It was February, and it was cold. Hermione Granger was packing what little she had into a bag she could've very well borrowed from Mrs. Figg, leaving once again to some haphazard shack to help the Order. This was her third time relocating, and the muggle born was fairly certain it wouldn't be her last. After folding her favorite maroon robe neatly into "Zat Ugly… Thing," as Fleur adoringly referred to it, she conjured up a mug of coffee and sat at the table. Fleur, unlike Hermione, took a considerably longer amount of time packing.
Not that Hermione minded. She and the French with, after learning they would spending the remainder of the fight against the Dark Lord with each other, had mutually agreed on a temporary truce. This had only been broken when the older witch had "accidentally" forgotten the difference between the toilet bowl scrubber and Hermione's toothbrush. Remembering this, the bushy-haired girl (she had giving up on taming it, as she found fighting Death Eaters slightly more important) chuckled to herself, just as her roommate sauntered into the kitchen.
"May I ask vat eez zo… 'umorous, Mademoiselle?" Fleur had her hand on her hip, feigning indignance. Hermione couldn't help but notice how the elder witch's robes flowed over every curve on her body. She felt a twinge in her stomach, which she chalked up to something she ate. It had been happening very often lately.
"Oh, nothing, just reminiscing. You know, about the time you used my toothbrush to clean the loo." She waved her hand in the air in a "let by-gones be by-gones" fashion and sipped her coffee.
"I am afraid I do not know what you are talking about," Fleur muttered into her coffee as a hint of a mischievous smile played across her lips. "Per'aps eet was… Gabrielle?" She sat down opposite Hermione, spinning the mug with her hands.
"Oh yes, yes, I'm sure that's what it was. I suppose she was told to by a load of Luna's Crumpled Whatsits, wasn't she?"
"'a, 'a, you zink you are zoooo clever, 'ermione," her stomach fluttered again at the sound of her name.
"Of course I do," she replied as she went to wash the mug in the sink. "It is, after all, the only thing I have going for me," Hermione heard Fleur's chair scrape against the tile as she turned on the faucet.
"And zat, mes amie, eez where you are wrong," Fleur purred, snaking her slender arms around the younger witch's waist and entwining their fingers together.
Hermione was sure Fleur could hear her heartbeat; it was so loud she could barely take it. She was flushed, feeling the warmth seeping up her neck and into her cheeks. But, she didn't want it to stop.
"Shhhh," the French witch breathed, resting her head on Hermione's shoulder. "You talk too much. Eet iz my turn. You, 'ermione, are ze most… 'ow you say… under-appreciated, most wonderful, beautiful girl I 'ave ever 'ad the pleazure of knowing. Even if you babble all zee time," Fleur sighed. "I love you, 'ermione. You, your zmarty pants zelf, and no one else." The younger witch felt her nuzzling into her neck and had to bite back a moan rising in her throat.
"Fleur, I-I don't understand this. And I don't like that," she unlocked her fingers from the French witch's grasp and turned around to face her. "But, I do like this," she laced her fingers with Fleur's again, "And, I do like you. A lot. But, I just don't know what to do, I mean-"
"Oh, 'ONESTLY!" Fleur exclaimed, exasperated. And the next thing Hermione knew, the other woman's lips were on hers, and it was the most delicate, electrifying, perfect thing Hermione had ever known. She sighed, feeling Fleur's hand place itself behind her neck. Then, something in her mind faltered, and she pulled away.
"Mas chere, if you interrupt me ONE more time-" Fleur started.
"I have to know! Why the toothbrush thing?" Hermione had no idea where this thought had even come from.
"I wanted you to uze mine, zilly girl. Now, kiss me again before I become angry."