Hello everyone! I can't believe how long it has been since I have updated. My most sincere and profuse apologies to you all. I have been super busy, and I actually have a huge project due tomorrow, but I wanted to get this out for you guys cause I really, really love this chapter. I'm going to put a translation for the French in this chapter at the end because I know people don't want to have to look it up. :P Thank you everyone for your reviews, it's always wonderful when one pops up in my inbox.

There's a little bit of a lemon (only very slightly) at the end so if you're not up for it…then don't read it.

Disclaimer: I own nothing and am making no profit from this story.

Chapter 7

Fleur sank into her armchair which sat in front of the roaring fire in her quarters. She was so tired, and her heart sank at the thought of telling Ronald Weasley about the Veela. She could not get that class out of her mind. She replayed every minute, and relived the moment of eye contact with Hermione over and over again.

It had been one day since that class, and now it was evening and she had yet to hear from the Weasley boy. She was quite surprised by this fact; she had expected him to show up at her doorstep panting like a dog, even though that was being a little harsh. Fleur shrugged and shifted in her chair, slinging her legs up over one of the arms.

Lost in her thoughts, she jumped at the tapping at her window. She looked up and a smile broke out on her face. "Ah, Jean-Claude, t'es en retard." She scolded the owl as she let him into the room. He cooed indignantly and flew to perch on the arm chair Fleur had been sitting in. "Tu m'as apporté une lettre?" The owl hooted and stuck out his leg for her. She reached to untie the letter and just as she was about to touch it, he jerked his leg back. Fleur glowered at him, and he ruffled his feather nonchalantly. "Je ne veux pas jouer aujourd'hui. Donne moi la lettre. Maintenant. J'ai dit maintenant. Putain, Jean- Claude! Si tu ne me donnes pas la lettre, je vais-"

She was interrupted by someone clearing their throat. It was the second time someone had come in when Jean-Claude was tormenting her and she had had it. She turned to berate (yell at) the person who dared to interrupt her, and found herself looking into the clear blue eyes (twinkling with contained mirth) of Albus Dumbledore. Shocked, she forgot what she was about to say.

"Ah, Miss Delacour, I'm afraid I did knock, but you must not have heard me. I hope this owl is not giving you too much trouble." The owl hooted innocently, and Dumbledore chuckled. "As I thought. Moving on to more important matters, I have some news which concerns you Miss Delacour. May I sit down?" He moved to the arm chair opposite of Fleur's.

"Certainly sir." She motioned for him to sit.

"I am afraid I must inform you that Mr. Weasley has come down with a minor hex of some sort." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled brightly. "Madame Pomfrey is up to her ears in potions and remedies. It seems that this particular hex gives the bearer a new ailment every time the previous one is cured."

Fleur raised her eyebrows. That did not sound like a minor hex. A hex like that would be extraordinarily difficult. Probably more difficult than anything any student was capable of. She tuned back into what Dumbledore was saying.

"Yes indeed it is rather misfortunate." (Fleur noted that he didn't sound at all concerned.) "I had heard that he was assigned a paper on the Veela, which included an interview. But given the circumstances, I do not think he will not be able to complete that." Fleur's mood took a turn for the better. "However, I do believe that he is able to write papers during some of the ailments that are not so awful. Yes, therefore I have concluded that if someone does the interview for him, he will be able to complete the assignment by using the notes from that interview." Fleur's mood darkened. "I had asked Mr. Potter, but he is very busy with Quiddich. The season has just begun as I am sure you are aware."

His eyes began twinkling again. "So instead I have asked Miss Granger to help Mr. Weasley out with his assignment. I hope that does not inconvenience you."

Fleur's eyes widened and her mind came to a sudden stop, before springing back to life. The conniving old geezer. No wonder he was so calm about the Weasley boy's hex. He had cast it. Fleur began to fume. The nosey match-maker, meddling where he shouldn't, sticking his nose into her business. She paused, and reprocessed. In every aspect he had just done her a great favor. She should be thanking him, a thousand times over.

A look of realization must have shown on her face because Dumbledore was smiling with that infernal twinkle in his eyes. He rose to leave. "I am sure Miss Granger will be speaking to you soon, and we must hope Mr. Weasley gets better soon." He walked to the door and paused. "Goodnight Miss Delacour, I am sure we will speak again soon…" And with that said he left.

Fleur looked at the owl that was looking at her with his head cocked. "Ben…voilà."

The night was calm as Fleur stepped out of the castle. There was hardly any wind, and it was surprisingly warm. The music was welling up inside her again. This time it was joyous, and she too felt joy as she walked out on the dock over the lake. She was reveling in the knowledge that she would be able to talk to Hermione, to give her a hint, perhaps even tell her. But that was a scary thought, and Fleur cautioned herself against being too rash. However, not even that could put a damper on her mood, and she let the music spill without reservation.

She poured into it all of her feelings of longing, lust and desire, her need, her love. It was full of both joy and sorrow, and its beauty was unmatched, even by Fleur who herself was a very picture of loveliness and beauty. Her white golden hair was free and fell about her shoulders, and her eyes were bright as the music poured from her heart.

As the music died from her lips she closed her eyes and sighed, taking a moment to quiet her rapidly beating heart. It was silent again in the night, not a sound could be heard but her own shaky breathing.

She exhaled into the silence. "Hermione…"

Hermione felt like she was burning. Her whole body felt like it was going to explode. She could feel her pulse throbbing throughout her body. She could see nothing; her vision was blinded by the brightest yellow-white-gold she had ever seen. The rational part of her mind told her she must be dreaming, because the sky was blue not yellow, and it was not possible to be this hot and not be on fire.

Suddenly the light was not only above her, but all around her, falling in silky smooth strands that caressed her body and slipped along her skin. It was then she realized she was naked, but she could not bring herself to care as the silky hair was joined by soft fingers that stroked every inch of her skin. Her senses were overloading, she could still see only bright light but it seemed that every nerve in her body was taught and quivering, jerking at the slightest touch.

In the back of her mind, the part that could still think rationally (and she was ashamed that it was only a very small part) she began to hear something in the distance. Gradually it became louder, and she found herself lost in the music that seemed to flow through her very being. It streamed through her veins and filled her body to the brim, pulsing with every beat of her heart.

The fingers that had been running over her toned stomach paused on her hips, taking time to ghost over her hip bones and dip into the sensitive hollow where her legs joined her body. From there they moved achingly slowly down to her very center which throbbed with need.

Lips that had not been there before moved to her ear whispering in a language that she could not understand, yet somehow it was the most erotic thing she had ever heard. The silky strands of hair tickled around her face and chest, adding to the sensations that surrounded her.

She cried out arching as the tips of fingers began to touch and explore her very sensitive core (which was embarrassingly wet, the ever shrinking rational part of her brain noted). Every touch brought a new eruption of sensations sweeping along her skin, raising goose bumps up and down her spine.

She panted her breath out of control as two fingers poised themselves at her entrance. Slowly they slipped in, sliding easily, filling her completely before beginning to move. She moaned, and squeezed her eyes shut, but was still blinded by the bright light.

She heard the lips by her ear part again, and they breathed in shakily before breathing out.


Thanks for reading!

The French translation for the scene with the owl is basically this: "Ah, Jean-Claude, you're late. Did you bring me a letter? I don't want to play today. Give me the letter. Now. I said now. Damn it Jean-Claude! If you don't give me the letter I'm going to-"

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