The Oddest of Couples

The full moon was rising over the prickly, shadowed head of the Forbidden Forest, gleaming and round like a shining, unmarred silver penny against the inky darkness of the night´s sky.

Sparks of starlight glittered here and there, between wisps of lunar-dashed cirrus, the chill of the air enough to mist the breath of the girl who stood on the middle of the blue-washed grass.

Her robes trailed along the blades, dampness staining the hem as she paced, leaving a darkened trail where her feet had stepped.

He would come to her, she knew. He would.

Frostiness nipped at her gloveless hands and she rubbed them together, shivering slightly.

He would come.

Earlier that day, when Madam Maxime had not been watching her like a hawk, she had slipped away, following him. He was alone, again, had been since she had first noticed him, the night that the Goblet had selected the champions.

Catching him in one of the darker hallways, she had pulled him to one side and let her charm wash over him, leaving him a little... weakened. It was a side-effect and she had been pleased to notice beads of sweat forming on his brow.

One of her hands had overlaid his and he had trembled at the contact. Also pleasing, she remembered with a light, confident smile.

She had whispered that she would like to speak with him.

He had said nothing.

Leaning in, she had brushed her lips along the curve of his ear and breathed that she would be on the main lawn at midnight. He had shivered again, staring at her with confusion.

"Give me a reason," he had said.

"I will give it to you tonight," she had replied.

His eyes had narrowed suspiciously, but he had nodded.

So innocent in the ways of Veela.

Or of a woman.

She had been unable to decide but had caressed his cheek, then pulled back, gliding away through the darkness like a silver-clad ghost. His eyes remained on her until she was out of sight.

Yes, he would come.

She had heard of him, of course, but not because she was interested in what he had done.

Originally, it was because one of her cousins attended his school and had filled scroll after scroll about the unusual, dark-haired individual, who was notorious in many circles. The descriptions intrigued Fleur Delacour.

Always, it was the unusual ones that caught her attention, the ones who would be more cautious with their emotions, the ones who would provide a challenge for her.

Her lips curved in a slow smile.

He would certainly prove a challenge, sullen and grim, but she was certain she would succeed.

The smile broadened into that of a cat with the cream, confident, her slender hands rising to push through her moon-sheened silver hair that hung to her waist.

Not even the most surly individual had ever been able to resist the charms of a quarter-Veela. She had her grandmother´s abilities to bring any male to his knees, should she wish it.

The rustle of robes over the grass behind her drew her attention, the whisper of the material barely audible.

Turning, her lips curved in a predatory smile, as she found her target moving towards her, clothed in night-robes that made him appear like a shadow blotted against the clear light of the night.

The minute her eyes found him, his pace faltered, but he continued to approach, his expression a dark glare, a warning that she would not succeed in her aim.

She had seen such an expression before.

It was unimportant.

"You came," she purred, stepping towards him, her hands rising to rest on his chest, a chest that was thin beneath the robes, not as bulky as she expected, but hands - strong hands with callused pads, she observed - caught her wrists.

"You have not answered me," he said in a soft, dangerous voice.

Her eyes hooded, Fleur studied him from beneath her lashes. "I wished to talk to you," she murmured, twisting her hands in his grip, her fingertips skimming across the edge of his wrists. "To touch you."

He dropped her wrists as if burned, stepping back from her, the look of confusion on his face adorable in it´s intensity. It was not what he had expected of her.

"Touch... me?"

"Mmm," Fleur replied silkily, taking a slow step towards him. "I have heard much about you. I would like to `ave a chance to..." She licked her lips. "Know you better zan I already do."

"You are joking..."

She was in front of him before he could flee, her hands sliding to his shoulders. So thin, so narrow, yet so strong. She had felt it in his hands, too.

"I would never joke about zis," she purred, her face close to his.

She had heard a phrase once, of a rabbit in the light of an oncoming muggle vessel of transport and it was the expression she saw in the face of the dark-haired wizard before her.

"I can not..."

He tried to pull away, but Fleur was having none, her grip like a vice on his arms, her eyes boring into his as she released her abilities upon him, her head rolling back with a moan.

It was a warming sense of pleasure that rushed through her body, as always when she used her abilities in a focused manner on one person, a stubborn, determined, petulant, arrogant creature like the one before her.

He felt it too, she knew, a tremor running through him. She heard him gasp, a soft hitch of breath in his throat, between parted lips that were damp, shining in the moonlight.

Sinking against him, the drain leaving her weak with self-satisfaction, she felt his hands at her waist.

Her eyes rose to his face.

A dew of sweat washed his tense features, his lips parted as faint breaths danced between them. His eyes were closed, in an effort to resist, a line visible between beetled brows.

Ah, oui, cheri...

He would try to resist, of course, as many did. He would not wish to have someone slipping beneath the impenetrable cloak of solitude in which he garbed himself against hurt and emotion.

Raising a hand, Fleur traced a fingertip down the hollow of his cheek, felt him tremble. So responsive to her touches, she mused, sweeping a fingertip along his lower lip.

"Stop this," he hissed, pushing her away.

Shaking her hair back, Fleur straightened her back, raising her chin. "Is zat what you want for me to do?" she asked huskily, her fingertips wandering the curve of her breasts.

"Yes..."

She studied him for a moment. "You lie," she murmured, stepping closer to him, raising her hand to follow the curve of his lip with her forefinger. "You do not want me to stop."

His jaw tightened, a new shadow appearing in his cheek.

"Would you have me leave?" she whispered, her eyes locking with his. "Or would you have me touch you?"

"Leave," he mumbled.

"You lie once more, mon cher," she tutted, then replaced the finger on his lips with her own, her eyes hooded slits. Again, he shuddered at the contact, but she knew it was a sensation of pleasure.

Her tongue brushed along his lips that were quickly pressed together in a tight line, a stubborn look crossing his features. Still, the flick of her tongue caught a dash of his flavour, masculine and strong.

Drawing back, she caressed his cheek. "Perhaps you are right, mon cher," she said softly, pouting at him. "Perhaps you truly do wish for me to stop, no?"

"Yes," he replied through gritted teeth.

Fleur smiled again, her eyes twinkling. "Ah, yes, but I am not from your school, am I?" she reminded him cheerfully. "Zere is nuzzink wrong wiz indulging in an inter-school relationship, no?"

"I disagree," He tilted his head proudly.

"If zat is so, zen you will not be here tomorrow night, at the same time?"

His dark eyes widened and he took a back step. "You..."

"I will be here, mon cher," she murmured. "It is up to you if you join me."

His eyes darkened. "It is not appropriate."

"Why not?"

"I am older than you and I..."

Before he could move back, the French girl had pressed against him. Her sweet mouth locked to his, in a fiery kiss more deadly than the Dementor´s, sucking his emotions to the surface, a place they had not been seen in many years.

And yet, he could not fight her.

Finally, it was she who broke the kiss, stepping back. "I will see you here, tomorrow night, mon cher," she whispered, then turned and flitted away from him as suddenly as she had in the hall that morning.

Severus Snape stared after her.

He knew he was probably being a suicidal fool, but she had been right.

After all, no one could resist the Veela´s kiss.