Disclaimer: I don't own HP.

Vertigo

n.; a dizzying sensation of tilting within stable surroundings or of being in tilting or spinning surroundings. The sensation of dizziness; an instance of such a sensation; a confused, disoriented state of mind.

Or, quite simply – the feeling that you are about to fall…

i. assumptions, assumptions

Darkness…bone-chilling rain…and a castle… A castle which embodied the quintessence of aged grandeur; but a mere dark silhouette against the steel-coloured clouds, only lighting when Nature allowed – a bolt of lightning… The darkness howled with the boom of thunder soon after, but it paled in comparison to the might of one that stood within the castle's barriers.

Rivulets of Misunderstandings and Ignorance beat a powerful cadence upon the walls of stone, the frozen glass, and it all played a stark affair for all to see atop the Enchanted ceiling of the Hall housing so many minds – old and young alike. The flickering candle lights floating overhead hovered over the faces of minds innocent, tainted, marred and bare – a powerful contrast.

Even with trees threatening to fall outside, with life drowning from the torrents of Nature and a biting wind pounding the fortified walls silly, one woman stood strong against it all underneath the Enchantment of the beautiful sight just outside. Long robes, dark enough to rival the colour of the desolate storm outside billowed at her heeled feet. The woman stood tallest among her peers as she led them at the fore down the centre of the aisle, right behind the Deputy Headmistress with her poised, authoritative stride.

But this student - elegant, assured, powerful, and cynical she walked – her stride embellished her confidence and a very wild twinge of a natural sex appeal; a twinge because of the sickening stares she received. Received, and was all too automatic to ignore now. Her mind was worn but at the ready – ever eager to learn more. Eager to prove everyone wrong... Eager for revenge, to snatch her chance at life, and to forget…

All eyes in the Great Hall were upon her. All mouths were ajar, hoping desperately to chew away at any bits of her they could get. Natural allure exuded from her, bouncing from her like her shimmering blonde silk against the back of her ostentatiously priced black robes. The woman didn't bother with any ridiculous hats of black, unlike most of her foolish-looking peers. She will not subject herself to such shows of recluse. Only the best, but not for materialistic purposes... But everyone already thinks her so vain; so vain just because of the sheer, pure beauty pumping through her veins, keeping her stride going.

The eyes upon her and the sweet fascination overhead kept a smile from her face. Her face was too hard and soft to read – a stern, passive expression resided upon her pale flesh. Eyes of an effervescent blue hue dropped to a colour far below freezing point when she willed them to, namely now. Now that the walk has ended, and she no longer has an excuse to focus on her walk…

She folded her arms over her well-developing chest and bent a knee while her old friend regarded her snidely. She gave him a friendly snort and her mouth curled slightly while he flashed his eyes of grey knowingly; the Deputy Headmistress set before them a simply repulsive old Hat that neither of the blonds looked overjoyed at even just looking at. And the worst part, the pair concluded, was that the old tattered thing had the gall to sing to them –

"Oh you may not think I'm pretty,
But don't judge in what you see,
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.
You can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all.
There's nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can't see,
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.
You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart;
You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil;
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
If you've a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind;
Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means
To achieve their ends.
So put me on! Don't be afraid!
And don't get in a flap!
You're in safe hands (though I have none)
For I'm a Thinking Cap!"

The two blonds rolled their eyes as the Hall burst into a fit of ridiculous applause for a singing, battered old hat that could apparently bow to the four tables as well. The Deputy Headmistress, McGonagall the woman remembered, regarded them sternly while she unfurled a lengthy roll of parchment while she stood aside the hat perched on its stool. Foolish speculation and banter about which Houses would be behove their peers erupted, though merely whispers, angering the two at the fore while McGonagall began calling names in alphabetical order.

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she said. Again, the two adorned unbecoming faces and rolled their eyes to the Enchanted heavens. "Abbot, Hannah!"

The frightened girl was sorted into Hufflepuff, a poor house, thought the woman. The House, she read in Hogwarts, A History, seemed to be overshadowed by the glory of the other Houses. Or so it explained in, well, inexplicable and subtle terms. The two at the fore shared their distaste of that House, and swore not to be placed in it. The next girl, "Bones, Susan," was also sorted into that wretched House of foolish smiling faces. "Boot, Terry," placed into Ravenclaw, seemed to be a vague improvement from the badgers. The sea of blue crests looked somewhat more…acceptable. But not quite enough. "Brocklehurst, Mandy" also went there, but she had a rather unfortunate name. An English name…

The blond boy snorted audibly when "Brown, Lavender" was placed in the House of Gryffindor. The table on the far left exploded, much to his and the chagrin of his taller companion. Their sour moods lessened slightly when "Bulstrode, Millicent" became a Slytherin. The two deduced that she looked to be very much on the ugly side, and made a curt, silent agreement to not associate themselves with her if they could help it. She did indeed have a stride like a bull and would have no issues ramming into anyone with her careless mannerisms.

After a disappointing two boys also failed to become Slytherins, the boy finally smirked winningly as "Granger, Hermione" was called. The girl nearly ran into him and his companion in her rush to get to the stool, but he remedied that by promptly tripping her, discreetly of course. The Hall rang nicely with laughter, his included, but not that of staff and his blonde friend. And especially not that of the bushy-haired girl.

Fortunately for him, no one noticed the alleged tripping. The girl struggled to her feet, and the blonde regarded her meticulously while she did so. Shaky, furious, near tears – the girl had no control over herself. She declined McGonagall's help and brushed herself off on her own. Pride and embarrassment flushed her young features all at the same time and she shot a knowing glance at the blond boy who nearly fell to the floor himself in his laughter.

She shot a similar glance to the woman at his side, who was not so immature as to laugh. Hermione looked her up and down for a moment, showing obvious distaste with her expensive robes and designer heels, clearly looking out of place among a dwindling queue of eleven-year-olds. A queue that she was holding up, no less… The blonde kept her stern gaze, merely boring her icicles for eyes into the warm, heated, spinning molten russet of the younger girl… When the blonde gave no sign of caring of her presence, and grew bored enough to raise a questioning pristine eyebrow at her, the bushy-haired one had to blink away her tears.

The girl's eyes were probably her only outstanding feature – her body was under-developed just like her peers, unlike the blonde before her, and her face was not beautiful, but not ugly. Fair, plain, boring, simple, easy… The woman nearly yawned again from boredom and Hermione flared up again. That was amusing, but not so much. This imaginary jest was not up to par for the beauty before her, and it angered Hermione even more.

Sympathy was not a game the blonde played, and this so-called lack of respect angered the fiery young girl more than all of the laughter of everyone on Earth combined. This Hermione character immediately assumed her position of self-righteousness for some imaginary speck of revenge by the look in her eyes – a look of determined hatred, probably just for being blonde and standing so close to the one who supposedly tripped her.

Just as Headmaster Dumbledore managed to control the volume of laughter in the Hall, Hermione Granger turned her nose up at the only one who was giving her some ounce of respect by not laughing at her, and took careful steps to sit on the stool. No sooner than the hat was on her head did the Hat shout out "GRYFFINDOR!" The blond boy snorted once more and nearly spat on the ground in disgust when the table exploded with cheers, but he smirked slightly when he also heard a fair bit of laughter as well.

More laughter from others ensued when the unfortunately-named "Longbottom, Neville" was sorted into Gryffindor after much debate from the Hat. The poor boy ran off with the hat still atop his bemused head in his haste to make it to the table. But after one more name, the blonde's companion, "Malfoy, Draco" was finally called upon.

They nodded to each other before Draco swaggered over to the stool, checking the ground twice for any unsuspecting feet just waiting to trip him. The hat didn't take long to shout out "SLYTHERIN!" for the smug boy, and he immediately strode over to join Crabbe and Goyle at the Slytherin table while the Hall clapped out of strained politeness, save for the genuine pride from the House of Salazar Slytherin.

After more people seemingly still paying attention to the blonde, who was now observing her French-tipped nails absently, a "Potter, Harry" was called. She continued to observe her nails, noting to herself that her cuticles seemed to be getting unruly in this dreary castle that was fuelled on agony and stark moods. Some seemed scandalised that she was clearly more interested in the deterioration of her nails instead of "Potter, Harry," a mere name to her, becoming a Gryffindor. But the scandals quickly turned into a fawning sort of adoration.

Her feet were beginning to ache as she waited, patiently of course, for the rest of the names to be called. Headmaster Dumbledore asked that she be Sorted last, for reasons only he seemed to have and was unfortunately rather greedy with his sentiments on her fate. Right after "Zabini, Blaise" was wonderfully placed into Slytherin, McGonagall looked at the blonde carefully before calling out her name.

"And last, but certainly not least… Delacour, Fleur."

Excited whispers and reiterations of her name floated through the Hall, but not through her ears as she walked with a perfected poise to the stool, spiting the Hat for being so filthy and possibly ruining her silk locks as she placed it atop her glowing head. She gave the wall on the far end of the Hall a powerful thousand mile stare as she sat with her learned posture, her same right eyebrow that had the pleasure of raising itself at Hermione Granger was arched up now while she waited.

The Hat was thinking. Thinking to her, but its thoughts did not matter to her. The sickening stares she received went unnoticed by Fleur – she cared not for them. The Gryffindor lot looked at her expectantly, all except for Hermione Granger, who was busy attempting to rip Fleur's robes to bits with her eyes. Surely this wouldn't be an improvement over the sin of Fleur having the consideration to clothe herself; clothed or not, people will still stare. Hermione will probably never be satisfied.

'I see now why Dumbledore asked to have you placed last…you're a bit out of place here, aren't you?' thought the Hat.

'Yes, I am,' Fleur thought back, confident as ever. Sugar coating was an unknown practise to her.

'Tut, tut… Cold, cynical, dismissive, critical, uncaring, distant – you have these traits. They nearly scream to me from the depths of your mind. But you are also deeply compassionate… Highly intelligent… Nearly fearless... You're highly aware of your background and you embrace it lovingly. You take pride in being French, in being a Veela, in being ahead of your class… But your aloof nature may bite you in the arse sooner rather than later.'

'I'm hardly concerned.'

'I figured that much… I do remember Dumbledore having something of a pleasant conversation with me about you. Your past…I see it's not a brightly-coloured one. How do you feel about it?'

'I would much rather prefer not to discuss it.'

'But it's important…'

'Just as important as the sun being bright and the nights darker so. I'll pass, thank you.'

'So it's a touchy subject.'

'Touchy. Touchy is a wonderful word to describe it.'

'You're not an adult but you're most certainly not a child anymore. Whichever House I put you in is important. No…it's more than just important. Think to me, Miss Delacour – how do you feel about your past?'

'The consequences of it, on me, are only bound to repeat themselves if I let myself become attached to people. I would like to avoid that.'

'Loyalty to others is a no, then?'

'Loyalty, no. Allowance, and acceptance of people – yes, that is the no.'

'Hmm…you've a very bright mind. But you're being foolish, thinking you're better off alone.'

'Think whatever you'd like.'

'You're a difficult one, Delacour. But even still, you've retained your culture and identity as far as your…heritage is concerned. You cling to it so desperately… It's almost like it's your last grain of life, and you take pride in who you are. You take pride in what you're able to accomplish.'

'You're correct.'

'Mighty snide for a fourteen-year-old. You certainly seem more mature. Your peers clearly value you for that. And your…exotic aura, I suppose. Your Veela charms affect nearly everyone in here for the worst. And you don't care?'

'Those who are my real friends don't. Those are the only ones I associate with.'

'Ah yes, your friends. Draco being the one you care for the most. He's a fine boy, and you two are very close. From what I can see, he seems to think of you as an older sister. He understands you. But you haven't seen the outside world, and him, in five years. Don't you think your vision of the world is twisted? Warped, even?'

'Non. I take pride in the studies I've done in secret over those five years.'

'Yes, yes…you're an extraordinary witch, even if the wand you previously possessed was used rather illegally. Still, you're well above your years among your First Year peers. You're positive you needn't skip a few years?'

'I'm quite positive.'

'Alright. Just don't let your past control you, Delacour…'

'I know what I'm doing.'

'Hmm…and for once, I'm not sure I know what I'm doing… You're a fascinating one, Fleur Delacour. Just do me one favour.'

'What would that be…?'

'Keep a steady mind and set an example for your peers. Be the one they all look up to and don't let anything keep you down. You've overcome too much to let anyone degrade you in any way possible. Keep your head held high but don't wear your heart on your designer robes sleeve. You've got talent…hoards of talent… Show that to everyone.'

'Fair enough.'

"SLYTHERIN!"

Fleur had successfully followed the Sorting Hat's advice from all of those years ago, a little less than two weeks after her fourteenth birthday. She sat on her four poster bed in the Slytherin dungeons, playing vaguely with something in her lithe digits. No one else in the dungeons that night but Draco, her confidant even now at the start of their Seventh Year, knew that she was now the ripe old age of twenty. A scandal it would be if people knew. The quarter Veela did not mind if the information was out there, but she rather preferred to keep her life private.

She lay on her bed, head propped on a pillow, knees bent and her legs crossed over each other. Her body sunk slightly into the extremely soft mattress under her emerald duvet, and her skin glowed slightly to offset the stark surroundings of her room. Stone-coloured walls adorned by many star charts, to-do lists, other organisational lists, future books to pick up, complex number charts for Arithmancy, as well as posters of many French celebrities whom she admired for their respective careers surrounded her. They gave her room a homey feeling. Something less…desolate… Her room was clean, near Spartan-like in appearance. But she wouldn't go so far as to call it tidy. It didn't fit.

Her long night shirt clung to her body that many clearly noticed seemed far more developed than the average, expected seventeen-year-old. Her thighs and legs were exposed, her toes pointed gracefully while she swung her foot to and fro a tune playing in her head. An old, Romantic piano piece by a wonderful Polish composer. Music, a magic even Hogwarts can't compete with… But Fleur herself was widely known among the school as yet something else that neither Hogwarts nor anyone else for that matter could faze.

The Frenchwoman eyed her plaything lazily, eyes hazing over with a bit of washed over tiredness from the feast. Freezing shivers ensnared her, neither from the temperature nor the chill-inducing thunderstorm she heard, even with the Slytherin dungeons being under the Black Lake.

A very placid, humble satisfaction overtook her from the object being furled in between her slender fingers and inch-long nails. French-tipped, but of course… Her wardrobe still consisted of fine French outfits, despite many and all of her shoes being quite Scotland-inappropriate, considering its weather. But the familiar feeling of her pedicure feeling numb on her could never compare to the chill from this object in her hands.

Lightning flashed and thunder hovered through her ears seconds later, but she dared not stir. Fleur watched the swell of her chest rise and fall just under her chin, thinking of all of her years being confined to a castle that was, and will forever be depression incarnate. The one hundred and forty two staircases, trick doors, vanishing steps, long corridors, hidden rooms and passageways will forever be so familiar to her.

A curious mind with an even more curious exterior wandered the castle, day and night, for nearly seven years. Seven years of compulsory magical education, and seven years of having a home… Fleur was grateful, and never once thought her long summers and other holidays in the castle to be boring or lonely. The library would be her home forevermore.

So many long years of easily ignoring jealousy, envy, lust and sickening stares from others… So many years of feeling her heart slowly deteriorate every time she attempts to keep her indifference on her face whenever home is mentioned. Family, friends, home-cooked meals, holiday spirit – Fleur knew them not. She had friends in this castle. That was not a lie. But friends who knew her inside and out, no. But she was impenetrable. No one needed to know of her past, only her present and future. But even then, she kept that well-hidden behind her successes. Successes…

The main success glinting nicely in her hands right now, sending more shivers through her barely sun-kissed flesh… Beating others was not her priority, though many favoured in dwelling on this while they wallowed in their failures. She had simply done as the Sorting Hat advised her – was that so wrong? Was it so wrong to be on top after having her whole world ripped from right under her young, hurting, scarred, bleeding feet when she was but nine years old? People take their blessings for granted…but Fleur Delacour did not.

And yet no one could ever find it in their hearts to think for a second that she did not. No one cared. Everyone assumed. Everyone assumed. Assumptions, assumptions, assumptions…

People will drive themselves mad with assumptions. Some already have. Fleur knew this all too well, but was hardly bothered to care.

Hermione was furious. Lavender and Parvati giggled incessantly upon their arrival, finding that their old roommate was sadly still their very, very current roommate. Ginny watched the exchange warily whilst she unpacked her hand-me-downs gingerly, careful to not make too many sudden movements in case she drowned out the sound of Hermione possibly saying something in retort. Unfortunately for the redhead, Hermione was seething too much to say anything; lying on her four poster bed, which seemed more uncomfortable than in years past, was all she could do to keep herself calm.

The Hogwarts Express ride was simply abysmal. The Prefect Cabin was absolutely shocked upon seeing that Hermione Granger, Witch Extraordinaire, best friend of Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley who, all three, helped to defeat Lord Voldemort in their Fifth Year, was not wearing a Head Girl badge. She merely had a Prefect badge pinned over her robes. People giggled incessantly and Ron reddened considerably upon seeing his friend in such a state – Hermione looked absolutely livid, and he feared that she'd hex the lot in the cabin before they could even manage to sit down. To both his and Hermione's chagrin, Malfoy wasn't in either.

It wasn't until he walked in with Fleur Delacour, Head badges over both their breasts, that Hermione and Ron, and even some of the other Prefects, sans Slytherins, looked absolutely appalled. Fleur and Draco both had their silver and emerald ties knotted loosely around their necks and both adorned only the finest black robes from Gladrags; both of them looked as uncaring and scornful as ever.

After the moment of shock from everyone but Hermione and Pansy from Fleur walking in the compartment, many had jealousy and envy written all over their faces. Fleur clearly didn't care, Draco was sneering, and Pansy was smirking; these three were nearly inseparable, and Pansy was looking forward to all of the wonderful opportunities to take advantage of two of her best friends being Heads.

To everyone else, two Slytherins being Heads of the school just didn't seem right, despite the Head Girl being impossibly beautiful. Her thrall floated lazily through the room, unnoticed and untended by the Veela; Fleur preferred to let the mystery of her elegance sift throughout her surroundings for no reason in particular. And yet, many of them felt uncomfortable, despite the euphoria, especially now that one of them, Draco Malfoy, had a rather…tainted name now.

Still, Fleur and Draco had their heads held high. Though Fleur never had an ounce of arrogance, Draco tried his best to play his part appropriately while they conducted their meeting. Draco had a few words to say, and no one in the compartment even had the energy to try and ignore his authority.

"Right…so basically," the blond droned, "I'm Head Boy if you haven't figured it out already. My good friend Fleur here is Head Girl. Get out of line with us and we'll have your asses handed to you. Well, probably me more than Fleur. You're too soft, you know that? Or maybe you just don't care."

"Draco, please," Fleur said curtly. Her French accent was somewhat apparent, but she made sure to articulate her syllables nicely while ignoring the poorly concealed sighs from everyone except Pansy and Hermione. The latter of who was reddening increasingly fast. Fleur ignored her. "Don't use this as an opportunity to start trouble before we've even set foot in the castle."

"Yeah alright Fleur… So listen up, maggots," Draco continued. Fleur folded her arms over her chest and rolled her eyes while many suppressed groans of disapproval. Draco appeared not to have noticed. "We're in charge. We being Fleur and myself. You can dock points, but any serious matters such as detention need to be brought to us or Professors. And don't go bollocking around and get yourselves in a pinch. The last thing we need is Snape getting in our ass about you lot fucking up."

"Draco," Fleur pressed sternly. Draco pursed his lips and fell silent before resigning himself to sitting down next to Pansy; Fleur was the only one he'd let override his authority. All eyes were locked on Fleur before, but now she commanded attention more fully with her companion out of the picture. Not a rare sighting, nor did it fluster the Frenchwoman. She continued, her tone revealing nothing but a bit of spite and nonchalance, as always. Hermione sniffed at this. "At any rate, most of us have heard this speech already. But for everyone else, Draco essentially said everything you need to know. If neither he nor I can be found, speak with a Slytherin Prefect to have them check on our dorms.

"The standard Hogwarts rules still apply, regardless if you have a place of authority or not. Because you have a badge gleaming on your chest, I expect you to keep your heads on your necks and realise that you'd be hard-pressed to even think to take advantage of your privileges. Privileges, not rights… I can refer you to the handbook Filch generously prepared for Prefects should you consider getting out of line. Now, Draco, get out that notebook I gave to you and write down the schedule for Prefect rounds."

In short, Hermione was quite displeased to see her authority being overridden by Fleur of all people. Her summer at the Burrow was nothing but a heap of embarrassment that neither she, Ron, or Harry had received Head badges by owl. Hermione had even checked her envelope five times to make sure that the badge wasn't hidden somewhere, and had almost resorted to manhandling the poor owl who delivered it, but Mrs. Weasley had calmly sent her off.

Ron didn't even dare make fun of her – he and Harry knew well enough to not poke fun at Hermione having her title imaginarily stripped from her. Hermione had been modest before that, insisting that she probably wasn't going to get Head Girl. It wasn't until now that she realised she'd said such things to undermine the possibility of her really not getting the badge. Seeing the emerald and silver one on Fleur Delacour's chest, which no one failed to notice was absolutely divine, was so much more of an insult, she concluded while she lay in darkness now.

Her curtains were over her bed, concealing her from the sight of her roommates sleeping soundly. The Gryffindor admitted to herself, and only herself, that she knew good and well that Fleur deserved her title. She didn't want to get into Malfoy's title – Harry and Ron had enough fury over that for the three of them combined. But she wanted to be Head Girl – Fleur didn't even care!

Fleur was always so indifferent about everything, and Hermione had no logical reason to spite the girl. The jealousy that Fleur can easily command the attention of anyone in any room of any size bothered her. The envy that Fleur was recognised for her wit, ambition, bravery, and loyalty nearly marred Hermione… Fleur's so pretty, Fleur's so mature – Fleur's so smart, Fleur can beat Hermione Granger at anything any day…

Everywhere Hermione went, whispers about Fleur fluttered through the halls. Even Lavender and Parvati gossiped about her frequently, swearing up and down that the temptress was in some high-profile, secret relationship with Malfoy, despite Malfoy being glued to Pansy Parkinson's side more often than not. Ever since day one at Hogwarts, Hermione was forever overshadowed by the Exquisite Greatness that was Fleur Delacour, the mysterious French Veela whose slight accent only added to her allure and a little more daze oozing out of the sighs she received from nearly every student in the castle.

Fleur didn't pay anyone any mind if they weren't Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, or Blaise Zabini. Her posse followed her incessantly, her vague form of security from rabid fan boys and fan girls of her non-existent fan club. Many recognise that Hermione is likely the only one in the castle who hates her, and they all mock her for the obvious fact that Fleur clearly does not care. Fleur does not care about those that supposedly don't hate her, those that claim to be in love with her, or anyone if not in her group of Slytherin friends…

An unspoken rivalry that has stressed Hermione out well beyond her seventeen years, and not a day for Fleur – Hermione has lost the final battle for Head Girl. All she could do was up Fleur in class, and her pride depended on it. After all of Hermione's long years of wanting to show the world that brains beat beauty, Fleur is the embodiment of everything she stands for being spun, tripped, and ripped into some distorted reality that she can't handle… And yet the girl is just so cold and aloof about everything.

Well, no more. This year, Hermione is going for a different approach. After being obsessed over this girl, though she'd never admit it, Hermione was determined to find out what her deal is. There must be something. It's impossible for anyone to be so successful and not let the glory inflate their heads at all; Hermione was far too frazzled and frustrated to believe anything else.

The possibility that Hermione was being fickle never crossed her mind while she drifted off to sleep, looking forward to preparing for N.E.W.T.s, and resigned that Fleur was inevitably up to something.