A/N: A lot of character building in this chapter. The next chapter is where the fun begins. As always, thanks for reading/favoriting/reviewing. And enjoy. :)

Disclaimer: I do this only for my own amusement.

Chapter 12

This night would mark the 100th anniversary of the Delacour Tempêtes de la Nuit grande ball. One of the most lavish events of the year; known far and wide to have forged relationships and unite Veela clans under the umbrella of fellowship and camaraderie. There would be expensive designer-made dresses and wines that would easily exceed the cost of one such dress. There would be dancing in ritzy 4-inch heels and drunken laughter that would get waved off with the flippancy of a well-manicured hand. Speeches would be made and glasses would collide in recognition of all the Veela had accomplished that year together with the promises of how they would do better and become closer in the next. This would be a night to celebrate. This would be a night to remember. Because this would be the night that the Matriarch to the Delacours would be challenged to the death.

A storm was rapidly approaching, and with each passing minute, it became more and more evident that someone wouldn't be making it out alive.

Had Hermione had any real say in the matter, she wouldn't have resorted to death. But she also wasn't going to even pretend to understand the intricacies of Veela culture. As barbaric as challenging someone to the death may have seemed at the time Fleur first proposed it to her, the English witch quickly came to recognize the complete lack of reasonable alternative solutions.

The ultimate goal was to stop the Grand Matriarch—which was no easy feat. They couldn't just snoop around in the shadows, the two of them, and quietly relieve the powerful woman of her reign. Not without getting caught. And they most certainly couldn't just up and challenge her directly. She would be far too powerful an opponent. This wasn't just some random Veela underdog. This was a highly regarded figure among a number of Veela clans—who very clearly had no issue whatsoever with disposing of those who got in her way. And being in the position she was in, she possessed one of the greatest securities a leader could have: the loyalty of her people. That was where her power lies. In the loyalty of her followers. Which would be too monumental of an obstacle for just two rather insignificant-in-the-grand-scheme-of-things people. For the blonde's claims about the Grand Matriarch to be taken seriously, she too would have to be in a position of power. She would need even a fraction of the loyalty that the Grand Matriarch had. But the young blond Veela was no fool. Even the simplest of minds knew that just the slightest attempt to steal away the peoples' loyalty from a reigning monarch would be considered a challenge. It would be an act of treason. Fleur would need an army.

While the Grand Matriarch was still—and for the time being would remain—unattainable, Hermione would never forget the look in the young Veela's eyes as she said with firm resoluteness that she would challenge her own Matriarch to the death. It was the look of someone that knew they were about to lose something; something precious—though it wasn't clear what exactly that might be. Innocence? Life? A heart? Because more often than not, a person can't possibly realize they've lost something until it's gone. A sad fact of life that hung listlessly in the woman's decisive stare.

It's unfortunate that she would have to lose whatever it was at the gala in front of all of her family and friends. But she had insisted that a challenge would not be a challenge if it was not done in this way—for all to witness.

They had a plan. It wasn't ideal and it would most certainly have consequences. But it was a plan. And that was far more than they had had the day before. Be that as it may, there was still one glaringly loud thought that had been nagging at the forefront of Hermione's mind.

"I'm not sure I understand what my role is in all of this. I don't understand how any of this is going to solve our other issue—the issue that everyone around us has been so presumptuously hell-bent about bringing up the last few weeks—about you and me and mating," she had said earlier that afternoon as they lounged around lazily in bed and hashed out the details of their plans for that evening.

Fleur sat up from her spot in order to better look at the other woman as she spoke. Blue eyes burned into brown with the innate desire to brand them into memory, "Mamour, but of course this affects you. You 'ave to look at it this way. As it stands, the current Matriarch makes and up'olds the rules within the clan. It is because of this and my fear for your safety that I 'ave not been able to release you. But if I am Matriarch then I will make and up'old my own rules. Don't you see? You could finally go if I willed it to be so. And I could assure that you would be protected."

Hermione looked off to another part of the room, unable to endure the intensity of those eyes any longer.

"But from what you say, I don't think the other Veela will be too fond of that idea regardless of your standing in the clan. What if one of them wishes to challenge you?"

Fleur sighed.

"It is very rare that a challenge occurs in our clans, 'ermione. For the most part, the majority of the Veela accept the Matriarch's rules as is. The worst they would do is talk behind my back. Our current Matriarch 'as made questionable calls that weren't favorable to us all and no one 'as challenged 'er yet."

The English witch wanted to remind the woman that she herself was going to challenge her in only a few short hours. But the argument died on her tongue the minute Fleur stood up from the bed and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Besides," she continued, her head held high with importance, "if I were to win tonight, that would mean that I single-'andedly defeated the most powerful Veela in our clan. If I can defeat 'er, then I can defeat any of the rest. Let them try."

The way Fleur spoke reminded Hermione of a different magical creature she remembered reading about in her copy of The Monster Book of Monsters. And while she couldn't recall the name of the creature, the blonde's behavior was synonymous with that of the lower-ranking female in that society preparing to overthrow the highest-ranking female; with her mouth closed, ears cocked, and mane erect, unwilling to continue to tuck her tail between her legs any longer. It served as one more reminder that while the Veela appeared human in form, there was a raw, animalistic side to them that could not go unnoticed. No argument would win in this situation. It would likely even remain unheard.

"I hope, for your sake, that you are right. I would hate to see you die because of me."

"'Ermione, it does not matter one way or the other. I will die if I do, I will die if I don't," the French woman huffed as she walked off to the bathroom to ready herself for the evening, leaving the brunette and the argument behind on the disheveled bedspread.

It wasn't entirely clear what Fleur meant. Did she mean that everyone dies in the end no matter what? Or was she still talking about the consequences of not mating with Hermione to her inevitable death? Or perhaps she had been talking in regards to her own feelings about potentially losing Hermione. So many possible interpretations, none of which had any comfort in them. And that genuinely disturbed the English witch. Because it meant so much more than its face value. And no matter which way it was interpreted, she knew that the truth would always be there on the cusp of swallowing them both whole until they finally drowned in their own denial of it.

Hermione stood unnecessarily close to the mirror. Her mouth opened wide—with the involuntary belief that the action would somehow stretch her eyes more than they normally stretched—as she applied a fresh coat of dark mascara to her long lashes.

"I do not understand why you do not just use magic to charm the brushes to do that for you," Fleur said with an air of disbelief and haughtiness only becoming of a magical French heiress. The words cutting through the silence in the room like a knife through melted butter as her fingers tapped rhythmically against the leather arm of the chair in which she was impatiently seated.

Having become used to the blonde's frequent confrontational attitude towards most things, the brunette remained calm in light of a comment that was most certainly intended to rile her up.

"Perhaps some of us do not wish to be so dependent on magic for every little need that it makes us lose touch with who we are without it," she returned casually with a few exaggerated blinks to the mirror in order to help the mascara better settle.

An incredulous huff was released from a perfectly shaped nose.

"Per'aps some of us 'ave control issues and therefore 'ave a misplaced distrust in objects coming so close to our face without being guided by our own 'and," the French witch fired back quickly with an indirect bite that was meant to be anything but.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"You certainly seem sure enough for someone who was at one point so 'unsure' as to why it was I did a particular thing. If you were so sure you knew the answer, then why did you even ask?" She questioned. But the moment she saw the blonde's reflection in the mirror, she felt the words cut back at her with a surprised intensity like the sting of falling on your own sword.

Blue eyes stared at absolutely nothing in particular, widened and dilated beneath down-turned eyebrows. One of her legs bounced so uncontrollably it sent a steady stream of vibrations throughout the chair. Both their wands rattled wildly on the glass side table from where it and the chair touched. The sound of which suddenly overpowered that of the woman's still drumming fingertips. Those same eyes quickly jumped to meet brown ones in the mirror.

In that moment, Hermione knew exactly why the blond had asked. The prim and proper, always-held-together by the strings of poise and confidence, Fleur Delacour, was feeling anxious. A stark contrast to how dauntless the woman was behaving earlier. She had been around the French witch long enough to know that when entrapped by any unwanted feeling, the woman was the queen of deflection; as if doing so would somehow ease the disarray of everything happening inside her.

She's one to talk about 'control issues.' Hermione thought to herself, trying as hard as she could to hold back a small smirk at the irony of her blonde counterpart. And yet, unable to actually do so because of the revelation that they were strikingly similar in that way.

Hermione could not fully say she understood the French witch. Fleur was a highly complicated individual comprised mostly of what could only be perceived as good intentions mixed with utter chaos. Not to mention, she came from a world with its own economy and politics that often left the brunette feeling as lost as a muggle who has newly discovered the magical world. So while she didn't fully understand, she could fully empathize. She knew what it was like to be one of the only ones with a knowledge of the darkness that can lurk beneath the surface. She knew what it was like to be one of the only ones with the power to stop it. How hard it is to carry that burden. How stressful it is to make those choices, unknowing as to how it will truly end. The constant second-guessing of whether or not your choices will save the ones you love or hurt them further eating away at every nerve in your body until you no longer feel whole. That feeling as if you will never truly feel whole again.

Fleur was a master at hiding many things, but she couldn't put a mask on that. No matter what she tried, Hermione would always see right through it with one look into those telling eyes. Because she had experienced the same. And misery always recognizes misery.

The brunette walked over and entwined Fleur's drumming fingers with her own. The persistent rattling of the wands ceased. The silence washing over them as they both looked down at their interlocked fingers. And though the action had subdued the incessant tapping and though the woman's nearness had vanquished the violent shaking of a restless leg, a nervous energy still hung thick in the air around them.

"I understand that you are a little on edge, but that is no reason to get cross with me. I am not the enemy here, Fleur," Hermione reminded calmly, yet firmly.

All the tension suddenly dropped from the French woman's body like the shedding of a heavy winter coat.

"Oui, je sais. I know. Je suis vraiment désolée, ma foi," the French woman sighed. Her arms slipped around the other woman's waist with a natural comfort neither of them were ready to fully acknowledge just yet.

"It's quite alright, my dear," Hermione said as her fingers stroked gingerly through blonde tresses, "I wish that there was something I could do to ease this burden on you. For I know better than most that knowledge is one of the heaviest ones to bear."

Fleur's next words were spoken into the fabric of the English woman's dress, "I am just so worried for my people. What if the choice I 'ave made for them is not the right choice?"

Hermione's hand rested on the blonde's cheek and pulled the woman's gaze to meet her own.

"You know, I've spent a large portion of my life asking that same question. And you know what I discovered?"

Fleur shook her head gently, her eyes never leaving the wise admiration she found in those which held hers captive.

"I discovered that in situations like these, there is no right or wrong choice. There is just a choice. You could just as easily forget everything you've heard and go on about your life as if none of this were happening. And people could end up hurt or dead by the end of it just as much as they could if you had chosen to stand and fight against the injustice. You can't know how things will end. The choices you make in this moment are nothing more than a path you chose to go down. The ending could be the same or it could not. The important part is did do do what you wanted to? Did you do what you felt was right?"

"Ah, yes. L'enfer est plein de bonnes volontés ou désirs," the blond sighed.

Hermione's head cocked to the side cutely.

"I'm sorry?"

"It means, ''ell is full of good wishes or desires.'"

The brunette's eyes widened in understanding.

"Oh. So much like the English saying, 'the road to hell is paved with good intentions'?"

"Ah, oui," The Veela hummed delicately, a flicker of something dancing in her eyes.

"That very well may be, Fleur. But at the end of the day, we are not Gods or omnipresent beings that control the fate of life as we know it. All we have are good intentions. You're putting a weight on yourself that isn't yours to bear. The weight of fate. What will become of your people if you sit here in this room mulling over whether or not your choices will cause them harm? Choosing the fate of others is not and will never be your responsibility. You have to stop acting like it is because it's interfering with your ability to act. And right now, no matter which choice you make, that's exactly what you need to do. One way or the other."

The French woman's mouth curved into a smile slowly with the gentleness like that of a low tide washing over a beach. The corner of her eyes crinkled.

"It is not a surprise they call you the brightest witch of your age, n'est-ce pas?"

Hermione's nose wrinkled at the overused moniker. An action the blond found to be so extraordinarily charming it caused her smile to widen even further.

"It took years of convincing people I wasn't utterly mad," Hermione replied with a chuckle. She offered her hand out to the beauty before her. "Are you ready to go?"

Fleur grabbed the proffered hand.

"As ready as I'll ever be," she replied, using the weight of the other woman to lift herself from the chair; their hands refusing to part as they made to exit the bedroom.

The darkness watched them from every corner, waiting to consume what was left of the lingering light that filtered in from the hallway. When the door clicked shut, and darkness had finally spread, the air grew thick in pursuance of the oncoming storm. Tonight would be a night to remember.