The Osiris Song

"Honestly, do you think I don't know who I am?" Hermione Granger fumed, glaring over the counter at the Gringotts goblin who was stalling her progress. "I am Hermione Granger, charms expert for the Department of Magical Security in the Ministry of Magic. I am here to ensure that YOUR charms are strong enough to keep the prisoner securely incarcerated pending trial. I don't need to remind you that the Ministry deems this prisoner to be extremely lethal and at high risk for escape. You would like the world to hear about him getting out of one of your precious vaults, because your charms were too weak? You'd be losing accounts left, right and center!"

The goblin glared at her. "No one sees the prisoner!" he barked. It was the same argument he'd been using for the past twenty minutes.

Hermione was about to lean over the counter, grab him by his green ears and shake him from side to side in frustration, when a wave of dizziness so powerful it almost knocked her off her feet washed over her. She put a hand to her head and leaned heavily against the counter, looking over her shoulder to see what - or who - was causing the vertigo.

The last person she had expected - or hoped - to see had just entered the building. Hermione felt her heart plummet to the soles of her feet.

"Iz Urichai giving you trouble, 'Ermione?" Fleur asked calmly, gliding over the polished marble floor of the Gringotts lobby, eyes flashing an icy blue. "'E 'as zat problem wiz many people. It iz not in 'is nature to be 'elpful."

"Fleur," Urichai rasped, and Hermione turned to look at him in amazement. The goblin was staring at Fleur with lovestruck eyes. It was disconcerting, seeing a soppy goblin. Rather than improving his hideous appearance, Urichai had begun smiling like an idiot, exposing his razor sharp teeth and making his face even MORE terrifying. //I didn't think goblins were affected by veela...// Hermione thought.

Fleur didn't seem to notice Urichai's infatuation with her. She came to stand beside Hermione at the counter and gave the goblin a fetching smile. "'Ermione iz wiz me, Urichai," she said pleasantly. "We are both 'ere to zee zat ze prisoner is well guarded. Please, which vault is 'e in?"

Hermione knew she should step in; knew she should stop Fleur from getting this information. But Urichai had already dropped a key into the veela's waiting hand. "Number 587," he all but purred, which was even more disturbing than his smile. "In the restricted section."

Fleur gave him a devastating smile. "Zank you, Urichai. You 'ave been mos' 'elpful." Then she leaned over the counter, kissed him once on each cheek, and turned to Hermione. "Are you coming, 'Ermione?"

Hermione nodded slowly. "Of course," she replied, watching the other woman's eyes closely for any betrayal of emotion. There was nothing beyond cordial curiosity.

"Very well zen. Follow." Tucking the key into the breast pocket of her fitted suit jacket, Fleur strode purposefully away from the desk. Hermione had no choice but to follow.

Once they were away from the front desk, seated in one of the bank's plethora of carts, Hermione felt the remaining vestiges of dizziness wash away, as though someone had dumped a great bucket of cold water over her head, leaving her mind clear and her nerves jangled. "What was that about?" she asked angrily as Fleur steered them through the maze of tunnels toward vault 587.

Fleur didn't look at her as she answered. "Goblins are not zo affected by my wiles as are men of uzzer species. I 'ad to try very 'ard. It worked."

Hermione sighed heavily, rubbing her temples. "Fleur, you shouldn't be here."

"Why?"

"Why? You know why!"

"Please, tell me again."

Hermione paused for a moment, trying to think of a tactful way to make her point. "Because Peter Pettigrew has to live to reach his trial," she said softly.

Fleur laughed. Hermione hadn't expected that reaction. "You zink I am going to kill 'im?" the veela asked, amusement evident in her voice.

"Truthfully? Yes."

Fleur shook her head and glanced in her direction. "I am not going to kill 'im," she assured Hermione.

The other young woman gave her a suspicious look. "How can I be sure?" she asked.

"Becoz I promised Mère Weasley zat I would not." She paused, then continued. "I am going to torture 'im instead."

Hermione closed her eyes. For a moment there, she had felt some hope. "Fleur-" she began, but the veela cut her off.

"Do you know what ze Cruciatus curse does to a body, if it iz uzed long enough?" she asked, as if in idle conversation.

Hermione didn't answer. She couldn't make her voice work. She knew all too well what Fleur was going to say.

"Ze joints, you zee. Zey pop. Ze bones, too. Zey stretch, zo zat ze victim, 'e feels like 'e iz going to tear apart from ze inside."

"Fleur..." Hermione murmured, but the other young woman ignored her.

"Mon Bill, 'e was tall, oui?" the veela continued. "An 'ead taller zan me. When zey buried 'im, 'e was an 'ead again taller zan zat " She turned distant, unemotional blue eyes in Hermione's direction. "Do you know 'ow long zey tortured 'im? 'Ow long zat damage would take?"

Hermione shook her head faintly, a lump of old grief burning in her throat.

"Neizer do I," Fleur said quietly. "But Pettigrew, 'e iz going to tell me, and zen 'e iz going to wish 'e was in Azkaban, wiz jus' ze Dementors to 'urt 'im. I will stretch 'im like willows in ze wind, 'Ermione. I will make 'im ten feet tall."

Being with Fleur in this raw, elemental state was not a new experience for Hermione. She remembered too well the grief that had surrounded the young widow like a fog at Bill's funeral. The veela were, at the heart of their power, extroverted empaths. They were able to twist the emotions of the people around them, making some love them passionately, while others felt nothing but loathing. Fleur, as a quarter veela, had only a fraction of that power, but when she was projecting, it felt like a hammer beating against your mind until you gave in. At the funeral, Fleur's tears had come slow and silent, but those around her had sobbed enough to put Noah's flood to shame, as the grief-stricken veela shared her pain. It had been an unconscious mishap, but Hermione could remember how her heart had seemed to tear brutally in two with each breath as she watched the coffin being lowered into the ground.

Riding with her now, deep into the bowels of Gringotts, Hermione felt the young woman's emotions washing over her like a tide. She tried her best to block them out, but couldn't keep away the sensations of murderous rage and heavy-lidded fury that pumped through her veins like adrenaline. Part of her - the part that remembered holding Ron as he sobbed into her shoulder when they learned of his brother's death - reveled in the dark emotions. It would be so easy to raise her wand, aim it at Pettigrew's body and speak the words: Avada kedavra! So simple. Too clean, perhaps; too quick. But so SIMPLE.

She shook herself. "Fleur, please calm down." Turning to the other woman, she murmured, "Would Bill want this?"

Fleur glared at her. It was an unpleasant thing, to be glared at by a veela. Her blue eyes felt like daggers. "What makes you zink zat Bill would NOT want zis?" she asked angrily. "What makes you zink 'e would want me to let 'is murderer live wizout pain?"

"I know that Bill wasn't a vindictive person. I know that he wouldn't want you to become one, just on his behalf."

Fleur shook her head, mouth set in a grim line, and looked away again. "Zen Bill did not know 'ow much I loved 'im."

They said nothing after that, until the cart came to a stop in front of a nondescript door with the number 587 written on it in peeling gold leaf. It didn't seem like the kind of door that would hide a dangerous criminal like Peter Pettigrew, but like so much in the wizarding world, looks were deceiving.

Hermione followed Fleur out of the cart, and quickly stepped around the veela to stand between her and the vault door. "I can't let you do this, Fleur," she said firmly. "It's my job as a member of the Ministry, but it's also my duty as a friend. I won't let you compromise yourself like this over someone as low as Pettigrew."

Fleur barely seemed to notice her. The veela withdrew her slender wand and polished it on the sleeve of her suit jacket. "Move, 'Ermione," she said calmly.

"I can't, Fleur. I won't."

"Move, 'Ermione," the veela repeated, and this time, there was no room for equivocation in her voice. "If you do not move," here she raised her wand and pointed it, dead center, at Hermione's forehead, "zen I will move you myzelf."

Hermione didn't let herself sweat. The urge to gulp was strong, but she fought that as well. "No."

"MOVE."

"No!"

"'Ermione, I do not want to 'urt you!"

"Then put down the wand and walk away! Fleur, you don't have to do this. We'll find out your information for you, I swear. Pettigrew won't have an easy time of it, if that's what worries you. He's done too much, affected too many people in too many terrible ways. He IS going to suffer. Please, don't put that blood on your hands. You're worth more than that!"

For a moment, she thought she'd gotten through. Fleur stared at her silently, then slowly lowered her wand. Hermione fought the urge to exhale heavily. "Per'aps you are right," the veela murmured. "Per'aps…"

"I am right, Fleur," Hermione said softly in return, daring a step towards the other woman. "Come on. I'll take you h-"

She never got to finish her sentence. Fleur raised her hand, planted it on Hermione's chest, just below her collarbone, and pushed. With a surprised cry, Hermione stumbled backward and collided with the vault door. A surge of magic ripped through her, like a tornado scrambling her mind. She thought she screamed, but before she could be sure, she lost consciousness and fell forward, boneless, to the ground.

TBC…