The Thrall
The sun had set hours ago. Long shadows danced across the walls, stirred to life by the flickering light of a single candle lamp sitting alone on a dark wood table in the back corner of the library. Hermione sat in one of the soft chairs, the same one she had occupied earlier in the day, though this time without the company. She gazed down at the soft book held delicately in her hands, the magic emanating from it wrapping around her in tendrils. Hermione found the gentle prob oddly comforting.
The hours following the champion nominations had been chaotic. The newly selected champions had been quickly rushed from the room through a back door, followed by their furiously whispering headmasters. As soon as the door closed behind them, the great hall erupted.
Hogwarts students sprang from their seats, gesturing wildly, their voices shouting their displeasure with the lack of a true Hogwarts champions. Cedric Diggory sat oddly still, seemingly in shock while his Hufflepuff peers raged around him. Harry Potter was young, the same age as Hermione. He shouldn’t have been able to put his name in the cup. She had heard a rumor that the older Weasley boys, Fred and George, had taken an aging potion in hopes of being able to submit their names. As they had no luck, Hermione found it highly unlikely that Potter had managed to do it. More so, she found it unlikely that he would want to compete, the competition had a history of being potentially deadly and Potter had been faced with enough moral peril in his short time at Hogwarts.
The Durmstrang delegation was no more pleased. They sat at their table, angerly whispering amongst themselves. Most likely they were displeased that one of their competitors had two champions. After a few moments, their angry voices steadily rising, they went perfectly silent and suddenly stood. They stomped out of the hall in perfect rigid formation, anger pouring off their shoulders and inciting the Hogwarts students further as they passed.
The Beauxbatons delegation was the most perplexing. Their silence was deafening amongst the noise. It was as if they had been frozen to their seats. They showed no pride, as one might expect from a school with two champions, they showed no joy. They just sat there. They were there until the hall eventually emptied, the Hogwarts students off to continue their impassioned conversations in their common rooms. Eventually it was just the Beauxbatons students, Hermione, and a few straggling Hogwarts professors left in the great hall. Hermione regard them in consideration, unsure what to make of their silence. Eventually one student, who Hermione later identified as Celene Cartier, turned her head slightly to meet Hermione’s gaze. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Her lip lifted slightly, as if to give Hermione a sorrowful smile. Then, by an unspoken command, the Beauxbatons students sullenly stood and left the room, likely to return to their carriage. Before Hermione knew it, she was the only one left. She looked towards the Professors table and noticed that they too had wandered out. She hadn’t seen Professor Black since her talk with Draco. She wished she had, she felt oddly drained and craved a moment of comfort in the sanctuary of the professor’s office.
She was startled by a gentle hand on her back. Looking up, she met Draco’s eyes. He looked down at her as if he knew all the answers to questions she didn’t know she had. He smiled softly and then sat with her in silence for a few moments. They didn’t speak at all. It was odd and a kindness she had not expected from the boy, but she valued it all the same. Eventually he also stood to leave, but not before looking pointedly at her bag.
As she recalled his words from earlier, Hermione reached into it and felt the soft leather of the book Professor Black had gifted her. She stood and slowly made her way back to the library.
Hermione had been there since, gazing at the cover in the flickering candlelight. She hadn’t found the energy to open it.
She couldn’t understand the emotions that had plagued her--the paralyzing fear, the sadness. Hermione couldn’t comprehend the effect that the two girls had on her. Two girls she didn’t even know. It was like she had a sixth (or seventh, because magic is basically a sixth) sense for them. She knew when they were around, and it felt like her eyes were always drawn to them. She could sense their magic wrapping around hers and she didn’t know why.
As if sensing her thoughts, the book in her hands stirred. Opening on its own and flipping forward through blank pages until it landed on one towards the middle of the book.
Slowly elegant script began to fill the page.
The Thrall of the Veela.
Hermione heard the same deep and comforting voice as before filter into her head as words started emerging on the page.
“The thrall of the Veela,” it said. “From the moment the ancient power bound the five girls to their protectors, their lives were irreversibly changed. They were blessed with beauty and youth among other worldly gifts. Their natural abilities were greatly enhanced as well. The youngest, she became effortlessly beautiful, rivaling that of Aphrodite, her ability to so powerful she could easily compel the will of others. The metaphorical mind-reader gained the power to literally venture into the thoughts of others. The clever one became lucky, her ability to find what was needed and to provide for others enhanced so that she was intimately connected to the earth around her. The warrior became fierce. If her sister was Aphrodite, she was Athena, she never again lost a fight and became an unparalleled strategist. The eldest, the wise one, was gifted with forethought and sight. Her wisdom was dangerous, but she wielded it kindly. Yet they were also gifted with abilities that transcended beyond what was natural for humans. They gained an additional form, the ability to take on characteristics of their protectors. Beautiful feathers sprouted their arms and wings emerged from their backs. Their eyes sharpened like the talons that could emerge from their hands. They could fly.
Perhaps most interesting, however, they were blessed by the ancient power with magic of their own. The ability to effortlessly direct the power around them. Unlike witches and wizards of today, they never tried to control the power, only direct it. And that difference is what made them so powerful. Where today’s magic is tainted and needs to be amplified through the magical cores in wands, the Veela could use magic wordlessly and powerfully. They were granted immensely more access to the power because it not only flowed around them, it flowed through them. It flowed through them so intensely that a piece of it bound to the protector within them. Together, the three powers—magic, love, and protection—were bound together and created a new type of power. The thrall.
Now if you’ve heard of Veela before, you might have thought it to be a siren’s song. But the thrall is drastically different. It is an extra limb for the Veela, a magical limb. Where a siren’s song is created to entice, the Veela’s thrall is designed to protect. To protect the Veela, their family, and their loved ones. It helps Veela mates find one another [see Veela Mates] it bonds parents to their children and family members to one another. It even protects friendships. To the world, the thrall is a Veela’s most powerful weapon. To a Veela, it is its most sacred gift. For a thrall never lies and its mark is unique and immediately identifiable to those who are familiar to it or who it is destined to touch. To non-Veela [with the exception Veela Mates and close friends] it may cause undue staring, and, mixed with their innate beauty, may incite lust and thus induce anger or unfounded emotion in those the thrall touches [hence the comparison to a siren’s song]. But, for those who are strong minded or are well accustomed to the Veela, the thrall has minimal effects after an initial adjustment period.
It is important to note that the true Veela gene only passes from mothers to their daughters [see Veela inheritance] but sons of the Veela are blessed by the ancient power as well. They carry traits of the Veela, though diminished, and are ‘of-Veela’ as they do not feel the same effects as non-Veela when exposed to the thrall. It is also necessary to note that, as a repercussion of the thrall, Veela are incredibly protective of those its thrall embrace. Particularly when in relation to Veela families [see Familial bonds] and mates.
Given the immense changes spurred on by the act of the ancient magic amongst the girls, they were no longer human but something else—something more. The origin of the name was lost to time but today, we call them, we are, the Veela.”
The words continued on the page, but the voice had stopped, as if knowing Hermione’s mind was spinning and not fully focused on the words before her.
A thrall. She wondered if that’s what it was. Given what she knew about Veela, it was not hard to conclude that many in the Beauxbatons delegation were likely Veela. Their beauty was unparalleled, and they had this majestic way about them, as if they were something more. Their thralls would explain her unprecedented reaction to them. She must just be intrigued. Nothing more than a non-Veela, enticed by the enchanting magic.
She wondered why Professor Black felt reading this was so pressing, though she appreciated the knowledge regardless. She hoped that her new friends didn’t mind her staring. She knew what it felt like to go around followed by the eyes of others. She felt ashamed to have subjected her new friends to that.
Suddenly something pulled her from her self-reflection. Something undeniably powerful. It seeped through the library like fingers clawing their way forward, scoping out every inch of Hogwarts. Pure power, stretching across the ground. The second it found Hermione, she froze in place as it paralyzed her. It slipped around her body like a thick fog on a cool fall morning and ensnared her in its midst. It coiled around her getting tighter and tighter, like a snake that found its prey after years of starvation.
It hurt at first, the utter magnitude of this power. Hermione had never felt anything like it. It suffocated her as it intermingled with her own magical core. The second they touched, she felt the magic flare, more power surging towards her and holding her in a vice. While it didn’t loosen its hold on her, tightening it instead, Hermione found comfort in it like she had never experienced. It felt like pure, untainted love, slipping into her veins and replacing her blood. Hermione was overwhelmed by it and, not even noticing as it happened, Hermione fell to the floor—her world fading to black as the powerful force pulled at her, gripping her ever tighter.
--- In another part of Hogwarts—
The echoing of slamming doors emanated throughout the castle, waking the paintings that had begun to slumber on the walls. Students wandering the halls were pushed to the outer walls, parting like the red sea, and held there by an invisible force. A woman stormed through the cleared pathway, on a war path. Her rage rolled off of her, slithering through the familiar halls fueled by pure power as she marched towards the great doors of Dumbledore’s office. Black curls bounced with each step she took, her corset-clad waist drawing the attention of all those she passed.
Just as she turned the corner, steps away from her destination, the woman froze. Her eyes widening in shock. The world slammed back down around her, the invisible parting force faltering. She stood there, her breath rapidly increasing until a familiar hand gently touched her shoulder.
“Come,” the soft familiar voice whispered in her ear as the hand on her back guided her towards Dumbledore’s office. “There is a battle to be won.”
The woman’s eyes hardened as she neared the door. More furious than ever. She turned her head and pressed a quick kiss in greeting to her sister’s cheek before facing forward once more. Her lips began to curl into a cruel smile as the door in front of her flew open and she stepped inside.