Harry sat atop his four-poster bed, the echoes of the shrill screams still echoing throughout his empty dorm. He rubbed at his ringing ears, pulling his hand back to check for blood. His golden egg lay, now closed, at the foot of the bed where he had tossed it in reflex.
He had returned to the dorm to find the egg resting on his pillow. A note sat beneath it, with Professor McGonagall's crisp handwriting across the front. It had, 'Your Clue,' written across the front. He flexed his hand as he stared at the offending item. He supposed he should count himself lucky that he actually got a clue to the Second Task, though he'd been given nothing else.
Heavy steps thundered outside the dorm-room door as the older Gryffindors returned to their dorms after their trip to Hogsmeade. Harry's heart thundered in time, waiting for the footsteps to stop outside the closed door.
He had faced a dragon. There was no reason he couldn't talk to Ron. Probably.
Years of familiarity heard Ron ascending the steps long before he had thrown open the door. Harry found himself wishing he had prepared a quip or a joke. Anything to relieve the tension that was sure to be in the air. Instead, he stared in silence when the door swung open, revealing Ron. Only his eyes and red-tipped nose were visible beneath a faded hat and scarf. He had bundled himself in his grey winter robes with a too-small jacket over top. Wide-eyes peered out at Harry from between the low seam of his cap, and the scarf wrapped around his mouth.
He spun from Harry, sticking his head back out into the stairwell. "Hermione!" His voice cracked for the volume of his shout, even muffled as it was.
Lighter footsteps ran up the stairs and a similarly garbed Hermione appeared behind Ron, her bushy hair crammed into a winter hat. Her momentum halted when she laid eyes on Harry and she blinked as if to dispel an illusion. Her pause was short-lived and she barreled into him, embracing him in a hug that knocked him flat onto the bed.
He patted her back awkwardly. Hermione and Mrs. Weasley seemed to be in constant competition to see who could smother him first, but even so, he enjoyed the sentiment if not the practice.
"I'm sorry!" she said, scrambling off of him and standing. She pulled at the hem of her jacket, straightening it. "I know you don't-we were so worried!" Her voice came high and fast and she swiped at her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve. Ron looked to the floor, nodding.
"I'm okay," Harry said, getting to his feet. "Just about good as new."
"They wouldn't tell us how badly you'd been hurt," Hermione said, her voice growing more hysterical as she continued. "They said you were sent to St. Mungos!" Her eyes watered and she wiped them again with her sleeve. "I tried to ask Fleur and Cedric about it but they wouldn't say anything…they'd just go pale-"
"It's okay," Harry said. "See? I'm okay now. No need to worry about it."
"Your hand looks really strange," Ron said over her reply. He pointed to Harry's left hand. "It hasn't got any wrinkles on the knuckles. Looks like a bunch of sausage links."
"Ron!"
Harry laughed. "I thought the same thing," he said, rolling up his sleeve to expose his elbow. "It's smooth here, behind my knee, and on my toes too."
"That's mental," Ron said, leaning in for a closer look.
He held his arm out further so they could both see it. Hermione shifted her weight from foot to foot, torn between worry and curiosity.
"Yeah," he said, twisting his arm a little so they could see the strange folds that appeared on the too-tight skin. "They had to regrow most of it. Madam Pomfrey said I have to 'break it in,' or something." This was clearly the wrong thing to say, as both his friends grew somber at his words.
"How much did they have to regrow?" Hermione asked.
"My…er…whole left side," he answered, doing his best to sound nonchalant.
"You got third-degree burns over your entire left side?! Harry, that could have killed you! No wonder Cedric and Fleur didn't want to talk about it."
"I didn't do it on purpose," he said, frowning. "I expected to get eaten, honestly."
"About that," Ron said, startling Harry, Hermione, and apparently himself, as the redhead seemed surprised that he had spoken. "About the goblet thing," he clarified. "I'm really sorry. I know you didn't put your name in. Hell, I knew it before the whole dragon thing but I thought you wouldn't want to talk to me after the way I acted."
He took a deep breath and barreled on.
"When you flew through the fire and fell to the ground…Well, like Hermione said, we were worried. I thought I might not get to tell you I was sorry, so when you made it through…I wanted to do it as soon as I could, whether or not you still wanted to be my friend."
Harry stared at his friend, the specter of Ron's anger still hanging on at the edges of his vision. Ron still seemed so tall…so much bigger than him…
"It's okay," he said after a moment. Ron's accusation still stung but he could get over it. He hoped. Besides, it'd be nice to have things back to normal at Hogwarts. As normal as they got, anyway.
Ron grinned at Harry's reply, tension fleeing his posture.
Hermione muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, 'Finally,' before speaking up. Her tone was less hysterical, and far more in line with how she usually sounded. "Professor McGonagall told us to send you to her as soon as you were back and feeling up to it. She said she's got information about the Second Task and the Yule Ball."
"The Yule Ball?"
Ron groaned as an answer, lifting a hand towards his trunk. "It's the reason for those awful dress robes. On Christmas night there's going to be some big dance." He grinned a crooked, half-grin. "You'll have to find a date but I expect the 'tragic hero' angle won't hurt your chances."
" Ronald !"
It took the barest of seconds for Harry's well-practiced eyes to search Ron's face for a sign of jealousy or irritation. He found only mirth resting in the corner of his friend's smiling eyes as he laughed. Harry joined him, smiling for what felt like the first time since his name had flown into the air on a piece of smoldering parchment.
Hermione rolled her eyes, and despite the strange feeling lingering in his left arm and leg, Harry felt better than he had in months.
XxX
The next morning saw only little improvement for Harry. His meeting with Professor McGonagall had gone as he had predicted. No matter how he asked, due to his status as Champion, he couldn't skip the ball. He shoveled eggs onto his plate with his left hand, spilling some across the table. Whether from using his off-hand or his still inelastic skin, he wasn't sure. He switched to his right hand, promising himself he would do extra stretches later to make up for it.
A dingy gray owl landed in front of him along with the morning post. Attached to its leg was a letter, 'HP' written on the front in a familiar messy scrawl. He pulled the small letter from the offered leg and opened it.
Harry,
On the move. Coming back. No letters. See you soon.
-S
He stuffed the letter into a pocket. Excitement warred with horror inside him as he stared down at his plate. It had been far too long since he had the opportunity to see Sirius in the flesh, but he'd be in danger of being caught. Guilt overpowered the other emotions, sending him into a familiar spiral. It gnawed at him as he lingered on the thought that he was the reason Sirius was returning to England.
He retrieved the crumpled letter and handed it over to Ron and Hermione in answer to their quizzical stares at his sudden shift in mood. He ignored Hermione's vague speculations that followed, trying his best to combat the anxiety rolling inside his chest.
Ron, on the other hand, was a balm. He was acting as though nothing had ever been amiss between the two of them. Harry found it rather easy to play along, at times almost forgetting what had happened.
Almost.
Even while laughing along with his friend, he couldn't stop searching his face for signs of hidden anger. He hoped to someday return to the level of amiability he had enjoyed with his first friend, but until then…a little extra caution never hurt.
They spent the rest of the Sunday morning tackling the golden egg. They had been thrown from the Common Room after opening it for the first time and had settled on walking the snowy grounds, doing their best to stay warm as they pondered the egg. Burying it had done nothing, though when Ron tossed it into a snowdrift next to one of the walls of the castle, it had become marginally less grating.
By early afternoon, they called it quits, Ron and Hermione leaving Harry at his request. All the walking, while probably good for his leg, had left him stiff and aching. He lowered himself onto a bench in a courtyard, the sun offering a small respite from the cold mid-December air. Even though he had been asleep while he had spent his weeks in the hospital, he still felt cooped up. Trapped.
Shivering, he rubbed his arms through the sleeves of his robe for warmth and made to stand. He paused, halfway up, as a tawny owl swooped into the courtyard, alighting on the bench next to him. Tied to its leg was a small letter with his name written in a thin curvy script.
Harry,
I apologize for using an owl to contact you, but I could think of no other way to reach you without wandering through the castle.
I was hoping you would be able to meet with me this evening. I have some things I would like to discuss with you, and I would prefer to do so away from the inquisitive gazes of others.
If you are interested, please meet me by the stairs to the second floor at eight. I know my request is a strange one, and I would understand if you do not want to come.
-Fleur
The letter was no less unbelievable the second and third time Harry read through it.
She wanted to meet with him ?
The egg lay forgotten for the rest of the day, his focus altered from the unintelligible screeching to the upcoming meeting that made only slightly more sense. His musings carried him back to Gryffindor Tower where he deposited his egg and all the way through dinner. He found himself keeping the meeting quiet when asked about his distracted mood by Hermione after they had finished eating. Ron, if he noticed, kept his mouth shut, in his new practice of 'act as though everything is normal'.
Curiosity bumped against nervousness as eight o'clock drew nearer. He had sifted through every possibility he could think of; from more 'tournament impropriety' to an outright argument where she took back what she said about believing him. He frowned, the latter popping back into his thoughts unbidden yet again. No sooner had he managed to clear his thoughts, than he came upon Fleur, already waiting for him. Exchanging nothing more than quiet hellos, she led him to a nearby unused classroom.
A fire blazed in a small fireplace, inset in the stone wall. The desks were still arranged for class, tidy rows spanning the room.
"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me tonight," Fleur said, shutting the door behind her with a shiver.
"Er, no problem," he answered.
Fleur gestured him to a chair set near to the fire and took one of her own much closer to the crackling flames. Though she sat so close to the fireplace, she didn't take off her dark blue winter cloak. With an absent movement of her arm, she pulled her long silvery hair; made radiant orange by the firelight, over her shoulder to rest across her lap.
"I asked you here for a few reasons," she began, her accented voice quick and confident. "The first was to see how you were recovering."
He reeled for a moment before the memory of Madam Pomfrey's words floated back into his mind. She was one of the few who had seen him before he had been healed.
He examined her in the dim light, noting the tension at the corner of her eyes and the way she slipped her fingers through her hair.
"I'm fine," he said, hoping to put any of her lingering worries to rest.
"I am glad to hear it," she said, the confidence in her voice slipping away like smoke through fingers. "Your injuries were severe."
"So I was told."
They sat without speaking, only the spitting fire and wind rattling the single window in the room making any noise.
"I admit," she said suddenly, making him twitch in surprise, "seeing the extent of your injuries served to illustrate the true dangers we face in this competition." She fixed him with wide-eyes, the whites visible around the blue of her irises. "When you were levitated into the medical tent…I could not recognize you at first."
Harry sat, silent. He had wanted to ask Madam Pomfrey just how badly he had been hurt, but something in the way she spoke about it made him glad for the ignorance.
She stood suddenly and began to pace, her hair still clutched in her hand.
"It was…I do not…"
She paused and shot a pleading look over her shoulder at him.
" Putain Fleur, reprends-toi. Tu vas tout gâcher à ce rythme ," she muttered. She turned to face him, purposefully dropping her hair and squaring her shoulders. "I should be honest with you."
"O-okay…"
She took a deep breath, letting her shoulders sag as she blew it out. "Do you recall, after we met in the owlery, that I told you that I had enjoyed our conversation?"
Harry nodded, distinctly remembering the feeling of contributing little to said 'conversation'.
"Would it surprise you to know," she said, her hand twirling the ends of her hair through her fingers, "that I enjoyed our conversation because it was the first real one I have had since I was a small girl?"
He hesitated, unsure what to say, but when he looked up into her face, she saw the nervous expectation of response in her perfect features.
"Well…yeah, it would."
She smiled, though to him it looked a little sad. "I expect many would feel the same." Her smile faded completely. "What do you know of Veela?"
"Not much," he answered, casting his mind back to the World Cup, and Hermione's miniature lecture as they descended the long stairwell from the top box after the match. "My friend said they have some sort of allure…or something. I saw the cheerleaders transform into big…er…bird things."
"That is usually the extent of people's knowledge of us…" She trailed off, biting her lip. "Do you have somewhere to be after this? I would like to explain...me…to you. If you have time. And if you want to."
Her words became fast and her accent became more pronounced as she grew nervous. She noticed a death-grip on a fistful of her silvery hair and let it fall.
"That's okay with me. I don't have anywhere to be."
She smiled gratefully and took her seat. "It is the allure that I wish to speak of first."
He waited, trying not to let his building curiosity show. Hermione had known surprisingly little of the Veela and what had made most of the men at the stadium attempt to join them on the field.
"Do you recall at the World Cup, when the cheerleaders began their dance?"
He nodded.
"I gather you also remember the reaction that followed, our viewing box included?"
He nodded again and she arched an eyebrow at him.
"I thought you might. I recall you glancing around at the ridiculous display of some of those in your party."
He felt his face heat and he dropped his eyes to his knees. Perhaps he hadn't been quite as sneaky as he hoped.
"There is no reason to be embarrassed," she said gently, leaning forward to capture his gaze. "That is a large part of what I want to talk about. What do you know of the allure?"
"Not much," he answered, trying to regain his mental footing. He had considered a lot of options in regards to what Fleur had wanted to talk to him about…a strange lecture on the Veela allure had not been on his list. "My friend Ron said it made his mind all fuzzy…well…then you saw how he acted. Hermione said it wouldn't work on her because she's a girl."
"I see. Again, that is common knowledge. If you were to look us up in textbooks and literature, that is what you would find. It is not wholly inaccurate, just incomplete."
She shifted on her chair and crossed her legs, her bright blue eyes boring into his. He shifted his gaze to her forehead out of reflex.
"Firstly, it is not so simple as making a man's mind 'fuzzy' with attraction." She paused, tilting her head to the side as she weighed her words. "According to these textbooks, it is simply a lust-driven magical attraction." She made a face as she finished. "It is nothing so crass. It is less related to say, a Siren's song, than it is to passive legilimency."
"Passive what?" he asked, frowning.
"The art of mind-reading."
A chill seeped into Harry's bones. His stomach churned while his chest contracted in icy fear.
Somebody could just read his mind? Discover his secrets? She could-
"My ability is not so direct," she continued quickly. He forced the traces of fear from his features. "Though," she added with a smile, "it is a rarity to be completely immune to its touch. I have never experienced such a thing."
"I'm immune?" he repeated, hopeful.
"It would seem so, but we will get to that. I do not want you to think I walk around reading minds just by being near people."
He pushed a flare of anxiety down with ruthless force. For someone who claimed she couldn't read minds, she was doing a good job of voicing his fears.
"The allure will reach out to a person, sense their emotional state, and attempt to turn their attention favorably towards me. They will then feel compelled to try to then turn my attention to them and keep it there. If it cannot shift them, then they are immune."
"So then why only men? If it's about emotions."
She sighed in response, leaning back in her chair. "Because there is an element of lust inherent in the allure, though it is not the whole picture. It does not work on your friend, not because she is a girl, but because she is not homosexual. If she were, her attention would be drawn the same as anyone else. Homosexual men are similarly unaffected."
His eyes widened in sudden realization. "I'm not-"
"I know," she said, holding up a hand to forestall him. "With them, I can feel the allure latch to and try to shift their emotions. It fails. With you…it cannot get a hold of you. Even with those unaffected by the allure, I can feel, after a fashion, their emotional state as my abilities shift them. With you, there is nothing. It is not so dissimilar to the way it reacts to an occlumens."
"You can feel their emotions?" he asked. If he was forced to choose one of the two, he'd prefer his emotions be on display than all of his thoughts, but he still abhorred the idea. He paused. "What's an occlumens?"
"Somebody who has learned to close their mind to counter legilimency. As to your other question…" She trailed off, tapping a finger on her chin in thought. "It is difficult to describe. I cannot feel anything as clearly as 'happy' or 'angry'. My abilities have to…push differently…on a happy person than they do an angry one. Over time, I have learned to discern those pushes to understand how someone is feeling."
"It does that for everyone?" he asked.
She nodded, offering him a small smile. "Everyone who is not immune."
"Seems…overwhelming."
A small laugh escaped her and she nodded again. "That is not the reply I was expecting but yes, it can be. It is more like hearing a constant noise. You learn to tune it out."
"But…you can't feel mine?" He felt a fool for asking for clarification but he needed to be sure.
"No," she said, smiling. "I cannot."
The smile dissipated.
She gathered her cloak around her, even while the fire still blazed next to her. "I was selfish…and afraid…in that tent." The color drained from her face and her gaze slipped to the floor. "I wanted you to get better, of course, but I was afraid I had already missed my chance at having someone to talk to." She fixed him with a weak smile. "Even so…I thought maybe we could still talk…"
He goggled at her. How she thought herself selfish was beyond him. He was growing increasingly surprised to discover such a tentative side to the woman who had been equal parts aloof, confident, and furious during his limited time around her.
A small voice whispered from the box that caged his anxieties. She was not the only one who too often put on a happy facade for the world to see.
The realization was a lightning strike in his mind.
Where he had Hermione and Ron, Fleur had no-one. His monikers and nicknames were a source of constant unwanted attention but at least he had friends; a respite from it all. She had none of that.
The world came back into focus when he realized he had allowed the silence to drag on, and her expression had become downcast as she picked at the sleeves of her cloak.
"I don't mind," he said, doing his best to offer her a reassuring smile. "If you really want to…we can…talk." Saying the words aloud felt awkward, but a thrill of excitement rose in him. "I don't see how that's…selfish."
"That is kind," she said, looking up at him. "But even asking you here served selfish purposes. I wanted to see you healed so I might stop seeing…the other you, from the tent, in my nightmares." She shuddered, pulling her cloak even tighter.
His skin erupted into gooseflesh at her haunting words. Death had been far closer than he realized. "It really is fine," he repeated, his mouth dry. Her eyes were back on the floor. He needed to make her feel better. Make her happy again…somehow. He wasn't very good at cheering Hermione up when she was upset, and he'd known her for years. "I don't think that it's selfish. Or that you're selfish…" He paused. "Er, not that I know you better than you know you. Or…"
Rather than become angry, she laughed lightly, smiling at him. "You are very earnest. Thank you, 'Arry."
The smile that grew on his face was uncontrollable.
Her accent across his name made it unaccountably personal, like a nickname. He'd never had a nickname before, or at least not one worthwhile.
With effort, he shook the phantom sneered epithets from his relatives out of his mind, along with the reminder of his unwanted moniker as the Boy-Who-Lived. He focused on Fleur, noting with a small burst of pride that she looked much more relaxed.
"I did say there were multiple reasons I wanted to talk to you," she said. "I wanted to give you a hint about the Second Task and the egg."
"You did? But…I didn't tell you about the dragons…"
"Nor I, you," she said gently. "So I suppose we are even." She took a deep breath and let it out through her nose. "I want to be a good friend, and a good friend would help you through this ordeal you never asked for."
And she had called him earnest.
"Thank you," he said past a growing lump in his throat.
"Next time you are able, put your egg underwater. It will make that dreadful noise useful."
"Do you know what the task is?" he asked.
"I believe so," she said with a grimace. "Suffice to say, I doubt you will need to worry about being burned again. We must retrieve something from the bottom of that awful lake. You should still check your egg, as it is not explicit in its wording but that is my belief."
"But it's so deep…How are we supposed to manage that?"
"In truth, I suspect that is part of the task. Our choice for how to navigate the waters will make a significant difference in our effectiveness."
"I'll have to ask Hermione if she has any ideas…" he said, frowning. "What are you going to do?"
She smiled apologetically. "I am practicing casting the bubble-head charm non-verbally. I do not know if…"
"Non-verbals are a little out of my skill range. Hermione may know something, who knows, maybe she can help you too."
Fleur's open expression became stony as she withdrew into herself. "I do not usually get along well with other women," she muttered. "They find me threatening, or become jealous of my appearance." She waved her hand around in the air, gesturing to her face.
"Sorry. I didn't mean-It just seemed like something she'd be interested in. I don't think she dislikes you or anything. The most she's said is that she doubts that you're Veela."
"I suppose…" she answered reluctantly. "Maybe someday." She smiled a shy smile that made his heart race. "I am not very good at meeting people. For real, that is."
"For real?" he echoed, confused.
She nodded. "Sometimes it is easier for me to smile, nod, and 'be pretty' as people expect me to, rather than try to be genuine with them." She let out a short, mirthless laugh. "I already grow tired of acting, though I expect I will be doing more of it now that my father has been placed within your Ministry." She looked up at him, her head cocked to the side. "I think this is something you understand, is it not?"
He nodded, thinking back to the top-box, where he had seen her put on a serene smile for Minister Fudge. The same smile he always tried to muster for the man, who wanted only to meet the Boy-Who-Lived, instead of Harry Potter.
"Regarding that, er, somewhat," she continued, her fluent speech stuttering for the first time. She fidgeted in her seat and he had to suppress a smile.
He'd gotten quite good at reading people over the years, it was a necessary skill for surviving his Uncle's violent days as much as possible. But, where most people tried to hide their feelings, Fleur appeared as an open book. A refreshing change after Ron's recent two-facedness.
"One of the things I asked you here for was…" she trailed off, again running the ends of her silver hair through her fingers. He watched as she placed her hands on her knees and took in a deep breath. "I wished to ask you to come with me to the Yule Ball."
He was dreaming.
He had to be.
There was no way his luck extended beyond surviving dragon's fire and getting Ron back. Surely a date to the Ball with the most beautiful woman he had ever met hadn't just fallen into his lap.
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts to give a proper answer.
"No?" she asked, hurt mingling with surprise in her voice.
"W-what?" he stammered, watching her perfect face fall. "I mean yes. Of course, I'll go with you. If that's what you really want."
"Thank you." She stared at the ground, her flush tinting her ears pink. "I have never been rejected before. It was surprising to hear, even if it is not what you mean."
She paused and her face shifted to a bright red.
"That sounded egotistical but I did not mean it like that! It is my abilities. Men usually cannot say no to me." She grabbed a fistful of her hair, her blush traveling down her neck to be hidden behind the collar of her cloak. "That did not sound any better," she mumbled.
"Why me?" he asked, hoping to distract her from her obvious embarrassment. He couldn't be her first choice.
"It is as I said before. I have not had a proper, enjoyable conversation since I was young. I do not wish to play the part of 'serene date' to someone under the effect of my allure all night."
Disappointment flitted through his thoughts and he crushed the feeling down. There was no reason someone like her would be interested in a shorty, skinny, useless fourteen-year-old like him. He knew he should count himself lucky she even wanted to talk to him, let alone go to the ball together. At least now he didn't have to go through the mortifying process of asking someone himself.
"I am sorry for ambushing you with all this," she said into the growing silence. "I was so excited to have someone to talk to, and I was afraid you would not want to…" She hesitated before speaking again. "I am sorry again. I am often told I can be…blunt."
"It's…refreshing," he heard himself say. It was the truth. Few were genuine with him, and at times he thought Hermione might be the only one. It was nice to have one other.
"I expect you run into people wearing polite masks quite often, do you not?"
He started with surprise as she put words to his thoughts yet again. "Are you sure you can't read my mind or feel what I'm feeling?"
"Yes," she answered, a frown appearing on her lips. "Why do you ask?"
He hesitated, feeling foolish. "You keep saying what I'm thinking."
She considered his reply for a moment before answering. "I think it is because we have a surprising amount in common with how people view us. It is easy for me to understand how you would feel being put into the spotlight for something beyond your control."
She smiled and brushed a few wayward strands of hair back behind her ear. A motion he found surprisingly alluring.
"I promise I cannot tell what you are feeling. Not being able to do so is a little scary, almost like losing your hearing, but as you said…it is also a little refreshing."
He was struck by a sudden intense feeling of fondness for Fleur. With Hermione, he had to be on his guard. His intelligent friend almost seemed sure he was hiding something from her and often pestered him their first few weeks back to Hogwarts to see if something was wrong.
Being vigilant against slipping up and revealing his secrets about the way he was treated was exhausting. It was a relief to have someone who didn't have the faintest inkling of his life outside of Hogwarts. It was as free as he was ever going to get from the oppressive specter of his relatives, and he resolved to keep it that way.
Desperate to keep his newfound lightheartedness alive, he sought to keep the conversation going. This world where she wanted to be friends with him felt fragile and unreal. He didn't want it to end.
"So, what's Beauxbatons like?" he found himself asking. His voice cracked slightly and he winced internally. Maybe she hadn't noticed.
If she did, she didn't show it and her face lit up at the question.
"It is beautiful," she said. "Not to say that Hogwarts is not beautiful in its own way but Beauxbatons has a warmth that your school does not. And I am not speaking only about the weather. It is difficult to describe the difference as they are both large castles in the middle of sprawling fields. Beauxbatons has more open areas where Hogwarts has the forest." She smiled warmly. "Perhaps you'll get the opportunity to visit France one day."
He listened, enraptured, as she described the interior of the castle. It included, to his immense surprise, a fountain named after Nicolas Flamel and his wife. He briefly considered mentioning his adventure with the stone but the impulse passed. If they were friends for long enough, there was no doubt he would end up sharing his insane adventures. For now, he enjoyed listening to her speak.
Their evening dwindled away, the night creeping in while he listened to her talk about her favorite classes and her love of charms and enchantment. He did his best to avoid asking of family, lest she reciprocate in misguided kindness. Embers smoldered in the fireplace when Fleur finally brought their conversation to a close.
"We will have to continue this some other time," she said, glancing at the window on the far side of the room. Moonlight shone through the dirty panes, casting faded light onto the stone floor.
A yawn betrayed his desire to continue the conversation for a little longer and he nodded agreement.
She turned to him once they had returned to the deserted hallway outside the classroom. "I will talk to you later," she said, though her tone was that of a tentative question, rather than a statement.
"Sure."
She flashed him a luminescent smile and nodded. "At least once more before the ball?"
"Just let me know when.".
She waved a quick goodbye and set off down the hall, back towards the entrance of the castle. Once she was out of sight around the corner, he pulled the Marauder's Map from inside his robes and started his trek back to Gryffindor Tower.
XxX
"Where have you been?" Hermione asked when he slipped through the portrait hole into the common room. She sat in one of the large chairs next to a low fire, a thick textbook open on her lap. "Ron went to bed an hour ago," she continued without waiting for an answer. "I would have gone too but ever since the dragon…" She paused and smiled apologetically at him as he sat down opposite her. "I'm sorry, Harry. I can't help but worry."
"It's okay."
He hadd spent his time dodging Filch and Mrs. Norris trying to work out how he was going to tell his friends where he had been. It had been a relief to see Hermione sitting alone. He wasn't sure he had it in him to deal with even a mild bout of Ron's jealousy.
"I was out talking to Fleur."
"Oh?" Her eyebrows disappeared behind her bushy fringe. "About the tournament? This late?"
"Sort of, yeah. She gave me a hint about the egg and told me what she thinks the Second Task is."
"But you're competitors, why would she want to help you?" She placed a tasseled bookmark in her book and closed it, frowning.
"She wants to help me get through the tournament. She thinks it's unfair that I'm being forced to compete."
"Well, she's right, of course, but why did it take hours for her to give you a hint?"
"She…er…wants to be friends."
Hermione gaped.
"With you? Whatever for?" He frowned and opened his mouth to reply, but she hurriedly continued. "I'm sorry. That was a dreadful thing to say. I didn't mean it to sound like she wouldn't want to be your friend. It's a little surprising that an older student, from another country, and an opposing Champion no less, would simply approach you and ask to be friends. It just…seems a little suspicious to me."
"I believe her," he said, trying not to sound too vehement in his defense of Fleur. The last thing he wanted was an argument. "She said she has trouble making a lot of friends since she's Veela."
A twinge of guilt followed his explanation. He hoped he hadn't given away too much personal information.
"So she is Veela," Hermione said, glancing down at her book. "I suppose I owe Ron an apology," she added, chagrined. Her intense gaze snapped up to his. "But that means you're actually immune to the Veela allure."
"Seems so."
"I wonder-" Hermione began but was interrupted by a large yawn. "I had better get to bed," she said instead, rising from her seat. "Oh! Let me know what you find out from that egg. If your new friend doesn't have any tips, I might be able to help you with this task as well."
Harry frowned after her, watching as she vanished from sight up the stairs. Maybe he had imagined the slight bite in her tone at the end. Shrugging to himself, he followed her lead. It wasn't in his nature to trust someone right away but he had enjoyed his time with Fleur, and hoped the Yule Ball would be at least somewhat bearable with her on his arm. She hadn't appeared to be putting on an act, or outright lying to him, something he had become an expert in spotting.
He changed into his pajamas and slid into bed, taking care not to wake the others. Restless sleep took him and he dreamt of a stranger wearing a smiling mask.