Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix, Fenraellis, and Vlad the Inhaler. The DLP crowd did quite a number on this and the next couple chapters and I also wish to acknowledge useful guidance from the Fanficauthors and Reading Consortium sites. In responding to the several criticisms I received, I believe I've improved the exposition and characterization considerably. The next two chapters will be published soon after this one--I don't want to keep you waiting too long.
Also, I wish to inform readers that I've added an additional scene to Chapter 1 of this story that puts Ron's aberrant behavior into (hopefully) better context.
Warning: Sexual abuse.
CHAPTER 11
The Famous Ron Weasley Wit
Hermione gathers her books and parchment from the library carrel as she smiles contentedly. She had spent the afternoon studying with Viktor, who had stolen a quick kiss moments before on his way out.
"Oi, Hermione!" Fred shouts, earning an inimical glare from Madame Pince.
"Shh! What do you two want?" Hermione answers in a loud whisper. "And can you possibly start a sentence with something other than "Oi?""
"Ahem. We merely wish to ask whether we may accompany such a lovely lady as you this fine day and, at your pleasure, whether we may inquire about a matter of possible mutual benefit," George says with a mock bow.
Hermione groans, "What do you need now?"
"What do you need now?" Fred puts the back of his hand to his forehead. "As if we're paupers begging for crumbs. Barmy, she is." Hermione glares at him.
"Actually, it's not about us, but Harry," George says, "We were wondering if you could help us with his training. We'll even teach you a new spell."
This catches her attention. "Sure! When?"
"Now?" George asks.
"Lead on." George shoulders her bag and the twins each take an elbow and escort her away.
The three arrive at a large, empty classroom where the desks have been stacked into a corner to leave an open space. In the room are Ginny and Lee Jordan, who have just arrived, and Harry, who is bending at the waist to stretch his hamstrings. He greets them with a nod as he shrugs off his shirt. "Thanks for coming. I see you brought help."
"After last time? Of course we did," George says. "Same deal as before?"
"Sure, I'm good for it. Ten Galleons per hit."
"But we get half of Hermione's," Fred says.
"Half?" Hermione says.
"Finder's fee," George comments.
"What's going on, Harry?" Hermione asks.
"You're going to help these prats help me practice dodging. The incantation is is bola and the wand movement is like this." Harry demonstrates, firing a tiny blue pellet out of the tip of his wand toward the far wall. On impact, the ball explodes into a fist-sized circle of color. Hermione copies him and, after a few tries, gets the hang of the spell, though her pellet is milky white, not blue like Harry's. "Remus made it. He said he got the idea for the spell from a muggle sport called paintball."
"How do you change the color?" Hermione asks.
"Well, you could use a color modifier, like bola amarilla to make a yellow pellet, but it's easier to just think the color you want as you fire it. Actually, the hex is pretty easy to pick up wordless, so you may want to try figuring out how to do that too-it's more challenging for me that way." He addresses the others in the room. "You guys all need to spread out and each pick a different color so that we can tell who owns the hits."
"Red," calls Fred at the same time George says, "Orange." Ginny and Lee claim blue and yellow, respectively.
Hermione frowns. "Wait a minute, Harry. You're going to dodge spells from all five of us at once?"
"That's the plan, Hermione. What's your color?"
"That's impossible," she states, arms akimbo. Harry raises an eyebrow. "Fine, pink."
He winks at her and steps into the center of a circle made by the other students. "On my mark… Go!" He shifts into motion, dodging a fast burst of pellets from the other four. Hermione is taken aback by how quickly and gracefully he moves. After a moment, Harry spins so that his back is turned to her and she fires three pink pellets at him in rapid succession, aiming low, since most of the others' pellets are directed at his head or torso. With a gasp, she sees him jump to avoid the first two and spin his body sideways to allow the third to pass by--all with his head turned away from her. He flashes her a cheeky grin, then ducks to avoid a blue pellet from Ginny.
The exercise continues for several more minutes with Harry being the only one remaining untouched. Hermione is annoyed to note the several splotches on her own robes from errant pellets. The walls of the classroom are plastered. Harry has broken into a heavy sweat, yet his dodges appear effortless.
An unfamiliar, disembodied voice to her right suddenly intones, "bola multiplicus," at the same time that Hermione says a final "bola" and she watches a flock of more than a thousand brown pellets materialize and fly toward Harry. The others lower their wands, surprised. With a gesture too fast for Hermione to see, Harry's wand appears in his hand and he silently raises a shield to avert the incoming rain of pellets. Hermione smiles in satisfaction as her own last pellet strikes Harry in the forehead with a quiet "splat." Ginny, who is not so lucky, is struck by several dozen stray pellets and is covered from head to toe in brown paint.
"Gah!" she shouts, looking as if she had fallen into a midden heap. The few patches of skin not covered in brown paint are pink from a furious blush.
"Damn!" Harry says in mock anger, as he wipes the paint from his face. He notices the color and smile at Hermione. "Nice one."
"Thanks!" She says, still awed by his earlier display. The twins give each other high-fives at being five Galleons richer.
"Remus, is that you?" Harry says, still breathing heavily.
"Yes." The ex-professor steps out from under Harry's invisibility cloak. "Like my new modification, Harry?" he says, grinning, as he starts to cast several scourgify charms on Ginny.
"I wasn't expecting it, that's for sure…."
"Nice reflexes though. I don't think even Sirius could raise a shield that fast." He watches with amusement as the twins and Lee continue to fire pellets at one another.
"Thanks again for the help. Same time next week?" Lee and the Weasleys nod in agreement.
"Harry, we need to talk." Hemione's tone admits no evasion.
"Hermione?" Harry closes the classroom door and casts a privacy charm.
"Just how in the world did you do that!"
“What the privacy charm? You know this one--I think you might have even taught it to me last year...”
“Stop playing dumb. I mean the dodging.”
"I'm not sure what you're asking… I just dodge, that's all." He shrugs, buying time, knowing that his answer won't sate her curiosity.
"No that's not all. I was watching you closely--half the time, your eyes were closed!"
Harry sighs. His vows to Albus restrict severely what he can tell one his oldest friends. "Hermione, you have to promise that this doesn't go beyond this room, okay?" She nods. "I've always been pretty fast, you know, with quick reflexes…."
"But…"
"Please? I can't tell you how, but I've recently started developing a form of precognition. This training is to help me learn how to use it in fighting situations.
Her jaw drops open. She closes and opens her mouth a few times more. "Precognition? That's really rare! How are you doing it--is it a spell? A potion?"
Harry holds up his hands up and shakes his head. Hermione scowls in frustration. After a moment, she takes a deep breath and grins. "It didn't stop my pellet from getting you though…"
He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, that's why it's called 'training,' Hermione?" He digs into his pockets and takes out a small stack of Galleons, which he hands to her. "Dinner, Annie Oakley?"
Harry jogs down the corridor as he rushes to the sixth year transfiguration class he has been auditing. For the most part, the portraits ignore him while he's under his invisibility cloak, but he's noticed that one, a fifteenth century portrait of a Dutch witch dressed in black with a wide, white ruffle about her neck, is able to track him with her small, beady eyes. Today, he ducks below the portrait as he rounds a corner and almost stumbles into Ron, who has cornered Fleur next to a suit of armor.
"Zis is something you think will win my heart, following me? For ze last time, leave me alone, you imbecile!" Harry can tell that she is furious, as her accent is much heavier than normal.
Ron Weasley grabs ahold of the witch's upper wand arm. She tries to pull away, but he stubbornly holds on. She reaches for her wand with her left hand, but it remains out of reach.
"Come on, give me a ch-chance, go-to-Hogsmeade-with-me," he manages to sputter.
The veela huffs and delivers a sharp slap to his face. Ron releases her and blinks as the witch hurries several paces down the corridor and turns to draw her wand and train it on the boy.
Harry removes his invisibility cloak and steps behind Ron. "Weasley?" he say quietly, just behind his former friend's ear.
Ron spins around and points his own wand at Harry. "What do you want, Potter?" Harry idly pushes it aside.
"Just to ask if you could please leave Miss Delacour alone. She obviously doesn't want you to follow her like a lost puppy." He smirks at Ron. "Can't you find someone else to stalk?"
The redhead sneers in response. "What? I suppose now you're going to say that she's with you? Please. I'm sure she'd rather be with a real man..."
"Yes, how clever--the famous 'Ron Weasley wit' on display. Let's see, something equally droll... how about, 'then you don't qualify, as you have to be human first?'” Harry delivers the last in a sarcastic sing-song and winks at Fleur, who is listening intently to the exchange. "No, Fleur is just a friend. But friends look out for each other. I know this may be an alien concept for you...."
"Sod off. I've got plenty of friends, unlike you... Wraith."
Harry blinks in surprise, then shrugs.
Ron snickers, throws his shoulders back, and channels his inner Malfoy to deliver his coup de grace, "And you got Looney Lovegood, one of the few who could stand you, killed off. I wonder...” He scratches his chin dramatically. “Was it really mermen that did her in, or did you off her yourself?"
Harry's blood boils--his ex-friend has as much as admitted to being Rita's “anonymous” source in her latest screed. He sends a burst of magic into his aura, which smolders with menace, and advances toward Ron, who wisely retreats. Harry speaks, his voice, acid, "Ron, didn't you tell the world that I was in training to be the next Dark Lord? Don't you think it's rather foolish to antagonize me?" He pumps more magic into his aura, which flares visibly, angry crimson and yellow. Ron steps back again, shivering, and trips over the armor. It falls to the floor with a loud crash as he lands on his back on the nearby floor He scuttles back from Harry, who continues to advance on the prone boy. Ron squeals and spins around. Stumbling to his feet, he flees past the veela.
Harry notices her amused smile. "Fleur," he says with a curt nod as he rights the fallen armor with his wand.
"Merci, Harry. You have saved me yet again, brave knight." She curtseys.
Harry shakes his head slightly, uninterested in games. "You were doing pretty well yourself. I just got tired of watching him be a git is all, especially after that last article in the Daily Prophet... I just can't figure out how we ever used to get along so well."
"You've grown, Harry. He hasn't."
"Yeah." There is a long, awkward silence, which Harry breaks. "Look, I've gotta go...."
She grabs his arm. "Harry, what's happening with... us?"
He sighs. "Is there an 'us,' Fleur?" He meets her eyes only for a moment and then he looks down.
"Har..."
"Fleur," Harry interrupts. He takes a deep breath and straightens his shoulders. "You are in love with your fiancé and we both have this bloody tournament. I'm sure you've noticed that someone is trying to kill me.” He stares at her pointedly before continuing. “People close to me tend to get hurt or worse and the last thing I want is for you to get caught up in all that--I... I care too much about you." He looks up at her face and is mildly surprised at the hurt he sees. She must realize that I know.... "I just don't think it's a good idea right now for us to be too close. Maybe when this is all over...."
Fleur nods, eyes glistening. “Oui, Harry.” She lets go of his arm.
"Goodbye, Fleur," he whispers, disappearing beneath his cloak.
"Robért." The veela approaches the small, round table, her strides, deliberate, challenging. She draws stares from most of the males in the pub, but her eyes are locked on her fiancé.
"Fleur, my love. Sit. Please." The dark-haired man gestures to the chair opposite the small table. He nods at Rosmerta, the Three Broomsticks barmaid, who promptly brings a second goblet and small plate, places both in front of the veela witch and pours her a glass of wine. He gives Rosmerta a wink, which elicits a blush. The buxom serveuse regards Fleur with a knowing smirk.
"We need to talk." Fleur smiles coolly at her fiancé, her eyes slightly narrowed in anger. Though her mood is not missed by her companion, any who are watching would see just a stunningly comely couple apparently enjoying the each other's company.
"Indeed. Whatever about?" He looks down to the goblet in his left hand as he surreptitiously casts a charm beneath the table with his right to prevent eavesdropping.
Fleur leans closer to her intended and lowers her voice to a whisper. "You know more than you have let on about recent events, my love." Her smile has not waned, but her veela aura surges coldly for an instant on her last words, a momentary loss of control noticed by her companion.
He raises his eyebrows slightly, affecting an amused look, but Fleur notices the angry throb of a vessel on his neck. He speaks, slowly and emphatically, "There are some things of which I am not at liberty to speak, little girl." She inhales sharply at his use of that term. "You, of all people, should recognize the need for discretion." He gives her a penetrating stare, the affable smile still on his face. “I had thought your father had trained..."
"This is not about Father!" she interjects, her smile and control gone. Robért raises an eyebrow and places his left hand upon her right, his index finger tapping her wrist twice, a signal to be more discrete in her body language. She recovers, blushing and fluttering her eyelashes demurely, softening her appearance with a bit of her aura. Any who see the couple might be led to think that Robért had just said something risqué, yet flattering, to his intended.
"You were behind these attacks on Harry Potter, non?"
"I decline to answer,” he says, distracted, looking over her shoulder.
A small explosion is heard from across the bar. Fleur turns to follow Robért's gaze and she sees a circular table with a pair of identical redheaded wizards accompanied by a young man of African descent, three witches, lithe and beautiful, athletes by their appearance, and a raven-haired boy wearing spectacles, Harry Potter. Harry looks up from his drink and catches Fleur's eye. Her gaze softens and she gives him a small wave. He nods at her grimly and turns back to the twins.
Robért notices the exchange and the muscles in his neck tense. "Fleur, I am not amused by your... closeness to that boy."
"We are not close. Harry and I have not spoken since after the third task," she snaps and turns away from Harry and looks at her fiancé. Robért bends the last joint of his thumb and the corner of the thumbnail of his left hand, impeccably manicured and sharp, presses discretely against the skin over the back of her thumb. She jerks her hand back.
"I am neither blind, nor stupid, my dear." His eyes are cold.
"Merely jealous,” she spits. “I have befriended him, as instructed by Father. There is nothing more between us," Fleur retracts her hand, the smile gone from her face. “Perhaps not even friendship now, after your clumsy attempts on his life.”
Robért notices that they are being observed continually by le Survivant. He nods at Harry and pulls a few coins from his pocket, tossing them onto the table as he stands.
"You will come with me, Fleur. It is time we spoke in a more private setting. He leans down to whisper in her ear. “Before we depart this place, you will show your affection for me with a kiss and you will make it appear that we are retiring upstairs for a tryst." His tone is steel.
“Never!” She gasps as a wave of pain washes over her body.
Robért, amused, offers the witch his hand, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Harry has risen from the table. She narrows her eyes as she coughs, her chest stabbed with pain. “You have no choice, my love,” he says, his voice playful, but with an edge. “If you fail to comply, then I'm afraid I shall be in need of a new fiancée--perhaps Gabrielle would prove more pliant....”
Gritting her teeth, Fleur takes his hand and rises, her eyes blinking as the pain subsides somewhat. A black haired boy approaches.
"Hey Fred, George, Lee."
"Harry!" the three chorus. "We're about to start. Reckon Gryffindor's got as good a chance as ever next year, though we have some spots to fill." Lee slides a butterbeer to Harry, who opens it and takes a long swig.
"Hi guys." Three attractive, athletic witches arrive. Alicia Spinnet sits next to George, her wavy, light-brown hair pulled back into a pony tail. Her two companions, Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson, sit to the left of Fred. The three are dressed as muggles--jeans and jumpers.
Katie, a pretty brunette, smiles at Harry, who gives her a meek smile in return. "How have you been, Harry? We haven't seen you in awhile."
"Fine, I guess." Harry's eyes are drawn across the bar to where a veela witch joins her companion for a bottle of wine. He half listens to the conversation at his own table as he glances occasionally at Fleur and her tall, broad-shouldered fiancé, an elegant man who is apparently everything that Harry is not. He sighs sadly, and sips his butterbeer, not noticing as George lights Fred's plate full of chips on fire with a loud "whoosh."
Katie follows Harry's gaze and her own smile disappears. She whispers, "Let her go, Harry. She's not worth it."
"What?" Harry mutters, blushing, and smiles weakly at the witch. He takes another large swallow of butterbeer and glances over at the twins, who are arguing about something related to Quidditch.
"So what do you think, Harry?" George asks.
"Huh?"
"Who should play keeper next year for us, now that Ollie is gone?"
"Well, Ron had his heart set on it the last I heard..." Harry says, tentatively, unsure whether to voice his true feelings around his ex-best-friend's brothers.
"Oh, no, not that prat!" Fred interrupts.
"Too true. Would rather see Gin-gin guarding the goals than the Ronho," George says.
"Ronho?" Angelina asks, giggling. “Sounds like a curse.”
"Long story, love, but you got the gist of it."
Harry clears his throat. "Actually, I think Ginny would be a good choice for seeker since I can't play anymore."
"What?!" This is news to Alicia and the rest of the team.
"Harry, I know the Firebolt is wrecked, but I'm sure McGonagall could get you another broom to use," George says.
"It's not that, George. Actually, I have a replacement for the Firebolt already."
"Really?" Lee, like the others at the table, looks surprised.
"Yeah. After the first task, the Firebolt Corporation contacted me and offered to swap my ruined broom straight up for one of their new prototype models. Apparently, they have a small museum attached to their main office, where it's now on display. They tell me it's a collector's item, what with the shaft being snapped by a Horntail..."
"Not to mention..." George says.
"Owned by the great Harry Potter," Fred finishes, waggling his eyebrows and making inverted commas with his fingers at the mention of the word “great.”
"Yeah, that too. They gave me one of their new line, code-named “FBO,” which stands for 'Firebolt Odonate' I think. It's a brilliant ride, turns faster than my old broom and is much smoother at top speed." Harry has a wistful expression as he discusses the virtues of his broom, one of his few remaining loves.
"Wicked!" chorus the twins.
"Odonate? What's that?" Lee asks.
"It's a dragonfly, you idiot," Alicia says with an exasperated sigh. The twins share a glance and shrug.
“Not great marketing if nobody knows what it is,” grumbles Lee.
"It has a few other useful charms on it. Overall it's an amazing broom. I really wish I could play, but Dumbledore doesn't think it'd be fair. I'm not really in Gryffindor anymore, and he's afraid that if his apprentice were playing for a house it would, what were his words, 'diminish the perceived propriety of the matches.'" His tone matches that of the Headmaster perfectly.
"Bullocks!" Katie exclaims loudly and then blushes.
“Yeah,” Fred says, “not like Malfoy's buying his way onto the team didn't 'diminish the propriety' or whatever already.”
"I agree. But there you have it. Minerva was pretty hacked off when she found out," Harry says.
"I can see why," Alicia says, pondering the news. "So, Ginny Weasley for seeker you think?"
"Yeah. I know she's a bit of a wallflower, but I watched her play back at the Burrow and she's a pretty solid flyer.” The twins nod in agreement. “Not in Cedric's or even Cho's league, but she's better than Malfoy, especially once she gets some confidence." Harry takes another drink. The moment of happiness he felt in talking about Quidditch fades as he glances at Fleur and notes that she and her companion are looking back at him, the latter with a malefic glare. Fleur waves, but Harry only manages a grim smile and a faint nod.
"Okay, Harry," Alicia says, despondent at losing her best player. The discussion turns to who they could get to play keeper, as Oliver Wood, their star from the prior year, is now playing in the professional leagues. Harry only half-listens, as he is distracted by the veela. His attention returns as George laments how Ginny doesn't have a proper broom for playing seeker.
"If it helps, Ginny can borrow mine for matches," he offers.
"Brilliant!" Lee says, oblivious to Harry, who watches the couple across the bar with concern. He sees Robért stand and offer Fleur his hand. She seems to be suffering extreme pain.
Harry stands to leave. "Good luck with the team next year, guys,” he says, distracted. “Let me know if there's anything I can do to help out. I'd be happy to give Ginny or whoever pointers so the cup stays in McGonagall's office and not on the greasy git's desk."
"Hear hear!" George says as he and his companions toast Harry's back.
Harry intercepts Robért and Fleur and steps in front of them. “Fleur? Is everything okay?”
“I'm fine, Harry. This doesn't concern you...” She avoids his eyes.
Harry ignores Robért. “You're in pain, you should get to the hospital wing.”
Robért tenses and growls under his breath. She notes that his other hand grips his wand tightly and she feels his magic start to gather, a curse on his lips.
“Non,” she says quickly. “I'm fine--I just had too much wine.” She laughs half-heartedly. “I'm just going to retire upstairs to lie down for a moment.” She winces as the pain flares, but it subsides as she draws close to her companion and rises to give him a gentle kiss. Harry breathes in sharply, the sound of two hearts breaking.
“Goodbye, Harry.” she says, her face turned so that he cannot see her tears.
“Bye, Fleur,” he mutters, already on the way out of the bar.
“That was entertaining,” Robért says, amused. Gesturing for Fleur to ascend, he turns toward Harry, who has stopped at the doorway, watching. Robért winks at the young man, raises an eyebrow, and places his hand on his fiancée's lower back, just above the curve of her bum. He follows her closely up the stairs to the rooms above. The implications are not lost on their observer.
"Garce!" A backhand spins the witch about and drops her to her knees. Fleur had known she was in trouble when Robért sealed the exit with a spell and silenced the room. The naked malice on his face is terrible to behold.
"Robért..."
He seizes her by the hair and hurls her headlong toward the bed. “How dare you challenge me in public like that! That boy, he means so much to you?”
She stands, shocked, and glares at the man, her left hand rising to her injured cheek. She slowly reaches for her wand with her right.
“Stop,” he commands. “Drop your wand onto the floor.” Her eyes open widely as she fights through the pain, her hands shaking. Robért flicks his own wand and hers is torn from her grasp. He steps forward and shoves her onto the bed, his face red with fury. His wavy hair, having fallen unbound, frames his high cheekbones in dark locks and makes it look gaunt, feral.
“Answer me, woman. What are your feelings for the boy?”
She juts her chin, defiant, before collapsing with a scream.
“You will obey me, my love. Again, what are your feelings for the boy.”
She rolls onto her back on the duvet, tears moistening her cheeks. Her voice is a ragged whisper. “I- I love him.”
Robért recoils. He balls his hands into fists and his face hardens into a leer.
"I order you--remove your clothing. Now!"
"Robért!" Fleur shouts, furious Her body starts to writhe anew, as if aflame.
He walks to the window and draws closed the dark, velvet shaded. “Such a little thing, your maidenhood. Is it truly worth dying over? I will have Gabrielle, you know, if you refuse me....”
“No! Father never...”
“Perhaps not, but Sandrine would. You know it as much as I.”
Her shoulders slump in defeat. Standing, she grits her teeth, her eyes malefic slits. Her trembling fingers make short work of her robes and they pool about her ankles. "I refuse to beg, you pathetic animal," she seethes, earning her another, harder slap. “Know now that I shall never love you. You could have had my heart and body both, but I shall always deny you my love.” She violently tears open her blouse to expose a lacy brassiere. Buttons rattle onto the floor. Trembling hands work the fasten at her waist and slacks slide over shapely legs with a rustle.
"You know your place, my 'Court Flower.' I do not require your heart--your body will do." Robért watches, appreciatively, as his fiancée removes her undergarments, her veela aura continually flaring and ebbing as she wages a fierce, though futile internal struggle. As he watches, he becomes progressively more aroused by her intoxicating beauty and the power he holds over her. “Turn around. I wish to look at you.” Fleur's skin is radiant, the epitome of perfection. She turns slowly for him, arms outstretched, her teeth biting her lip. “Now kneel and prepare the adorer et aduler!”
“Brute!“ she screams. She blinks her eyes closed for a moment and imagines a painful death for the man. The delay bludgeons her abdomen and the pain drops her onto her knees. Mémé had taught her that a veela virgin can, through the ritual--referred to in the most crass vernacular by this man--bind herself to her mate, making her unable to feel gratification with another until her partner leaves the mortal coil. It is the ultimate sexual enslavement.
Robért kneels in front of the nude veela and strokes her bruised cheek with a knuckle. He trails the tips of his fingers down her neck and over her breast, stroking her nipple with the calloused pad of his thumb. He cups his rough, cold hand beneath her breast. “Your heart may not belong to me, little girl, but it shall not belong to that boy either." He grasps her hair firmly with the other hand and pulls her into a violent kiss. She tastes his alcohol and anger. And blood, hers. "You will love me tonight," he commands, sitting back onto his heels. “Begin.”
Fleur wipes at her tears and then spreads her arms wide and starts to chant softly, gently. Her throaty tones in the ancient fae tongue continually rise and fall, building slowly. After several minutes, she feels sickened and aroused as unfamiliar heat spreads through her, centering about her abdomen and below. A faint, pink glow swells from her skin and enfolds snugly around her fiancé's nearby form. She rocks in time with the chant, the syllables taking on a powerful, rhythmic cadence. A crescendo of passion and power. Building, slowly...
Building... Tension rising. Wild, reckless. Her heart thunders.
She screams, carried by the throes of the ritual. Her aura brightens and contracts tightly about Him.
It pulses for several heartbeats more and subsides, fading to a memory. With a moan, she collapses exhausted, skin moist with perspiration.
Robért loosens his belt.