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Fleur straightens her ribbon choker in her standing mirror. The bright red knot is elegantly bold against the pale of her throat. Eye catching especially in comparison to her formal garb; a crisp white dress shirt and a pair of drab black slacks. A frill-less robe, the way Britons prefer, instead of her French hooded cloak. Fleur tuts at her own reflection, admonishing. She has stood too long in this mirror, pondering different ways to be judged. Hair up or hair down, she is still a Veela. Whatever adjudicator the Ministry of Magic’s sends will not forget that.
A knock comes at the door of her office. She turns, already knowing she is out of time.
“Yes?”
“Your appointment has arrived,” says one of the meek little secretaries that the French consulate keeps staffed in abundance.
“They are early,” Fleur remarks. She should have had more time according to the clock hands on her office wall. Perhaps their eagerness meant they had already come to a decision.
“Yes, I asked them to wait in the lobby, as per your request.”
“Thank you, sweetling, you may go.”
The little mouse bounces on the balls of her heels at her dismissal. Fleur turns one last time to the mirror. She thinks twice about her ribbon.
“Colovaria ” she intones with a point of her wand.
The ribbon turns a deep but tame navy. A safer, quieter hue all the better to help Fleur plead her case.
* * *
Fleur made arrangements to ensure the adjudicator would be preoccupied in the lobby. The reception area is so very splendid that she hoped to astound her visitor before even setting foot in front of them. The grand crystalline cand arches and chandeliers along with the sand and stone marble made the hall luminous. A serving cart of fresh hors d'oeuvres to welcome them with black olive tapenade and salmon rillettes. Center stage was the standing pristine statue of King Charlemagne's greatest paladin aboard his horse. In the knight’s grip swung the lustrous sword famed sword, Durendal; a replica which shone so brightly it could be mistaken for a torch. Opposite the grand staircase was Fleur’s most favorite feature; the cascading fountain. Its waters falling from a mist at the very ceiling to the silver basin below. It bubbled and foamed a soothing song of sea salt. This is where she finds the adjudicator, watching the waters rain down with their back turned.
“Welcome to our consulate,” Fleur beams. She steps up beside the witch and extends her hand. “I hope I have not kept you waiting—”
Fleur gasps. Standing before her is Hermione Granger. The witch takes her hand and shakes it once. “I imagine you wanted me to take my time and marvel at your lovely decorating.”
“It is a touch of home,” Fleur recovers. She clasps her hands together. “I am afraid I must ask, has there been a mistake?”
“What do you mean?” Hermione asks. Fleur is certain she is being willfully indirect. Hermione looks unpresumptuous and nonchalant beside the misting fountain. She appears different from the last time Fleur saw her. It was assuredly a Weasley family event; the spring solstice, perhaps. Her hair had been longer, freer in the spring sunshine. Now her curls are tamed by a tight sobering bun.
“We were nearly sisters,” Fleur reminds her.
“Nearly, yes, but not quite,” Hermione says primly. “The ministry selected me well aware that there is no love lost or found between us. I am capable of being perfectly impartial.”
Fleur is not sure if she believes that.
Hermione continues, “please do show me around the place. No reason we can’t be cordial.”
Walking step for step, Fleur cannot help but wonder if she is remembering Hermione wrong; none of the witch’s famed curiosity seems present in the hall. She rarely asks a question despite all the history around her. Her tone speaks only of an impatient ennui. She could be strolling a back alley with as much interest.
Fleur thinks back to that last spring spent at the Burrow. She and Bill were still parting ways in their own time, slowly detangingly possessions and saying goodbye to their romance. Perhaps Fleur in her melancholy had missed something in Hermione.
“These oil portraits feature the Occitan troubadours. Their songs were said to rival that of the Veela. This is only a myth, of course—”
Hermione stops. Finally, something to pique her interest.
“A fitting feature,” she supposes. “Considering the current ban on Veela music.”
“A ban on Veela magic,” Fleur reminds her. “An injustice against our culture.”
“A culture suspected in the harm and entrapment of British wizards.”
Fleur keeps her poise. Chin up, back straight, comes the crisp voice of her grand-mère whispering in her ear. You are a lady. You are a Veela. Law or no, no Briton would ever take that form Fleur. Her heritage and her magic belongs to her and anyone she so chooses to share it with. Fleur would fight even the likes of the fetching Miss Granger for it.
“We are here today to review the facts, no?” Fleur leads Hermione onwards. “Once I have given you the real truth, you can help the ministry withdraw their law.”
“I will keep an open mind,” says Hermione.
Fleur’s doubts about her have not receded, but she has never shied away from a challenge. Together they step into her office.
* * *
The review of the accusation is as boring and ludicrous as the first time Fleur heard it. Hermione is required by propriety and procedure to read it aloud and in depth. Clayton Bristlecone, a wizard of some minor renown, accuses one French Veela national, Emilija Fournier, of psychological torment, sexual battery, and other wanton advancements. His tale is lurid and baseless but the results are resounding. The total ban of Veela magic within the British Commonwealth enacted not a week after Bristlecone logged his complaints.
“ … in the face of these accusations, how do you choose to respond on behalf of your clan and from the position entrusted to you by your government?”
Fleur crosses and uncrosses her legs. “My rebuttal is that these are lies.”
“Is that so?”
“Egregious lies.”
Hermione almost smiles. “Have you any evidence or is this to be a short visit?”
“I had not planned for you to stay for dinner,” Fleur grins, subtle in her inviation, “but we can take as much time as we need. I even have some of Madam Weasely’s sponge cake if you are hungry.” It was intended as a harmless remark while Fleur sorted through her parchments, but Hermione’s eyes darken. A flash of something hurt crosses her eyes. “Do you… do you not like Molly’s cooking?” Fleur honestly is unsure what misstep she has taken.
“No,” says Hermione firmly. “I’ve loved her cooking since I was a girl.”
“Then we must have some.” Fleur sets aside her papers to pull out her wand. With a subtle wave, a platter arrives. The toasting charm has kept the food steaming and the glazed custard hot.
“That… that really is Molly Weasley’s treacle pudding.” From the other side of the desk, Hermione’s eyes seem too large for her face. She is truly taken aback. “She taught you the recipe?”
“Heaven’s no.” The matronly mother of Weasleys kept all her kitchen secrets closely guarded. “She dropped it off this morning. She said garde la tête haute, with very good pronunciation. Her french is much better now.”
“I didn’t know you were on speaking terms, let alone teaching her french.” Hermione has not taken her eyes off the dessert. “She doesn’t speak to me in English anymore.”
Fleur imagines Molly does not bring her treats, either.
“She did not much like me before, like many women in this country. I think she truly came to see me for who I am when Bill and I ended things. Now she accepts that Bill and I are still close. Together, or apart. In friendship or marriage.”
“I guess she held me and Ron to a different standard.” Hermione picks up her quill. Her fingers twist the skin where an engagement band had once lain. “You can put that away now. I am not hungry.”
* * *
Both feeling embarrassed, they take a minor break. Hermione returns from the washroom, falsely even-tempered and cool-toned. She does not resume sitting across from Fleur. Instead she traipses to and fro across the expanse of the office, gazing at trinkets and books on the shelves. She is inspecting Fleur’s jar of silver harp shells when at last she speaks; “If my sources are correct, Emilija Fournier is no longer in the country.”
“Non,” Fleur replies, “she has turned to Paris.”
“So if this comes to trial, we will have to extradite her.”
“It will not come to that because Emiljia did not flee justice. She grew bored by the posturing and lies. She was also not the only Veela in the country. Anaïs, Simone, Isolde, Marisol, and myself all remain, and the ban on our magic is still unfair.”
“Plenty of people were shocked when they heard you wanted to stay in England.”
Fleur watches Hermione watching her. There must be a reason for such a clever witch to stray so far from the matter at hand.
“Why would I not want to? I fought a war here. I loved a man here. I was ready to raise children here, and I still may.”
“You don’t miss home?”
She almost seems kind as she asks that. Fleur smiles from her desk.
“It does not take Veela magic to cross the sea.”
Hermione is still pacing the office. Her feet stop before arrière grand-mère’s lyre.
“Is this the instrument she used? The enchanted music that Bristlecone spoke about?”
“Not at all,” Fleur rises from her chair. “This is a personal family heirloom. Any other Veela would have used one of their own.”
“May I see it?”
“Certainly.” With a delicate touch, Fleur remove is it from its stand. It is dainty and light, despite being crafted from metal. It is hollow as a bird bone and would sing as sweetly with even the lightest pluck from its glimmering strands. The base is embellished with ocean blue jewels. Waves appear to crash inside them if one stared too closely.
“Lovely,” remarks Hermione. “But many dangerous things are.”
“My family lyre is not a danger.”
Hermone still eyes the instrument with unending suspicion. “Fleur, if I may be forcoming, you’re magic is all about enticement, the taking away of free will. If this scandal has taught the Ministry anything, it is that we need a measured and fair approach to prohibition Veela magic. I know you think this is unfair, or cruel, even. I do not enjoy outlawing any kind of magic. I fought very hard to make sure every house elf had the right to use theirs. In the end our goal should be a policy that is not discriminatory or at risk of placing wizards into vulnerable positions.”
“That is the key, the misunderstanding! Our magic is not just for men, anyone can be affected. Men, women, or no—”
“That doesnt help your case, Mademoiselle Delacour.”
“It is the truth. The witch or the wizard must be open to us. Familiar to us and our magic. A Veela’s song, it is not such as an impérieux curse. We do not control our partners, we do not make them victims!” Fleur's courtesies are slipping. Her arms are crossed and her feet stamping. It is hard to remain graceful in the face of such indignities. These British wizards hate anything they did not understand. Instead of listening, instead of learning, they turn Veela arts into something bawdy and vile.
“The married wizard in question argues otherwise—”
“He lies,” Fleur repeats for what feels like the tenth time. “Emilija did nothing to him that he did not want.”
“That is a dangerous presumption,” Hermione emphasizes, severe and serious.
“She did not accost him in the street, to use and abuse him,” Fleur argues, treading carefully. “He was her lover. They were well known too each other, frequenting many pubs in Knockturn Alley, renting rooms at the inn. She had used her magic on him many times before all for his enjoyment. He only lies now that he has been caught.”
Hermione leans back a fraction. “Delacour, you are levying an accusation you cannot take back.”
“You britons have veritaserum,” Fleur does not mention their is a much more powerful version in France, “with a few drops there will be no more perjuries.”
“We will have to hold a hearing, and potentially a trial.” Hermione looks unsure. “Did you have other evidence to submit?”
Fleur brandished her stack of parchments. “Love letters, written in in the liar’s own hand.”
* * *
Hermione Granger was a very intelligent witch. She practiced magic with well executed form, stiff and accurate in all things. Fleur could admire her attentiveness to detail and immaculate poise. However, Fleur felt some degree of pity witnessing the downside to such devotion to correctness. It would seem the young woman hated the incorrect more than the Frenchwoman could imagine. Every line and every page of every letter left her swearing under her breath, infuriated by artifice and dishonesty. At one point Hermione stood up again, still reading the incriminating letters. Without meaning too she walks fumes.
“I am beginning to see your side of things, Mademoiselle Delacour.” Hermione’s lips are a thin white line. It’s a shame. She has an exquisite face. “The only tangle of the matter is, if what you’re saying is true, an entire writ to abstain from an entire branch of magic was put into law based on fraudulence and cowardice.”
Fleur is elated in part that Hermione could render a judgement in her favor. But the way she says that word, cowardice. She spat it out like poison. Fleur takes no joy her frustration, she merely wants so desperately to know what goes on inside the head of a witch like this. Hermione, setting down the parchments at last, recasts an anti-forgery spell double checking the authentication of the signature at the bottom of the page. Nothing is amiss.
“Why have a song at all?” Hermione asks suddenly, unprompted.
“Pardon?”
“The music, the dance, why? I mean, I loved Ron to pieces, I did, but I never once wanted to sing and prance about for him.” Something gunarded inside the witch has diminished. Her face is open, her eyes bright. There it is, Fleur realizes. That famous Granger curiosity.
Feeling bold, Fleur materializes two separate bottles on her desk. Both fizzy and cold. One champagne and one sparking water. Hermione points to the latter.
“I think that it is a shame, that you do not sing for Ron.” Fleur pops the cork. “You would have a lovely singing voice.”
“You’ve won your case, Delacour,” Hermione accuses, accepting a bubbly chalice “Don’t flatter me now and don’t dodge the question. Why a song?”
“What you Britons don’t understand about Veela magic…” Fleur waits until Hermione drinks deeply from her refreshment. “You think it is about fucking .”
Hermione chokes.
Fleur hands her a napkin. She likes the flush red look over that bronze skin and those deep, dark freckles. “The reality, our magic, it is about beauty. Making a song for a partner, making them dance, making art, making love. That is our gift. That is what we bring to the world.”
“That’s all well and good,” mutters Hermione, “but women are not to everyone’s taste. So why are there no Veela men?”
Fleur fixes Hermione beneath her gaze. “Because no man can do what I do.”
Hermione laughs. Not the reaction Fleur expects. Non. Perhaps she was wrong— “Do you still have that treacle pudding?” Hermione asks, putting the thought from Fleur’s mind.
* * *
Fleur signs her statement with flourish and Hermione leaves a copy of the recommendation she will file for the consulate records while they nibble their desert. Fleur quite likes the pair of them together. Huddled at her desk, pouring over papers of import. Two young witches, primed to climb the ranks of their ministries. It is a shame they cannot be friends.
“The last thing you’ll have to do to put this unfortunate chapter behind us is submit some form of Veela magic to corroborate your claims. A demonstration with your diamond lyre—”
“Sapphire Lyre,” Fleur corrects.
“Yes, your Sapphire Lyre, in a controlled setting, perhaps. Would you be amibable to it?”
Fleur perks up. “Yes, I will give you proof. You will see only the willing come to our song. No more rumors, no more fear.”
“We will take all the precautions you’ve listed, and if you have a current paramour who is willing, we it would be useful to see the actual effects on— ”
“A lover.”
“Oh course, once we prove that some level of interest or at least existing relationship matters, your magic will be reauthorized.”
“Oooh!” coos Fleur. “Why do I not show you now? I can play for you. You will see.”
Hermione hesitates. “Fleur, I’m not sure. The magic is still banned and I can’t be seen as sanctioning it.”
“No love lost or found,” Fleur repeats with a little taunt. “You will see. It will not affect you.”
“I would be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued.”
Without much ado, Fleur picks up her lyre. She strokes the hilt and each sparkling sapphires. Light reflects back off of them in waves, like an ocean gathering.
“Beautiful,” Hermione remarks.
Fleur beams and beings. The first pluck of its strings is nothing. Soft, hollow reverberations. A tinkling noise, so delicate and small Hermione leans closer to hear it. The next chords strum faster, rolicking and free. To Fleur, the sound is color. In her eyes she paints a mosaic with every sound. One stroke is a splash of chartreuse pitch, then teal, orange and white, a vivid blooming burgundy chasing after a mauve low note. It is a recollection as much as it is a beckoning for the bliss of loving out loud.
Then Fleur sings. It is in no language Hermione would recognize. Even the Veela have forgotten its meaning outside of their poems. The words fill Fleur to brim and empty her again with longing. She feels the lightness in her lungs, a condescent pulsation between them. There is a swaying that wants to settle in her hips, her finger tips. But all the movement she registers is the figure stirring before her, reaching for her face, tipping her mouth to meet another pair of lush, pink lips.
Fleur’s continues on, feeling rapturous, delighted, bright eyed. Then she blinks, and then the wrong note plays, and the spell is over.
Fleur is left holding her lyre, confronted with the sight of Hermione Granger, half crawling up her desk. Her skirt is a rucked up mess under her knees, her chest is heaving hard.
Fleur can still taste her kiss.
“Hermione, I—”
With a shaking hand one of Hermione's fingers settle on the sapphires. The wave is crashing inside. A tidal of ruin. She draws her hand back, climbing down to right herself.
“You should put that thing away, Delacour. It’s dangerous.”
With her things in hand, Hermione marches out the door.
“Hermione! No, we must talk about this!”
Hermione does not look back. “I’ll file my report and your embassy will receive a final judgement.”
* * *
Fleur has spent too long at the office staring at her lyre. It rests on its stand, all splendor and shine. The sapphires still sparkle mischievously. The oceantide inside feels cold now. Where Fleur had always loved its wonder before, it now felt like a betrayal. Her arrière grand-mère had taken a diamantaire for a lover for many years. All his lavish gifts came with precious stones and ornaments. There had been many whispers over the years that the diamantaire was her grand-père. That when her Veela ancestor had tired of him she transformed into a harpy to eat his heart.
Vile rumors, Fleur had always supposed. Now, she thinks the real dark family secret runs much deeper.
Had the lyre been a true gift of love? Had her song truly only called the willing and the loving? Hermione Granger now mystified her. Fleur had thought her prudish refinery to be inviting, a quiet beauty beneath the tension. But the girl did not return the sentiment. Thus the song should not have affected her. And if it was all a myth, just stories Veela told themselves, then perhaps their magic was dark as an unforgivable curse.
Fleur looked at the clock. It was far too late. She was still staring at the lyre.
If she had hurt Hermione Granger, could Fleur ever forgive herself?
* * *
In her apartments, Molly Weasley bustles about Fleur’s kitchenette, dropping off more sweets and a lamb pot roast. The savory smells are inviting. Fleur feels unworthy of such kindness. Molly’s unannounced visits were partly spurred on by her son, Bill — bless his heart— who often lamented that Fleur did not eat enough within earshot of his mother. The other part was most definitely Molly’s innate guilty pleasure in snooping. The whole ordeal banning Veela magic has been a great intrigue to the Wizarding World.
Fleur has made it obvious she is to remain tight lipped on the matter, but Molly still makes herself at home, packing Fleur’s icebox. “Now, Fleur,” Molly reminds her, “the butter goes before the gravy. I know that isn’t the French way, but it is the right way—”
Fleur rises from her couch petit. The delivered spread all around them is envious and mouthwatering. Cooked vegetables, hearty potatoes, delicate sweets, and charred meat. Even a glass bowl more of the treacle pudding that Hermione had so enjoyed.
It makes Fleur’s heart hurt.
“Did I mention that I saw Hermione Granger, today?” she asks before she can think better of it. “She said she no longer sees you. I think she is lonely since Ron.”
“Hm. Well, Ron was lonely too,” Molly fusses.
“No Weasley has ever been lonesome,” Fleur argues. There were simply too many of them. “Do you know why they parted ways?”
“Ron wouldn’t say,” Molly is clearly displeased about his secrecy.
“Oh, of course, he wouldn’t,” Fleur sighs. “You’ve only raised fine young men.”
Molly takes the compliment in stride. “I suppose I could visit her. I’ve known her since she was a girl. It’s just, I always wanted more daughters.”
“Madam Weasley, you did not hear this from me, but…”
Molly leans in close.
“Hermione? When I saw her? She was like a waif. Stick thin.”
“Oh, no.” Molly is aghast.
“Yes. I do not know when she last ate a good meal.”
Like a charm, the words turn over in Molly’s mind. She bids Fluer adieu, marching home with purpose. Only a Weasley feast and irrefutable dinner invitations on her mind, no doubt.
* * *
In her miserable moping, Fleur decides to do away with the lyre. She refuses to return it to her mother. Appolline will only re-gift it to Gabrielle. In her baby sisters hands it will only lead to more heartache. Fleur cannot allow it.
Fleur supposes she could cast a curse. Destroy the thing with fire or some such. But if Fleur knows her family, and she does, then the instrument is sure to be endlessly resilient. She simply needs to hide it somewhere no one will ever find it. This is what brings her to the cascading fountain. The pool of water is deeper than the eye can comprehend. She only needs to toss the wretched thing and be done with it. It will never hurt anyone again.
Rising the lyre by the hilt, the sapphires sparkle still. The waters below gurgle hungrily. It is for the best.
“Are you really going to throw it away?” asks Hermione. Fleur startles and her fingers loosen. The clever witch beside her has her wand ready, casting deftly, “accio, lyre!” into the air. The instrumental settles in her grasp, comfortable and fearless.
Fleur is stunned.
Hermione plucks one of the silver strings. “Could we talk somewhere private?”
Fleur blinks, before clapping her hands. “Everyone go to lunch!” Fleur commands in French. The curtseying staff traipise away happily in a single fire line. Turning back to Hermione, she explains herself. “They do not do what I ask because I enchant them, it is because I am the boss.”
Hermione smiles weakly. She sits on the edge of the fountain. Tentatively, Fleur joins her.
“I did not expect to see you again. Ever.”
Hermione is still fiddling with the lyre.
“Veela magic, love making magic, it’s powerful,” Hermione muses, “but that doesn’t make it evil. My recommendation to the magistrate will be that a new arbiter is found. Dean Thomas is my recommendation and I think he would make a wonderful selection. If your magic somehow works on him, both he and his husband will be very surprised.”
“It is not so uncommon, to like both, to like more…” Fleur hints, none to delicate.
“Dean doesn’t, and I… I will recuse myself.”
Fleur nods.
Hermione keeps plucking away, brow wrinkled, concentrating. Fleur likes the sound of it, even though it is not yet a song. She waits for what else the pensive witch has to say.
“All those months ago, I had to give Ron back his ring. The one he got me, the one he saved and saved all those galleons to buy.” Hermione bows her head. Behind the curtain of her free falling hair, she seems ashamed. “It wasn’t an heirloom, not like this. It was something he tried so hard to give me, so he didn’t even want it back, not really. But I didn’t want to hold onto it. I thought if I didn’t make a show of making amends, the rest of the Weaseleys would never forgive me. My own parents, they never really forgave me for oblivating their memories and identities away. So the Weasleys, they’re my family. But Ginny and Molly didn’t care in the end. Not without a reason, not without answers to questions I wasn’t ready for.”
Hermione pulls on a string a little too hard. The discordant sound reverberates.
“Ron knows. He is the only one who knew, knew about me, about why we didn’t work out. I thought I would never tell another soul but then you played for me and…” Fleur grabs Hermione’s hands, ready to apologize. Hermione does not let her. She weaves their fingers together and draws there bodies closer. “…and then Molly invites me for dinner. Something I thought she would never do again I tell her over the shepherd’s pie that I love women. I didn’t even mean to. It just fell out of my mouth.”
There are tears in Hermione’s eyes. Fleur brushes her frizzy curls aside to tuck them behind Hermione’s ear. Her freckles are so beautiful from a closer vantage.
“The first girl I kissed was Lavender Brown,” Hermione confesses. “It was a silly dormitory room game. We kissed once for a second and she pulled away and giggled, but I wanted to keep kissing her. Then a week later she was snogging Ron around every bend in every corridor. That was its own mire of hurt and complication.”
“You don’t have to explain,” Fleur tells her in French. She is not sure Hermione understands, but she means it more than anything.
“I’ll never stop loving Ron. But there’s this whole part of myself that was hiding behind him, hiding behind the wedding gifts and the marriage and children we were supposed to have.”
Hermione hands over the lyre. The sapphires are strangely still in observance, their waters calm and clear.
“When you played for me, it was like kissing Lavender, but better. It was like that piece Ron could never touch was free. Like all of me was made into a spell that I could finally cast out loud. I know it sounds silly…”
“Non,” whispers Fleur. “It is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard. You should be careful.” She holds a fingertip to Hermione’s bottom lip. “Any more words from this mouth could be dangerous; I could very well fall in love with you.”
Hermione touches the sapphires one last time. The calm is gone. The sea between them is stirring.
“Maybe you could play for me again?” Hermione asks, sealing their fate. Fleur places a kiss to her cheek, simple, but promising. She rises and leads Hermione onward.
fin.