at you. You smile back.

"Settle down," the Head of Gryffindor House starts, instantly gaining control over the class. "Good afternoon. Next week you will sit another exam, in preparation for your NEWTs. I need hardly stress the importance of Transfiguration in your future. The hard work you put in now will reflect in the career choices in store for you."

A few students shift anxiously in their seats, and the professor takes a long look around, until the class falls silent again.

"The performance of our senior students has been satisfactory this year," she says, with a rare and quick smile, "I suggest we spend the afternoon practicing. You will not be taking notes today."

Surprised and gleeful looks take over the classroom.

The professor goes on. "Divide yourselves in groups of three or four. There are several spells listed on the blackboard. The column on the left is for all to practice now, during class. Several times, if you must, until they are done properly," she states in a no-nonsense, stern voice, pinning a hard stare on a handful of students. "Each group shall also choose one of the more complex spells on the right column, and prepare a demonstration for the end of the class.

I will go from group to group and watch your spell work."

You glance at the choices of spells, and then smile at Félicie and Yvonne. There couldn't be a more perfect class for your intent.

"This is a good opportunity to ask any lingering questions you might have on these Transfiguration Spells. After this exam, the class will advance to Conjuring and Human Transfiguration Spells, which are about to become more difficult," Professor McGonagall remarks very seriously, looking at the class over the top of her spectacles. "Now, let me see you move the desks orderly, to make room for the groups. Wands out, if you please."

Everyone stands up and, soon, desks and chairs are floating to the back of the classroom under her stringent scrutiny. The groups slowly start to appear, shaping up as predictable combinations of friends and acquaintances.

You've just set down the last desk in your row, when in a perplexing move, Viktor Krum glances your way and waves his hand, inviting you over. Staying where you are, you point at the other three girls close by. He nods as he realizes you already belong in a complete quartet, and his disappointment is clear as crystal.

It's almost enough to make you curious and walk up to him.

Almost.

You shake your head, wishing those thoughts would just vanish from your mind. You don't need this right now. At least his fan club has missed it all. You can go without another judgmental glare from the likes of Miss Applebee. Frowning, you search your bag at random as an excuse to look away and seem busy.

Just as you pull out your Advanced Transfiguration book, Alix shows up to interrupt your awkward moment. "Whatever's happening, let it go. You can settle the score with Viktor later. Come on, Félicie and Yvonne are waiting."

You raise an eyebrow at her serious expression, "I have nothing to settle with anyone."

"You might be right," she says after hesitating and narrowing her eyes at the boy. "Maybe he wants to settle the score with you."

If that was meant to shock you, Alix just missed the target by miles.

"It crossed my mind. I can't say I'm fond of the idea, but one has to speculate," you mutter in an unenthusiastic tone, absently fiddling your wand.

"Such terrible timing." She allows for a tired sigh and pats your shoulder, "Fleur, just stop being so touchy with the Viktor thing. You look like you want to wring his neck."

"Well, you saw how he was staring at 'Ermione before. And now he wants to have a talk with me," you retort in an accusatory tone, glancing at said boy to see if he's still far away.

He is.

You continue a little more calmly, "I can't find a single good reason to be all smiles to him."

"That's quite, uhm, understandable," she concedes, though shaking her head as if it wasn't an unanimous decision in her head, "but get a grip, okay? Yvonne said you are on a mission today, and I don't need to remind you that this is McGonagall's class."

"Why do I have the impression that you expect me to snap?" you whisper in reproach. Alix remains silent and you add with a shade of reluctance, "He came looking for me, so I will wait until he makes his move. And only then I will decide what to do."

Alix nods and you accompany her slowly to the rest of your group. Now at the other side of the room, Félicie and Yvonne are talking animatedly and pointing at the blackboard.

"That girl must be something special. Not one, but two champions are after her," Alix chirps in with a slight chuckle, and you can tell she's trying to unwrinkle your mood. "You noticed there are two more left, didn't you? What if they get interested, too?"

You look at the way her lips curl into a smirk and all the seriousness of the conversation simply flies out the window. "Please. Cedric is taken, and 'Arry is like a brother to her."

She shrugs, more or less accepting defeat, but her curious side is in overdrive, "Any other relevant competition?"

"Do you really think I need more?" you complain. "Just look at him. Handsome, famous, quiet, something mysterious about him... Ask Reva, the list goes on forever."

"Yeah, tough contender," she grouses with little enthusiasm. "But only if she's into that," your friend flips her head in his general direction. "If she's into this..." her voice trails off as she sends a suggestive look up and down your figure. It might have been a compliment, if she hadn't used such comical exaggeration.

You purse your lips temporarily into a very thin line. "Big 'if', hmm?"

"Huge 'if'," Alix corrects. "Last time I checked, she was watching you leave the Great 'All, not him."

As much as you don't want to waste more time on the boy, you shrug stubbornly. "I still have a problem with him," you declare, glancing at the champion one last time.

She laughs again as the other girls gesture for you to hurry. Noticing you're falling behind, Alix throws over her shoulder, "And before you think my memory has quit on me, don't you dare think we're even."

"What do you mean?" you frown.

"Remember lunch, Fleur?" There's a sly smirk on her lips. "Iordan, the Quiddith player, huh? When did I ever bring that up?"

Unbidden laughter rocks your frame and you get moving, until you notice the professor just aimed a piercing stare at you, and the joyful moment immediately disintegrates from your face. A little voice in your brain recalls Yvonne's advice - stay on the professor's good graces.

Time to get to work.

You quickly join the girls and the group takes turns practicing each of the spells.

"'Ave you decided 'ow we are going to do zis?" you ask, checking the next spell on the list.

The blonde makes sure there are no eavesdroppers before answering, "We will do the talking, Fleur, and you can demonstrate the spell. McGonagall seemed favorable to help us."

You point at the right column on the blackboard, "Did you pick one?"

Félicie nods, "Ze best is the last spell. Yvonne says she knows ze zeory by 'eart and you can pull it off. Zat should earn some extra points wiz ze professor."

Yvonne begins the next round of spells, and addresses you again during her next interval. "Are you ready or do you need to practice?"

With a shaking head, you prepare your wand, "Non, it is fine. I 'ad a long time to practice during ze 'olidays. Let us finish ze uzzer spells."

And so you do. To expand the exercise, the group holds a brief discussion while doing each incantation, and Félicie contributes the extra bits of knowledge that she likes to research in her spare time. It's such an absorbing activity that neither in the quartet checks the developments in the other groups or notices the professor's appearance. Only when she speaks out loud do you realize you've had company for a while, since she takes you through slight suggestions to improve the last three spells you trained.

"Which special spell have you chosen?" Professor McGonagall asks.

The blonde volunteers, "Piertotum Locomotor, professor. Fleur will make the presentation."

"Very well," the professor says in approval, "and what can you tell me about that spell, Miss Bampton?"

Yvonne promptly starts a long description, from historical aspects of its inventor, to the meaning of the incantation, its purpose, the range of applications, known limitations, and the consequences of variations in wand movement. It's thorough and precise. When her explanation is over, the older witch looks satisfied.

"An adequate exposition," states Professor McGonagall, and it's a remarkable compliment, coming from her. "Can anyone else say more?"

The rest of the group explores further details until you've covered all you can, and then you are all subjected to a number of tough questions that you have to put your heads together to answer. Apparently, you seem to have fulfilled the professor's expectations, and she mentions curious facts about the spell that neither of you knew. From Félicie's thrilled look, those must be very obscure and rare.

'Hermione would be just as excited', you think, once again finding room for the brunette to wander in your mind. You sigh and shake your head.

"I have more students to see. Soon, the demonstrations will begin," the professor comments. Before she leaves, the stern woman looks at you, "Given your situation with Professor Snape, this group shall go first. The suits of armour will be ready, Miss Delacour."

"Merci, professor," you reply with a slight nod, as Mr. Filch enters quietly to deliver the many objects that the professor requested.

"Mr. Flarrytoon," the elder witch says tartly, drifting away, "you have three seconds to undo that rude modification to the statue or I shall place you in detention this weekend!"

Alix and Yvonne's stares track down said statue with a curious glint, while Félicie and you remain focused on the spells. You continue practicing, stopping at times to try out by yourself the wand movement of the one spell that would be unthinkable for you to flub up. No mistakes can be allowed today.

The class moves along quickly towards its final part, and at last, the professor invites you all to assemble in a very wide circle at the center of the chamber. She calls out your group to begin. Yvonne, Félicie and Alix summarize the basic topics about the spell while you go for the suits of armour, close to the professor's desk.

Once the explanation comes to a conclusion, you pull out your wand and perform the spell, saying the incantation in a clear voice. The suit of armour trembles once, acknowledging the hold of magic, jumps down from its socle, and then stands up, stiff and ready. With certain steps, it clanks its way towards the other three girls.

The imposing figure can be easily viewed by all now, and the class is instantly riveted. You command it to set shield and sword on the floor, and bend the knees slightly.

A few more words, combined with another twirl of your wand, and the suit of armour starts to run towards the students at the opposite edge of the circle.

Their panicked faces are priceless for a moment, until the metallic knight jumps ahead into a complex series of saltos and straddle splits. It lands and pauses in front of a girl who looks about to faint, then turns left with cartwheel after cartwheel, and continues bouncing and moving all around the outline of the circle, performing a gymnast's routine.

Once the overall shock has waned, the absurdity of the show settles in. Small smiles turn into rounds of giggles, and then many in the audience are having a hard time to keep a placid expression. Alix hits the suit of armour with a silencing charm to put an end to the loud clangs, and that makes it easier to hear the spontaneous laughter.

At the end the display, the metallic figure looks a little battered and worse for wear. Perhaps there should be some fine print stating that 'Olympic athlete' doesn't fall under the usual applications for enchanted suits of armour. You repair the minor blemishes with your wand, and then take a little more time to readjust the creaking joints with fast pulls and twists.

As you are getting ready to dismiss your acrobat from duty, Félicie whispers by your ear, "I just had an idea, Fleur. Think of Sir Cadogan mixed with the competition we went to see, summer before last." She twirls her wand and lifts an eyebrow, "Are you up for a challenge?"

You look at her, considering the invitation, then glance around at the students in formation, and finally seek Alix. Your friend smiles in an encouraging way and shrugs, as if asking what harm it could do.

Taking a deep breath, you smirk at Félicie, "Bring it on."

The girl chuckles, waves her wand and another suit of armour comes to life, approaching her. "Alix, you're in charge of musical effects."

Alix and you watch as the taller girl walks around the room to stand across from you, and positions herself behind her virtual knight. The suit of armour releases its shield and raises the unsheathed sword in front of its chest, awaiting instructions.

Finally fully understanding her intent, Alix takes a place at a different point of the circle, waving her hands to get the attention of the other girls from your school. You bring your suit of armour to stand in front of you, prepare its sword as well, and then nod at Alix.

The professor seems ready to object, but the girl begins to clap her hands in a slow rhythm and silence is restored. Recognizing the act, the rest of your delegation steps forward throughout the circle and clap along. As they intone a monotonous chant, Félicie and you deliver careful directives, and the suits of armour begin to move.

At first it's a simple tapping of one foot in sync, and then they are alternating paces in this and that way, spinning on the balls of their feet, and swirling their swords modestly in the air.

The song changes to a crescendo with a speeding beat, and soon the dance is less contained, the choreography more lively. The performers juggle their shiny weapons high up and catch them easily, sliding and pacing around, all the while gravitating closer.

Once within range, they start a simulated sword fight, keeping sweeps and draws just right, limbs and torsos at precise distance. It's all about staying in the grey zone of almost striking the opponent, never losing balance, and always daring further.

The chant evolves into a frenzy, and a larger part of the audience claps, too, cheering on the dancers. The fast movements are blurring together, harder to track now, metal crisscrossing the air as if these were real warriors in the heat of battle, fighting desperately for victory.

At last, everyone braces themselves when they each spring forward and swing a full arch right at the center of the circle, for a crossed clash of swords.

And then Alix claps her hands twice a final time, and the fighters freeze, the sharpness of their blades centimeters away, as the end of the song softly washes out in the large classroom.

Félicie and you lower your wands, and it takes a few seconds of stillness for the group to catch on that the performance is over. A burst of cheers breaks loose from the spectators, even Professor McGonagall is applauding merrily.

The suits of armour sheath their weapons, collect their shields and march back to their plinths. You levitate them to their original places and Félicie whispers a 'Finite' on each of them.

"Great work, Félicie," you smile at the girl, as you head for the circle again. "What an outstanding idea."

"It was so much fun, wasn't it? The professor was really smiling, I saw it," she says joyously.

"That was... decent, considering you were in charge of the show," Alix remarks, walking over to meet you along the way.

You're about to thank her, but she treads on, in a mocking mood, "Obviously, there could've been more artistry, more flair. You know, a pirouette here, some flames there, a bit of aerials, fireworks. A classy show, girls."

You snort, and your attempt at speaking is interrupted again, this time by Félicie.

"Oh, don't start, Alix," the girl protests, through a roll of her eyes and a smile. "Next time you're welcome to do it by yourself."

A beaming Yvonne is expecting you, while receiving congratulations from a duo of Gryffindors, and waiting the next group to get ready for their exhibition.

Professor McGonagall strolls around the circle to help them, pausing at your side. "I must say, I was very pleased with your presentation. This group seems properly prepared." She adds with one of her tiny smiles, "I think that double dance number shall be remembered."

One of the students calls her away, and she quickly glances at Yvonne and you, "Professor Snape is waiting for you. Your classmates are to keep you informed of the other demonstrations. You may go now." The professor inclines her head to rake a more serious stare across the entire quartet, "I will be expecting high marks from all of you next week."

The group is still nodding when she takes her leave, off to retrieve something from her desk. Félicie and Alix don't waste time to send you away, escorting you to the door with a promise of saving you seats for dinner. And only outside, in the corridor, there's a chance to take it slow and check if you haven't forgotten anything.

Which you have.

"My book, I need to go back," you tell the blonde.

"I have it. Alix gave it to me when they were speeding us out," she retorts.

"Oh. Merci," you exclaim, taking it from her hands and loosing it into your bag. "You were right, Yvonne. McGonagall let us go."

"She was really pleased with us," Yvonne replies. "Félicie and Alix were brilliant."

That's when you notice the blonde is in no mind to take anything slowly, and you go faster in order to keep up. You finally understand her reasons when she explains urgently as you reach the stairs, "Fleur, let's hurry. I really, and I mean really, have to go to the ladies' room."

Nodding, you pick up the pace even more, nearly gliding down the Grand Staircase, though you remember to steer clear from the spot that caught Reva by surprise. "I will go wiz you. After all zat wand exercise, my uniform needs some care. And my 'ands are all sticky. I zink zat suit of armour 'ad been oiled recently."

Your last words bounce off the walls of the Entrance Hall while you stride right into the smaller stairway to follow Yvonne to the lower level.

"That'll be great. I don't like being alone anywhere in these dungeons," she whispers when you get there, walking at a minimum distance from you. "I got lost here in my first year. The nightmares I had..."

The way she shivers when she looks at the enclosing walls makes a strong case against the coziness of the entire underground tier.

An attempt to distract her seems to be a good idea. "Zat went very well. I zought she would not release us until just before ze bell rang," you start, sounding impressed, though also whispering. You've never been too sympathetic about the dungeons yourself. "Ze one zing zat is not clear is why you said I would like your plan better now. We will 'ave to meet Professor Snape before and after dinner. Zat is too much in a single day for my liking."

"Why would you think it had anything to do with Snape? He never made it into my list of favorites, either." She stops in front of the bathroom door and smiles. Quite smugly. "Don't you know which students are in that class?"

"Oui. Ze fourth-years," you reply cautiously, shrugging it off as something obvious. "So?"

The blonde squints and looks at the ceiling, tapping a finger over her pursed lips. Decidedly, pretending to be in deep thought. "Mmmmm... And why is that relevant?" she asks to no one in particular, slowly pulling the bathroom door open. "Oh, I know. That's Potter's class, isn't it? And there's also that friend of yours, Miss Granger."

Your eyes narrow on the blonde, as you realize you're walking into a carefully designed trap. "Is zat ze big deal? My social life? I zought it 'ad to do wiz our potion."

"Well, don't get me wrong, Fleur. We have to do a flawless potion tonight. That's not an option, after our fiasco, right? We're under pressure to show results," she says, unfolding the inner workings of her hidden intentions. "Is there a better way to work than in the company of a friend? I think it's a good motivation. And I can test this theory I have, involving Miss Granger and you."

You raise an eyebrow to antagonize her as you whisk inside, shaking your head. It's pretty obvious you'll have to stay sharp if you are to avoid confirming her suspicions.

"Speaking of which..." you remark out loud, watching the very brunette standing there, by the sinks.

"'Ermione, please meet Yvonne Bampton, my partner in Potions," you continue after clearing your throat, stepping aside and waving a hand at the blonde girl at your back. You repeat the gesture the other way around. "Yvonne, zis is 'Ermione Granger, my friend."

Yvonne, noticing the brunette's disconcerted expression, smiles warmly and starts in an amicable manner, "Nice to meet you, Hermione. It's a pleasure."

It certainly helps to put the girl at ease.

"Nice to meet you, too, Yvonne," Hermione greets the taller Ravenclaw, stretching a smile as she speaks.

You wink at the brunette, in a way so Yvonne doesn't see you doing it, and Hermione chews her lip to avoid smiling more.

The Ravenclaw alternates a glance between Hermione and you, while handing you over her things. Realizing you're paying more attention to the brunette than the items being transferred, Yvonne rolls her eyes and leaves for a cubicle, chuckling unabashedly. You sigh as you watch her go. This might be harder to do with the blonde than you thought.

Once the senior girl is far from sight, you leave her articles and your bag on a countertop, and then head for the nearest sink. A good mixture of warm water and soap ensures your hands are well covered in white suds.

"'Ello, 'Ermione," you say happily, showing without reticence how pleased you are to be in her company. "What a coincidence to find you 'ere."

"We had a small accident at our table," she explains with a sad smile. "I needed some time to clean myself and calm down."

She brings her hands up for you to see the slight greenish tint on the tips of her fingers. You lean closer to watch.

"Hmm... Is zere a reason why you did not ask ze professor to vanish zis substance for you? 'E might 'ave cleaned your 'ands in time. I zink zat color 'as settled on your skin, and it will stay for a few days, now," you say in concern.

"It was Flobberworm Mucus, Fleur. Even if Snape vanished it all, I'd still want to wash myself," she shrugs, making an effort to hide the disgust from her face.

The slimy substance is, indeed, quite repugnant.

She quickly changes the subject. "You surprised me, walking through the door like that. I thought you wouldn't be in the dungeons so soon. What changed? And what is that on your left hand?"

"Yvonne came up wiz a way for us to prepare our zings in advance, so we will not finish ze potion too late tonight. Professor Snape will let us stay in ze Potions classroom wiz you for a while," you tell her, rubbing your fingers together insistently.

"With us? What, now?" the brunette asks, with a delighted expression.

And that sticks a smile to your face. "Oui. And zis," you stress, scrubbing more soap, "is some kind of very zick oil zat was on a suit of armour, courtesy of Mr. Filch." You let some water remove the foamy coating to check your still oily fingers and glance at her, "'Ow is ze class going?"

"Pretty much the usual," she replies, bringing some green liquid soap from a farther container and pouring it on your hands. The brunette stays by your side with her arms folded, looking at you through the mirror. "Snape terrorizing Neville, Harry under stress, Slytherins being a bother."

You frown, drying up at last, "Zose would be... hmm... Mr. Malfoy and company, non?"

"Mm-hmm. Mostly him and his close friends, or bodyguards, whatever they are," the brunette agrees, taking out her wand to help you. "Ron lost his temper a couple of times already, and Harry had to stop him from tossing the ladle at them. Or maybe it was frog brains, I'm not so sure. That was when we had the spill on our table."

"Messy," you add absently while checking your appearance in the mirror and correcting the minor blemishes in your uniform.

"Maybe with you there it will be better," Hermione says in a wishful tone. "At least it's warmer than usual, with all the stewing potions," and she continues in a whisper, "and a few special charms."

You chuckle along, and then return thoughtfully, "What are you brewing today?"

"Antidotes," the brunette answers, lifting your ponytail as you rearrange the collar at your nape.

Her hands thread down the silky blonde twine. You freeze when you see she's gathering the loose strands caught between her fingers, but she doesn't notice your concern and releases them in a bin.

"Zose are tricky," you comment in a breath, advancing the conversation, "very delicate mixtures."

The girl nods, "Snape is breathing down our necks, repeating that. We're halfway through class and almost everyone is struggling to make it in time. It's a wonder there were no ugly accidents, yet."

That sounds like an accurate description of a potions class under Professor Snape's tutelage. Shaking your head, you check your reflection one last time, "Ze uniform seems right. What do you zink?"

Hermione gives you a long and appreciative look, very, very flattering. Apparently she approves, after removing a trifle of lint from the back of a sleeve that you hadn't seen.

"Merci. Now is your turn," you claim, and direct her gently to a place away from the cubicles, to prevent being surprised by the Ravenclaw girl.

Wiggling your eyebrows with subtle mischief, you quickly tilt your head at where Yvonne went a little ago, "I zink zis is a better spot. Just in case."

Hermione nods, smiling.

With Yvonne away, you still have a few minutes on your hands to really pay attention to the brunette. You circle her once, as your stare roams up and down, taking in the condition of her clothes.

The clues you can spot tell the full story of how the Gryffindor must've been dedicated to brewing a difficult potion. No matter. You grip your wand. This is something you'd do anytime she needs.

The brunette follows your instructions and lifts her arms slightly, just enough to stretch out her sleeves. After a short twiddle, her robes are stripped from any signs of the long vapor treatment suffered in class. The blots on her jumper are gone in another flick, and a small charred spot is repaired just as fast.

Next, you pace ahead and take her hands, searching for any cuts and burns, so common to a Potions class. All is well, except for the faint green of her fingers that is beyond magic. The difficult part is done. Now you can both have fun together.

With a smile and a thrill of happiness, you look up, at her face.

And stop dead at the sight of her features.

That beautiful, charming face.

Your heartbeat starts to trip over itself as every little detail, right there, in front of you, arrests your attention.

Those twinkling brown eyes, dark as rich chocolate, staring back at you. And then her tiny nose, so close. And the scattered light freckles on her cheeks, very cute.

And the eyes, deep and so sharp now. And that soft mouth, enhanced in glossy pink, where the faint reflection of the candles shimmers playfully.

And the brown eyes again, gentle, welcoming, still staring at you, holding you in place.

Your cheeks feel feverish, your lips are slightly apart, and there's a swarm of weightless bubbles doing weird things to your stomach.

And you can't stop staring.

Hermione looks perfect.

Simply perfect.

You want to tell her that. You need to tell her that, but you realize you can't find your voice, wherever it's gone.

This is... perplexing. You met her earlier today and it hadn't been like this. You were almost as close to her and it hadn't felt anything like this.

But now?

Now you're trapped in the labyrinth that is her beautiful face, noticing more of her at every turn, unable to find a way out.

Until she chuckles softly, and your mind crash-lands, back in position. Kind of.

You even shake your head quickly, several times, and the brunette chuckles a little more. Almost a giggle. Just not enough to make you blush too terribly.

And then you both nearly jump when the door of the bathroom bursts open. Neither had expected that.

Most certainly, you hadn't expected Alix to pop inside with a casual expression, and then suddenly freeze and become very wide-eyed when she looks at you.

And then at the brunette. And back at you.

You tentatively wave your hand at your friend and she smiles so apprehensively that it looks painful. "Uhm, sorry. I did not...? I mean, look at you. Of course I did." She clears her throat and tries again, "Sorry. So very sorry. I am looking for Yvonne. I was zinking she would be 'ere."

"Yvonne is in one of ze stalls," you try to reply evenly, while Alix looks like she's slapping herself mentally.

"Oh, she forgot something in class. I need to talk to 'er. Can you tell 'er I am in ze corridor?"

Before you have a chance to tell her to stay where she is and wait for the blonde, or even introduce her to the brunette, Alix turns and flees. She seemed to be blushing lightly, but it could be the lighting.

At a loss for words, you look at Hermione and the brunette only shrugs, glancing at the entrance with an expression of bafflement. You would have stayed longer like that, if it weren't for the sudden bit of noise coming from where Yvonne is. And, surely enough, the blonde soon moves towards the sinks.

She nods when she sees you and you deliver the message, "Alix is outside, in ze corridor. She said you forgot something in class and zat she 'as to speak to you."

"Oh, I wonder what it was," Yvonne looks concerned, glancing at the small pile of her things. "I better go see."

The blonde barely had the time to wash her hands, but she is quickly on her way. Hermione and you stay a long time looking at the door before you remember about each other.

"Zat was strange," you mumble.

"Which one was the oddest?" Hermione asks in a whisper.

"Zat would be a long debate," you chuckle, nodding. "So... where were we?"

She smiles and you turn to her again, but don't linger on her face out of fear of being captured again. It's weird enough that it happened once. It would be embarrassing if it happened twice.

And so your gaze navigates around that tempting area, and comes to rest safely on her hair, instead.

Her... hair.

Your eyes widen at once as your eyebrows reach new heights. How had you missed all this before?

Oh, good heavens, the hair.

Unlike the robes before, her hair isn't a story about dedicated brewing in a Potions class. No, it's leaning more towards the complete anthology. The fumes and vapours set off her chestnut locks into a full-blast rebellion.

You step closer for a better look, and Hermione must have noticed what it is that drew your attention. She isn't smiling anymore. The girl shrinks away at first, but then she reconsiders and shyly stands still for you. Her insecurity is plain, and all you want to do is erase it from her mind.

Magic might not be the most effective way to help her, you reason. It certainly isn't the most personal, as she deserves, or the most enjoyable, as you'd like it to be. Plus, her morale could use a little boost.

That settles it.

The wand is tucked away, in favor of your hands. Carefully, you begin to weave her errant strands into submission. Practiced hands comb them gently down her shoulders, and also brush a few behind each ear.

The brunette bites her lips, looking uncertainly at you. Her brow twitches too often as you work, and you see her blinking repeatedly. That's as far as she'll admit her self-conscious discomfort at your actions.

You frown briefly at seeing her in this state, although it is a bit amusing in itself to realize you're both having a bad hair day.

The girl stays attentive to your progress, watching your expression as she lets you unravel the disorder. Her distress doesn't influence your purpose, or your calm.

On the contrary. With a lazy smile, you keep on sifting through the locks, gradually gaining ground. It's a slow process. Very rewarding, but slow. And you insist patiently forward, over and again, dismantling the extra frizz along with her anxiety, little by little.

The strain around her eyes unwinds very, very slowly, but it does. And it only gets better, until she's more assured. And finally smiles back.

After that bridge is crossed, it doesn't take long for her to think it's a good idea to fasten a stable hold around your waist, since you've moved so much closer now.

You chuckle at that eagerness, and bend forward to reward her with a brush of lips on the shell of her ear.

The realization of missing something makes you notice you were searching, in the first place. And it isn't there, that distinctive hallmark that you no longer dissociate from the brunette. The fumes are to blame for that, too, robbing her of any smatterings of the sharp fragrance that has come to be so stimulating to you.

That's a shame.

"I really like to do zis," you confide with a raspy whisper, as your fingers inch still through the strands.

"Tame my hair?" she asks weakly, in a crushed tone.

"Non, keep you close and take care of you. Like I said already, in all ze ways zat I can," you breathe on the warm skin of her neck, nipping it softly.

"Fleur," she mumbles with a bit of effort.

Not quite satisfied, you grasp her earlobe between your lips, trace it slowly with the tip of your tongue, and then pull away, slowly letting it go. That should take her mind far away from wild tresses.

"They might hear us. Or walk right in," the brunette argues in a strangled voice. "So... not... fair."

When you lose contact with the sensitive spot, a bit of pride gleams in your short whisper, "Zat was ze goal."

Hermione shakes her head in objection, but it isn't very convincing when you can also hear the chime of her quiet laugh. It's an all-time favorite sound that you'd want to hear every day. Something to never forget.

"Come back here." Her tone is light, her words falling somewhere between a plea and a protest. "Let me see you."

The brunette trails a shallow scrape of nails up and down your back, probably to get your attention. And you have to confess it's a great way for her to do that.

You take a deep breath, and try to prepare yourself. Time to find out if your previous incident had been just a fluke. Or not.

Oh, well. Confidence might not be your strongest suit now, but you can't deny her this.

You glide back to face her, looking down, at her lips.

She's so at ease, and there's such a lovely smile playing there, that your heartbeat simply flutters. You suspect it's testing out new rhythms. The beat of a fresh tune. Just for her.

Your stare slowly climbs, and meanders. Up, up, left, center, and then a pause. And down. A stop for breath. A shiver runs down your back and she smiles more. Up again. Up. A little further... There.

There they are. You look at them steadily.

Beautiful, brown eyes. Staring right back. Your hands drop at your sides. That's where it starts.

Your mouth goes dry as you admire them. So pretty.

Yes, it's the eyes. You feel the pull. You can't stop looking.

Windows to a soul you yearn to know.

You should do something. Or say something. Anything.

But actions fail you. Words fail you, too.

And so you stare, only stare, in speechless surrender.

Definitely, the eyes.

Brown. Russet brown. Chocolate brown. Pools of molten chocolate.

It's a wonder that you still stand as one, under that gaze. That you even fit inside your skin.

Pretty. Endless. Entrapping.

You hold your breath, feeling a growing anticipation.

Paralyzing. Fascinating. So alive.

Something is going to happen. You just know.

You wait.

It's in the way your heart pumps furiously, thrusting liquid flames through your veins.

You can feel it.

In the way a whirlwind of emotions is tearing you into a million pieces.

Building up.

In the way your magic tickles a path to your hands, inviting you to touch her.

Almost there.

A great revelation is about to be spelled out to you.

You can almost see it, grasp it, taste it. Almost hear it.

Just ther-

Steadfast fingers snap you from the trance, holding your chin. Apparently, you spent too long on your standstill, and Hermione decided to take matters into her own hands. Literally.

The brunette blinks a few times, and you notice the renewed sheen that sparkles over those warm browns. Her eyes seek you, looking into your gaze, deep into you, searching for something, and you can only hope that she finds it there.

She pulls you near and you feel lost already, trailing up-close the curlicued design of each of her irises. Just as before, you are caught again in the range of those beacons, calling out to you. Reeling you into the haze.

They remain set on your eyes until you are very close, and then they drift to your lips. She stops and strokes your chin, preparing her next move. You manage a small smile at last. She answers with a brief flash to your eyes again, almost a double take, and her eyelids finally droop, staying sealed the rest of the way.

The moment your lips touch, you're at peace, and an instant calm settles over you.

It's a slow, gentle and sweet kiss. So gentle. The tenderness feels timeless, and also elusive.

But it's only one kiss, and she steps a little back when it ends. You look at her to understand the sudden distance, and an unwavering stare targets you again. You llower your gaze at her lips, all too apprehensive of a third deadlock.

There's no sign of Yvonne, yet, so you ask yourself why it stopped so quickly. Tasting your very tingly lips, you lean ahead to continue, but the brunette delivers a quick peck and doesn't let it escalate. "Your friend will return any time now. We can carry on later."

Any concern about that couldn't be farther from your mind.

"When?" you probe when your voice decides to cooperate, revealing a degree of insistence you don't care to hide.

"You'll see," Hermione mumbles distractedly.

Sighing at her inexplicable off mood, your hands gradually shrink away from her waist. You can't even recall when it was that you tied them around her. At least you're pleased to see her hair is in a much less woolly state.

"Fleur," she continues in a determined voice now, staring hard at you, "I just realized what's different with your eyes."

"Hmm?"

Hermione usually transitions smoothly from a topic of conversation to the next, but this one is so unrelated to anything that it throws your brain in a twist.

So this must be what hijacked her thoughts.

"When I saw you at lunch, the blue looked, er, lighter... Yes, I know," the brunette's inflexion stops you from interrupting, a teasing grin spreading her lips apart. The words you'd been about to speak now lay stuck somewhere between your brain and your tongue. "I thought it was absurd, too... But I'm sure now. It's definitely the color."

You frown as she takes your hand and pulls you with her to the area of the sinks and mirrors. You start to feel a little edgy. Hermione has to have seen something to become this interested.

"Better lighting," she explains. "I have to be able to see."

"Okay, zen," you finally say, trying to keep an upbeat attitude about it, "please tell me what you find."

She nods, moves in as close as she needs, and starts to change the position of your face until the angle favors her examination. At her directions, you keep your eyes wide open, though unfocused enough to miss her dangerously enthralling browns. What is it with those eyes?

Hermione holds her search for a while, scanning each orb in turn. Her expression grows a little more flustered over time, until she lets out a short sigh and seems to give up. Without warning, she quickly hovers forward and steals another kiss. You chuckle despite your anxiety.

"Too tempting is what you are. Just too much to resist," she whispers, smiling. And then she shakes her head and shrugs, "Wouldn't want to, anyway."

"You will not 'ear any complaints from me, 'Ermione," you pipe in, taking advantage of the interval to rub your eyelids a bit and correct the dryness in your eyes. "What did you find out?"

With an apologetic tone, she lights up the tip of her wand and explains, "Nothing. I can see the different color, but the candles aren't enough, Fleur. I'll use extra help."

You nod and look straight into the strong glow. At least you won't have to worry about meeting her eyes now.

Yvonne chooses that moment to cough loudly from the corridor outside, and then make an abundant amount of noises before opening the door in such a slow swing that you ponder if the hinges are defective. She's clearly announcing to the four winds that you should expect her presence anytime now. Even Peeves could learn a thing or two from the blonde's racket.

To your contentment, Hermione doesn't manifest any reaction to the Ravenclaw's impending return. Except by turning around curiously when the sound of the blonde's footsteps comes to a stop inside the bathroom. You follow suit and look up, as well. The size of the blonde's smile as she takes in the sight of the brunette and you together is sufficient to bring one of your eyebrows defiantly up.

Next thing you know, Hermione is facing you again, with the full combination of tight frown, chewed lip and light blush creeping on her cheeks. And she stays firmly like that, apparently looking at the buttons of your blouse.

"Should we do this some other time?" she whispers.

"I zink it is okay in zis case," you reassure her, while glaring a warning at the blonde.

Hermione takes your word for it, slowly nods, and then ignites the tip of her wand squarely by your face. As casually as she can, the brunette cups your cheek and sets your face in position, under the beam of light. You slowly blink a few times, and then peal your eyelids to allow her a good view.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Yvonne slowly walking towards one of the sinks, but trying to find out what the Gryffindor is doing.

You turn your attention to the brunette, too, and the expression on her face is a jostle to your uneasiness. She suddenly seems a lot more concerned about whatever she detected than the blonde's implied conclusions.

"I'm sorry for the strong light. This is a great improvement, Fleur," she says in a calming tone, carefully tilting her head left and right. "Your eyes are basically the same deep blue, except now I see silver spots all over. That's why the color struck me as lighter."

"Silver?" you ask, and the girl raises her eyebrows, nodding in confirmation.

This isn't a coincidence, and you can almost hear the cogs grinding in Hermione's mind. She's thinking the same.

"Can I have a look?" Yvonne inquires while drying her hands, wearing a dubiously innocent expression.

Hermione reluctantly takes a step away to allow the blonde full access.

"I hadn't noticed this before." The blonde forgets her smile and her interest is magnified when she sways closer for her own scan.

And closer. And even more closer. It makes you instantly stiff and uncomfortable, suddenly too aware of the intrusion into your personal space. Very few have permission for that, and Yvonne's name is not on that short list.

Without notifying the blonde, you push the wand tip away and blink repeatedly, trying to straighten your back to add some subtle distance from the girl. At the end of the break, you look at Yvonne and her closeness gives you an idea. This might be a chance to test your supersensitivity to stares. Or, at least, to see if it happens with anyone else.

You narrow your eyes and lean towards the blonde. Her natural response is to retract, and you follow forward, keeping the size of the gap between you, paying attention to her irises as you had done to the brunette before.

It doesn't last for long. You both stop moving, noses inches apart, when you finally notice Yvonne has the weirdest look on her face, as if your forehead had just grown a horn and you were attempting to skewer her, right between the eyes. You sigh and draw back. No incidents this time. That answers your question.

Okay, so you just made a complete fool of yourself.

In a resigned tone, you come up with an excuse that might sound acceptable, "I zought I saw something as well."

The blonde slowly nods, though her expression is still unusual, and Hermione finds an opening to redirect the conversation.

"There's more, Yvonne. Check the pattern," the brunette says, holding onto your shoulder for support as she leans beside the blonde to show her findings.

"You're right," Yvonne replies in an amused tone. "The silver spots are moving, throughout the blue."

"These small specks are blending together, and the larger areas here, and here are breaking apart," the Gryffindor describes.

Yvonne abandons her position to pace slowly by herself, shaking her head from time to time as if rejecting a particular line of thought. She's taking this quite seriously.

By now, you are all but a test subject caught in a lab experiment. Every new development is a sharp blow to your confidence, and you realize you've fallen into a vicious cycle, where anxiety and fear reinforce each other, clawing your calm to shreds. And although your mother still hasn't offered advice, the Veela in the woods did warn you. This isn't the best moment to allow your emotions too much leeway.

The problem is that you just can't be at ease when you are the source of your own insecurities. That only makes your stress levels peak. To your chagrin, right now they come hand in hand with another leak of magic, this time flooding your figure with unmistakable pain.

A burning pain, that spreads high and low, thoroughly, meticulously, distorting all your senses at once. It only becomes worse, until your skin is humming in protest, an acrid taste fills your mouth, your eyesight is clouded, an offensive smell makes your stomach coil in disgust, and there's loud ringing in your ears.

You're a mess. You need this to stop now, before you pass out from agony and extreme disorientation. Closing your eyes, you stay very still, avoiding even to breathe, silently wishing it goes away. Or you go numb from overexposure. And that either option happens as fast as possible.

Many heartbeats later, the powerful ache simmers down into a tolerable discomfort. Your lungs gulp air like there isn't enough in the room, and the sensations throughout your body are restored to a more normal degree.

Things have been quite odd lately, but today is out to take the prize.

The hand on your shoulder clenches slightly and you look at the brunette still holding on to you. She gives you a reassuring smile that helps you to calm down faster. And when you are finally relaxed, it's in wonderment that you realize the effects of that unusual rush. Whatever it was, it just fine-tuned your charms to a degree beyond anything you'd ever achieved.

Even Yvonne's emotions are easier for you to read now than what you could feel at a very close range before, and she's roaming rather far away from you. The blonde is probably in the middle of some logical reasoning, which would explain why her feelings are so contained and mild. Too mild, actually. She's curious, interested and slightly concerned. Sincerely concerned. You can't help smiling a little at that. It's sweet of her to worry about you, someone she doesn't know very well.

Your attention swiftly turns to Hermione, a more interesting option, and the brunette is a shocking contrast to the blonde. Underneath her collected exterior there are layers of charged feelings, volatile and in motion, as she watches Yvonne suspiciously. The Gryffindor is quite hard to decipher, but in her case it's because the quick changes make it almost impossible to keep up with all the bursts of apprehension, caution, confusion, and so much, that you could keep on going for a while. All in all, she's so clearly discomposed that it highlights her efficient ability to lock emotions away from her expression.

You reach the back of the hand at your shoulder and tease it with the tip of a couple of fingers, gliding over her skin in circles. With plenty of effort, you take active control of the charms, and gently try to stabilize the brunette's many shifts. It seems to work, though not entirely, and then you focus on soothing feelings, aiming to calm yourself and also ease her into a lighter state. As soon as you start, she takes a curious look your way, raising an eyebrow when she meets your silver stare. You nod, silently answering her question, and she smiles, holding your gaze. Every one of those negative feelings is canceled, and her inner turmoil gives room to warm affection.

Yvonne's footsteps are approaching again, and Hermione starts to pull her hand from you. All you can do is watch as it slides down the fabric of your sleeve for a while, and finally breaks loose to float away. Almost at the same time, the charms fold back into their regular state, quickly as they had sprung to life.

And it's a disappointment to feel both connections split.

Your stare clings to her face, now searching the brunette's features for any indications of her wandering mind, when Yvonne speaks again.

"You don't know what it is, do you?"

Sighing, you glance at Yvonne and shake your head with conviction. "Non, but you looked like you were making some serious considerations. Would you like to share your zoughts? Perhaps you found a good explanation."

"I'm shooting in the dark, Fleur. I can only take a guess. Even more than one, if you want to go through with this," the Ravenclaw states, twiddling her wand.

"It shouldn't have to do with anything we practiced in class today. Conjuration and Transformation spells can't do that," the blonde explains, looking at your eyes, "even if anyone made a huge mistake. They're a world apart from Human Transfiguration spells."

"Yvonne, Fleur was like this at lunch." Hermione's statement confirms Yvonne is on the right track.

"Right, so this is something else," the blonde says thoughtfully. "Were you hit with a stray spell?"

"Not zat I am aware," you reply.

Hermione keeps quiet, biting her lower lip and letting the Ravenclaw follow through with her investigative streak, though she doesn't leave your side.

"Maybe it was a prank. Someone could've spiked a goblet of juice or offered you something special to eat," Yvonne adds, and you start to shake your head.

"Did you receive any anonymous gifts? Are you feeling strange?"

"I cannot remember anything like zat. I feel fine. And who would do such a zing?" you protest. That would be outrageous.

The blonde shrugs and continues, playing with her wand as she bounces around a series of possibilities. One more farfetched than the next.

"Were you ill lately? What about allergies? Did you take any healing potions?"

"Is your wand out of order?" You give her a look and she takes it back herself. "No, that can't be. It worked just fine, half an hour ago."

"Have you had an accident in one of the greenhouses?"

"Did you wander into the Forbidden Forest?" This one deserves a little more thought than the others, but you were there briefly and it was days ago. Any strange manifestations would have made themselves known earlier in the week.

"Moody had us do that essay on poisons over the holidays. I don't recall any with that effect, do you?"

"Are you carrying any amulets? Or any other magical instruments?"

"What about an altercation with Peeves?"

"Any skin-piercing wounds recently? Hagrid has those Blast-Ended Screwts and we can't be too sure."

At this point, your head is in a constant shake, not even waiting the next suggestion before denying it. Hermione has crossed her arms and her expression is one of absolute skepticism, analyzing the Ravenclaw with what little is left of her waning patience. No surprises there. Yvonne is performing an extensive interrogation, and it couldn't be too different if conducted by an Auror from the Ministry.

You can bet your own expression must be beyond the traditional description of a frown. With the tension in your muscles, this should deserve a new definition altogether.

"Okay, that was the bad part. We ruled out the basics," the blonde says in a high-spirited tone and a loud sigh pours from her lips.

"Oui, I believe so, now zat you finished your questions and ze complete scan on my clothing and myself. Oh, and let us not forget ze many counter-spells you just performed wizout result," you add, tilting your head and narrowing your eyes, "and clearly, wizout asking for permission first."

"I was wondering what all that was about," Hermione adds, trying to sound more neutral than bothered. And failing.

"I'm sorry, Fleur. The spells are harmless," she argues, and her calm doesn't falter when she nods at Hermione. The brunette still has her arms crossed. "I needed to be sure that you were not under any type of magical influence. One should never jump to conclusions."

"I was not aware zat you were so full of precautions, Yvonne, or zat you followed ze suggestions from Professor Moody to ze letter... You are lucky zat I feel I can trust you, even wizout any reasonable explanation," you reply with a half-smile.

"Yeah," the blonde chuckles and her relief shows, "it was a risky move. I couldn't tell you what I planned to do, but I'm glad that you didn't reach for your wand."

"I recognized ze spells, so..." you trail off.

"I didn't," Hermione mumbles moodily, probably not used to being in the dark. The brunette watches your hesitating smiles with a slow shake of her head and an expression of reproval, as if you'd both gone mad together, right in front of her.

Concealed from Yvonne's line of sight, you place your left hand on the brunette's stiff lower back and give her a light scratch over her thick clothes, repeatedly, back and forth, keeping it at the same place. It's meant to be comforting and reassuring.

The Gryffindor looks at you and receives a full, winsome smile. "I understand what Yvonne was doing, 'Ermione. If it 'ad been ze uzzer way around, I probably would 'ave tried something close to zat, until I was sure zere was nothing dangerous 'appening."

Her frown remains intact, but something must have made it through to her, and that rigid posture starts to look less strained.

"Now we can tackle this the other way, yes?" Yvonne volunteers once the Gryffindor calms down. "The most likely answer should be the natural option."

You raise an eyebrow, curious to learn her reasoning, "And, in your opinion, zat would be...?"

The blonde's eyes flickers to Hermione before drilling you with an inquiring stare. You relax your face and wait, showing her a lack of concern that the brunette participates in this.

"That it wasn't anything done to you. This is you, Fleur. Not the human part, clearly. Humans can't do that. But something that relates to your Veela aspect, I think. My grandfather knew a female Veela when he was a young boy, in school. He told me her eyes could shift from dark brown to yellow." She pauses, looks at Hermione again, and then asks seriously, "I don't mean to pry or anything. I'm guessing your other color is silver?"

Slowly, very slowly, you nod. "Oui, it is."

"Then the silver is bleeding through the blue. It has to be the best explanation," Yvonne speaks in a firmer, rather conclusive manner.

You only nod again, this time mutely.

"And I see this isn't news to either of you." The Ravenclaw crosses her arms, watching you with a bit of disappointment. "How awkward for me. Why didn't you tell me up front?"

"Zis is... personal. Knowledge on Veela is vague, at best. I did not expect you to guess anything close to zat, but I wanted to 'ear your zoughts, Yvonne. Perhaps you 'ad anuzzer idea," you reply. "I 'oped zere was, actually. It would make zings simpler if a spell or a potion could set me right again."

"You can't assume something is wrong, Fleur," the brunette points out. "For all we know, this is normal for you."

Yvonne shares her own impressions and protests. "You could've been fair and square with me. Really, Fleur, you should have. I understand your reservations, but I wouldn't try to put you down for being different."

You frown, slowly nod to them both and let your head hang down, in silence. It isn't an easy conversation for you.

Hermione is chewing her lip again, looking mostly at you, but she glances around at Yvonne when the blonde sighs and points at your eyes again, "You really don't know what that means?"

More head shaking. "Non."

"You won't find the answers here, I can tell you that. I'm about to graduate, and Veela are a mystery to me," the Ravenclaw says. "To be honest, I wish that weren't the case. It wouldn't hurt to learn from a reliable source."

You smile at the subtle request and file a mental note to remember that later.

The blonde checks the hour, and then looks at you in concern, "We are losing our advantage with Snape. Tell you what, Fleur, I'll go and get started. You take your time, okay?"

"Merci. I will be zere in a minute," you reply.

The Gryffindor nods at Yvonne as she gathers her things and dashes away. You're glad the blonde has a straightforward way to cope with things.

As soon as you're alone, Hermione shakes up your wandering trail of thoughts. "You didn't expect her guess to be so close, did you?"

It isn't a question, but one look and she has her confirmation.

The brunette doesn't stop there. You should've known the silence wouldn't last. "I'd like to know why your eyes are that way now. And why your pheromones-"

"So would I," you mumble weakly, and it's enough to turn her silent.

The list keeps getting longer. You wonder if it's a good idea to bring up the hair, bursts of magic, and the charms issues. Or ask more about that something she'd said of your features, too.

You lift a hand to her cheek and let your thumb tickle her skin lazily for a while.

One of her hands covers your fingers, squeezing them softly. "I'm sorry. It can't be easy for you, and that wasn't very sensitive of me... You asked to see that Veela book again. It's related to this, isn't it?"

You nod, "It is a temporary solution. I sent letters to my family almost a week ago, 'Ermione. Now I am patiently waiting for zeir replies. Zey should not take much longer."

"I think you meant to say impatiently," Hermione smiles shyly, probably unsure if it's the best timing to pull off a joke. "That must be a long letter they have to write. But if anything was really urgent, you probably would've heard from them already, right?"

That makes sense. "Perhaps."

"Fleur, you look so lost," she says sadly, before hurling forward to wrap you in a tight hug that feels as supportive as you need. "Don't be. I'm sure there has to be an explanation for everything. And it can't deserve all those wrinkles. Seriously."

"Merci, 'Ermione," you reply tenderly, separating yourself just enough to look at her and lay a quick peck on the tip of her nose.

"You calmed me before, when I was too anxious. What can I do to make you feel better?" she asks as her mouth bows into a pretty smile, more confident now.

That was a sure-fire way to lift your spirits. You chuckle. "You just did, ma belle. Zat tiny smile was all zat I needed. You must 'ave read my mind."

It widens into a grin and you leave her side to retrieve your bag. With a glance at the girl, you wave at the door, "Shall we?"

"Okay. Harry and Ron should be pulling out whole chunks of hair by now," Hermione shakes her head, smiling.

"What about your potion? No worries zere?" You realize that the brunette didn't seem to mind until now.

"It's at the last stew. Mmm... twenty more minutes to go and that's it," she replies smartly, hurrying to the exit.

"So zat is why you 'ad no concern of time slipping away," you mumble to yourself, suddenly alone.

And all there's left to do is follow her example.

It's a short walk to the classroom, and you watch as Hermione creeps through the door, and then zooms to her table. You stay at the frame, staring around to find the professor, but he is busy dictating corrections or criticism to a trembling Gryffindor boy. The way he scribbles angrily onto his notes suggests a very low mark was the result.

Frowning, you search for your blonde partner instead. Yvonne lifts the lit tip of her wand to get your attention, and you notice she's at the back of the classroom, where you sat yesterday.

Many of the students straighten up in their stools when they see you enter. Some even try to hastily improve their appearance, scampering fingers through their tussled hair, or to tidy their tables.

To your pleasant surprise, Harry, Ronald and Hermione are sitting at the table to the left where Yvonne is, and you greet them with a nod and a brief smile.

The brunette winks at you, Harry nods, and Ronald grimaces. The redhead ducks away, turning to look at the depths of his cauldron so intently that you start to wonder if he's considering diving to hide inside. Hermione shakes his arm with a scowl ready and you don't wait to see how that turns out, walking ahead to your table.

For once, you'll be sharing a few moments in the same classroom with the brunette. Nothing should be allowed to ruin the moment. The odds of it ever happening again are probably too slim to waste time on hopeful thinking.

The down side is that it had to be Potions, of all possibilities, and when you settle down and glance around again, the girl is already distracted, whispering instructions to her friends. The fact that each of their cauldrons is spewing fumes of a different color can't possibly be a good omen.

"Thought you'd take longer," the blonde says lightly.

"Non, zere was no need. We are 'ere for a purpose, non?" you counter, looking at the table, the cauldron in position and the floor underneath. "Zey fixed everything so well, it looks like nothing 'appened yesterday. And zis must be your cauldron, I presume."

"Yeah, it is. You can get another one in Hogsmeade, Fleur. There's a nice shop that sells them. I'm sure the owner will be amused to hear the story of our last class," she smiles in jest.

You chuckle, "'E will zink I am a menace to 'is cauldrons."

"That, too," the blonde agrees, tracing a fingertip down the list of ingredients she's reading. "So... Are you good to go?"

"Sure am," you reply, inspecting what she's doing. And then you smirk, "I could not let you receive all ze compliments by yourself, could I?"

Her head snaps up and she looks pleased at once, "Now, that's a bright mood."

"Oui. I just spent some time wiz two amazing girls. You could say it 'ad a good effect on me," you state sincerely, arranging your bag under the table. "Zank you for zat."

"Not at all," Yvonne remarks, patting the stool at her side. "Come on, partner. Sit down, and get comfortable. I was about to recount the first batch of components."

"I can 'elp wiz zat. Can you explain your plan?" you ask, already getting involved.

"What you see here are the ingredients that don't have to be weighed. Next, we get to fetch everything else," Yvonne points those out in the book.

Your stare unconsciously moves to the cupboard with all the ingredients, but it finds Professor Snape instead, with an unreadable expression, standing at the center of the room, and watching you and Yvonne talk. Somehow, you manage to keep your cool as you nod slowly at him.

"The weighing part will take us a while. Do you think we should start processing the ingredients, too?" the blonde continues and you almost miss the words.

You shake your head slowly, returning your gaze to the table, "Zey will be of better quality if we keep zem fresh until ze last possible moment. Zis time we need to do ze most effective potion we can."

She agrees and you crosscheck the components on the table against the amounts specified on the instructions. Everything is correct. You organize them in order while the blonde gets the brass scale ready.

At her suggestion, you go together to the cupboard at the front of the classroom and collect the rest of the ingredients. It's quite a large bunch, so some end up being carried and others are hovered along.

On your way back, the room becomes suddenly much darker, and you notice the professor striding angrily in-between the tables, heading towards a melting cauldron right at the front of the classroom. Before you can even sense the revolting reek, he's already vanished the mess and is reprimanding the cowering boy next to it. Another Gryffindor.

It isn't much of a surprise to hear sniggering close by and realize Mr. Malfoy and his buddies are the source. They're sitting at the table in front of Hermione's, apparently having the time of their lives as they watch the professor spill his venom over the error. Perhaps they held a particular grudge against that student.

Harry and Ronald's expressions, on the other hand, are mutinous, and the brunette with them is whispering heatedly, trying to quench the flammable atmosphere.

"Sort of déjà vu, isn't it?" Yvonne asks when you are sitting again, subtly pointing at the unfortunate scene in plain sight. The dark fumes are still visible, as is the distorted cauldron and the glaring professor.

"Of course. Makes me wonder why Professor Snape chose to go so easy on us. Ze way 'e is treating zat student is more like what I expected yesterday," you confirm.

"We were original," she says, shrugging, and it earns her a quizzical expression from you. "Snape's experienced, the Potions master of Hogwarts. He must deal with regular mistakes, like that one, in every class. Ours was something else, special. Didn't you see his face when he tried to vanish the potion and it wouldn't work? He couldn't believe his eyes."

"So you are saying zat our accident turned ze potion so uniquely bad... zat 'e took an interest in it?" you retort.

"That's what I think, yes. He never gives anyone a second chance to brew a potion." And then she adds with a suggestive smile, "It's either that or he's very fond of us."

"As if zat was possible."

You exchange a glance and shake your heads, smiling.

Yvonne pulls the scale closer and you pass her each ingredient in time, double-checking her measurements. It's a tedious activity, but also one that requires perfect attention to avoid problems later.

"... elephant man."

Somehow, that dirty tidbit just slipped past your concentration, Yvonne's words, and the book of potions, slinking a way through to your brain.

Your eyes search and soon find the blonde boy sneering at Harry in a careless way. A scowl couldn't have taken shape any faster on your face. Yvonne stirs by your side, but you hand her the next sample and she continues without any remarks.

"Missing the giant oaf, Potter?"

Now you're listening in and don't miss a word, though your stare is on the lookout for the professor.

"Bet your pal's sacked any day now. Weasley could hide the savage at that place he calls a house, but I think he just wouldn't fit, would he?"

Ronald bolts from his stool and Harry struggles to keep him seated. Hermione looks torn between calming her friends and hexing the obnoxious blonde's smirk to the other side of his head.

The professor is three rows down, and he seems to have realized there is a disturbance going on. The man shoots a glacial glare at Harry and reroutes towards him. Neither of the students close by has noticed that move.

"'Ermione," you call out softly, more than once, but the combined noise of the Slytherin trio's laughter and Ronald's growls overshadows all your attempts.

As you say her name louder and are about to poke her arm, Professor Snape's dark eyes narrow on your tentative gesture. The raised limb is swiftly withdrawn back to your lap. It will be terrible to put her in more trouble, but you have to do something.

Throwing caution to the wind, you lean to her side on the pretense of verifying the underside of the cauldron. You stretch out the hand that's concealed under the table and clamp it firmly on her right knee, whispering harshly, "'Ermione!"

The girl quakes in her seat as you sit up. When she parts her lips to start asking questions, you cut her short with a last squeeze and pull away, stabbing a hard glance on the wizard about to pass the Slytherins' table. Hoping she gets the hint, you finally whirl to tend to your obligations with Yvonne.

It must have worked and the brunette warned her friends in time, too, for they are soon silent, well seated and acting absorbed with their potions. The professor walks by at a snail's pace, hovering over the cauldrons of the Gryffindors like a hawk hunting prey. The dark glint in his eyes holds all the promise of devastating catastrophe on the brink of release.

And all he needs is an excuse.

You gaze neutrally at the hard-working trio at your side, which is clearly dead set on denying him the pleasure. Moving your stare around the professor to avoid meeting his eyes, at last you check the Slytherin boys, noticing with surprise that only Mr. Malfoy doesn't have his back turned.

No. Instead, he is exhibiting a vicious expression, and looking at you. He must have deduced what you did. Your eyes narrow slightly, and now you have to concentrate hard to keep that soft pressure in your irises at bay. The pale boy eventually becomes bored and turns away, adding some chopped seeds to the contents of his cauldron.

The biased professor finds nothing to complain among the younger students, so he takes some extra time to analyze your table next. Just like the innocent Ravenclaw blonde at your other side, you hold his gaze evenly, trying to mirror the same perfectly blank expression that she has on.

Apparently it works and he remains silent, but you have the impression he blames you for depriving him of a successful pursuit. After another long stretch of minutes, the man finally roves away to tend to a mini-explosion at the front of the classroom.

"That was too close, Fleur," Hermione murmurs when she can take a short break from helping Harry and, particularly, Ronald. "If you hadn't seen him... Well, it wouldn't have been pretty."

"You were distracted. Rightfully distracted," you reply, setting your stare clearly on Mr. Malfoy's back. "Ze zings 'e said were vile."

"They're really terrible to Hagrid. It's unbelievable how unfair this is," the brunette remarks.

Yvonne doesn't abandon her progress with the scale, but mumbles something akin to 'Immature rubbish'. It's a clear sign that, despite everything, the blonde was aware of the occurrences beyond the limits of your table.

Hermione nods at the Ravenclaw's comment and gets something out of her rucksack, checking around before handing it to you, "I made it to my room before class. Maybe you want to see it now?"

With a startling surprise, you recognize the book you'd asked her at lunch. Since the ingredients left for Yvonne to prepare are ready and in order, according to the instructions, you open the large book on your lap and start to search for what you need.

From memory, you prepare a list of the many chapters with small dedicated parts that could be helpful. You skim through the pages carefully, rereading bits of the material in case you overlooked something.

Unfortunately, it's proving to be a fruitless effort. The text gives priority to the main markers of a Veela in phasing - the evolution of the charms, the novelty of pheromones and the onset of magic. If you're honest with yourself, those were your main concerns at first, so the book seemed very adequate during the weekend.

But now you want more.

Yvonne slides her elbows on the table, peering at the old volume, "You're too quiet. Anything good?"

You close the book briefly to show her the cover. While the blonde reads the details, you take a look at Hermione, who is now ladling up some of Harry's potion and making a disgusted face. You sniff curiously, recognizing the brew by the stench. It's smelling just right. No wonder her hair had lost all traces of a nice scent. No fragrance could fight its way through that.

The Ravenclaw glides closer, more interested now, "Did you find it at the library?"

"Non," you reply, going back to the table of contents, "I brought it wiz me, from 'ome. Ze author is a well-known Veela."

"Oh, I see. Hermione borrowed it," the blonde concludes. She's really keeping track of what is going on, by the look of things. "I've never read a book on Veela written by a Veela. Do you recommend that one?"

"It was useful for me, a good start," you confirm.

"Can I, maybe, have a look after she's finished?" she asks uncertainly. And then she backtracks, "If it's alright with you."

Considering the shortcomings of the tome, with the superficial approach to more critical details of your current situation, you see no reasons to deny her that. After all, a book such as this is much more than most wizards ever learn about Veela. And the blonde seems genuinely curious.

"Of course. I will tell you when she is over wiz it," you offer.

"Thanks," she says in surprise, clearly not expecting that.

You nod, but now barely listen to her, as your eyes fall on a very short entry at the end of a chapter.

"Fleur, we're short on murtlap tentacles," the blonde continues, and with a glance you catch her rolling her eyes, probably because the same thing happened yesterday.

But it's all tuning down to background noise as your eyes run from word to word. Yvonne nudges you softly on the elbow. If it wasn't for that, you'd have missed her lift off altogether.

"Be right back."

You don't even acknowledge it with a nod.

Disappointingly, what you found was a single paragraph, and it mentions in scarce words that a few modifications are expected in external appearance through your transition (although it fails to cite which ones, to which extent, or for how long), but that the most significant development is noticed in inner systemic functions. Again, without any details or examples to clarify.

Isn't it just jolly to expect straight answers and read something so indefinite? You go for the handful of lines again, already thinking it's a bad investment in time. This can't replace your mother.

"What is this, Miss Delacour?"

You almost have a syncope when you hear that peculiarly low, cool, calculated hiss.

As you turn around, your stare catches a glimpse of a shocked and mortified Hermione, before slowly floating upwards.

What a nightmare.

You swallow hard, trying to dislodge the clump that is obstructing your throat. Without success. But when Professor Snape glances at Hermione, you suddenly find your voice and try to quickly get his attention back on you, "I-I am reading a book, professor."

In his best inscrutable and cold stare, he stretches his long fingers at you. Glancing in doubt from the open hand to his dark eyes a few times, a large weight settles on your stomach once you realize he is dead serious. You finally close the book and hand it over.

He takes a long look at the cover, and then pulls out his wand. One tap later, it's gone from sight.

That makes your uneasiness multiply. "Sir, zat was a rare tome, and it belongs to my family. I cannot lose zat book."

"That, Miss Delacour, should have been your concern before distracting your mind at my class," he counters silkily. "Must I remind you the reason Miss Bampton and you are here today?"

"Non, sir," you reply, recognizing defeat, although there's a quiet plea in your voice.

"You may have it back after you complete your potion, Miss Delacour," he says curtly, and then the soft swish of his robes is all that's left of the man.

You tangle your fingers through your ponytail, about to ruffle it nervously, but think better when you remember there's a sound argument to abstain from that today. It takes all the fight you have left not to give in to the urge of doing something truly regrettable. "My muzzer is going to kill me."

"He came out of nowhere, Fleur. I didn't see him until he was all over you," Hermione begins in an apologetical tone.

"Neither did I," you reply flatly.

Yvonne returns with a small bowl full of oozy tentacles, and she looks very flustered, "What did he say, Fleur? Was there something wrong with the ingredients?"

"Non, Yvonne. Ze professor was more interested in my book. 'E took it," you explain, waving your hand in his general direction.

"Snape won't do anything to it, Fleur," Hermione blurts, watching the professor with a cross expression.

"The book on Veela?" That was something the blonde doesn't believe at first, running her stare over the table to confirm everything is as it was supposed to be. Once she's convinced, she grouses on, "But he can't do that. The book is yours."

You nod, "'E will let me 'ave it when we are done."

"All the more reason to brew this to perfection, then," the blonde says in a severe tone. "We'll show him, and you'll get your book back."

"Ron!" Hermione whispers harshly. "You weren't listening to me, were you? Horns first, then scales."

You look at what the brunette is trying to correct, but remember Yvonne is talking to you. After a long sigh, you reluctantly nod at the blonde.

"Look what I found," she offers cheerfully, releasing the contents of her hand close to you, on the table.

Several oddly-shaped bezoars tumble about until they come to a complete stop. "I 'ad never seen any like zese. So large."

"Aren't they?" The amusement in her voice is infectious, and when you realize Hermione is chancing a curious glance over your shoulder, you offer the brunette the weirdest of them all to check by herself. And she accepts it with a cute smile, before extending her wand to correct the flames under Ron's cauldron.

"It's a class on antidotes," Yvonne continues, "so Snape has a large batch in the cupboard. I thought you'd like to check them, too."

"Merci," you reply, though the odd stones have a thin grasp on your interest.

You keep on glancing at the brunette as she releases the bezoar on the table to be fully devoted to her friends. They both seem to require her assistance at the same time, and their potions should be looking a lot better by now.

It's upsetting to see her so worried and disgruntled, and your shoulders hang down at the sight of her hair defying gravity again. Even more than before, when you met her at the bathroom.

That thought transports you back to the earlier affairs with the brunette. You remember brown eyes that held you spellbound, like all else had ceased in your mind. Even as you search her lean figure at will, there isn't anything unusual about her that you can notice. There's that same manner of speaking, the same gestures, the usual expressions. Nothing that betrays the reason for the unique effect she had over you.

You sigh and close your eyes. This is leading you nowhere. Feeling useless, you turn to Yvonne and finally ask your partner, "Can I 'elp you wiz ze weighing?

I 'ave nothing more to do."

"I'm almost finished. Only these tentacles left and we are free for dinner," Yvonne remarks, arranging the counterweights on the scale.

You grab a small bezoar with a very smooth surface, and rub it in your hand, looking around in boredom. The cauldrons are bubbling, vapours of an almost uniform color rise to form that familiar foggy mist, and the professor is stalking to see to another problematic potion. It could be from the same boy who had a mishap earlier, though you can't really tell.

One of the Slytherins nearby starts snickering again and you glance at the large boy. Mr. Malfoy is wearing a malicious smirk at his side. Your distraction made you miss the exchange, but Ronald's ears turned a deep red, so it mustn't have been anything good. And 'polite' is probably out of the question as well.

The brunette jolts from her seat. "Ron, the mistletoe berries go after the unicorn horns."

The ginger stops himself at the last possible moment, avoiding an unwanted incident that would only fuel the Slytherins' glee. Hermione scowls until her friend is back on track, following the instructions correctly.

"Harry, I'll get more berries for you. Keep stirring like that. Ron, that's the last ingredient. You're really doing great. Don't mind them," Hermione states as she stands from her stool and rushes to the cupboard.

Your stare stays fixed on her figure until the girl is concealed by some thicker fumes coming from the potions at the front of the class. You sigh. A quick glance at Yvonne proves she's still handling tentacles. You turn the other way, then, and look at Hermione's friends, working side by side against time. And now that you're paying close attention, it's easy to catch that irritating voice.

"Goody saint Potter, I warned you from the day we met – be careful to choose your company. Just won't listen, will you?"

Your brow crinkles tightly as you turn to watch the snobbish boy. Professor Snape is lurking close by. Harry wisely pretends to be deaf, and grinds his bezoar into what you can bet is the finest humanly-possible powder.

That doesn't stop the Slytherin bully from taking the silence as an invitation to go on. "Always hanging around with all sorts of riff-raff, Potter - those weasel blood traitors," Mr. Malfoy drawls each foul word with deliberate loathing, smirking again when Harry hauls Ron by the hood of his cloak to hold the redhead down, and he gathers himself arrogantly to enunciate in an even lower speed, now glancing straight at you, "the nasty half-breeds..."

You don't blink as your eyes narrow dangerously, staring at the display of gratuitous idiocy and malevolent intolerance.

Huh. Nice wording, there. Trust your brain to keep a minimum level of intelligence at an irritable moment.

"... and that filthy Mudblood," he ends at last, and the way he almost spat that last word triples its offensive meaning.

The boy smiles as if he took great pleasure in saying that, and even more in throwing it at your face. He's goading you to react.

A small part of your brain comprehends his intent, but it's a very small part.

And it's getting smaller.

That smirk.

Smaller. Fading.

Nil.

A rage as you've never felt before erases all traces of reason from your being. You're far beyond the point of seeing red, and magic is ready at your fingertips faster than a thought. There's a tight crushing sensation in your head and, from then on, it isn't you wearing your body anymore. Through the thick fog clouding your mind, you're squeezing your right hand and raising it, getting ready to do something about that boisterous smirk, so provoking and unfair. So out of place.

Until you realize you're not actually moving.

Because you can't.

You're trapped under an insistent sharp tug on your right shoulder and a fierce grip is locking your hand to the table. That alerts you to Yvonne's presence.

It's the second time today someone interferes before you unleash your temper on an irritating boy.

"Not worth it," the Ravenclaw whispers, grinding out the words urgently. "He's a Slytherin. This is Snape's domain. And we're in trouble with him as it is."

Her clutch only becomes stronger, borderline painful.

Anger waters down, slowly seeping away through the increasing cracks in your resolve. When you've accepted the blonde isn't letting go, your efforts to disengage nearly stop, and you turn to the girl in dismay.

Yvonne looks at you and drops heavily on her seat, mumbling in awe, "There's the silver!"

You shut your eyelids and sigh. So much for trusting your brain.

That's when you hear Hermione's voice, behind you. "Yvonne? Fleur, what's going on?"

It's enough to startle you. Yvonne searches your face and slowly lets go, sparing you more time to recover. "Fleur isn't feeling too well, Hermione. It could be the fumes. We should be leaving any time now."

"Hey, you," the brunette whispers at your side. "What's up?"

"I will be fine, 'Ermione," you reply, at last finding your voice and looking at her. With some effort, you provide a distraction, "Ze class is almost over. Ronald is at ze last ingredient, but 'Arry still 'as to take care of zree."

"You'll tell me later, right?" the Gryffindor inquires, crossing her arms. And she remains unmovable until you confirm with a small nod.

After the girl checks Ronald's cauldron and settles at Harry's side, it's time for the Ravenclaw to start again, still watching you closely. "Better?"

"Sure. Zank you for keeping zis quiet," you say, averting your eyes to the table, and then glancing at the boy that started this.

The look of triumph you see there is more than you can tolerate without going for your wand, so you turn back to Yvonne and unclench your hands to pick up your bag. From the right one, the bezoar you'd forgotten suddenly rolls down and clatters on the table, now blackened and shattering to pieces.

"Will you look at that?" Yvonne asks, amused, poking the remains with the corner of a slip of parchment. "Must be damaged."

"Oui. It seems unfit for use," you add, looking at your hand doubtfully. The small stone is a better resemblance of a lump of coal than a bezoar at the moment. You close your hand and make up your mind. "Yvonne, forgive me, but I need to get out of 'ere."

The blonde doesn't say anything at the odd way she saw you checking your hand. Instead, she tries for casualness, "Yeah, a bit of fresh air will do you good. Go ahead. I'll catch up right away."

You nod, get your bag, slide off the stool, and stand up. On your way out, the Gryffindors are about to finish their potions and you don't disturb them. You try to avoid thinking of the Slytherins that you could be hexing right now. Or anything else, keeping your mind blank.

Without looking back, one pull on the door and there's that cold, dark corridor.

"Going somewhere, Miss Delacour?"

Your legs give up moving.

That distinctive timbre could make you stall even in your dreams. You take your time to turn around, and when you meet his hard eyes, a frosty sensation starts to seep into your skin. It must be a trait from the man himself.

"Professor, our preparations are ready. We'll be back after dinner," Yvonne quickly answers for you, as she steps in place, guiding you outside.

A glimpse of his lips curling slowly is the last you see. Perhaps it was meant to express a smile, although it looked more of a sneer, considering who is doing it.

And then, you're over the threshold, and the door closes swiftly, shunting the classroom away.

---

TBC