The first time Fleur Delacour saw Ethan Cross, the world seemed to pause.
It was during dinner in the Great Hall—nothing remarkable at first. The students of Beauxbatons had arrived only a few days prior, and Hogwarts' strange mix of chaos and charm still unsettled her. But when he walked in—tall, calm, eyes sharp as glass—something inside her chest changed.
Her heartbeat quickened, the rhythm pulsing in her ears like wings fluttering against a cage. It was subtle at first, then unbearable—a deep, insistent throb that spread through her veins like liquid fire, warming her skin until it flushed beneath her robes. Her Veela blood stirred, ancient and wild, coiling low in her belly with a hunger she couldn't name, her breath shallow as if the air itself had thickened around him.
What is this feeling…?
Ethan's eyes met hers for just a moment—cool, assessing, unreadable. Yet to Fleur, it was as if the world had tilted. Her breath hitched, and for that instant, every sound in the Great Hall faded—the clatter of silverware, the murmur of voices dissolving into a distant hum. Her body responded unbidden: a shiver raced down her spine, her nipples tightening against the silk of her blouse, a faint ache blooming between her thighs as her magic hummed in response, drawn to him like a moth to flame. Her Veela heritage—proud, possessive—recognized something that her mind didn't, a primal pull that made her fingers curl into her palms, nails biting into soft flesh to ground herself.
Then he looked away.
And the spell broke. The noise rushed back, laughter and chatter filling the void, but Fleur barely heard it. Her chest felt empty, her pulse frantic, a lingering heat in her core that left her shifting uncomfortably in her seat, thighs pressing together against in an attempt to calm herself.
That night, she sat by her window in Beauxbatons' carriage, moonlight spilling over her pale hands like liquid silver. Her mother's voice echoed in her memory, soft and certain, laced with the knowing timbre of experience:
"Every Veela has a mate, ma chère. The one whose soul resonates with yours. When you meet him, you will know. It is not gentle, not kind. It burns—like wildfire in your blood, a craving that consumes until you claim him as yours."
It burned indeed, a slow, smoldering ache that kept her awake, her body restless beneath the sheets, skin sensitive to the cool night air brushing her like a lover's tease. She traced idle patterns on her thigh, imagining them as his hands instead—strong, deliberate—exploring the curves she knew drove men mad, but for him, it would be different. Deeper. A union that fed her very essence.
From that moment, she couldn't stop thinking about him—the way he carried himself, the effortless confidence in his tone, the calm in his gaze that hid depths she yearned to explore. He was different from the boys who stammered and tripped over their words around her, their eyes glazing with dumb lust at her Veela allure. He didn't look at her like a prize to be won. He looked at her like an equal.
When she heard Hogwarts' new Defense Professor was starting a Dueling Club, something inside her stirred this was finally her chance, a way to speak to Ethan to get to know the man her magic called out to.
She told herself it was just curiosity. She wanted to test her skills, to see how he fought, to prove her grace and capability on his stage. But in truth, she wanted to stand before him—to see if he would look at her the same way again, if that electric pull would surge through her once more, leaving her breathless and aching... or if that first glance had been a trick of her imagination, a fleeting illusion that left her yearning for more.
The Dueling Club
The Great Hall was alive with chatter, banners swaying under enchanted light that danced across the stone like fleeting caresses. Fleur stood near the edge of the crowd, pretending not to care, acting like your typical tsundere, standing there with a proud posture, chin lifted in feigned indifference—but her heart betrayed her, inside it was pounding, the anticipation of seeing Ethan again leaving her wanting.
When Ethan appeared, the room seemed to sharpen into focus again she felt the pull of her core as her blood called out to her. Looking at him left her reeling, feeling as if it was only him and her alone in the hall. Then when he spoke she came snapping back to reality.
"Before we duel with wands," he said, "we duel with awareness. A true fighter doesn't need magic to win. Also to be honest I've seen what happens when wizards lose their wands in duels and its pretty pathetic."
He spoke with such certainty that even the Slytherins fell silent, but Fleur barely noticed—the words washing over her like a caress, each syllable stoking the fire in her veins until her cheeks warmed, her breath shallow and quick.
When he asked for a volunteer, Fleur stepped forward before she could stop herself, her body moving on instinct, hips swaying with an unconscious grace that drew murmurs from the crowd—but her eyes were only for him.
"I will," she said, her voice steady despite the beating in her chest.
Her voice didn't tremble—but her pulse did, racing, her Veela blood surging in a rush of heat that made her skin tingle as she felt her nipples harden and a damp sensation grew in her panties.
He turned to her, meeting her gaze. "Fleur Delacour," he said, like he already knew her name—like it was a secret whispered in the dark, intimate and possessive.
He knows me, her heart whispered, a thrill shooting straight to her core, leaving her aching with a need that bordered on pain.
They bowed. The world narrowed to just the two of them—the crowd a distant haze, the air between them charged like the moments before a storm. Fleur raised her wand, but Ethan shook his head. "No magic," he said simply. "Let's see what you can do without it."
Her lips curved into a faint, defiant smile, but inside, her blood roared—a challenge that ignited every nerve, her body humming with anticipation, skin flushing with the promise of contact. "As you wish."
Her mother had insisted she learn self-defense—not for sport, but for survival. Being a Veela meant drawing attention, not all of it welcome. So Fleur had trained from a young age as did all Veela. The world was not always a nice place and history had taught them so. As they squared off Fleur lunged.
Ethan blocked every hit with disarming ease, his movements a masterclass in controlled power—redirecting her strikes as if he could read her mind, anticipate her every curve and intent. When his hand caught her wrist, the touch seared—a firm, unyielding grip that sent jolts of electricity racing up her arm, straight to her core, her breath catching in a soft, involuntary gasp as heat pooled between her thighs, her body responding slickness that made her shift her stance to hide the tremor.
Her breath erratic though others would think it was simply exertion. The contact wasn't rough, just alive—electric as Ethan gently dominated the encounter, his skin warm and callused against hers, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist in a way that felt deliberate, intimate, prompting thoughts of how he might hold her in other ways... Her magic and her Veela nature flared, desperate and confused—a wild surge that made her vision blur at the edges, her nipples aching against the confines of her bra, every brush of fabric a torment as she struggled to focus on the spar.
And when, in one perfect motion, he swept her legs and caught her before she fell—his arm banding around her waist like heated iron, pulling her flush against him—she forgot how to breathe entirely. His body was solid, unyielding, the hard planes of his chest pressing into her softness, the scent of him—clean sweat and faint sandalwood—flooding her senses, intoxicating and overwhelming. Time stretched, her heart thundering against his ribs, the heat of him seeping through their clothes, stirring a deep, primal ache that made her thighs slick and her lips part on a silent plea.
Their eyes locked—his calm, hers wide with something dangerously close to awe, her Veela allure flaring unbidden, a subtle glow to her skin that she couldn't suppress, drawing him in like a moth to flame.
"Lesson one," Ethan said softly, helping her up, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her, his hand lingering on her waist a beat too long, fingers splaying possessively against the curve of her hip, sending aftershocks rippling through her core. "Control the battlefield. Don't let your emotions control you."
Her skin burned where he touched her, a lingering brand that made her ache to lean into him, to press her lips to his throat and taste the salt of his skin, to feel his hands roam freely over her curves. Every nerve screamed at her to pull him closer, to surrender to the bond that thrummed between them like a live wire—her body alive with need, breasts heavy and sensitive, the apex of her thighs throbbing with insistent heat. Every shred of discipline told her to run, to flee before she shattered under the weight of it all.
But she couldn't—not before making sure she could see Ethan again. Waiting until after class, she approached him. Doing her best to calm her body, she made sure to ask for some lessons—private ones. Putting the lessons she had from her mother into practice, she was putting everything into action. Remembering her mother's voice in her head, "Ma chérie, when you find your lifelong mate, you must make your move quickly; otherwise, if you fail to get with him, only regret will be there for the rest of your life. We Veela can only move on with the mate bond if our partner dies."
The moment the session ended and she had locked down tutoring sessions with Ethan, Fleur slipped away, her heart pounding in her throat like a caged bird. She reached the safety of her quarters and collapsed into her bed, pressing trembling fingers to her lips—still tingling from the ghost of proximity, swollen with the promise of what could be.
This can't be real, she thought, her body thrumming with unresolved tension, skin flushed and feverish, a hand drifting unconsciously to her breast, thumb brushing the hardened peak in a futile attempt to soothe the ache. It's the mate bond. It has to be.
R18 SCENE
The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her in the dim sanctuary of her room, the air heavy with the faint, floral scent of her perfume mingling pheromone soaked sweat from the duel. Fleur's breath came in shallow gasps, her body heaving with desire. She sank onto the edge of her bed, the cool silk of the sheets a tease against her hot skin, her thighs pressing together to try and ease the insistent ache between them. But it just made it worse, that slick warmth building, her Veela blood demanding more—for him.
Her fingers shook a little as they trailed down her collarbone, following the line where sweat had dried, her blouse sticking to her curves. With a frustrated little whimper, she fumbled with the buttons, popping them open one by one, each one sending a fresh shiver through her as more skin came into the cool air. Her breasts spilled free, nipples tight and sensitive, begging for something—anything—to ease the burn. She pictured his hands there instead, rough and sure, cupping her, thumbs circling just like this...
"Mon Dieu," she whispered, voice all husky and cracked, as she squeezed her breast, the pressure shooting straight down to her core. A gasp slipped out as her other hand slid lower, under her skirt, fingers brushing the damp lace between her legs. God, she was soaked, the feel of it making her cheeks heat even more, that musky scent of her own want filling the room.
She leaned back into the pillows, eyes squeezing shut as the images hit her—Ethan pinning her during that almost-fall, his body hard against hers, that promise of what he could do. She saw his mouth on her neck, hot and wet, teeth nipping down to her chest, sucking her nipple until she arched off the bed. Her fingers moved faster now, circling that swollen spot, hips twitching up as the tension coiled tighter, a moan breaking free—his name stuck in her throat but burning on her tongue.
In her head, he was right there, spreading her legs, fingers taking over, pushing inside her deep and slow, hitting that perfect angle that made everything blur. She clenched around nothing, desperate for the real thing, that thick stretch of him filling her up, thrusting hard like he had in the duel but oh so much more. "Ethan," she finally breathed out, and then it hit—her body shaking as she came, body trembling with pleasure.
Panting, Fleur pulled her hand away, staring at the mess with a mix of embarrassment and relief. The bond wouldn't let up, throbbing inside her like it knew she needed the real him, skin on skin, no holding back. She wiped her fingers on the sheet and curled up, tugging the covers over her body.
Sleep came slow, as her mind just wouldn't quit. Those private lessons... god, she could already imagine them—wands tossed aside, as they joined together the Veela bond made whole. Slowly but surely she drifted off to sleep the Triwizard tournament at the back of her mind as her thoughts were consumed with Ethan.