Chapter Text
Sensations d'étincelles
Lightning flashed through her tears as she sat on a bench overlooking the gorgeous Pyrenees landscape, spread before her like a feast for the eyes. A sight which embalmed peace into her soul most days, but not this: her 17th birthday, the day a witch came of age. A day normally to be celebrated but Hermione Le Grange found she could not celebrate. Not when her heart was torn asunder and ripped from her chest in menacing circumstances that seemed to be mirrored in the celestial heavens above. For though she was embedded as part of a mountain range, Hermione realised how humble the human species was when one took in the grand scheme of things. Yet, it was an excruciatingly painful, human moment for her.
As the somber sky grew bruising angry clouds, gravid with the weight of rain, Hermione thought how the gods must be joining her in her sorrow. The sound of rumbling thunder echoed through the crevices, whistling through the cracks, resonating deep within the caves hidden in the rocks. It seemed to her as if an earthquake threatened to rend the school apart by the crashing roar and the violent forked flashes of stark white sparks decorating the contusioned sky.
The air grew heavy and thick with the promise of precipitation. Fat rain drops threatened to pour down on her in droves. She sighed forlornly, resigned to this, closing her eyes as she let the first cool splashes hit her tilted face. Sticking her tongue out to catch the water, she hoped to find out if it tasted of the despair evident in her soul.
Hermione was part of the lower classes yet that didn’t stop her from becoming a phenomenal witch. She didn’t allow poverty to stop her from studying; she was a scholarship student and damn proud of it. Her father owned a small village apothecary, tending to the aches and pains of both beast and man. Paid a pittance for it but still, he was a proud man. He’d married an equally stubborn woman who produced a strong-willed daughter after having lost a few sons due to war, famine and the bloody revolution.
It was a shock to both her parents when they found their daughter able to do odd things. Peculiarities followed her. Havoc seemed to trail in her wake. There was a point when the villagers were accusing them of witchcraft and her as a changeling. Not that Alexandre and Helene were believers in such superstitious nonsense – ascribing themselves to the scientific school of thought that everything held logical purpose and it was up to them to discover what. So, when it turned out she was accepted into a school of people like herself, they were delighted that there was reason behind the amazing things she could do.
“After all,” they both said to their little girl before the carriage with flying horses came to their house, under the cloak of night and shadow, “the world is large, and we are a small part in it. Do what you can to make your role great.”
They always sent her sweetmeats and trinkets on her birthdays and at Yule. Her father wrote copiously often, as he adored his darling, talented Hermione with her wild hair and determined ways.
Then – at the tender age of 13 – she started bleeding. Worried she wrote to her mother in anxious haste to explain what was happening to her: please mama I am scared! It was the start of her journey to adulthood. Once her father had found out his daughter was ready for husbands to be considered his advice ever more prudent in his missives to her, begging her not to grow too fast too quickly.
“Be not like those princesses in Charles Perrault, waiting for a Prince to come and save you. YOU are a capable and fine young woman. You know the fine art of dancing, and your skills on the pianoforte are not to be scorned. You, my wild girl, are to be admired and adored. If you keep love in your heart and feed your soul with compassion you shall want for nothing – not all riches are covered in gold and silver.”
She scrunched the letter in her light blue lacy-gloved hands as the thunder threatened ever more, curdling the bright sky with its dolorous gloom. Tears began to roll down her cheeks as she shivered in the cold, not caring if she were to catch a fever or consumption. Riding the midst of the storm was what she desired to do.
Unlike other schools she knew of, Beauxbatons was mixed race, cultures, creeds and sex. It was unheard of in sans-magique society for boys to mix with girls on a daily basis – yet they cohabitated quite well. It was due to this that her heart was shattering even as the sky cracked.
Earlier that year a boy called Rabastan Lestrange had offered to pay court to her as she had grown in elegance and grace. She was far from the dirty ragamuffin that first entered the school. It helped that Beauxbatons taught not only sorcery, chemistry and alchemy but also gave time to teach young wizards and witches the finer arts such as dancing, foreign languages, both non-magical and magical, and musical instruments. It turned out Hermione could also sing and was often called for private recitals by her Potions Master – a fat English man called Horace Slughorn.
Yes, Hermione excelled! In all things, she was methodical, logical, prepared and well-spoken. How did things go wrong this quickly?
Whilst she was the first in her year to become of age, that presented a problem. A boy in the year above her, a supercilious blond who wore a sneer like it was fashionable, was of the highest of classes. He owned a Châteaux in the French countryside, a townhouse in Paris, a manor house in the English countryside – somewhere called Wiltshire if she recalled correctly, and a London townhouse. The revolution was starting to become ugly but heavens above if a Malfoi be poor!
According to him, that is who she was to become. The future Mistress of said establishments, with family jewels, fine robes – haute couture of the highest of quality, to parade about in - and power. She was to have influence.
More so than if she wed Rabastan, yet that is who her heart splintered for.
Waves of grief rolled over her, reflecting the heavily precipitating clouds above. Drenching rain flattened her usually untameable hair against her skin and stuck her clothes to her flesh as she wallowed in misery.
When she woke up this morning it was with boundless joy. The sky was clear, the sun was shining on the crisp autumnal dawn and she was of age to accept the offer of courtship from Rabastan Lestrange, who’s sea-green eyes that darkened like the stormy seas when he’d gazed upon her had always entranced her.
All those feelings had vanished the moment she felt a tug in her magical core. It was that strange force moving her towards someone who was always on the darker edge of society. Already dangling his toes in the inky pools of forbidden knowledge. The moment she’d realised who she was moving towards she tried to resist.
Then he seemed to move of his own accord across the room. Their eyes were only on each other as his turned liquid silver, glinting in stark warning, the way a bolt of lightning would if one was too near its trajectory. Echoes of haunting melody had filled her ears, her heart and her soul with a disturbing peace.
Without warning, he’d reached his arms around her shoulders and planted his lips on hers in a furious, possessive kiss that tangled tongues as he’d drawn her further into his space. Fingers laced through her hair as she had no control over this feeling whatsoever. The moment they stopped kissing his eyes had returned to their normal silvery grey, lips red, glistening with her saliva – panting against her. Her hands had found themselves entangled in his long white-blond locks and she’d gulped as the tugging sensation had left her.
He had no discernible emotion on his controlled visage but he let his grip speak for him as he pinched his fingers into her forearm turning her around so they could talk somewhere less populated. He held a position of privilege in the school as the son of a trustee and nephew to one of the board members and retained his own rooms. This was where she learned of her fate.
She’d no time to take in her surroundings as he pushed her against the thick wood of the door and took her mouth again in a fervent kiss. He let her go as she whimpered for him to stop, scrabbling her fingers for purchase against his strong forearms, strengthened by playing Quidditch, a sport she was never interested in. Malfoi believed in keeping physically beautiful as well as mentally astute.
Finally, he moved slightly, enough for her to raise her foot and stomp on his thereby diminishing the passion in an instant.
“Monsieur Malfoi, I demand to know what you are attempting to force upon my person.”
“I need you the way the ground needs water. You’re the reason I abhor Narcissa Black. I’ve been waiting for this moment for an entire year of my life, and yet you dare to rupture your presence from mine!”
“Really, Monsieur? You expect me to enjoy your attempts at seduction – in front of the entire school? You’d better have a good reason for trying to defame me so. I mayn’t be of your class, but I do have my pride.”
“Pride?” he scoffed. “Honestly, I’d recovered that from the embers months ago when all I could hear was my soul singing for yours. You and I are destined to be.”
“What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything, Mademoiselle, I’ve wanted to tell you for ever so long, but I couldn’t. My father tried to make a match with the English maiden Narcissa Black, but you are whom I need to carry on my line, my family.”
“You forget Monsieur that I’m not born of your class, that there are people of my heart dying of hunger, sickness and sheer poverty.”
“I cannot forget, Mademoiselle. Were it not for my family affliction I would gladly allow Monsiuer Lestrange to make a fool of himself for you, however, it isn’t possible for me to live without you.
“Do you even know my name, Monsieur?”
“You’re Mademoiselle Hermione Le Grange,” he replied cutting off any further argument she might have.
That was when she sighed heavily and silently explored her environs. The chamber was richly furnished in light woods. Plum purple velvet curtains would conceal him in darkness at night as he lay on a gradient of turquoise acromantula silk bed-sheets atop a soft feather mattress and pillows. Comfortable sofas and chaise lounges surrounded a large hearth with deep carpets for feet to sink into. Large wall-to-ceiling bookcases filled to the brim with tomes of all subjects frankly overwhelmed her and she had to pace around holding onto her stomach to centre herself in the midst of such luxury.
“Please, just explain before I inform the headmistress of your indiscretions.”
“Mademoiselle, you’re well-learned and highly informed of our world through your constant study. I put it to you to work out which creature needs a mate to survive.”
It took her half-an-hour to rattle off a list of creatures in alphabetical order. He didn’t hide the smirk as realisation dawned in her eyes!
“A Veela?” she stammered holding her hand over her erratically beating heart. The final blow was his curt nod.
“You have a whole year, Mademoiselle Le Grange, for me to pay court to you, for us to get engaged then to wed. Of course,” he stepped closer to her again. the pull of his gaze tilted her head right up, so she was gazing in his eyes. “The longer it’s drawn out, the more pain I will be in – or,” he made sure their gazes were connected now. “We could just skip the courting part and go onto the engagement. I desire your response before sundown.”
Hermione gulped, knowing exactly what he meant. He expected her to gently refuse Rabastan’s advances, then to act coquettishly all over him. He tilted his head, his eyes icing over, freezing her to the core.
“I shall see you at the days end, Monsieur,” she bobbed her knees politely. “I’ll ruminate the possibilities.”
This was the point when she’d calmly dashed out of his chambers, bumping into Narcissa Black who proceeded to be exceptionally rude about her. She heard the witch complain loudly: Clearly, her betrothed was having fun in the dirt before he got clean in pure waters. It was all Hermione could do not to grab the woman by her pretty blond hair and jump on her the way she did the village girls. All she saw was Lucius tilt Narcissa’s head to plant a kiss on her lips.
“Darling, I’ve something to tell you,” he said then shut the door. Hermione winced, knowing truthfully that Lucius couldn’t wait to be rid of the vapid viper.
She’d quietly made it through the day without making too much of an impression. Her peers had noticed how dull her eyes were, how pallid her complexion, and how thin her lips were drawn. Hermione didn’t even raise her hand up. That, of course, drew a concerned furrowed brow from Rabastan – he wrote her a little note asking if she was well. A simple nod of the head was her quiet reply.
Her appetite was non-existent at dinner as she felt sharp glints of ice from Narcissa’s stare at her back. When she looked up, the smug smirk on Lucius’ face was almost enough to drive her out of the dining hall altogether. When Rabastan took hold of her hand as they ate her composure cracked. She excused herself then dashed out onto the promontory where she’d spent the last half-hour pouring out her broken heart as the storm descended.
Now she was shivering and logically knew she should go back indoors but she stubbornly remained out in the angry weather. Her skin as white as a ghost, her hands wrinkled by the water. Dazedly she got up, walked, and peered over the sheer cliff-side trying to judge how long it would take her to die.
Hunger and stress combined sent her weak, the cold had made her lose her reason, and her broken heart combined with the wet stones and wood, culminating in a slip from loss of grip on the drenched railing. Her knees thunked against the stone, followed by her head smashing against a sharp wooden edge, then darkness.
♥♦♥
Truth be told, Lucius mused, he could’ve made the situation for Mademoiselle Le Grange much easier by explaining things to her gently, with compassion. Teasing her with Narcissa was a touch cruel even for him. All things considered, he decided as he sipped his wine at his table, he’d held breeding and etiquette from birth, and she had behaved better than him. Now he was ashamed of his actions.
He’d practically ordered her to break any attachments to Rabastan in a heartless manner. Surely when his father found out, and he would, he’d be sternly reprimanded. The young woman was his mate, his life-support system. He could’ve been charming, but instead, he’d blundered his way through like the proverbial bull.
It wasn’t until an hour after he watched her leave the dining halls with tears in her eyes that he felt something attacking him from within. Lucius’ inner Veela was hurting. He could feel a transformation, preparing him to fight for his right to live and mate. There was only one thing that could’ve happened.
He glanced out the rain-splattered windows, blinking as a streak of lightning shot through the sky almost blinding him, and then he knew.
The blood - he could taste her blood, her despair, her anguish. Growling, he threw the glass at the fireplace. Harshly putting on his waterproofed outer-robes. There was only one place she could possibly be.
Once he’d left his room, Lucius made sure to walk quickly. Running was undignified, his father said to him after a six-year-old Lucius had smacked into Abraxas’ legs, landing on the floor and bumping his head. Muggles run when they’ve committed crimes, an admission of guilt, but a Malfoi must behave with a straight back and cool logic. No exceptions!
Rounding some corners he’d found Rabastan whose expression was darkly foreboding, as Lucius found when he got nearer. The younger fellow grabbed the blond by the material of his robes and thumped him against the walls.
“What’ve you done to her, you two-faced donkey’s butt!”
“I told her what you should’ve said but were too selfish too. Veela’s needs trump Wizards lusts, as you know. Now, follow me,” he coolly brushed Rabastan’s hands off his person and assumed leadership right away. “I am 99% certain of where she is and 100% sure of the danger she’s in of dying.”
Rabastan's complexion turned as curdled as sour milk. The girl’s life was at risk, and both allowed their hearts to fill with anxious worry. They’d reached the third floor promontory that led from the dining halls into the hothouses. It didn’t take long to find her laying there pelted on, hardly breathing and bloodied.
“HERMIONE!” Rabastan yelled sliding on his knees to be by her side. His scream could chill the icebergs and it certainly rooted Lucius to the spot. “HERMIONE, PLEASE…” he sobbed as he turned her around watching her eyelids flicker, her pale blue lips quivering. “Please, please, please, HERMIONE, NO, DON’T GO TO SLEEP!” Lucius watched as Rabastan hugged her close to him rocking her back and forth.
Thankfully Professor Slughorn was in the hothouse having one of his little tea parties for the younger students and had heard the gut-churning cries of the name. He waddled out as fast as his fat body could let him and Lucius locked his gaze with him. He wondered how the man could have been that near a student he claimed to care for and not see her. What way had he come? Students that young weren’t allowed to learn Apparition. The hothouses didn’t have a Floo connection.Of course, he raised word by the use of a Patronus charm and she was transported magically to the Hospital Wing via side along by the Headmistress.
“If she dies,” Rabastan hissed at Lucius, “I’m blaming you.”
“If she dies, so do I.”
“Serves you right for being such a smug mule,” Rabastan’s eyes threatened. “Narcissa told me how you broke the news to her. I hope after this she will forgive you because I bloody well cannot.”
♥♦♥
Thankfully Lucius and Rabastan had found her just in time. The day she woke up she sighed as the sun hurt her eyes. Lucius was sleep ruffled and his clothes looked as if they’d been slept in for days. When he realised she was conscious he slowly made his way back to the land of the living. A cup of coffee appeared by his side as it did by hers.
“He knew, didn’t he?” Hermione’s voice cracked with the effort of talking. “Rabastan, he knew that we were forbidden but he still tried, didn’t he?”
“He wouldn’t have had you for long, Mademoiselle,” Lucius coughed. “You would’ve died when I did.”
“How… how long have I… I been here for?”
“You were placed in a magically induced sleep until yesterday,” Lucius sighed rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’d never been more human than now. “A lot had to be tube fed and your heart had only regulated then.”
“What happens now?” she sipped her coffee gingerly, still not quite used to the taste. “With us?”
Lucius shrugged: “That’s up to you, I suppose,” he put his feet back on the floor leaving dirt marks on her covers. “How’d you prefer to proceed?”
“I think we should go for the quick engagement, married life for wizards is long enough to get to know one another.”
“I think you’re wise. I shall inform my parents, as you should yours.”
Hermione giggled: “Oh monsieur, be careful to call me by my name: Hermione.”
“I extend the favour to you also; in your correspondence do call me Lucius.” He picked her hand up and bowed his forehead to it then kissed along all her knuckles. “You will suit our family quite well.”
Watching him stride out of the room she sighed and leant her head back against the soft plumped pillows.
She should have remembered that there was always hope after the rain.