—Fleur de Saison—

Author: Be gentle? This is only my second fic, and flames would probably damage my already low-opinion of my work. Constructive criticism however, is welcome—no matter how harsh. I want to improve, and I can't do that without being aware of what I'm doing wrong. Okay, on another note, the Title is derived from the beautiful blue's song sung by Emilie Simon called Fleur's de Saison. A beautiful piece of music, and her voice is absolutely divine. Check it out, yes?

Hermione/Fleur. Sum — Life was hectic. Voldemort was lurking around the proverbial corner and the Triwizard Tournament was making everyone crazy. Hermione just wanted to get through the year alive; not fall in love with the beautiful Fleur Delacour, who she had thought she would never see again.

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#—Electric Shock: Chapter 1

Hermione sighed, for what seemed like the umpteenth time. Julia Granger, her mother, had been lecturing her on the precautions to take when walking the streets of St Tropez. Her parent seemed to find the fact that she understood what she had been babbling about for the last hour very difficult to grasp, as she was plowing on; sounding like a broken record all the while.

"—and do not, I repeat, do not speak with any strange men you may bump into. They might seem charming and sweet, but hidden in the depths of their souls are is beastly ugliness of a sexual predator—preying on young and naive school girls like yourself—"

"Mum—"

"—and God said; "Thou shalt not—"

"Mum—!"

Julia carried on as though her daughter hadn't spoken, once again. "Men in this day an age are a disgrace. I worry for you Hermione. How are you going to find a decent man to settle down with when the world is filled with disgusting perverts and lechers—"

"Julia, I don't—" Frank Granger started, slightly offended at his wife's opinion on the male population, yet she took no heed to his words either; completely lost within her own one-sided conversation.

"Mother, I'll be careful." Hermione interrupted again, an expression of disbelief overtaking her features. "Honestly. . ." she shook her head while quickly picking up her bag—filled with her beach towel, sun screen, a digital camera, a cellphone, as well as food and water. Perched on the bridge of her nose were a pair of dark shades; RayBan's she had purchased last summer when she and her family vacationed in California.

Julia stood with her daughter, obviously not finished speaking. "Hermione—"

"Bye Mum! I promise I'll call you later, alright?" Hermione darted her mother a swift peck on the cheek and waved to her father. "Don't have too much fun without me!"

Hermione gave a great sigh of relief as the door to their hired summer home slammed shut behind her. Briefly, she smiled to herself, elated to finally have some time away from her family. She loved her parents, but she wasn't a little girl anymore—and even though she anticipated seeing them on the holidays she wasn't at Hogwarts, she needed at least a little space to herself sometimes. That fact seemed to have flown right over the top of her mothers head.

"Freedom. . .," the small smile she had been bearing expanded into a toothy grin as adjusted the straps of her bag and began to step down the stairs leading to the crowded streets of St Tropez below, ". . . here I come."

The highly demanded quaint town was bustling with too rich tourists and famous muggle celebrities that Hermione vaguely recognized from the movies she watched when she visited her parents for the holidays. Many were rushing around, stumbling into other people and not bothering to apologize. Small, expensive shops where lined up in neat little rows, beautiful clothes and trinkets offered for sale at hefty, almost outrageous prices.

Hermione pushed through the crowds of people as she made her way down various paths leading to the beach she knew was near; however, just as she turned a corner, her eyes caught sight of a shaded stall selling pocket knives of various sizes and colours. Getting closer, she ran her eyes over the shiny objects, until they fixed on a bright red one, with a white cross emblem on it.

Picking it up, she opened the little gadgets and blades it had and quickly found herself forking over the euro's to buy it. Hermione had promised both Ron and Harry that she would bring them back a souvenir each—and she knew Ron would be enamored with the small bladed gift immediately. Now, if only she could find something suitable for Harry, her endeavor would be complete.

Harry was notoriously hard to buy for, even though he didn't have much and would probably appreciate anything he was given—she wanted to get him something useful, something he would like. Though, she knew he would much rather prefer something magical opposed to muggle. Maybe she could convince her parents to let her visit magical Paris to get him something. Some new Quidditch goggles and gloves, perhaps.

Resolved to ask permission for the trip, Hermione absentmindedly stepped forward and it wasn't until the last second that she realized she was in the direct path of a large, red bus—which didn't look like it was about to stop anytime soon. Mute and frozen in horror of the immediate death that was literally staring her in the face, Hermione felt the blood rushing to her head and began to become dizzy. Just as the bus was nearing her, she closed her eyes, steeling herself for her terrible fate.

The names and faces of her loved ones rushed through her mind, small snap shots of her happier memories, and her more dangerous ones. Parting really was such a sweet sorrow, Hermione knew now—and she accepted it. This was one fatal situation she wasn't about to get out of. Ha, how ironic. Hermione Granger, who had faced fluffy, and devils snare, had been petrified by a basilisk and survived an encounter with at least a hundred dementors at the same time, was about to die by being run over by a bus. What an anti-climatic ending she was destined to have.

Death, Hermione decided with her eyes still squeezed shut, felt like a sweet, comfortable embrace—for she had never felt so safe and protected in her life. As though all her worries and problems had faded away, ready to be forgotten completely. It was like she was as weightless as a feather, her shoulders no longer weighed down with the troubles of the world. Wherever she was seemed to smell good too, Hermione had always loved the scent of fresh strawberries and cream.

"Mhmm. . ." she moaned lowly, snuggling into the softness of her peril. If this was death, she surely never wanted to wake from it again. It wasn't until a lilting, breathy giggle escaped her 'afterlife' did she realize that, in fact, she hadn't died, and in reality, was actually cozying—embarrassingly so—up to her savior.

"Ah, il semble que mon belle demoiselle me semble. Comme c'est mignon. ." the beautiful, delicate teenager currently lying on top of her cooed, her native language rolling over her tongue like a flowing, silken caress. A shiver shot down Hermione's spine. Eyes snapping open wide, all she could do was stare up at the girl—angel—and try not to pass out from sheer mortification. She had never felt so utterly embarrassed in all her life. (Ah, it seems my beautiful damsel seems to like me. How cute.)

"Désolé, je suis tellement désolé! S'il vous plaît pardonnez—moi-je-je ne savais pas. . ." Hermione apologized profusely in broken French, cursing herself as she felt a furious, hot blush begin to heat up her cheeks. As the mysterious, beautiful stranger helped her up, she avoided the older girls gaze and tried to will the flush from her face, lest she embarrass herself further by doing an impression of a tomato. (Sorry, I'm so sorry! Please forgive me—I-I didn't know. . .)

"Shall I speak like this, oui? You have an adorable accent. English, I believe?" The older, supermodel-looking girl cocked her head; a long, straight wave of jonquil-coloured hair flowing over her slender left shoulder as she did so. Hermione valiantly tried not to let her breath hitch as she met bright, sparkling azure-eyes.

The strangers face appeared to have been carved from the finest marble—as pale as a porcelain doll, with a dusting of fuchsia barely visible on her high cheekbones. Eyes were framed by thick, long black eyelashes, which when she blinked appeared to brush the apples of her cheeks. A soft-pink mouth, with plush pouted lips curled in a small smirk—

Noticing that she had been caught studying—gaping—the enchanting girl, Hermione floundered with her words in a way to cover up her discourtesy. "Oh-uh, y-yeah. Hermione Granger, that's my name. I'm from Manchester, actually. . . I'm here on a vacation with my parents." she paused, eyes dropping to her ballet-slipper clad feet shyly, another light blush rising. "Thank you—for saving me I mean. I didn't—ugh, I'm sorry I," she gritted her teeth forcing herself to say the next word, ". . . cuddled you before."

A soft, electric touch on the bottom of her chin caused Hermione to look up, and it was only her stubbornness and pride that prevented her lungs from freezing this time. "Do not worry. I do not mind such cute girls cuddling me," she giggled coyly, "I am Fleur Delacour. It is a pleasure to meet you, 'Ermione Granger; mon coeur." the current emitting fingertips were dragged along the skin of her cheek, before Fleur took it away. Hermione, distracted by the touch, didn't catch the end of her saviors sentence. (My heart.)

"Y-yeah," Hermione nodded, and tried to gather her wits. It was difficult, when she could feel the tingling lingering on her cheek, somehow though, with herculean effort; she managed—just barely. "Are you from around here? Or do you live somewhere else in France?"

For a second, Fleur's perfectly shaped face was etched with a sort of pain, before her expression morphed into something more composed and carefree. "I do not live here, non. I, like you am on a vacation. Paris, you could say, is my home." the older-teen gave an even, white toothed smile, and presented Hermione with her sunglasses; which had been knocked off when Fleur had tackled her. "I believe these are yours, oui?"

Hermione took the RayBan's from Fleur's hand and couldn't suppress the shudder at the tingling feeling their shared skin contact elicited. With a delicate blush, she smiled appreciatively at her new found acquaintance and tried to be as friendly as possible. Maybe if she spent more time with her rescuer, she wouldn't feel as nervous in her presence. "Thanks. . . umm, Fleur?"

A finely arched jonquil-coloured eyebrow rose as Fleur gazed at her with question. "Oui?"

"W-would you like to come to the beach with me? I mean, I was heading there alone—because I know no one here, and you seem nice, and your alone too. So I was thinking you wouldn't mind, if you didn't have something else to do. You might have to meet up with your family for I know, or your boyfriend perhaps, but if you wanted you could maybe—"

"I'd love to join you." Fleur cut her off with a beatific smile, eyes twinkling with mirth at Hermione's nervous rambling. It was cute, really. But honestly, so far Fleur had found everything the younger girl did was cute, and probably would for sometime.

"You would?" Hermione broke out in a large, genuine smile; one that captivated Fleur, who was used to sneers and glares from her female peers—an unfortunate effect her heritage had on her social life. She had already knew however, that Hermione wouldn't be the same as all the others. Fleur had known that at first glance that the petite, dark-haired girl was different, oh so different.

"Of course. Who could resist such a tempting offer from a cute girl like you?" Fleur smiled back, enjoying the blush that spread across Hermione's cheeks at her flirtatious words.

Hermione ignored the jolt in her stomach that thick lilting accent triggered, and without thinking, she grasped Fleur's hand and pulled the astonished jonquil-haired girl along behind her as she pushed through the crowds and headed towards the beach, which was only a a block up ahead. Subconsciously, she scowled at any men who let their eyes rest on her new found companion, a silent warning in her eyes.

Fleur smiled with delight, squeezing Hermione's slightly smaller hand in her own and biting her lip. At first, she had been reluctant to travel to muggle St Tropez, but her family had insisted. Not being a prejudice pureblood family, they seemed to have an odd fascination with muggles and their various inventions—especially the black box that played images called a 'TV'. Fleur herself had not been as interested, but after meeting the muggle Hermione Granger, she could see why anyone would be intrigued.

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Hey, 'Mione.

How's your summer been? Mine has been as boring as usual, but I couldn't have said I expected anything different from the Durselys. They have been better this time though, but I think that's just because their worried I'll blow them up like a balloon like I did to Vernon's sister. Dudley won't even look at me—not that I'm complaining, mind you. I've done all my assignments, you'll be happy to hear, but there's nothing else to do really, other than read and do assignments. Little Whinging isn't the most exciting place to be; not like France, anyway.

I've been wondering, have you heard anything from Ron? He sent me a letter about some Quidditch World Cup that Mr. Weasley was trying to get tickets for. He was wondering if I was interested, and he mentioned he was going to ask you along. I wasn't sure you would agree, seeing as you don't fancy Quidditch that much, and I'm sure France sounds better to you, but I was hoping, if you can, can you come along with us. . . please? I don't want to be a bother, but I always feel like such a burden when I stay at the burrow. I know Mrs. Weasley would love to have you, and maybe you and Ginny would get along. She's only a year younger than we are, remember?

Anyway, I hope to see you soon.

Love, Harry.

Hermione sighed as she looked down at the letter, her gaze flickering up at the photo frame on her bedside table for a moment. The still picture inside was one her parents had taken a few days ago, when they had come with her to meet the older girl she had befriended. Hermione hadn't been surprised to see that had immediately taken a liking to the azure-eyed girl, and demanded both she and Hermione let them take some photo's of them together, so they would remember each other. It was of Fleur embracing Hermione from behind, her chin resting on the shorter girls shoulder—the sun setting over the sparkling blue ocean in the background—both of them had wide, almost goofy, grins on their faces.

Another sigh escaped her lips as Hermione remembered Fleur had gone home yesterday, along with her family—of which Hermione had only met briefly, yet liked very much so; even if they acted a little strangely. Memories of beach trips and shopping spree's flashed through her mind at the speed of sound, and a melancholy smile tugged at her lips. She would miss Fleur, but they had traded cell numbers and email addresses and promised to keep in touch.

Dear Harry,

I have to say, this has had to have been the best vacation of my life. You wouldn't believe how beautiful the beaches and towns are here. You can find masterpiece artworks on the street, anywhere you go, books, music—it's been amazing. My parents were overprotective and barely let me out of their sight at first, but they ended up warming up to the idea of me exploring on my own eventually.

Hermione hesitated, frowning for a moment as she debated whether or not to mention Fleur. After a small deliberation she decided against it. Selfishly, she wanted what she and Fleur had to be private, and Hermione was sure if she told Harry about her, Ron would subsequently be informed, and then want to see 'evidence'—most likely believing it to be a lie. She had no doubt once he saw the pictures he would probably slobber all over them like an over excited puppy. No, Hermione decided, Fleur's was hers.

Her friend, she meant. Yes, her friend. The frown deepened, why did it hurt to call the jonquil-haired girl a friend? Wasn't that was she was? Or was there more? Hermione cut of her train of thought and shook her head. Now wasn't the time to ponder these things, and with determination, she pressed her inked quil into the parchment and continued her letter—leaving out any details that involved Fleur; which really was very little.

I'm glad the Dursleys haven't been giving you a hard time, I had been worrying myself into an early grave about that. I won't bore you with my rambling about museums and different types of sea life here, so I'll get straight to the point—yes, I have heard from Ron, though I admit the letter was barely discernible, but I managed to catch the gist of it. I've already asked my parent's if I could go, and they agreed—they are taking me to the French Ministry tomorrow to organize a portkey to the Burrow.

I'll see you soon, stay well. (I've got presents for both you and Ron as well, but don't tell him—I don't want to spoil the surprise; you know he loves them.)

Love, Hermione.

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Note: I hope you like this. I accidentally stumbled across a Fleur/Hermione fic a couple of days ago, and I've become hooked. I've ready all the Harry Potter Series and watched the movies, but this is the first time I've attempted to write a fic for them—actually, this is only my second fic xD— They are such a beautiful couple, and would compliment each other so well. Beautiful smart; one's hot-headed and quick to temper, and the other is cool and composed. If my French is a little off, tell me? I only know very little of it, so I'm sure I've probably made mistakes. . .

Anyway, I digress. Review and tell me if I should bother continuing with this, or just forget about it? Muchly appreciated.