Chapter 2

By: HPRairPairsOnly

The grand halls of Fleur Delacour's mansion were a façade of serenity, a perfection so meticulously curated it felt oppressive. The chandeliers hung like captured stars, casting soft glows across the polished floors, and every corner of the estate was painstakingly maintained, yet to Fleur, it had become a constant reminder of the performance she had to maintain. The sprawling estate was beautiful, yes—but also a breeding ground for danger. There were too many eyes, too many mouths that could speak out of turn. Her servants were a necessary risk, and while she chose them carefully, Fleur knew better than to trust them completely. In this world, loyalty could be bought, or worse, forced.

Veela royalty, a widow, and therefore untouchable—such was her status among Voldemort's new order. But she was not naive. Her position of privilege could be stripped away in a moment if the wrong word fell into the wrong ear. Fleur had crafted her existence with precision: an outward display of grace and compliance, hiding the reality of her alliance with the shattered remains of the Order of the Phoenix. But even here, in the sanctuary of her own home, she was never truly safe.

The servants drifted through the rooms like shadows, their faces neutral, their hands efficient in their tasks. Fleur watched them with a quiet wariness, always aware of the possibility that one of them could be tempted, coerced, or threatened into betrayal. The thought lingered in her mind as she made her way to the drawing room, where Hermione and Luna waited. She had dismissed the servants from that part of the house earlier, ensuring that they wouldn't overhear what was said behind closed doors. It was the only way she could speak freely, even in her own home.

The heavy wooden door creaked softly as she entered, and her eyes immediately fell on the two women. Hermione sat by the window, her posture tense, her hands gripping the arms of the chair as if she were holding herself together by sheer force of will. Her skin was still pale, her once vibrant hair now limp and tangled. The bruises on her wrists—marks of her recent captivity—stood out starkly against her skin, a reminder of what she had endured at Bellatrix's hands.

Luna, by contrast, sat serenely on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her as she gazed out at the garden beyond the window. There was a distant calmness about her, the same strange detachment she had always possessed, but it had deepened in the time since her capture. Fleur couldn't tell if it was a form of survival or simply Luna's way of existing in a world that had gone mad.

The room was quiet, the tension between them palpable. Fleur moved gracefully across the room, but her thoughts were anything but calm. She had saved them from the auction, yes, but that didn't mean they were safe—not truly. Not yet.

"Luna, Hermione," Fleur said softly, taking a seat across from her. "You need to rest."

Fleur watched as Hermione's defiance wavered, the fire that had briefly flared in her eyes flickering out as quickly as it had come. Hermione shifted in her seat, her hands trembling slightly as they gripped the arms of the chair. She wasn't the same girl who had fought so fiercely against the forces of darkness. Not anymore. The scars of her captivity—both physical and emotional—ran too deep, and every word she spoke seemed to take an immense effort, as though the strength to argue was slipping away from her.

Hermione's gaze darted around the room, her eyes glassy and unfocused, before they finally landed back on Fleur. There was no accusation in her stare now, only a fragile, broken mistrust. Her lips parted, as if she wanted to say something more, but no words came out. The fight was still there, somewhere beneath the surface, but it was buried under layers of pain and exhaustion.

"We need to escape…" Hermione's voice was barely more than a whisper, hoarse and trembling. Her eyes darted to the door, then back to Fleur. She looked terrified, like a caged animal searching for a way out. "Together."

Fleur's heart clenched at the quiet desperation in Hermione's voice. She didn't need to hear any more words to understand what Hermione was feeling. The fear. The confusion. The sheer exhaustion of it all. Fleur had seen it too many times before, in the war, in herself. She knew what it meant to be so close to breaking that even the idea of hope felt too distant to grasp.

"Hermione," Fleur said softly, moving closer to her. She wanted to reach out, to offer some kind of comfort, but she knew it wouldn't be welcomed. Not yet. "You can't… not now. It's too dangerous."

Hermione shook her head weakly, her eyes wide, unfocused. She seemed lost, drifting between the present and whatever horrors her mind kept replaying. "Why…" she whispered, her voice breaking. "Why do you want to keep me?"

Fleur swallowed hard, her own heart heavy with the weight of Hermione's question. She had expected anger, defiance—but this? This quiet, fragile plea for understanding tore at her in ways she hadn't anticipated. Hermione wasn't accusing her anymore. She was simply trying to survive, trying to make sense of a world that no longer made sense.

"I don't want to hurt you," Fleur said, her voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would shatter what little strength Hermione had left. "I'm trying to keep you safe."

Hermione's gaze flickered again, her brows knitting together in confusion. "Safe…" she repeated, but the word seemed foreign to her, as though she couldn't quite grasp its meaning anymore. Her voice trembled as she looked at Fleur, and for the first time, Fleur saw something more than fear in her eyes. It was disbelief. A quiet, broken disbelief that safety was even possible anymore.

"You're not my enemy," Hermione whispered, but her voice cracked as if she wasn't entirely sure of the words herself. "But… why? Why would you care?"

Fleur's heart twisted painfully, and she felt a surge of guilt wash over her. Hermione didn't understand. How could she? She had been through too much. Too much torture. Too much pain. Bellatrix had nearly broken her—had broken her in ways that might never heal. And now, standing in front of Fleur, she was trying to piece together a shattered trust, a trust that Fleur didn't deserve but desperately wished she could rebuild.

"Hermione," Fleur whispered, her voice steady but filled with quiet resolve, "I care because I remember who you were. Who you are."

But Hermione just shook her head, her body trembling with an emotion Fleur couldn't quite name—fear, exhaustion, or something else entirely. She was almost too broken to argue, too broken to fight anymore. Fleur could see the pain etched into every line of her face, the haunted look in her eyes that told a story too horrifying to put into words.

Hermione glanced at the door again, her fingers twitching as if she was still considering escape, still wondering if there was any way out of this nightmare. But she didn't move. She simply sat there, hollow and fragile, the last remnants of her strength draining away as she stared at the locked door with a kind of numb resignation.

Luna, who had been silent the entire time, shifted slightly on the couch, her wide eyes still gazing at the garden outside. Her calm was unsettling, as if she saw through the chaos, untouched by it. But when she spoke, her voice was soft and oddly comforting. "She's telling the truth, Hermione," Luna murmured. "Fleur doesn't want to hurt us. She's not like them."

Hermione's breath hitched, her eyes flickering between Fleur and Luna, but she didn't respond. Instead, she lowered her gaze to the floor, her body sinking deeper into the chair, as though she didn't have the energy to argue anymore. Whatever hope she had clung to seemed to be slipping away, leaving only the numbness of survival in its place.

Fleur took a steadying breath, letting the moment pass as the tension in the room settled into a painful silence. She had to get Hermione out of here—away from the heavy gaze of the servants, the eyes that could report back to Bellatrix, or worse, Voldemort himself. The sooner they were both somewhere safe, somewhere private, the better. She couldn't risk them being overheard, couldn't risk Hermione's growing distrust festering into something that would give them all away.

"Come," Fleur said softly, stepping back and motioning for Hermione and Luna to follow. "I will show you to your room."

Hermione hesitated, her gaze flickering to Luna, who stood quietly and followed Fleur without a word. After a moment, Hermione rose to her feet, her movements stiff, as though the weight of everything that had happened was pressing down on her bones. Fleur could feel her reluctance, her quiet resistance, but at least she was moving.

Fleur led them down the hall, her footsteps barely making a sound against the marble floors. The mansion was vast, each room more grand than the last, but Fleur had chosen a different place for Hermione and Luna—somewhere far from the opulent halls that the Veela elite liked to parade through. She couldn't afford to draw attention, and she certainly couldn't let anyone think she had given them anything more than what Bellatrix might expect.

The room Fleur led them to was on the far side of the mansion, where the corridors were quieter, the servants rarely ventured, and the air held a stillness that felt almost oppressive. She paused at the heavy wooden door and pushed it open, revealing the room inside.

It was spartan, deliberately so.

There were two simple beds, dressed in plain linen sheets, and a small table with a single candle resting on it. The walls were bare, the stone floors cold and uninviting. The only luxury, if it could be called that, was a basin of water and a small cabinet for their clothes. It was nothing like the rest of the mansion—no rich tapestries, no soft rugs or sparkling chandeliers. It was the kind of room that wouldn't draw suspicion, the kind of place that would make people believe Hermione and Luna were nothing more than prisoners, kept for… unsavory purposes.

"I'm sorry it's not more," Fleur said quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper. She looked to Hermione, who had taken in the room with a blank, detached expression. "But it's safe. You won't be disturbed here."

Hermione didn't respond, her gaze lingering on the beds before she finally moved toward one of them. She sat down slowly, her eyes distant, her mind somewhere far away. Luna, however, stepped over to the basin of water, her fingers tracing the edge of it as though the cold metal fascinated her.

"Rest," Fleur said softly, watching both of them with a mixture of sorrow and unease. "And bathe. It will help."

Hermione still didn't speak, her body rigid as she sat on the bed. Luna nodded faintly, her calm gaze meeting Fleur's for a moment before she turned back to the basin.

Fleur lingered by the door for a moment, her chest tight with a mixture of guilt and frustration. She wanted to say more, to offer some kind of comfort, but she knew it wouldn't matter now. They didn't trust her, not yet. Maybe they never would.

"I'll make sure no one bothers you," Fleur said finally, her voice soft but firm. "But you must stay here. It's not safe to leave."

With that, she turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Her heart ached as she walked back down the hall, her footsteps slower this time, heavier. She had to ensure that no one—especially the servants—did anything that might raise suspicion. If word got out about her being kind to Hermione and Luna, if even a whisper reached Bellatrix, it would be over for all of them.

As she approached the servants' quarters, Fleur found the head housekeeper, an older woman with a shrewd gaze and a quiet, efficient manner. She had served the Delacours for years, long enough to know that some things were better left unsaid.

"Madame," the housekeeper greeted, bowing her head slightly as Fleur approached.

Fleur didn't waste time with pleasantries. She needed to be firm, clear. "The two women I brought in today," she said, her voice low and calm. She did not want the servants to realize who exactly her guests were yet. Some might try to make a lateral move with the Death Eaters by doing something to the legendary Hermione Granger and Luna Lovegood. "They are not to be disturbed or touched. Under any circumstances."

The housekeeper's expression didn't change, but Fleur could see the question in her eyes. Why?

"They are…" Fleur hesitated only briefly before continuing, "They belong to me now. I have purchased them, and their purpose is not for anyone else to question."

The housekeeper nodded once, her face as blank as ever, but Fleur could feel the ripple of discomfort pass through the room. The servants knew what it meant when someone brought in 'purchased' prisoners. In Voldemort's world, people with power often indulged in such things—cruel, debasing things. Fleur needed them to believe the same.

"You will tell the others," Fleur continued, her voice taking on a sharper edge. "They are to act as if these women are my personal property. If anyone asks, they are to believe they are my… playthings."

There was a faint flicker of surprise in the housekeeper's eyes, but she quickly bowed her head again in acknowledgment. "Of course, Madame. We will… make sure no one asks questions."

Fleur gave a curt nod, the lie sitting like a stone in her chest. She hated every word of it, hated that she had to create this fiction to keep Hermione and Luna safe. But in this world, deception was survival.

"Good," Fleur said, her voice cool and detached, the mask of veela royalty slipping back into place. "Ensure it is done properly."

With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, her heart heavy with the weight of the lies she had spun. She hated the part she had to play, hated that she had to let others believe she was capable of such cruelty. But it was the only way to protect them, to keep Bellatrix and the others from discovering the truth.

As she made her way back to the quiet part of the mansion, where Hermione and Luna waited in their cold, spartan room, Fleur allowed herself a brief moment of weakness. She leaned against the wall, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, the façade of control slipping just for an instant.

She had to keep them safe. No matter the cost.

She just hoped they would forgive her for what she had to do.

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