A/N: Hi folks. These are selections from the summer journal of one Hermione Granger. Brilliant witch. Brilliant artist. Very AU and probably pretty OOC too. I hope you enjoy it. Fleurmione.

July 2

I was looking down when you showed up. Again with the need to check my planner during breaks. When I brought my head up, my view changed. Two rows ahead, I could see you, your feet resting on the seat in front of you. The large book nestled on your thighs was Rilke. My chest fluttered. I moved my eyes towards your profile: straight blonde hair held lazily in a bun, two tank tops, rolled up jeans; you were so much different than before.

I couldn't concentrate after the break. All I wanted was to watch you think and listen. He was great lecturer; he always made me think. My adrenaline raced as I traced your lines with my pencil. His voice was carried to me and I glanced at the painting he projected on the wall. He spoke of addiction and art.

"We always want and will want always, but the way we want, we can change with art. We can adjust the content, the temperature, the feel of the want. We can change our minds…" I hear the click of the projector put a new painting up, but I can't even bother to look. All I see is you.

"...and I don't mean, make a choice between this and that. I mean art can change our mind! The way it thinks about want, and our choices, so we are not trapped by them…"

He started telling a story, but my thoughts were too large to care. Why can't I rip my eyes away from Bill's ex-wife? How could I go from feeling almost normal again to this longing for a woman who looks almost a stranger after all these years? How did one glance at Fluer Delacour make the rest of my life feel instantly lacking?

Suddenly I was gathering my things and clanking around as I rose from my chair. I felt you turn in reaction, but I couldn't bring myself to look at you. I went through the isle and left.

The sunshine hit my skin and I felt a large exhalation barrel out of my lungs. If I smoked, I would have lit a cigarette. But smoking is disgusting. I had an hour before I had to meet up with Ron. I knew the café a block away would do. They have a wonderful Assam tea. It was to be my re-set button, something to shift out of my earlier chemical reaction to you. The waiter knew me; I had my places, my orbit, things I always did. I thought to myself, "I can change my mind. I can change my mind."

The cream did what I always loved, blossoming on contact with the tea. The second I see my favorite shade of rust is a precious micro-moment where my world feels perfect; there is no loss, no pain. All potential is real for this second. Can a cup of tea hold all of my hopes? This is why I have tea at least three times a day.

July 9th

I dreaded, wanted this day for a week. This is my orbit, but now it feels so altered. My chest bright, jittery, slightly constricted. The tightness of the excited, unwanted want. Everything looked the same but felt a few degrees heightened. My brain went into scan mode before I even realized that I was looking for you. I sat down, deflated. You were not there.

I re-grouped, part relieved, part drained from all the build up. I imagined myself as an animal shaking off the rain. It was time to actually absorb today's lecture. I tried to recount my real goals, my real life. It's calming and aggravating to remember what I want. Do I really want what I want? I cursed myself for missing the lecture on art, want and addiction.

During the first break, I resisted checking my planner by practicing sitting without memories or worrying. It was too hard; I was reaching for it when I saw you and my agent Landt walking towards me. How the hell do you know Landt?

Gods, and then you arrive. Off the shoulder t-shirt and rolled jeans again, your hair down. The same Rilke book held absently in your hand. You were someone new, yet I knew you.

You extended your hand, not expecting me to rise. "Hermione, It has been a long time."

But I did rise. I gave you a short hug. "Hi Fleur."

Your eyes are blue. The same blue I always remembered from shell cottage, the ones that looked down on my wounds while you wiped my tears. I was caught up in your lashes, when I heard Landt speak.

"Hermione, Fleur was inquiring about your art and she didn't know it was yours. And then to find out you two know each other! It's brilliant isn't it?" He smiled.

Landt, always the sweet muggle. He never knew Voldemort or Bellatrix. He never knew where my art really came from. He drank wine at my gallery openings and sold my art. The woman who bought my painting of two hands almost touching will never knew that they were dead lovers who never got to raise their child, that the image of those hands forever a hair-breadth away from each other burned under my eyelids as I painted them.

The thought dawned on me that you must have seen my collection. Would you notice the perspective? Your face from the view of my tear-streaked eyes. They looked up at you. I can see shell cottage again. I can remember how I wanted the salty wind to take me away from everything. Did you notice that this painting was not for sale? It will never be for sale, no matter how many people want it. Original or print. I couldn't have that painting in my studio or my house with Ron. I couldn't sell it. All I could do was show it and ignore the money offers. I painted it 2 years ago and didn't think of you since.

I had thought the motion of painting the aloof, yet tender veela metabolized my feelings about you. But obviously new ones had risen. You had risen fresh in my mind and body. Your eyes locked on mine. I knew my pause was awkward. I had to speak. "That is unexpected. How are you, Fleur?"

You stared at me from somewhere deep inside yourself. I felt its pull on me.

"I'm well. I am enjoying summer." You smiled and l took in your tan skin. You were truly golden. Again, your pale lashes that hooded over your deep expression distracted me. Did you always have bedroom eyes? You probably did.

Landt, always the cure for my awkwardness, said, "Fleur, I must show you one more painting before the lecture resumes." That is why I pay him to work for me. He can intuitively sense when my introversion is flaring up. To him this was an artist quirk he dealt with all the time.

We said our goodbyes. I think you are intuitive too. Is that why when you kissed both of my cheeks, you also grabbed my hand? Did my cheeks burn your unhurried lips?