m. The third chapter of the story is available if you contact Dreiser directly.). Therefore, this story is set in both Rowling’s canon for the story in general and Dreiser’s canon for the seventh year of Hogwarts that was written after GoF but before OotP.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: I would like to thank Dreiser for her continual help with my fanfic, both through our conversations about the storyline and also her dedication to reading the chapters as I write them.
WARNINGS: Mild use of occasional profanity, minor angst. Violence and sexual situations. (slight non-consentual) R.
DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter and the original storyline are not mine; they belong to J.K. Rowling and Dreiser, respectively.

More polished versions of previous chapters can be found at Fanfiction.net (http://www.fanfiction.net/~dgeheimnis)


soooo this is probably not the chapter many will have been expecting. please refer to the warnings and rating as it has changed due to the nature of this chapter. there is one more chapter, which i will post in august, and an epilogue, probably coming shortly thereafter.

thank you for continuing to read and i hope that you continue to enjoy. have a great weekend.

Ch. 34: Control

Monday was fairly uneventful as Mondays go. Fleur returned to her classroom to find several bouquets, all in various stages of freshness and decay, along with several other anonymous (and not so anonymous) get well gifts.  After checking them all for love potions (only two were laced), she quickly relocated them into her office to join the other gifts she found earlier outside her locked door. And then she was able to begin her day.

She had spent her time off, among other things, correcting essays, quizzes and tests. Her lesson plans for the day consisted of returning work, going over major themes and corrections from before, and if there was time, introducing the new (and final) material for the semester. (Scary to realize that classes were almost over and finals were upon them.) Not the most exciting classes, but an easy transition back into work and the day went fast enough.

But her lover’s words, Hermione warning that Fleur needed to let her in more, had seeped under her skin, becoming a source of irritation throughout the day. Logically, rationally, Fleur knew this, knew that she should. Fleur was aware of the growing consequences of her insecurity, of her hesitations and doubts. She was not stupid (but she was scared).

And underneath the irritation, deeper down past her skin, the Nun’s Potion was slipping away, dwindling in power and potency. By the end of the day, as she was preparing to dismiss the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor sixth years, Fleur was fully aware of the changes occurring in her body and she was helpless to stop them. In the back of her mind, she knew that there were no more vials left. She had destroyed them all that morning before heading to the castle. It was just her now. And Fleur knew that left to her own devices (desires), she was not to be trusted.

During the day, Fleur had been able to distract herself with teaching. But now, with classes ending for the day, there would be little left to occupy her attentions for the rest of the evening. So it was with great reluctance that she dismissed her students for the day with one less final announcement.

“While I try my best to make myself available immediately following class and I will continue to do so, today I am unfortunately not able to. In light of this, I will make myself available for open office hours directly after dinner until eight or so tomorrow.” As Fleur spoke, she was aware of the frowns, the quiet and hushed groans of disappointment. She had deprived her enchanted fan club of yet another day with her. Which made the next thing she said even harder. “Having said that, Mademoiselle Lovegood, may I request your presence for a few minutes after class today? There is a matter I wish to discuss with you briefly.”

There were more groans, some mumbles, some shy waves goodbyes and wishes for her to feel better soon (many at least vaguely aware of the implications of these words). Ginny caught Fleur’s eye, a familiarity passed between then, and the red head smiled encouragingly.

Luna waited patiently behind in her chair, showing no surprise on her patented spacey, far off look. After the rest of the students had filed out, Fleur pulled up a nearby seat. She followed the Ravenclaw’s eyes across the classroom, trying perhaps to see what the girl was looking at.

“Strange, there appear to be no nargles in your classroom. There used to be some earlier in the year, but I don’t think they like veela charms,” Luna began.

“I…” Fleur shook her head, not sure how to respond and so finally choosing not to.  She had always found the girl to be a bit unsettling, prone to make the strangest, most random (but at times painfully spot on) comments in the classroom. She was also aware of what the other students called her—Looney Lovegood. Fleur always made a point of putting a stop to it every time she overheard it. Beyond her eccentricity, Fleur knew Luna to be actually rather intelligent and perceptive, possibly more so than most gave her credit for. Which was why Luna’s latest essay had been so frustrating to Fleur.

“Mademoiselle Lovegood, it is about your essay. You are a very intelligent girl, there is no doubt about it. However your weakness appears to lies in organization. You seem to quickly lose sight of your point mid-paragraph and wander off towards another though albeit equally interesting and important detail. Sometimes you miraculously manage to tie them all together paragraphs later, but if you intend on doing that you need to lay down a clearer road map for your readers. Without one it makes your work scattered and hard to read. It poorly illustrates your intelligence and understanding of classroom material.”

If Luna was paying attention, it was hard for Fleur to tell. The Frenchwoman had more to say, but she felt herself losing steam under the girl’s demeanor.

“Perhaps if you reread your essays before handing them in or have one of your friends go over them for you?” And as Fleur spoke, she wondered if Luna had any friends who would do this for her. The girl did not seem to collect friends after all. She knew Luna considered Hermione and her group to be friends, but Luna, as far as Fleur was aware, was never extended an invitation to her house on weekends. Perhaps she should speak to Hermione about this.  Surely having the girl there would be no less awkward than having both Parvati and Ron in the same room. Perhaps her oddity might even serve to break up a few of the more tense moments. “It pains me to have to give you such a low mark when you clearly deserve something better. Your comments in class, the points you make, I would truly wish to witness them through to their conclusions. If you ever need extra help, I am most certainly willing to help read over a draft.”

Luna studied the essay in front of her for a few minutes before looking up at Fleur. “Everything gets in the way, doesn’t it? Everything is so very complicated and more we try to simplify things the more complex they become. Organizing ramblings, taking potions for control. I wonder if we’re not careful, we’ll lose sight of what we’re working for and turn it into rubbish. Suppressing oneself is dangerous, is it not?"

Fleur blinked, completely taken aback. “Pardon?”

Whatever Luna was going to say next was interrupted with the sound of the door shutting. “Excuse me, I didn’t know you were meeting with someone.” Hermione stood in the doorway. “Luna. Hello.”

Luna smiled brightly. “Hermione.” She stood up, grabbing her bag and swinging it over her shoulder. “It’s funny, isn’t it, how the prettiest appearances are often hiding the weakest constitutions. It’s sad that there are so few veelas left. I wonder what it’d be like, dating an endangered species. I think it to be difficult.”

Fleur shifted uncomfortably. She stood up and played with the cuff of her dress sleeve. “I… yes, I imagine it is.”

“No room for mistakes. Good thing you have Hermione, who is so kind and sweet. It’s a surprise you’ve had to take a second potion,” Luna tipped her head to the side, looking across the room before drawing her hands up to cover her ears. Her eyes drawn to Luna, Fleur still did not miss the look—surprised, almost accusatory, hurt—that Hermione shot her. “I thought so. No Nargles, but Wrackspurts seem quite drawn to veelas.”

“Wrackspurts?” Hermione managed to choke out after a moment.

“What?” Luna asked, her hearing somewhat compromised by her hands blocking her ears.

“I asked what a Wrackspurt was,” Hermione repeated, louder, projecting her voice across the room and past Luna’s hands.

“They’re invisible, they fly through your ears, make your mind go fuzzy. I think I told you about them before, Hermione? They’re all over Hogwarts and there seem to be several in this room. You should be careful and guard your ears.” Luna warned them seriously, freeing one hand to whack at something in the air, presumably at a Wrackspurt zooming about the room. “Think I got it,” she smiled victoriously before skipping off past Hermione and out the door.

Hermione crossed her arms, and leaned against the door’s threshold, making sure the door was properly closed before speaking. “What was that about?”

“I… I honestly have no idea,” Fleur shook her head and stood up, mindlessly scratching an itch on her wrist. It had recently begun to bother her for some reason or another, but no amount of itching seemed to relieve the sensation. “I have never heard of a Wrackspurt until now, but apparently I should be on the look out as they are attracted to veelas. Though I am not sure how to do so, considering that they are invisible and only Luna seems to know about them.” She tried to joke as she avoided Hermione’s piercing glare. Crossing the room, she started to pack up her leather satchel. When she turned around to face her girlfriend, Hermione was looking at her rather unimpressed and displeased.  Apparently she was not amused by Wrackspurts. Fleur could hardly blame her.

“Can we talk about this tonight?” Fleur tipped her head to the side, conceding to the Gryffindor. “We truly do not have time currently.”

“Will we actually talk about it tonight or will you find yet another way to avoid it, Fleur?” Hermione sighed in annoyance, crossing her arms over her chest.

Approaching Hermione, Fleur cupped her face in her hands. For a moment relishing the dwindling effects of the potion. It felt like in many ways the first time she had touched Hermione. There was a strangeness to it, an unfamiliarity in touch, in physicality. It no longer felt natural, as if it was something that would have to be relearned. Despite the dwindling numbness, Fleur almost instinctually wanted to pull away. “You should know by now that I am too exhausted for clever ruses, mon coeur. I do not wish to have any more secrets from you. If we had time, I would tell you now, you have to trust me on this. However I am in desperate need of my check up and my potion. Pomfrey will come hunting me down if I do not report up to the Hospital Wing shortly.”

Hermione nodded with hesitation and then exhaled, only momentarily deterred. “Sometimes you are the most impossible girlfriend ever.”

Checking that her classroom door was indeed closed, Fleur rested her forehead against her lover’s. “I love you very much. And I have so much that I need to apologize for. It is not fair, I have not been fair. I know that. And I am trying to fix this.”

“Just kiss me,” Hermione interrupted.  

The Nun’s Potion still had its hold on Fleur, weak as it was, but she leaned in and kissed the brunette. Softly at first, but Hermione’s anger and frustration deepened the embrace. There was a rough quality, an urgency to Hermione that was not normally there. And as Hermione pushed Fleur against the wall, Fleur could feel the potion’s affects slowly slip from her, felt herself for the first time since she began willingly responding. For the most part. The Nun’s Potion was still there, but quieter. Which meant the hunger, the lust was getting louder, more threatening. And it frightened her, the strength of it, seemingly stronger than ever.

Breaking apart to breath, panting, Fleur rested her forehead against Hermione’s, running her hand (hungrily) down her cheek. More than anything she wanted to close the space in between their lips, but there was no time. And Fleur needed to remain in control. “I promise you, we will talk to tonight. However I need to go to the Hospital Wing. Please.”



After Hermione became a permanent fixture to Fleur’s visits to the Hospital Wing, Pomfrey allowed Hermione to wait for Fleur in the adjacent, unused private exam room instead of the hallway. As far as Fleur could tell, Hermione used the time to get started on her work. The walls were thin, though Hermione never revealed how much of Fleur’s exams she did or did not overhear. However, Fleur was sure that the brunette could at least hear the muffled irritation of Pomfrey berating Fleur for her poor physical condition.

“I just don’t understand this, Fleur. Despite all the potions, the double doses, you’re deteriorating in ways I was not made aware of were possible,” Pomfrey shook her head. Up until this point, Fleur had only been able to calm her slightly. “Frankly you are showing symptoms of physical decay that are completely unconnected to your condition on top of your already alarming downward spiral. And you are showing absolutely no concern!”

“This is merely a rough patch. I know my body. I assure you, I have this under control,” Fleur smiled as reassuringly as she could muster.  “I experienced something similar before coming to Hogwarts and look, I am still alive.” A small lie perhaps, but easier, surely, than the truth. “A little more rest, is all. Trust me.”

“That was a long time ago Fleur. You were much stronger then. What have you got under control, Fleur? Seriously.” The annoyance in Pomfrey’s voice was thinly veiled. “Tell me what you know that no one else seems to. How can I care for you when you are the only one you deem fit to know what’s going on.”

Fleur just shrugged, slipping on her dress. This was no conversation to have while in one’s peach colored slip. “Really, I am not worried. There is no need to be. I do not see why you English obsess about worrying yourself needlessly over my condition. This is a rough patch, it occurs from time to time. Matters always take a turn for the worse before they become better. I assure you once again and for the last time, as this is truly becoming a waste of both our time, that I am fine and that I will continue to be fine. I have no plans to be otherwise and no indications to contradict my beliefs. Patience in all things, hm?” (Patience in one thing, always.) “So Pomfrey if you have nothing else to say on the matter, I would kindly appreciate that you hand me my potion so I can be on my way. I trust that it is a double dose.”

“Fleur…”

“The potion, Pomfrey.” Fleur extended her hand, beckoning towards the vial sitting on the table by the nurse, adopting the no nonsense tone she occasionally had to use in the classroom. She did not have the time or the energy for this.

Exiting the room moments later, recovered from the (comforting) wretched taste, Fleur found Hermione waiting outside the door. Both their bags in hand, suspicious eyes on her.

“What was that about?” Hermione inquired.

“Not now. Please,” Fleur heard herself groaning, taking her leather satchel from Hermione. Quickly, she tried to recover, to stay calm. She absentmindedly scratched an itch (just above her right hip, no now a bit more to left, a little up, now lower). “I promise I will tell you everything tonight. Do you not trust me?”

“I…” Hermione started, almost considering going on the defensive before shaking her head. “I just want to know what’s going on.”

“And you will. Tonight,” Fleur lowered her head to catch Hermione’s eye, for the moment ignoring (the hurt) that Hermione did not answer her question, did not say whether she trusted Fleur or not. “I have to go lie down. I am dreadfully weary. Accompany me for part of the way?”

Hermione nodded silently, following alongside as Fleur made her way out of the Hospital Wing. But as they walked slowly, Fleur found herself regretting the invitation, found herself quickening the pace. While the two had fought before, this was a new sensation, a new tension (an old tension only stronger). A wedge of irritability seemed to be in place, even in mundane conversations, and the two lovers began snapping at each other.

“I’m not saying that you’re right or wrong, I’m just saying you’re potentially consulting an erroneous and out of date translation,” Hermione explained with an edge to her voice as they turned a corner away from the Great Hall.

“Potentially erroneous and out of date translation? I am referring to the original French manuscript,” Fleur protested, her frustration clearly evident in her voice.

“Then maybe it is your own translation skills at fault,” Hermione stated calmly. “Or your interpretation of the truth and what is actually important in the text.”

“Hermione, please,” Fleur sighed in exasperation.

“What? All I’m saying is—“

“I know. Please. Let’s not do this.” Fleur ran her hands through her blonde hair, allowing her exhaustion to overcome her irritation.

“You probably should listen to her, Hermione,” Luna had seemed to appear out of nowhere. Though considering their proximity to the Great Hall, the girl was probably merely on her way to dinner a little early.

“What?” Hermione whipped around to face the younger girl. “Excuse me?”

“Pardon?” Fleur blinked, surprised as the sudden appearance and at the younger girl taken her side.

“Oh dear, the Wrackspurts,” Luna observed gravely, as she once again began hitting the empty air. “They’re attracted to compromised constitutions, much easier to breed confusion, which is why they are attracted to veelas. The affects of the veela charms, but also to the tumultuous time before the courtship ritual is completed I believe. A Wrackspurt in the ear now could prove to be deadly. Do be careful.”

“Luna, there is no such—“ Hermione started, and then stopped herself.

“You should be careful not to create more aggravation for someone in her condition. Fleur has a great many worries, as all veelas do during this point in the ritual," Luna advised. "It is really very sad that there are only so few left. I always wondered why, but perhaps now I understand a little better."

For a moment, Fleur and Hermione simply stared at Luna, who turned on her heel and headed off towards the Great Hall, periodically hitting the air as she went. Fleur itched her forearm furiously—the itching that began earlier was only intensifying—before, embarrassed, trying to cover up the redness caused by her ministrations with the palm of her hand.

“What was she talking about?” Hermione turned her attention back to her girlfriend after watching the Ravenclaw round the corner, nearly running into a first year Slytherin in the process. Fleur opened her mouth, but Hermione interjected and did nothing to hide her exasperation. “Tonight, I know. Always tonight.”



Hermione arrived slightly earlier than usual that evening, not that surprising considering. If Fleur had more of her right mind about her, she would have known to expect this. (Though perhaps part of her wished for an unruly first year, a particularly tricky essay to hold her girlfriend up just a little longer—not too much, mind you. Just enough to pull herself together.)

Fleur had spent the time since their tense, terse goodbye unproductively. She had tried to focus, to distract herself by working on lesson plans. But there was no point as she had most finished them for the remainder of the semester while recuperating. The house was spotlessly clean and there was almost nothing for Fleur to kill time with as she waited nervously.

Perhaps, though, that was for the best. As time passed, she became more and further aware of the Nun’s Potion leaving her body. It become increasingly clear that even if there was something she had to do, it would be doubtless that she would be able to do it. The Nun’s Potion would not relinquish its hold on her body quietly. She broke out in a cold sweat, her body alternating between hot and cold flashes. The tickling and crawling sensation that ran deep underneath her skin past the reach of her fingers only worsened with time. She chased the sensation across her body, over most of her skin, never reaching a sense of relief. Instead her efforts only left progressively stronger trails of raised, red skin displaying where her fingers had been before and where she would probably be again. At some point earlier on in the evening, she had tried to force herself to eat dinner but the mere smell of food nauseated her. What little she managed choke down did not stay down.

And so, when Hermione port keyed in, that is how she discovered her lover, curled up in a ball slumped against the bathroom wall next to the toilet. Fleur had just brushed her teeth from the last wave. And while she was fairly confident that was it was over, she did not feel like testing that theory too much. And the cool tile was comforting, soothing. Centering.

Hermione leaned up against the threshold of the bathroom door, crossing her arms, more annoyed than observant for the moment. “I have been calling your name, why didn’t you answer? What are you doing in here, hiding?”

“I am not feeling well,” Fleur rubbed her face, running her hand over her mouth, trying to wipe away any signs of her sickness, checking to see if everything was in proper order, before trying to sit up properly. It was not lost on her, this reversal, the time when it was Hermione who hid from her, outside the Hospital Wing before Fleur had first truly declared her heart, her intentions. How things had changed since then. (And how things had stayed the same.)

“A clever ruse to get out of talking?” Hermione quipped and Fleur flashed her a look. And as Hermine’s eyes fully considered Fleur’s curled up figure on the bathroom floor, compassion flashed across her face. “You really are ill.” She unfolded her arms across her chest.

“I have been since I was seventeen, I thought you knew that. I have not been pretending all this time, mon coeur.” Fleur leaned her head against the wall and looked up at the ceiling before rolling her head to look back on her lover, allowing her exhaustion to fully show through for a moment.

“Fleur. You know what I mean.”

Fleur nodded slightly. “It is hard to keep all this illness straight. However, yes, I think the most recent of it has passed for now. I just brushed my teeth, however I hope you do not take it personally if I might wish to skip past the hello kiss just for tonight.”

“Oh, Fleur,” Hermione sat down on the floor next to Fleur and touched her leg comfortingly. “For some reason, I never pictured you, well…. Though I suppose it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“My body is the same as everyone else’s, Hermione,” Fleur rested her head on her girlfriend’s shoulder. When Hermione allowed the gesture of affection, something the Frenchwoman was truly nervous about, Fleur showed no inclination of moving. In a way feeling, touching Hermione as before was as disconcerting, if not more, than the numbness. And Fleur found that she somehow strangely missed the frustrating distance created by the potion, the safety, the wall of defense found within it. As if something was missing in all of this reality of actually touching her lover.

“Not exactly, Fleur,” Hermione exhaled slowly.

“No. My legs are a little nicer than most, though perhaps not as shapely as yours, I must admit. And my breasts, if I can say so myself, are not that bad. Actually I am rather pleased with how they filled out, personally,” Fleur grinned shakily. “Though, at times, I fear they might a bit uneven upon closer inspection. Though this is not something I have been able to verify. The right, I believe, is a little larger which is perhaps why you favor it so?”

“Cute. Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you, Fleur?” Hermione pressed on, not allowing for distraction, though blushing slightly. And it wasn’t that she sounded angry so much as extremely worried. It was this more than anything that shook Fleur into the honesty she had promised.

Fleur lifted her head off her girlfriend’s shoulder. She inhaled and held the breath in for a moment before releasing it. “I made a bad decision after you left last week. Worse, perhaps, than I could have foreseen. However at the time I honestly did not think I had any other choice and even now I do not quite… but the choice has had some… unforeseen consequence.”

“Fleur, what are you talking about?” The nervousness, the worry, was only rising in the brunette and Fleur knew it was not bound to get any better any time soon.

“I have…” Fleur bit her lip and looked down. “I have been anxious about my ability to control myself around you. I believe I might have mentioned this, yes?”

“Control yourself?” After meeting Hermione’s parents, Fleur was now able to see parts of them, little idiosyncrasies and tone inflections, within the brunette.

“Physically, yes, you are right, I am different from most people, from most bodies.  The need for the courtship ritual… it is different from human lust and arguably stronger, more pervasive, especially after being sealed. Or so I imagine. And even before, I admit, I have been having trouble controlling myself around you, physically.” Fleur looked down, embarrassed. She closed her eyes tightly, ashamed of her weakness. “Hermione, I am so utterly frightened of rushing you into something you are not ready for, something you do not want. And I did not know how to contain it, how to contain myself, to prevent this from happening and so,” Fleur buried her face in her hand, frightened of Hermione’s reaction. “I apologize. I… there is this potion, it dates back into the medieval times. Originally used to control daughters’ sexual urges, it has been out of fashion for centuries and has mostly been forgotten. Except in veela communities, some use still remains. It has been a bit more… effective than I thought it would be.”

“This the potion Luna was talking about?” Hermione’s tone caused the hairs on the back of Fleur’s neck to stand up on edge. It was hard to splice apart the anger, the fear, the hurt in her words. It was more of a statement guised as a question.

“Luna is smarter and more perceptive than I think most give her credit for, I am afraid. Though how she knew… I brewed it the morning you left with your parents. I believe in my exhaustion, I might have… or perhaps the potion is naturally this pervasively effective and debilitating. Or maybe it is the physical state I already find myself in. There are too many factors and potions were never my specialty. I honestly do not know.” Fleur bit her lip, not able to look Hermione in the face yet, settling instead on the brunette’s hand on her knee. There was comfort, there was love in that gesture. “I apologize for the deceit, but the point of the potion was not to rush you. If you knew… I apologize. I wish only for matters to progress naturally and at a pace that is comfortable for you.”

“Because drugging yourself to suppress your desires is completely natural Fleur. Sometimes I want to know what your deranged definition of natural and normal really is. But you drugging yourself? I don’t want that, you should know that. That’s the last thing I want. How could you even think that I… for a week you’ve been… this is why you’ve been so distant? All this time… and on top of that this potion is making you sick?” The frustration (the hurt) was rising in Hermione’s voice. “Don’t you trust me enough that I’d know when I’m ready, that I wouldn’t let anything happen if I wasn’t? Fleur, you have to promise me that this stops now. Or I… I don’t know what. It just has to stop now.”

“Hermione, you—“ But Fleur bit back the words on her tongue. It would do no good to tell Hermione that she did not understand. And maybe it was Fleur who did not quite understand. (But what she did know was veela strength, strength of need and physical strength, she had it still underneath her weakness and exhaustion.) “After I took the final dose this morning, I destroyed the remainder. There is none left for me to take. That is actually perhaps the reason I am so ill now.”

“You’re going through withdrawal? It’s only been a week,” Hermione’s eyes moved over Fleur’s body, following Fleur’s hand as it reached out and furiously scratched her reddening forearm. Judging, examining. “Merlin, your skin, you’re…”

“It itches. My whole skin, underneath… it itches. I cannot… it will not stop.” Fleur buried her face in her knees, forcing herself to stop scratching. “Hermione, I have been sick for quite some time. I made a slight misjudgment. But I stand by my intentions. Soon, I trust, I will be fine again.”

“Intentions or not, I have never seen you in this bad of shape before.  And what’s fine for you Fleur? You keep trying to hide it, but I notice. I love you and all I am doing is watching you deteriorate as you push me away. Fleur how sick are you? Even before you took this potion, how sick were you?” And when Fleur did not answer right away, Hermione pressed. “How ill are you, Fleur? Tell me! How ill are you?”

Fleur looked away, her eyes drawing to the corner of where the walls met the floor. “Incredibly.” Her voice was soft and defeated.

Hermione wrapped her arms around the curled French woman, her hands finding Fleurs and clasping them softly within her grip, preventing the older woman from returning to scratch her skin. “Fleur, why do you do this to yourself? If you just let me in… I don’t know if you’re trying to protect me or what, but you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep shutting me out and going at everything alone. It has to stop. You have me now.” Hermione kissed her softly on the forehead. “I love you, you need to trust in that. I will always be by your side if you let me.”

Fleur looked up as she felt Hermione’s lips press again against her forehead en route to meet her girlfriend’s lips. But out of habit, out of awareness of her poor breath last minute she redirected and kissed Hermione’s cheek. Pulling back, she held her hand over her mouth cautiously.

“Fleur…”

“I just… I brushed my teeth, but I have been…” Fleur looked down, speaking through the hand over mouth. “I love you too much to kiss you like this.”

“You are the most peculiar woman, if only your fan club knew. But no, I like being your secret keeper in that regard and having you all to myself.” As Hermione spoke, nearly a whisper tickling Fleur’s face, she took a strand of her lover blonde’s hair within her hand, twisting it back and forth between her index finger and thumb. “How are you feeling now?”

Fleur shrugged slightly. “Better, I suppose. Look, Hermione, I truly am sorry.”

“Why don’t we get you to bed?”

Fleur looked away. “About that, perhaps, considering, I should sleep alone tonight… I do not wish to keep you up and I will surely not be much of a bed companion tonight.”

Hermione sought Fleur’s eyes, her gaze commanding. Despite this, there was sweetness, an underlining tendernesss to her tone. “No. There's no more pushing me away, Fleur. You’ve been going at this alone for far too long. I will not be denied the right to take care of my girlfriend. And if you have a problem, I’m sorry. Actually, no. I’m not sorry. Deal with it. I love you.”

And so Fleur fell in and out of sleep, alternating between shivering and breaking out into a sweat, encircled lovingly in Hermione’s arms through it all. Spooning Fleur tenderly, the brunette held Fleur’s hands in such a manner to prevent Fleur from wreaking further havoc upon her sensitive skin. A few times in the night, Fleur awoke with the realization, with the sensation of Hermione running her hands delicately through her hair or kissing her shoulder. And Fleur had no idea what she had done to deserve someone who loved her this much. Not that she had been fully forgiven, Fleur knew that. But in the quiet of the night, Fleur found comfort in her girlfriend’s surprisingly strong arms.



By Wednesday most of the withdrawal had worked it way through Fleur’s body. While Monday night was by far the worst, some effects lingered on through Tuesday. But by Wednesday, it was mostly the remembrances left, her skin recovering from days of itching. Despite the warmth, Fleur was restricted to long sleeves until the redness receded—for vanity, privacy and professionalism. Fleur took to taking her potion twice a day, and doubling the one she took in the morning, sometimes doubling the evening dose as well. It seemed to help, if only by giving her a little extra strength to endure the dwindling affects of her admitted stupidity.  However in some ways the itching, waves of nausea and slight mood swings were in the end preferable to Hermione. Supportive though Hermione was, as patient and loving as she was, Hermione was also hurt and frustrated by what had caused this turn of events. Something she was not shy about making abundantly clear at every opportunity. But by Wednesday, matters seemed to have improved significantly. Fleur’s body was almost fully recovered and Hermione was beginning to forgive Fleur. 

Wednesday evening Hermione had port keyed over early, as was becoming her habit to check in on Fleur. On Tuesday she had left again briefly to complete her Head Girl duties, but today she assured Fleur that she did not need to return. Settling in for the evening, the two lovers sat across from each other at the small kitchen table drinking chamomile tea and discussing the day. A simple enough moment, pleasurable and beautiful in itself.

However Fleur had a hard time concentrating. While Hermione was describing an amusing anecdote about Ron getting kicked out of the library, all Fleur successfully managed to truly pay attention to was the rhythmic rising and falling of Hermione’s breasts. Fleur could barely keep her eyes from (overtly) hungrily (and repeatedly) raking over her girlfriend’s body. As much as she wanted to listen, the seductive quality of her girlfriend’s lips were speaking louder than the words they were forming. The blonde barely knew when to laugh or respond to her lover’s story.

And so, Fleur looked down as Hermione spoke, as opposed to her usual attentiveness, and quietly sipped her tea, biting back her desires. Crossing her legs, trying to run her grocery list through her head, perform basic mathematical equations. She smoothed the creases in her skirt. Anything to distract herself from her urges. But even just listening, Hermione’s voice had a powerful affect on Fleur. Was this why she had taken the Nun’s Potion in the first place, her maddening desires? Fleur barely knew how to function in Hermione’s presence.

“Fleur, are you okay?” Hermione placed down her tea, slowly becoming aware of her girlfriend’s strangeness.

Fleur looked up from her tea, “Hm?”

“You seem a bit… distant.” Hermione regarded her warily.

“Tired, is all,” Fleur spoke, her voice becoming flustered as she tried to hide what was going on inside her. She averted eye contact. She avoided even looking at her. Instead her eyes fell to her teacup.

“Fleur…” Hermione started and then sighed, giving up on whatever she was about to say. “Should we clean up and go to bed?”

Fleur paused, she hesitated, she bit her lip. If sitting across a table was this maddening for her, how would it be to sleep next to Hermione? The warmth of her skin, the swell of her breasts, her collarbone peeking just above the loose neck of her nightshirt in the most alluring manner…

And when she did not answer, Hermione examined her slightly. “Fleur?”

“Sorry, I… I suppose I am a bit distracted tonight,” Fleur placed down her teacup. She did not know how she would be able to sleep next to Hermione and not…

“Distracted, by what?”

Fleur looked to the side, running different answers through her mind and finally settling on the truth. “By how much I want you right now.”

“I am right here,” Hermione responded, her voice bold, unhesitatingly.

“You do not understand how—“

“Then show me,” Hermione stood up from her seat, her eyes challenging her lover.

Fleur was aware of every step the brunette took, every movement she made, how every muscle moved as she lowered herself onto Fleur’s lap. And Fleur, Fleur was helpless to watch. But not entirely as helpless as she hoped (as she thought). As she reached up, grasped up girlfriend by the neck and brought her lips down to hers. Hermione opened her mouth willingly welcoming in Fleur’s tongue, groaning into the blonde’s mouth. Her hand’s roaming, running in circles as they explored known (and lesser known) territory across Fleur’s body. Over her stomach, down her sides, across her arms, circling closer and closer to Fleur’s breasts. Teasing.

And soon Fleur grew restless, grew frustrated with kissing (merely kissing). It wasn’t enough. With Hermione, it was never enough. She wanted more. Deeper. Forward. More. More. More. Now. Her body urging her forward. Forward into Hermione. She needed to be so much closer to Hermione’s body, she needed so much more of her body. Their bodies were too far apart and Fleur put all her effort into closing this gap. With each touch, with every second she only craved for more. Grasping, clinging to Hermione’s body.

Her hand slipped beneath the hem of Hermione’s shirt, having first untucked the garment from the rest of the school uniform. Without a moment to pause, to relish the feel of Hermione’s skin, Fleur’s fingers found her breast, slipped underneath her bra and traced their way up to the younger woman’s nipple. Frustrated by its restrictive nature, Fleur quickly pushed the bra aside, out of the way of her attentions.  Fleur grinned as Hermione arched her back further against her, into her, further into her touch, moaning and gripping the blonde all the tighter. In response Hermione lightly bit Fleur’s lower lip.

Up until this point, their embraces had been of an exploratory nature with an underlining of hunger. But now it was all coming to the forefront, overwhelming and consuming. Fleur wished she could catch Hermione’s eyes to see if she was okay, to see if it, if this was okay. To see if they were together in this. It was new territory and Fleur wanted, needed to know if this was okay. They were hovering, circling with growing impatience, around what she needed so badly. And Fleur needed to know if this was truly what they both wanted in this moment.

But Hermione’s hands ran through her hair, pushing, pulling her head close, closer. Holding her there, kissing her deeper and deeper. She was aware of her desire for Hermione, so long a caged animal threatening to finally break free. Distantly, Fleur felt it slipping away past her fingertips and into the forefront of her affections. And yet, despite this, because of this, she could not bring herself to pull away.

“Merlin, I’ve missed touching you like this.” Hermione broke away from Fleur’s lips, turning her attention down her bare neck. Her teeth grazed the sensitive skin, tracing Fleur’s sloping neckline, nibbling briefly on Fleur’s collarbone.

“Careful…” Fleur’s voice more of a breath, a whisper.

“You bruise easily,” Hermione observed in between lingering kisses and soft nips on Fleur’s neck, missing, in part, Fleur’s warning.

Whatever else Fleur was trying to say was lost as her breath hitched, as Hermione moved down lower still, finding Fleur’s breast, her nipple through her clothes. Fleur’s back arched as if she was a puppet pulled by the strings of her desire, of Hermione’s hands, Hermione’s lips. Soon, it, they became a hazy loss of control, of skin, of tongues, of sensation, maddening sensation. And it was never enough and Fleur only wanted more.

Fleur barely noticed the first change, from the chair to the kitchen floor. And if pressed, she would not be able to reenact exactly how it occurred, though she was sure it was through her guidance.

The second change, the transformation, though arguably much larger, she noticed even less (but would later remember far more clearly than the first).  Strange, considering how hard it is to not notice one’s physical form shifting.

And the final change, only moments later, in mood was lost on Fleur. She had already lost her grip on any control or awareness of her actions, of their consequences. Of the reactions. Her body became solely her hunger, her desperation, her fear (her love, mutated by urgency). So she was aware of nothing, but her body, but the body of Hermione. And even then, she was barely aware at all, lost completely to some inner creature of desire.

Until she felt a sharp pain across her face and in her stomach that brought her back to reality, aware suddenly that this was the second time. Instinctually she pulled away and sat up suddenly, her hand withdrawing to nurse her throbbing cheek. And as she did so, she returned to witness a scene she had caused, a scene she would never forget, a scene that cut straight to the heart of her.

Hermione on the floor, arm covering, protecting her chest, a ripped shirt. Her eyes fearful, panicky. A shallow scratch on her face, blood slowly welling to the surface. “Fleur, I… I said stop.” Voice shaky.

The familiar sensation covered Fleur’s skin as she felt herself switch back into her human form. The claws—her claws—receding to reveal her human hands underneath. (When had she…? And the scratch on Hermione’s face, she did that. How?)

(She knew how. How she wished she didn’t.)

Fleur’s heart stopped dead in her chest as she slowly, clumsily removed herself from on top of the brunette. Pushing herself away across the floor, a safe distance where she could do no further harm, alarmed. She could find nothing. She could form no words. Not even a syllable, not even an I to stutter out into the suffocating, deadening silence. Too stunned, sitting a distance away, becoming more and more aware of what had just transpired. She had gone too far. She had a piece of Hermione’s shirt in her hand.

Slowly, jerkily, trying to hold her shirt together, Hermione stood up leaving Fleur on the floor. She took a step back, steadied herself against the kitchen table. “I… you…” A moment passed when Fleur could feel Hermione’s eyes on her, but now more than ever Fleur could not look up and face the girl she loved. She had gone too far. In that moment she had revealed herself to be despicable. “What happened with you…? I said stop. I said stop. Didn’t you hear me? And you… you…” Hermione’s voice was weak, desperate, pleading in its softness. “I said stop. I said stop.” And with each time Hermione repeated herself, there was a new form of pain, confusion, desperation, anger present, revealed.

And still there was nothing Fleur could say. There was no apology, no excuse. There was nothing and so Fleur said nothing. She looked to the floor, subconsciously gripping a piece of Hermione’s shirt, jaggedly, hastily and carelessly torn. More than anything Fleur wished she could have stopped. She wished she could have heard Hermione’s pleas. Wished that she could control herself enough so Hermione would never have had to say stop. Wishing so many things, all impossible in that moment.

The room was filled with deadening, uncomfortable silence. And then?

And then Fleur heard Hermione’s footsteps, slow and hesitating at first.  But quickly picking up speed through the parlor, loudly echoing down the hall.

And then the door, shutting her in, shutting her out. Fleur cringed as the slam reverberated across her house.

And then she was alone on her kitchen floor (she dared not look at the family portraits) staring at the small piece of ripped white fabric.

Alone on her kitchen floor, it all began to come back to Fleur. What occurred in between her losing control and Hermione’s footsteps, the door slam. The shift into her veela form, Hermione saying first soft then louder pleading, demanding. “Stop. Fleur stop. Fleur! Stop! STOP!” Her struggles underneath her, the slap, the knee to the stomach, and then the harder punch. Thankful Hermione had managed to stop her when she did. Fleur gripped her face, pulled her hair as it all came back to her. Her worst fear had come true.

Her limbs trembling, Fleur pulled herself up into a standing position. Almost immediately, she turned over the kitchen table in frustration with as much force as she could muster letting out a cry of agony. The tea cups, the sugar bowl, the cream pitcher, the small dish of Hermione’s favorite biscuits, they all flew across the room, shattering on impact, scattering across the kitchen floor. She then stood on the dripping, crumb covered floor.

She was a monster; she knew this now. And she knew what to do next. Finding the port key, it was easy to accio it into the fire place. She watched the pages of Hogwarts, A History blackening and curling upon itself.  It was mesmerizing to watch it burn, to witness the destruction of the portkey. But that was only the first step and she did not need to consult the books in her kitchen cupboard to know what to do next or how.