The Great Hall glowed with candlelight, flickering off silverware and glass goblets, laughter weaving like music between the four long tables. Fleur sat among her Beauxbatons peers, chin delicately balanced on her palm, her plate mostly untouched. Across the hall, eyes lingered—again. Always.

Boys from Durmstrang. Boys from Hogwarts. Eyes filled with longing or awe or awkward desire. They stared as if she were not a girl but a creature—a siren in school robes. And maybe she was. Maybe that was all they saw. Veela blood. A walking enchantment.

Not one of them had spoken to her today without stammering. Not one had asked her a question without their voice cracking halfway through. One redhead in dirty robes even salivated on her sight...

Not one had looked her in the eye and seen Fleur—not the performance, not the gleaming shell, but the girl underneath.

The Yule Ball loomed and with it a dread in her heart.

She took a slow breath, jaw tightening. She would rather go alone than pretend to smile at a boy whose pupils were so dilated he could barely think.

Then...

"Could you pass the pitcher?"

She blinked.

The voice hadn’t stuttered. It hadn’t cracked. It was calm, cool—almost disinterested. Polite, but not performative. Fleur turned her head slightly, eyes narrowing with faint curiosity.

A boy in Slytherin robes stood behind her all, composed, not staring. His uniform was immaculate, his features elegant in the way old pureblood lines tended to be, and there was an ease to the way he held himself. He gestured again, not impatiently, just a quiet question repeating itself.

“The pumpkin juice, mademoiselle.” he clarified, a faint tilt of his head.

For a heartbeat, Fleur stared. Her fingers moved before her brain caught up. She passed the pitcher down, murmuring a soft “Voilà.”

“Thank you,” he said simply, a small smile on his face and then—went back to his meal.

No follow-up questions. No awkward grin. No lingering gaze.

He didn’t even glance at her again.

Her heart beat oddly in her chest.

She stared at her plate, then at him again. Still eating. Still not looking.

How… relieving.

Her allure, the thing that made her a goddess to everyone else, hadn’t even made him blink.

She wasn't sure why her cheeks were warm, or why—for the first time that evening—she found herself smiling at nothing in particular.

Fleur Delacour suddenly realized she hadn’t felt like a normal girl in a very long time. And now, here she was.

Seen.

And maybe, just maybe… something like hope stirred in her chest.

Something real.