Her

From the moment I first saw her--when she stepped of the gilded Beauxbatons carriage in her robes of flowing pale blue silk and with the white fur muff wrapped around her head--I knew I would never forget her.

The way she walked, or rather glided, across the Hogwarts grounds was, in a word, amazing. It was as if she was an angel sent down from heaven. An angel destined for me. An angel for my expenditure, to do with what I wanted. And from that instant on, I decided I would give almost anything in the world, save my life, to make sure that she would become mine.

Slowly, effortlessly, she walked in the wake of her Headmistress, gazing up un-intimidated at the castle of Hogwarts. She looked as if she were a professional; doing something she was paid daily to do. It was as if she visited strange castles with hundreds of students daily, and this visit was no different. So unruffled, so unconcerned with everything around her. God, I wish I could do that. Her demeanor of nonchalance stuck out in sharp contrast to that of those around her; her classmates were shivering, huddled together for warmth, and whispering nervously, speaking in rapid French and occasionally jabbing a finger in our direction.

She wasn't. She stuck out from the crowd, but in a good way. She was beautiful, I could tell, even from a distance. I also sensed my eyes were not the only ones that wandered towards her, taking her in, contemplating what she would do next. Terry Boot, a fourth year that stood two rows in front of me, actually dropped his jaw, and I heard Gryffindor sixth-year Fred Weaseley cat-calling. Although I couldn't see his face, only he would have the gall to do something like that. I wanted to, but being who I was, I couldn't. Somehow I wanted to show this girl how pleasurable she was to the eye, but couldn't think of a way to do it without attracting the attention of a whole slew of people. Despite all this, and the small uproar she was causing, she seemed even more nonchalant, if possible, and if she knew what Fred meant she didn't let it on.

The Beauxbatons delegation was now level to the steps I was standing on, with the astounding girl in front of the Slytherins, a good fifty feet away from me. Damn. Her giant of a Headmaster--or Headmistress, as the case was--exchanged a few words with Dumbledore, (which I couldn't hear,) and then led her students into the castle, probably to warm up.

I saw her walk towards the castle, and the warmth it provided, hungrily. As she mounted the stone steps and pushed through the Slytherins I saw her break her composure for the first time; she shivered.

Not for the first time I noticed how amazing she looked in the silk robes she was wearing; they clung to all the right places on her body when she walked; while waiting to be let in to the castle, I noticed how well the cloak truly hugged her curves, and the way the silk covering her chest reflected what little light there was. It was truly an awe-inspiring sight.

However, for the first time, I realized that the cold wind must have gone right through the flimsy fabric, freezing her to the bone. I wanted to reach out to her, to let her share my heavy Hogwarts cloak with me. Not only would the thick fabric warm her chilled frame and protect her from the lashings of the wind, but out bodies together would create heat. And that's what I wanted, among other things.

Unfortunately for me, she swept into the castle and the fires that were undoubtedly blazing in all possible locations. She hardly glanced around, and my fantasy of sharing my cloak--and perhaps more with her--was for naught. I ached to follow her into the castle and make sure she was all right, possibly perform a warming charm, my specialty, for both of our benefits. I could then show her around the castle, and all the intricacies known by so few people. Especially the Ravenclaw Common Room, which is completely sequestered from the rest of the castle. That could have it's uses, I mused despondently, still sour that I didn't get to fulfill my cloak-sharing fantasy.

Of course none of this was possible, because I was expected to stand, almost at attention, as if I was in the British military, and wait for the students from Durmstrang to arrive.

It seemed like forever until the bloody Russians arrived by boat, bringing with them--surprise of all surprises-Quidditch World Cup star Viktor Krum. On any other day I would have joined those around me in gossiping about him, trying to figure out why he was here, and when would be the best time to get his autograph. However, this wasn't an ordinary day. This was the day I met her.

Finally, the Hogwarts students were allowed to enter the Great Hall for supper. There was an overall clamor to get inside, probably because of the thought of food, but we inched along behind the Durmstrang students, who seemed to be taking their own sweet time. I guess I was a bit overexcited, because I accidentally trod on the back of one of the Durmstrang students fur cloaks, revealing robes of a blood red. Lovely, I remember thinking to myself. If that's not a sign of that something's not right, I don't know what is. Banishing the unkind thoughts from my head, I said:

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to step on the back of your robes, it's just so cold, and I wasn't really concentrating where I was going. I'm sorry."

The student, a male with dirty blond hair and large black eyes, nodded at my apology, but didn't say anything. Instead he turned back around, and started to quicken his pace, while moving to the left at the same time. I guess he didn't want to take any more chances with me, the over-excited Hogwarts student. Oh well.

As I entered Hogwarts, I instantly felt myself warm up. Just as I had prophesized, there were makeshift fires conjured everywhere--probably for the benefit of the Beauxbatons delegation, I realized. Upon entering the Great Hall, I quickly looked around, trying to find out where the girl, or, more appropriately, the woman, was sitting. When I finally found her, my hear skipped a beat. There she was, sitting at the Ravenclaw table. My house table.

I again quickened my pace, half walking, half running towards the table. Although I wasn't able to sit next to her, I was able to find a seat a few place settings down. I finger-combed my hair self-consciously; it was a nervous habit that I picked up from my mother. I remember her always doing it before something she knew she would dread. Slowly, I leaned over my empty plate, my hair slipping from where I had placed it so that I would not be tempted to mess with it (another nervous habit), and nonchalantly turned to face the girl.

She sat silently; oblivious to the clamor for seats she had created. Her lips (flawlessly shaped, I had to admit, with just the right amount of surface area to be perfectly kissable,) were pursed into a thin line, which one would think would make her look like Professor McGonagall, but instead made her look all the more alluring and enchanting, not to mention sexy. Her blue eyes matched her robes, startlingly enough, and her cheeks were tinted a slight pink from the cold, as was her nose. Her skin was pale and unblemished, unheard of for someone our age; it looked as though it was created from fine porcelain. Long blond hair flowed past her shoulders, and ended above her hip with small ringlets. The color was--there was no other way to describe it--gold. The same gold as a shiny Galleon, just polished by a Gringotts goblin. Being so close to this goddess unnerved me, but I tried to follow her example and keep my face emotionless. I failed. Could you, if you were looking at Aphrodite herself? I thought not.

Still, I was determined to find more out about her. (After all, she must have another name besides Aphrodite; the winner of all mortal's hearts.)

"Excusez-moi," I said, using the little French that my father had taught me before the start of this term. "What is your name?" I looked into her eyes, feeling as though I might fall into them.

"Fleur. Fleur Delacour." Her voice was smooth, like honey flowing down one's aching throat after a day of hawking and wheezing.

"It means 'Flower of the court'," someone near me whispered. I couldn't identify the speaker, but they obviously had a better handle on the French language then I did, which wasn't difficult, all things considered.

"Flower of the court, eh?" I mused. Silently, I added, "Hopefully she will become the flower of my court."