Hermione could feel the dark magic before she could see it. Her steps faltered as they approached the front door, the hairs on the back of her neck and along her forearms standing on end. Fleur looked back as she began to open the door, obviously sensing that the other witch was no longer right behind her.

"Je sais," Fleur nodded her head sympathetically, her lips pressed together and her eyes downcast, "I feel it too. I felt it coming as 'ee approached the 'ouse returning 'ome. It is powerful magic…" she trailed off, turning once more to face the door. Hermione closed the distance between them, and she saw Fleur's shoulders rise and fall with what she knew must be a steadying breath before the blonde-haired witch pushed the door open.

The Delacour's house was a marker of their station and their lack of Puritan heritage; large, ornately decorated, warm, and welcoming. The house opened into an expansive kitchen that was bathed now, only in silvery moonlight, but Hermione imagined it was probably warm and sunny during the daylight hours. Fleur hung her coat and the rest of her outdoor garments on a rack just inside, and Hermione followed suit. Fleur was clad in a simple cotton dress of cerulean blue that puffed slightly at the shoulders. The dress had a high collar, fastened by a line of buttons that ran all the way down between her breasts. The Frenchwoman reached up and undid the three buttons of her collar, and several more of those that trailed down her sternum, mindlessly swiping the fabric apart and taking a deep, relieved breath. The freshly revealed flesh looked like the finest white marble in the grey light of the wee morning hours, and Hermione found her gaze lingering there.

"Mademoiselle Granger, are you alright?" She was snapped from her reverie by Fleur ducking her head to catch Hermione's gaze, eyebrows arched inquisitively, a small smile playing along full, rosy lips.

"Hmm?—Oh, yes, yes," Hermione felt herself blush furiously and busied herself with picking up her bag which she had placed on the floor while she took off her coat. "Can you show me to your father, please?"

"Bien sûr," Fleur nodded curtly, but Hermione noticed her lips were tucked under, clearly attempting to wrestle down a smirk. The two set off through the house, Fleur delicately flicking her hands at each wall-mounted lantern as they passed, the wicks bursting into flame as she did so. Hermione took admirable note of this skillful, non-verbal magic. Besides herself, Bridget, and her mother, she had never encountered another witch who so adeptly cast magic without vocalizing a spell. But, then again, she had never met a witch like Fleur Delacour before. As they exited the living room, now well-lit with a fire roaring in the hearth thanks to Fleur, a chill skated up Hermione's spine. She could feel the magic that was on the other side of the door that they now stood in front of. Fleur turned to her,

"Are you ready?" she asked, her eyes locking with Hermione's.

"As I'll ever be," Hermione said, trying to keep her voice calm and level, as much for her own confidence as for Fleur's. Fleur opened the door and entered; Hermione tight on her heels. As they broke the plane of the door, Hermione caught sight of Fleur's father in the dim candlelight; he was a short, thickly built man with an equally thick mustache. The greater portion of his hair had gone with age, but time had yet to touch what was clearly a hardy, hardworking frame. He was strapped to a chair by heavy ropes wrapped around his trunk, pinning his arms to his sides just above his elbows. Fleur's mother, a blonde, beautiful witch, even taller and fairer skinned and haired than Fleur, was speaking to him pleadingly in French, tears streaming down her face. Her left forearm was wrapped thickly with gauze which blossomed red in the middle as the blood from whatever wonld lay underneath continued to weep. Hermione watched as over and over, she tried to approach him gently and he kicked out at her with his legs, snarling vicious words back at her in French.

"'Ee is not normally an angry man." Hermione's heart ached with a pang of pity at the sadness tinting Fleur's voice.

"We will set him straight." Hermione strode forward purposefully, extending the outstretched hand that was not holding her bag placatingly towards Madam Delacour. "What is your mother's name, and does she speak English?" she called over her shoulder, as the tall woman before her appraised her unsurely with tear-swollen deep, blue eyes.

"'Er name eez Apolline and yes, she speaks Eenglish," the woman spat as she looked down her aquiline nose, her jaw set angrily. Her accent was much thicker than Fleur's but, there was no doubt that she was a fluent speaker, and Hermione felt her face redden.

"My deepest apologies, Madam Delacour, I meant no offence," Hermione offered, "but please, may I look at your arm before I help your husband, see if I might be able to stay the bleeding?" The older witch sniffled lightly, still looking thoroughly unamused with the young woman before her, but held her arm out, nonetheless. Hermione smiled in what she hoped was somehow a simultaneously apologetic and reassuring manner, and gently grasped the other woman's hand. She placed her bag on the ground, and began to unwrap the dressing, going slowly as not to pull on any flesh that might now be stuck to the damp material encasing it. "What happened?"

"Fabien came 'ome, 'ee was not 'imself," the older witch's voice was thick with barely held back sobs, her eyes welling at the memory. "'Ee came into our bedroom, and set ze bed alight. I can only assume zat 'ee thought I was in ze bed, but I 'ad gotten up for a glass of water. When I came into ze room, 'ee 'exed me," she nodded down at her arm, "I cried out, trying to get 'eem to stop, but 'ee 'ad zis faraway look in 'is eyes. Fleur 'eard me yelling and she came running and between ze two of us, we were able to restrain 'im. Zat eez when I sent 'er to fetch you." Her voice cracked as she finished, and a tear rolled down her face. Fleur stood beside her now, lovingly rubbing the arm Hermione was not engaged with. Apolline leaned into the touch, reaching out and entwining her fingers with her daughter's. As Hermione removed the last bit of gauze, she heard Fleur gasp and it was barely within her power not do so herself. A six-inch gash ran down the center of Apolline's forearm. The muscle was exposed in layers; the flesh was torn and ragged, indicating that the hex had mimicked a slow, painful wounding with a dull, serrated object. Less efficient, slower, magic, easier to defend (had you been prepared to be attacked by your own husband) but more painful, more dangerous, more difficult to heal. It would leave a scar.

"This is going to hurt," Apolline nodded resolutely, drawing herself upright with a deep steadying breath. Hermione saw Fleur squeeze her mother's hand, say something softly to her in French, and wrap her other arm tightly around her shoulders. Hermione placed her left hand firmly underneath Apolline's forearm, gripping it tightly. She hovered her right hand over the wound and looked up, catching Apolline's visage, eyes dark, the lines of her face somehow more angular, hard, even bird-like in the dull-light, but the older witch nodded and Hermione could see the taught muscles along her jaw clench and flex. Hermione clamped her hand down over the wound and the blood was instantly hot against her palm. She could feel it. The dark magic lingering in the witch's flesh was vile, swelling, hateful. Be careful, my love. No sooner had it come, then her mother's voice, ringing with fear, was drowned out by Fleur's shriek of "Maman, non!" and the feeling of Apolline's other hand, closing like a vice, around Hermione's throat.