Chapter 1

By: HPRairPairsOnly

The ballroom was a glittering cage. Chandeliers hung like frozen bursts of sunlight, throwing prismatic shards of light across the room. Veela aristocrats, their silken gowns whispering across the polished marble, moved with regal grace. Fleur Delacour stood at the edge of it all, a pillar of elegance in a world that was no longer hers. Her beauty was the kind that stopped conversation, commanded attention, and yet, she felt every inch of it like a weight. Once, this allure had been a badge of pride, the unmistakable mark of her bloodline. Now, it was a mask she wore, part of the charade she'd perfected since the world shifted beneath her feet.

Since Bill's death.

Her husband had died bravely—at least, that's what she told herself on the rare nights when the guilt wasn't gnawing at her insides. Killed during Voldemort's final siege on Hogwarts, Bill Weasley had died a hero of a war that the world was eager to forget. Voldemort had claimed victory that night, and with it, everything Fleur held dear seemed to disintegrate. The shattered remnants of the Order of the Phoenix scattered, either hunted or forced into hiding, while the Dark Lord cemented his rule.

The Veela had sided with Voldemort shortly after the fall of Hogwarts. Practical, as they always were, they saw the tides turning and shifted their loyalty to ensure their continued survival. Fleur had been allowed her place in society, not because of her own merit, but because she was veela royalty and a widow. And there were rules about widows, about allowing them their freedom—so long as they didn't betray their kin.

She hadn't, technically. Not yet.

Her hand brushed absently over her wrist, where an intricate bracelet lay coiled like a serpent. To anyone else, it was just a piece of Veela craftsmanship, delicate silver vines twining into impossible shapes. But the truth was darker—it was an Order relic, one of the last communication devices used by the Phoenix's few remaining members. With a single touch, she could send out a distress signal or a call to action, but not tonight. Not here. Tonight, she had a role to play.

Fleur allowed herself a glance at the far corner of the room, where Bellatrix Lestrange held court like a dark queen. Bellatrix looked different tonight—her madness had been reined in, her wild eyes sharp and calculating, though they still gleamed with the undercurrent of something far more dangerous. Less insane, Fleur noted, but no less lethal. Her reputation preceded her, and Fleur could feel the tension ripple through the crowd, though they hid it well behind polite smiles and meaningless chatter.

Bellatrix caught Fleur's gaze from across the room and held it for a moment, the corner of her lips quirking into something resembling amusement. Fleur, for her part, did not flinch. It would be expected of her to bow, to acknowledge the Dark Lord's most trusted lieutenant, but Fleur had perfected the art of indifference. She was royalty, after all, and even in this twisted world, some protocols held.

She turned her attention to the auction platform at the center of the room, where Voldemort's regime had orchestrated this latest spectacle—captives of war, prisoners of resistance, brought here to be sold. It sickened her, but she did not let it show. In this new order, those who resisted Voldemort's rule were not granted the mercy of death; instead, they were made into commodities. Weapons, tools, or worse. Fleur's stomach churned as she thought of what she would see tonight, but she kept her posture straight and her expression unreadable.

Hermione Granger and Luna Lovegood had been captured only weeks ago.

They were both here tonight.

Fleur hadn't seen them yet, but she knew. The Order had scrambled, desperate to launch a rescue before the brightest witch of her generation and the dreamer were paraded before the highest bidders. They had failed. Fleur had spent nights alone in the grand manor the Veela council had provided for her, staring at the enchanted map Bill had given her, tracing the slow crawl of Death Eater forces as they closed in on her friends. And when the map had gone dark, it had taken every ounce of her discipline not to scream.

Hermione had been unbreakable once. The girl who had defied professors, outwitted Death Eaters, and kept her faith even in the darkest moments. Fleur remembered the fiery girl with the wild hair and the sharp mind that had saved them all time and again. But tonight, she would not see that Hermione.

What Voldemort's forces had done to Hermione Granger in the weeks since her capture was something Fleur could only imagine, but the reports from the Order spies were enough to make her blood run cold. They had broken her. Hermione's will, her mind—both fractured under the relentless assault of Bellatrix's torturous games. The woman Fleur would see tonight would not be the Hermione who had stood beside Harry Potter at the Battle of Hogwarts. She would be someone else, a ghost of who she once was.

And Luna…

Luna Lovegood had always been an enigma. Strange, dreamy, but with an inner strength that most had overlooked until it was too late. There had been a time when Fleur hadn't taken her seriously, dismissing her as a mere oddity in the midst of war. But that had changed the night Luna had pulled her from the rubble of Hogwarts, whispering strange prophecies that had, inexplicably, come to pass. Luna had always seemed untouchable, as if she floated above the horrors of the world, seeing something beyond what they all saw.

But even Luna had her limits.

Bellatrix had personally taken charge of their imprisonment, something Fleur suspected had been less about orders and more about personal satisfaction. Bellatrix had always harbored a sick fascination with breaking those who seemed unbreakable, and what better trophies than Hermione Granger and Luna Lovegood? The rumors had reached even the highest circles of Veela society—stories of how Bellatrix toyed with them, twisting their minds as much as their bodies.

Fleur's pulse quickened at the thought, a deep sense of failure gnawing at her insides. She had been their last hope, but there had been no time, no way to act before they were taken. Now, the auction was the only chance left. She had to win them, buy them out of this nightmare before anyone else could claim them. It was a dangerous game, but one she had no choice but to play.

She stepped forward, the murmur of the crowd filling her ears like the hum of distant thunder. Each step felt heavy, as though the weight of her decisions pressed down on her shoulders, but she did not falter. The Order was broken, scattered, and those who remained alive were in hiding, but Fleur Delacour was not one to hide. Not anymore. Not after what she had lost.

A murmur spread through the room, and the crowd parted as a new figure was brought into view on the auction platform. Fleur froze for a split second, her breath catching in her throat as her gaze locked onto the figure standing in chains at the center of the stage. Hermione.

Or what was left of her.

The woman on the stage was a shadow of the brilliant witch Fleur had known. Her wild curls were matted, her skin bruised and pale. Hermione's eyes were glassy, distant, as if she no longer saw the world around her. Her once defiant posture had crumbled, shoulders hunched, head bowed in defeat. Fleur's heart ached, a sharp twist of regret and guilt, but her face remained impassive.

And standing beside her, a smaller figure, equally broken yet still retaining a strange, ethereal calm: Luna. Luna Lovegood's wide blue eyes stared out into the crowd, and though her body was weakened, Fleur could see that there was still something in her that had not yet been extinguished.

Fleur's heart clenched as her gaze flickered between the two women. Hermione, so hollow, so far from the fierce, intelligent witch she had once known, and Luna, with her quiet resilience, still holding onto the last fragile threads of herself. There was a time when these two women had been symbols of hope—fighting against all odds, refusing to break under the weight of war. But now, they were reduced to this—trophies for the highest bidder.

Her eyes narrowed, scanning the room, taking in the subtle gestures, the murmurs of the crowd. These people, these vultures, would bid for them like livestock, uncaring of who they had been, only focused on what use they could still extract from them. It disgusted her, but disgust was a luxury she couldn't afford. Not here. Not tonight. She had to remain calm, composed, as if this auction was just another gathering in Voldemort's twisted regime.

Bellatrix stepped forward, a predatory smile curling at the edges of her lips as she addressed the crowd. Her voice, silky and dripping with mockery, rang out through the hall. "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight's offerings are… special. These two witches, once so bold, so defiant, have been brought low by our Lord's might. Now, they are ours to command, to break further or mold as we see fit. What better prizes could you ask for?"

Fleur felt a wave of fury rise in her chest, but she smothered it before it could show on her face. She couldn't afford to let her emotions slip, not in front of this crowd. Not in front of Bellatrix. She had to remain untouchable, just like the rest of her kind.

Bellatrix's gaze swept over the crowd, her eyes gleaming as she spoke again. "And now, let the bidding begin. Hermione Granger, the Mudblood who stood at Potter's side, and Luna Lovegood, daughter of the infamous Xenophilius Lovegood, will be sold as one lot."

The bidding started immediately, sharp and ruthless. Fleur's heart pounded in her chest as the numbers climbed higher, each bid bringing Hermione and Luna closer to being lost forever. Fleur stood rooted in place, waiting, calculating. She couldn't bid too early. It would draw too much attention. Bellatrix would notice. She had to wait for the right moment.

Her gaze flickered over to Bellatrix, who was watching the proceedings with a look of amusement. Fleur could tell that Bellatrix wasn't just enjoying the spectacle—she was studying the crowd, looking for weaknesses, calculating who might win, and what they might do with her prized captives. Fleur's stomach turned at the thought. The Order had whispered of what happened to those Bellatrix took a personal interest in. They weren't simply tortured. They were transformed into something unrecognizable, bent to her will, broken in ways that went beyond the physical.

Fleur waited, her fingers hovering over the bracelet on her wrist. It would take only a single touch to summon help, but no help would come. Not now. The Order was too shattered, too weak to mount any kind of rescue. She was alone in this, and she knew it. Her only weapon was her title, her wealth, her veela status. And she had to use it, no matter the cost.

The bidding slowed, and the crowd shifted, the numbers reaching astronomical heights. Fleur could feel the tension in the room. The anticipation. This was it.

She raised her hand.

The room went silent. All eyes turned to her, and for a brief moment, she felt the full weight of their scrutiny. Bellatrix's gaze snapped to her immediately, sharp and probing, but Fleur didn't flinch. She simply met Bellatrix's eyes with an expression of serene indifference, the mask of veela royalty firmly in place.

A murmur spread through the crowd as they recognized who had just entered the bidding. Fleur Delacour, widow of Bill Weasley, member of one of the most ancient and powerful veela bloodlines. Her presence alone commanded respect, and her wealth… well, no one in the room could compete with her, and they all knew it.

For a moment, Bellatrix's expression flickered with something unreadable, her lips curling slightly as if she found the situation amusing. Fleur's stomach churned, but she kept her gaze steady. She had made her move, and now, all she could do was wait.

"Ah, the veela princess graces us with her presence," Bellatrix purred, her voice dripping with mockery. "How delightful. I do wonder, though, what interest a widow like you could possibly have in these… broken little toys."

The words stung, but Fleur didn't react. She couldn't. Not here, not now. Instead, she let the weight of her silence hang between them, knowing that in this world, sometimes silence was the only way to maintain power.

The room held its breath. No one else dared to bid now. Bellatrix's eyes glittered with amusement as she watched Fleur, clearly intrigued by this unexpected development. She stepped closer, her dark eyes never leaving Fleur's face. "Well, well," she murmured, loud enough for the entire room to hear. "It seems we have a winner."

There was a ripple of uneasy laughter from the crowd, but Fleur didn't waver. She had what she came for, but Bellatrix was far from finished. Fleur could see it in her eyes, the gleam of a cat who had just found a new mouse to toy with.

"Congratulations, Fleur," Bellatrix said, her voice soft but cutting. "I do hope you enjoy your new… acquisitions. I'll be watching closely to see how you handle them."

Fleur inclined her head slightly, the barest acknowledgment, before stepping forward. The room seemed to part for her as she made her way to the platform where Hermione and Luna stood in chains, broken but still alive. They were hers now, for better or worse.

Bellatrix's eyes followed her every step, and Fleur could feel the weight of that gaze like a knife at her back. She knew this was far from over. Bellatrix was watching, waiting, and Fleur knew she would have to tread carefully from now on.

As she reached the platform, Fleur's eyes met Hermione's, and for the briefest moment, something flickered in the depths of Hermione's broken gaze. Recognition? Hope? Fleur couldn't be sure, but it was enough to remind her of why she was here.

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