Chapter 3
The forest roared like a wounded beast.
The air grew thick, charged with a primitive magic that made it hard to breathe. Branches creaked with fury, the ground trembled beneath their feet, and the wind howled with the force of ancient broken promises.
The creatures didn’t retreat. Their golden eyes burned with hunger as the leader stepped forward, his twisted smile mocking the forest’s power.
Behind Hermione, the wounded young woman could barely stay on her feet—bleeding, gasping, but still holding her wand.
“You can’t win this,” the leader told Hermione, his voice calm. “Not without the full favor of the forest. And the forest… no longer remembers who it owes its loyalty to.”
“I do,” Hermione said, her voice trembling, clutching her daughters close.
Rose and Victoire shook, but they didn’t cry. Fear had been replaced by something deeper.
Something instinctive.
The Forgotten advanced. One of them already raised his wand.
Hermione pointed hers. The young woman did too. But something inside Hermione told her it wouldn’t be enough.
And then… the wind changed.
A murmur rose through the trees. A chorus of ancient, feminine voices that came from nowhere visible, yet vibrated in every leaf, in every root.
The Forgotten stopped.
A second of hesitation.
Then—fire.
White fire.
Pure, majestic, unstoppable.
It rose in spirals like a celestial dance, and from the heart of the forest emerged two figures. Their robes were white, their hair loose and shining under the light the forest offered them.
Celeste Delacour and Apolline—the women who were the central pillars of the French Veela clan.
Their mere presence changed the air.
The creatures instinctively stepped back, as if the very essence of the forest bowed before these two women.
Celeste raised her wand—not as a weapon, but as a conduit of ancient magic. The fire swirled around her, forming a living shield.
“Children who were exiled,” Celeste said, her voice like a soft thunder. “It wasn’t the forest that forgot you. You were the ones who chose chaos.”
The leader of the Forgotten glared at her with hatred, but also… with fear.
“We refused to live in chains,” he spat.
“Then you shall live in exile,” Apolline replied, her voice like ice.
And with a single gesture, a wave of Veela fire swept across the clearing.
The screams weren’t of pain—but rage.
The Forgotten vanished into the underbrush, swallowed by the light and the forest, forced to flee from powers they could no longer defy.
When the silence returned, Hermione fell to her knees.
Apolline rushed to her, gently touching her ash-covered face.
“You’re safe now, my girl.”
Celeste approached the wounded young woman. She observed her with intensity. She said nothing. But something in her gaze… recognized something.
Rose broke free from her mother’s embrace and walked toward the elder.
“Grandmother… the fire heard me.”
Celeste smiled softly.
“Because you carry the spark within, child of two bloods.”
Hermione looked at Apolline, at Celeste, at the forest now calm… and knew this was only the beginning. The peace was deceptive.
The Haguenau Forest was breathing again, but it was not the same.
The magic still crackled in the air, like invisible embers waiting to be stoked.
Hermione remained kneeling, holding her daughters close, unable to release the shield of her body.
Apolline watched her tenderly, stroking Hermione’s hair with trembling fingers.
Celeste, in silence, remained vigilant. Not because they didn’t trust the apparent peace, but because the forest never stayed still—not even for its own lineage.
And then, it was heard.
A magical howl. Not a physical sound, but a vibration that shook the trees and stirred the earth.
Fleur.
Hermione’s heart clenched just before she saw her.
The blonde witch appeared through the undergrowth, her robes torn from running, her wand trembling in her hand, her expression on the brink of collapse.
“Hermione!”
The cry was pure instinct.
Hermione rose, barely able to say her name.
“Fleur…”
The Veela ran to them, dropping her wand, forgetting everything except the figures of her wife and daughters. She dropped to her knees beside Hermione, hugging her with desperate strength, kissing her forehead, touching her cheeks, her shoulders, making sure she was whole.
“You’re alive… You’re all alive!”
Victoire and Rose clung to their mother with a sob.
“Maman…”
Fleur couldn’t speak. The tears fell endlessly.
Apolline stepped forward and placed a firm hand on her daughter’s shoulder.
“You were late… but you felt the call, didn’t you?”
Fleur nodded. She couldn’t speak. She could only look at the forest, at Celeste, at the scars lingering in the air. And then… she saw her.
A wounded young woman.
Fleur slowly stood, as if something within her was pulling her forward. She approached her cautiously.
Their eyes met.
And though no words were spoken, something pulsed between them.
Something… familiar.
But the young woman looked away and staggered.
Hermione moved instantly.
“She’s hurt, she saved us…”
“Who is she?” Fleur whispered.
Hermione shook her head.
“I don’t know. But the girls’ magic… trusts her.”
Rose took the stranger’s hand, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Celeste stepped forward. Her gaze was piercing. And in a low voice, she spoke to Apolline.
“That girl spoke to the forest.”
“I know,” Apolline replied, a note of reverence in her voice.
“And the forest listened.” The elder’s eyes settled on Rose and the young woman. “She holds something we haven’t seen in generations. Something… dangerous. But beautiful.”
Fleur frowned, still holding Hermione and watching her daughters, disturbed by what her grandmother had said.
“Dangerous?”
“Not a threat to the children,” Celeste clarified. “But there is a connection. One I do not understand.”
Hermione tensed.
“A connection?” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper as she held Rose and Victoire tighter.
Celeste didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes—ancient as the forest itself—moved between the intense-eyed child and the young woman who, though standing, seemed held up only by sheer will.
“The forest’s magic responds to blood ties,” she finally said. “Not always with logic. Not always with justice. But always with truth.”
Fleur tilted her head slightly, her eyes fixed on the young woman. Filled with suspicion—she didn’t trust anyone near her daughters. And she wasn’t just any Veela. Something in her bristled at seeing her children touched by a stranger.
“Are you saying she’s… family? Part of the clan?”
“I can’t be sure,” Celeste replied calmly. “But the forest responds to blood… Veela blood, even if it runs through forgotten branches of the family tree… But there seems to be more, and our little one knows it.” She nodded toward Rose, then to the stranger. “The forest doesn’t protect without reason. And this time, it has protected your daughters—and her.”
The young woman lowered her gaze. There were tears in her eyes, but also a determination that didn’t match her age. Hermione noticed it, because for a moment, she saw herself in that silent desperation… the same kind she once felt at Hogwarts, alone against the world.
Hermione knelt gently in front of her, keeping her daughters behind her.
“Who are you?” she asked softly.
The girl swallowed hard, her fingers gripping the fabric of her tunic. She hesitated. For a moment, her lips seemed to form another answer… but she erased it, replacing it with one carefully chosen.
“I am daughter of Isolde.”
Apolline paled.
Fleur sharply turned to her mother.
“Isolde?” she asked in disbelief.
Celeste narrowed her eyes. The name hovered in the air like a forbidden whisper.
“That’s a lie. You can’t be her daughter,” Fleur told the girl. “My aunt disappeared when Gabrielle was born. If she’d had a child, she wouldn’t have raised her alone without the support of the clan.”
“It’s impossible,” Apolline said in a restrained tone. “My sister has no children.”
The young woman lifted her face, jaw tense.
“It’s the truth. My mother is Isolde Delacour.”
A heavy silence fell. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath in respect.
“She hid me. Took me far away. Said it was for my own good… that she couldn’t risk the clan. I never doubted her reasons. But when she died… I came to find the roots she always spoke of.”
Hermione watched her in silence. Her tone, the way she spoke… she could tell this was no ordinary girl. And though she didn’t understand everything, in that moment, she knew one thing with certainty:
This girl carried a great weight on her shoulders—and Hermione was sure she carried a secret too.
Celeste stood silent for a few more seconds, staring at the young woman with a mix of disbelief and something deeper, something almost painful.
“Isolde is not dead,” she finally whispered, with a conviction that made Fleur’s skin prickle. “I would know. I’m her mother. I would have felt it in my blood. In my soul. You can’t lose a daughter without a part of you dying too.”
The girl lowered her gaze. For a moment, she looked more like a child than she had at any point before.
“I’m sorry… but she is. She died almost six months ago. It wasn’t an attack, or magic… it was something slow, painful. I stayed with her until the end. She told me she couldn’t return, that the clan mustn’t know of her death. Because the fire would never forgive her for what she had done.”
Celeste stepped forward, trembling slightly. Fleur grabbed her arm but didn’t stop her.
“How dare you?” the elder said, her voice breaking. “My daughter would never defy the Veela fire… You’re lying—”
“I’m not,” the girl interrupted, her voice steady despite the tears she was holding back. “She hid me. Protected me. I never doubted her reasons, and I never questioned her choices.”
The forest seemed to hold its breath again.
Hermione, still holding her daughters, studied her closely. There was something in her tone, in her way of speaking, that felt so familiar… that silent determination Hermione herself had carried as a young girl, alone in the magical world.
“Why did you bring us here? Why did you protect us?” Hermione asked softly.
“Because my mother taught me to help others. And I thought it was the right thing to do… especially since your daughters are Veela.”
The young woman swallowed hard, her eyes drifting for a second toward Rose and Victoire.
“When I saw the girls… I couldn’t stand by and do nothing.”
Celeste didn’t look away. She was hurt, but there was something inside her beginning to doubt—something that recognized the truth through magic.
“If you say you’re Isolde’s daughter… then you should bear the clan’s mark.”
The young woman nodded.
“I do.”
“Show it.”
Hermione frowned, not fully understanding.
Fleur, however, went pale.
“The flame mark?”
Celeste nodded.
“Only the descendants of the Delacour line can bear it without burning.”
The young woman slowly extended her arm, and with a whisper in an ancient language, let the fabric of her sleeve dissolve.
On her inner forearm, glowing curved lines shimmered in a spiral—white fire etched into her skin.
They didn’t burn.
They just… glowed.
Celeste took a step back. For the first time, her expression cracked.
The unshakable strength of the matriarch faltered, and in its place stood a woman confronting the impossible.
“That mark…” she whispered, barely audible. “It’s a flame that can’t be forged. Can’t be faked. It only responds to blood. And only a Delacour can activate it… in another family member.”
The young woman nodded, not with pride, not with arrogance—only pain.
“She activated it before she died. Told me that the day I stood before my bloodline, I should show it. That the truth could not be denied… if the magic recognized me.”
Fleur stepped away from Hermione, unable to contain herself any longer. She approached slowly, her eyes fixed on the mark.
She felt something stir beneath her skin—Veela fire recognizing the truth before her mind could accept it.
“What’s your name?” she asked, her voice trembling.
The girl hesitated. For a second, the child behind the secrets showed herself again.
“She called me Anastasia. Said it was an ancient fire name. That it meant ‘resurrection.’”
Celeste closed her eyes, and something inside her broke.
“My daughter… she had that name saved. For when she could have a girl… for when the fire wouldn’t claim her too soon.”
She turned toward the forest, as if seeking confirmation from the trembling magic in the trees.
“Then she… was dead… and I… I didn’t know.”
Her voice cracked.
“I didn’t feel it.”
Apolline, who had remained silent until now, stepped forward and gently held her mother’s shoulders.
The matriarch shut her eyes tight, and for the first time in a long time, the ancestral leader of the Veela allowed herself to cry.
The tears didn’t fall with sound. They were tears of fire.
Burning. Silent. Pure.
Hermione, still clutching her daughters, could barely process everything she had just witnessed. The revelations, the marks, the shattered glances passed between generations—it was overwhelming.
And yet, there was a certainty pulsing in her chest, as clear as the magic in the air:
That young woman wasn’t just a survivor.
She was the daughter of the clan’s lost Veela.