Another's Treasure.

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I do not own Harry Potter characters, blah blah blah. I do not own any music that may be recommended here.
I own this plot, though. I won't lie, I don't know where it will go, but if you leave me some reviews and suggestions, that would be very helpful!

Enjoy!

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If there is one thing bred by airports, it is chaos. Oh, everything is orderly and there are steps one must take to secure transport through the clouds, there is no mistake. However, it is in this order that little sparks of a chaotic element are struck. For one, there are people. So many human beings, lined up and impatient, hurrying to make a flight that they must board two hours from their present time. A small mistake happens – perhaps someone types in the wrong destination, perhaps a passport is forgotten in the recesses of a rucksack – and the individual at fault faces the animosity of the line. One who takes too long with the security line is scrutinized with a judgmental eye, and one who is lost is smiled at with a smile that does not quite reach the eyes of the already tired and exasperated information officials, security officers, and attendants.

The next is language. Rarely, if ever, are people in any airport speaking the same language. If the tongue is the same, the dialect is different. Communication is a hazard; better to know what you are doing instead of speaking to others. It is much safer, anyways, as you can never tell which words will anger another. You may speak the same words, but the meanings will be different for each person you communicate with. Internationally speaking, if the only language you know is English (or, to the uninformed masses, "American"), then for all intents and purposes, you are both saved and made the laughingstock of the terminal. Multilingual is the new black.

The only time you are allowed to take a breath and relax is when you are in your assigned seat on the aircraft heading towards your destination. Until then, a spine of steel and a general apathy to anyone who is not an official is required for survival. (And remember: the way you mock people is similar to the way they mock you.)

It was with this frame of mind that we found one Hermione Granger. Her mood, already foul due to the task she had to accomplish, was not helped by her mental state.

Of all the inane, silly, useless things…she thought, twisting her simple gold wedding band as she looked around without really seeing her surroundings. The line was long already, despite the flight's red-eye departure of four in the morning. Like herself, the many occupants of the line were less-than-joyful about their travel arrangements, and had no issue with voicing these displeasures in mutters that were meant to be heard.

The main question was, why couldn't this visit be made by the man responsible? Why was Bill so afraid of being honest with his wife, to whom he definitely owed an explanation? It was absolutely not fair to ask his in-law to make a journey for an explanation that he should be man enough to give.

Hermione sighed then, asking herself for the n-th time why she couldn't just Apparate. She was powerful enough to make the journey. It would exhaust her thoroughly, but given her past, she figured that the fatigue would be survivable.

"But Bill already paid for the flight! - Don't know why, when he could just Apparate over, or use the Portkey - but he did, so why not put his purchase to good use?"

"Ronald, while that is an admirable view, don't you think it would be easier to get a refund and just use magic?"

"Muggles do refunds, too?"

And so here she was, getting her ticket – the clerk at the counter was thoroughly confused as to why William Weasley was a female, but a Confundus charm cleared that right up – and steeling herself for a journey that could only end horribly.

There was only so much one could do when informing one's brother-in-law's wife that said brother-in-law had run away with someone else during an annual familial visit on the wife's part.

On the upside, this flight gave Hermione a chance for real peace and quiet. Being married into the Weasley family, she had forsaken anything resembling 'peace' and 'quiet.' It had probably been written into the wedding vows. Though Ron and Hermione inhabited a small home in the Northamptonshire country, it was often filled with other Weasleys, most often Harry and Ginny as well as Molly and Arthur. George would drop by for catching up every other week, but oftentimes he informally came by to test-run a product and get Hermione's expert opinion on any magically technical faults the creation may have. Charlie had visited once, bringing with him 'his baby.' The infant was, in fact, a Chinese Fireball hatchling. Hermione and Ron had spent weeks after trying to salvage their walls and roof. Bill and Fleur were more rare a sight, as their jobs took them just about everywhere, leaving next to no time for house calls. As philosophies went, the Weasleys were very family-centric: hurt one, and the entire clan would descend in a hurricane of fiery-haired temper. Marry one, and you marry the entirety of the Weasley line.

Sometime around the second year that she had had with Ron, she had realized that she barely had time to think, barely had room to listen to her thoughts. It was then that she began working in time for herself, taking solitary walks along the Nene River during the early morning. The walks lasted from thirty minutes to an hour. Now she was on an aeroplane with four hours, alone.

Me, Myself, and I, she thought, a small grin breaking over her face. The thought lasted her through the long wait at the flight gate, and well into the first hour in the air.

There is a certain peace that comes with being a few ten thousand feet above the rest of humanity. After the initial pressure of g-force and the almost rollercoaster tickle of taking off, there is something almost freeing about watching the rest of the world and its problems vanish underneath perfectly white clouds. With only the hum of the aeroplane and the rising sun to keeping one company, it is easy to forget that the world (Muggle and magical) can be an Azkaban of a place. One needs not think of what happens on the ground when one is being privy to the secret beauty of flying. It is not so much a break from reality as it is a change in perspective.

"Does she know I'm coming?"

"Er…maybe? I think I told her that you'd be popping over."

"RON. Popping implies Apparation, which I am not doing. You know what," she stopped his retort – or apology – with an annoyed decision. "I will arrive and whether you inform her or not, I am Apparating from the airport to her place."

"You know the address?"

"…" She hated when he made a valid point.

After breezing through customs, which in her humble opinion should have been renamed "Introduction to Confundus," Hermione stood waiting with her travel suitcase and her purse. Peering above the heads of the other passengers was beginning to wear on her stiff legs, and she began to wonder if it was possible to Apparate to the side of a person, and not a geographical place. Theoretically, it was plausible. Think of the person, and a surface underneath their feet, and voila! Though, that kind of Apparation could lead to less than appropriate situations.

I could, given this theory, Accio that witch over here…The pure evil of her idea amused her. 'Pure evil' referring, of course, to the mental image of a platinum blonde woman hurtling headfirst through the crowded airport at a mere summon reserved for non-sentient beings. Naturally, as soon as that thought had left its print upon her mind, what should she spy but the almost white hair of Fleur Delacour. As the Veela woman was quite a ways away, it was just her hair, for now, that made her stand out. Upon closing in on her quarry, Hermione noted that the French woman looked genuinely pleased to see her, making her "mission" just a little more difficult.

Nobody likes the messenger.

"Bonjour, 'Ermione!"

"Salut, Fleur!" The older woman pulled Hermione into a friendly hug, her cerulean eyes sparkling. She took the Englishwoman's bag ("'Ermione, you are my guest, allow me to take care of you accordingly.") and soon the two were inside a comfortably styled apartment. Hermione thought she smelled freshly baked cookies, but a quick peek into the modest kitchen left of the door proved her to be wrong. Her stomach voiced it's displeasure at the olfactory lie.

"But Fleur, this is an apartment, what if people saw you leave and then see you step out of the door? Won't it raise questions?"

"Ah, cherie. Zis particular complex is full of witches and wizards, so secrecy…it is not necessary." Hermione stared, impressed. She couldn't help but think aloud:

"That makes sense, there must be many magical communities wherein the same thing happens. Is the person who owns the buildings a Muggle?"

"Non, 'e is a Squib. Quite a nice man, actually. Relaxed about ze rent, but 'e knows when to be, ah, assertive. Zere was zis one resident," she began, chuckling a little at the memory long past. She paused there, and after a glance at her guest, offered food.

"'Ermione, did zey serve you anyzing on ze flight over?" Hermione shook her head. "Mon dieu! And 'ere I've been running my mouth, while you stand zere tired and 'ungry. Zat is unforgiveable and I shall fix it immediately! What are you in ze mood to eat, cherie?"

"Erm..." Truth be told, Hermione didn't know what she wanted, and the question had taken her by surprise. "Food?"

Fleur stared at her, frowning in concentration.

"Well, I 'ave not 'ad breakfast yet, would you care to join me? I don't 'ave much, but I 'ave been told zat I make vairy decent omelettes. If zat is not to your liking, I can whip up a batch of crepes. Ozzerwise, I 'ave cereal and milk."

Hermione answered that she would very much like an omelette, please. Fleur smiled, and began fussing around the kitchen, all the while apologizing for her ineptitude as hostess. The younger witch was still a little shell-shocked from the pure surprise of the question, which was probably the result of her distraction by the apartment. From what she could see, standing in the "front hall," was a small kitchenette to her left, and beyond that a room with a black sofa, television, and glass coffee table. A counter holding a spice rack and a bowl of fruit separated the two. On the wall behind the sofa was a Muggle photo depicting separate buildings painted in a way that altogether, they formed a gigantic face. To the left of the living room – that must be what it was – was a closed door. Fleurs room, Hermione hazarded a guess. Vaguely, she wondered where the bathroom was.

"Would you like some water? Milk? Coffee? Tea?" The woman in question's voice cut through the younger witch's observations.

"Coffee, please." Came the distracted reply.

"Et s'il vous plaits, 'Ermione, feel free to get comfortable. We are family, non?"

Now would be as good a time as any, you know, a nagging voice sounded in her head. For the sake of politeness, and because her stomach protested the potential loss of food, Hermione nodded and held her tongue with a smile.

Hypocrite.