Slightly AU. Please enjoy. I had to get this out of my head before it bleeds itself onto Souvenirs and Breakfast somehow. As per usual, please read Fleur's lines with the accent in your head, I'm not a fan of writing in dialects and accents-not because I'm lazy but because can sometimes come off as if I am trying to set the character with the accent as an outsider. Let me know if you want a copy of this with Fleur's accent, I'll send you a link. :)
Read on! :)
Five Shades of Wrong
Fleur Delacour is the bane of Hermione's existence.
Because Fleur is popular and French and exotic in her mundane high school. Because Fleur's hair is nice and straight and yet somehow curls at the tip and Hermione can't even fathom how that can happen when Fleur just brushes it in the morning. Because Fleur is her roommate and she has to watch Fleur fall into bed with an oversized tee shirt that still drapes over her nicely sized breasts, a shirt that's long enough to cut off mid thigh but not long enough to keep Hermione from staring.
Hermione hates herself for staring. Hermione Granger hates Fleur Delacour.
(She thinks.)
Unfortunately, the feeling isn't mutual. Fleur regards her with respect, occasional indifference and infrequent inquiries to attend parties. Hermione, to save Fleur the embarrassment of bringing a social outcast, declines these invitations. Besides, it's not as if she wants to go to social gatherings that involve an atrocious amount of alcohol and stupidity—high school provides enough of that.
It would be easier, much easier, if Fleur was like one of the popular girls in those sitcoms or movies. The ones that make fun of nerdy, bookish girls like her, the ones that teases and bullies and sleeps through the varsity football teams but Fleur isn't one of them. Although Fleur is friends with those types of girls. Fleur studies for her exams and tells Hermione that she likes the way she ties her tie and even though they maintain a steady nonverbal relationship, Fleur doesn't give Hermione a reason to hate her.
A reason to dislike Fleur would make it easier. It would be easier to hate Fleur than to hate Fleur because she likes Fleur.
Being young is hard and very confusing.
Not that she likes her too much, Fleur still sprays too much good smelling perfume and annoys her by singing catchy mainstream tunes and that long blonde, lovely head of hair? It sheds like a dog. She tries to concentrate on those annoying facts instead of the nagging urge between her legs that begs her to grab Fleur, shove her down onto one of their beds and shag her.
Hermione doesn't like feeling like this, out of control and in the thralls of her own emotions. Hermione Granger is about books and facts, logical, rational and provable facts. The attraction she feels towards Fleur is illogical, completely irrational and Hermione doesn't know when, where or why she feels that way.
It's wrong, she tells herself this every single time she stares at Fleur—like she's doing now. It's wrong on five different levels but Hermione can't help herself when Fleur is coming into their dormitory clad in a skin tight workout bra that cuts off at her torso and shorts that hug her every curve. It's so, so completely wrong and yet Hermione's tongue still flickers out to lick her lips as she discretely gawks. Her eyes drop from the blonde's perfect face when she sees that Fleur is intensely looking at her, they gaze across sweat thats pooled at the small dip between Fleur's collarbones, her chest rapidly rising up and down and her core tensed, muscles defined and begging to be touched.
Hermione Granger is so not gay.
Hermione blinks hard, the lid of her eyes closing slowly as if they wanted to stay open and stare at the tantalizing creature that is Fleur. "Do you want some water?" She asks dumbly, sitting from her table.
"Yes please." Fleur replies in that thick French accent of hers. Hermione reaches and grabs an unopened bottle of water on her table, handing it to Fleur with the clumsiness of a schoolgirl with a crush.
Hermione Granger is not a schoolgirl with a crush.
Fleur's eyes don't leave her and Hermione's eyes struggle to find a proper place to stare at. The freckles on her chest are too distracting, the curve of her pelvis bone too arousing, Fleur's lips too damn tempting. In the end, Hermione resolves to stare at her forehead. Silence falls between them, Fleur staring and Hermione's anxiousness quickly turns into paranoia.
She scrambles for her pencil and paper, resuming her studies even as Fleur watches on.
What is her problem? Hermione wonders as she taps away on her calculator, jotting down radicals and negatives with perfuse enthusiasm. From the corner of her eye, she can see Fleur take several steps closer. Hermione has to force her hand to stop shaking by pressing even harder onto her paper, making it indent with every noisy stroke of the mechanical pencil.
Fleur, with long and willowy fingers, takes a loose strand of curly hair and tucks it behind her ear. All the blood in her body drains to the space between her legs or skyward and into her cheeks. Electricity rips across the path that Fleur's fingers grazed. Hermione struggles not to lose her composure all while glaring intensely at a three variable differential.
Hermione reminds herself the first of her five reasons why kissing Fleur right now would be a very bad idea; they barely know each other. She hadn't given Fleur even a single clue that Hermione fancied her. And Hermione doesn't. Sexual attraction doesn't necessarily equate to romantic feelings—of which Hermione has none for Fleur. It's not as if she likes how Fleur can sing lovely melodies or how genuine she is at everything she does or how, on some rare occasions, Fleur has proved herself to be quite a proficient conservationist.
She's supposed to hate Fleur, Hermione reminds herself.
"You are acting very peculiar, Hermione." Fleur says, bent over and her face leveled with Hermione's. "Is something wrong?"
Hermione clears her throat, pushing against her desk until she is sliding backwards and standing up. Just as she is about to turn and step away, Fleur's arms stop her; both hands gripping the edge of the desk and between them stood Hermione. Suddenly, Fleur looks very predatory, the edge of her lip curved upwards into a small but stunning smile.
"What are you doing?" Hermione demands with all the might she can muster as Fleur's body and face breaks into her personal space. She has to remind herself of the second reason why kissing Fleur would be so wrong and that's because they haven't gone out on a single date. Not that she would like to go on a date with Fleur or anything.
"Do you know how the French greet one another?" Fleur ignores her question, blue eyes dark and shimmering against the lamp on her desk. Those wicked hands, the ones that had been preventing her from escape, come to grip her hips.
Hermione is frozen and stuck with shock. Fleur repeats her inquiry, "Do you, Hermione?"
"Kiss," she answers, swallowing thickly. "On the cheek. I—It's physical act performed between friends, like a greeting or a congratulations or—"
"Then what do you thing I am going to do?" Hermione feels like she's going to faint when Fleur's body come to press against hers and the ache between her legs turns into a blaring fire alarm when their breasts touch.
Oh Merlin, Hermione thinks, feeling like she is fighting a losing battle.
The last three reasons flounder up into her conciseness and remind Hermione that this, giving in and kissing Fleur would mean the loss of her job. Because Fleur doesn't know the truth. Because Hermione is truthfully a twenty two year old. And a witch. A witch working for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and, currently, as an undercover agent to track down a loose and particularly rabid Baku spirit.
Romantic entanglements could mean the loss of her job.
What was meant to be an easy assignment—the case was pushed over to her because she was a muggleborn and knew the British education more than her colleagues—had suddenly become grossly complicated the moment she found out that the French exchange student she would be rooming with is a hot mix of nice long legs and silvery blonde hair.
Fleur presses a single, teasing kiss onto Hermione's reddened cheek, pulling away quickly and smiling with great delight.
"Was that so bad?" Fleur asks, still standing in her personal space. Their thighs are touching, Fleur's hand still barely gripping her hips, Hermione can feel goosebumps erupt onto her arms when Fleur's breath falls onto her lips. She feels like she may melt from the heat between them or die. Maybe both. Melt and then die.
Hermione shakes her head, unable to find her voice.
The blonde in front of her smiles brightly, almost grinning before turning away and grabbing bathing supplies from her drawer. "Thank you for the water, Hermione." Fleur says as she exits the room.
She watches Fleur leave, wondering what kind of pathetic fool she is to be nearly seduced by an eighteen year old senior in high school. Fleur never showed any interest in her before. They were roommates and, naturally, they've bonded to a certain extent. Sometimes Fleur would attempt to tame Hermione's hair, sometimes Fleur would ask her what book she was reading or they'd study together but what had happened just moments ago—that was different albeit confusing. The blonde sometimes says flirtatious and titillating things to her but Hermione excuses them as a difference in customs or Fleur's language barrier. Hermione is guiltily excited by the night's transgressions though even as she plans for forget about Fleur after she finished her assignment.
If only things were different, Hermione thinks.
Letting out a great, heaving sigh, Hermione opens her books and resumes studying late into the night, choosing to not dwell on the events. Fleur doesn't come back until thirty past midnight but Hermione isn't concerned—she once was when they first became roommates but grew quickly accustomed to Fleur's occasional absence. She uses the time to contact Harry and Ron, practice a spell or brew a quick potion.
Sometimes she wonders what Fleur is doing during those nights but she never asks, fearing the inevitable answer involving boys and naked, sweating bodies. The thought sours her mood, juxtaposing with the recent passing events. In confusion and frustration—from her unsuccessful search for the elusive Baku creature and Fleur's actions—Hermione waits until she is sure Fleur is fast asleep and goes for a rendezvous.
With a series of simple spells she leaves a believable decoy of herself in bed and apparates out of the room, tracker in hand. It's a simple spherical device that could be easily mistaken to be a Rememberball, although it was far more useful. As long as the user has a clear focus of what they were looking for, the ornament shaped tracker would glow an ethereal light when they were close to the lost object. Hermione wanders the halls with it in hand, knowing that Baku routinely fed off of nightmares.
Most of them were beneficial to human and wizardkind; blessing their captors with pleasant dreams and even curing depression or insomnia. This one, for some reason, induced nightmares. From witness reports, it looked like an old woman shrouded and emitting dark, vaporous gas from its moving skin. From time to time, Hermione would catch its trail, the tracker glowing faintly but she had yet to catch sight of the Baku in the three months she had been looking for it.
Hermione makes her usual rounds, first through the girl's dormitory, then the boys and finally outside the buildings' perimeters. The November nights are chilly and wet as the recently fallen slow had yet to stick to the ground. She enjoys the walks, they give her time to go outside the confines of her room and wander campus when its students were fast asleep.
As she rounded the corner, a figure startles her. Under the glow of a dim streetlamp, Hermione realizes its Fleur and quickly puts away her wand.
"I did not think of you a rule breaker." Fleur comments with a amusement. "What are you doing out so late?"
"I—I went out on a stroll. Couldn't sleep, you see?" It's a half truth. "What are you doing out?"
"You can say I am taking a walk myself." Fleur's gaze flickers down to Hermione's hand and when she looks down, the tracker is glowing. A chill ripples through her body as it brightens; the Baku is heading straight towards them. "What are you holding?"
"Something. I've got to go."
"What is so urgent?" Fleur sounds suspicious.
"I can't tell you." The tracker is like a lightbulb in her hand now and Hermione begins to look around frantically but the night is still thick. In the corner of her eye she sees a shadow move from the rose bushes to a leafless tree. Hermione ignores Fleur and moves towards it. Hermione, with her back turned and walking in a brisk pace, tells Fleur to return to her room with finality.
She doesn't pause for a response, breaking into a run as the creature, dark and ghastly with glowing white eyes sees her. Fleur, being a muggle, probably thinks she's gone around the bend since muggles can't see Bakus. She chances a glance behind her and Fleur is gone.
"Lumos." Hermione whispers and a light appears at the tip of her wand. The Baku looks surprised and begins to flee on its two, fluidly legs. From behind, Hermione can see that the Baku is indeed a woman in a tattered dress, wearing a dark shawl over her equally dark body. She chases it into the trees, knowing that they are headed into the school garden. When the terrain changes from heavily wooded forest grounds to sparce shrubbery, Hermione raises her wand.
Bright bluebell flames, in the shape of fireballs, spout from the tip of her wand flying into the air with high velocity. They form a large circle, creating a perimeter of blue flames. Bakus disdain light and she doubts the one in front of her would try to leap across her blue flames.
"Selma Beatrice," Hermione calls out, using the Baku's human alias before she died. "By order of the British Ministry of Magic you are thereby arrested for escaping prison, three counts of murders and-"
"The Ministry, sending a girl to do its biding?" Selma says, her voice resonating into the night but her mouth never moving. Goosebumps erupts from Hermione's skin, underneath her pajamas.
"I am a woman." Hermione declares as Selma sends a streak of darker than black ooze in her direction. She dodges it with ease but doesn't see the old woman when she blinks. Frantically, she looks around for the Baku and doesn't find it until Selma is right in front of Hermione. Then she is suddenly being pushed onto the ground by the cold force of Selma's hand.
When her back hits cement floor, Hermione struggles to force Selma off of her but, despite her ghastly, old and somewhat vaporous appearance, she is very solid and heavy.
"Flamman Aeterne!" Hermione manages just as her wand is smacked out of her hand.
Blue fireballs erupt from the tip of the wand, sent in various directions and lighting the setting. Selma howls at the light, a direct hit would immobilize a fully grown and powerful Baku such as Slema. Unfortunately, the closest a flame gets is barely touching the old woman's arms causing her to loosen her grip on Hermione's shoulder. With a practiced and hard punch, she lands her knuckles square against Selma's jaw, giving Hermione enough time to escape and find her wand.
"Give it up." Hermione says, pointing her wand directly at the ugly creature that was writhing in pain, its face now deformed. Rather than relent, Selma's mutilated face and empty white eyes turn to her, smiling with sharp and jagged teeth.
"No," Selma wheezes, letting loose a flow of dark cloud—sleeping gas—that quickly surrounds Hermione. "Let's see what your nightmares are made of."
Hermione makes quick use of the Bubble Head Charm and, as effective as it is, it disorients her eyesight because of the liquidy membrane. She fires several bouts of bluebell flames at Selma but they are deflected easily by the wall of darkness she conjures. They quickly come to a stalemate as Selma's form is nonphysical and any of the jinxes and hexes Hermione tries on her are ineffective. The old hag is shooting streams of darkness at such a pace that Hermione doesn't have the time to perform a more powerful offensive spell.
Suddenly, the silvery glow of a patronus sweeps just over her head. An albatross flies in between their duel leaving a trail of effervescent mist in its path. With a great sweep of its wings, the patronus cuts pass Selma's defensive gas shield and manages to hit her at the left arm, causing it to fall off and dissipate.
Hermione uses the times to summon the bluebell flames again, except this time keeping them at the tip of her wand and drawing a cross hatch pattern into the air. In a few seconds, a net-like flame is glowing in front of her and, with a swing of her arm, sends it to Selma.
A high pitched wail is let loose when the Baku is captured, she tries several times to grab at and destroy the flames that surround her like a jail but they glow and burn brighter at her touch. Still not letting her guard down Hermione looks about her surroundings, knowing the patronus had to come from a magic user who would be nearby.
Footsteps echo behind her and Hermione turns to find Fleur, casually observing one of her bluebell flames. In her hand was a wand.
"Who are you?" Hermione demands, feeing a mixture of confusion, betrayal and astonishment.
Fleur smiles charmingly—almost arrogantly—and takes several steps closer to Hermione. "Of course, where are my manners." She gracefully bows.
"My name is Fleur Delacour. Auror for the French Republic. You have one of our citizens." As she speaks, Hermione notices how the blonde's figure is changing, her hair growing slightly longer, her facial features shifting just slightly to make her look older, a slivery light coming to envelope her body. "Yourself?"
"Hermione Granger, I work for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement." She gestures to the captured Baku, "This, is our prisoner."
Fleur's face turns serious," Selma Beatrice is a French citizen, was born and raised in France and first committed her crimes in France. She is under our jurisdiction."
"In 1980, she was captured by British officials in Wales, a British country and sent to a British prison from which she escaped six months ago." Hermione says, reciting a shortened version of Selma's case file. She takes several steps closer to Fleur, gripping her wand tight and pushing her shoulders back. "Since then, she has murdered several British citizens. And now she has been recaptured on British soil."
"She needs to be judged by the French court for her previous, older crimes in France. Age takes priority, oui?" Fleur quirks a testing eyebrow. Hermione is not amused and is somewhat disgusted for her earlier attraction to Fleur.
"Hasn't your statute of limitation run out on her crimes?"
"For her minor ones. But the statute of limitation for necrophilia is forty years and murder; fifty years." Fleur smiles, knowing she has won, her face inches from Hermione's.
"I captured her." Hermione growls, feeling as if the months she spent undercover as a seventeen year old with stuck up, snobby teenagers in a boarding school was flushed down the drain. "I believe that she needs to be transported to a British facility prior to yours."
"Without my help, she would've escaped."
"Without my help, she would've attacked you." Their foreheads are almost touching now, Hermione glaring into deep blue eyes.
"I knew what I was doing." Fleur says, "I lured her out."
"Didn't seem like it."
"The French are subtle unlike—"
"—will you two quit bickering?" Selma pipes up. "I thought the Second Hundred Years War ended a century ago."
With a swing of her hand, the blonde casts a silencing shroud so fast that Hermione almost misses it. "I do not like being interrupted," Fleur says with such command and dignity Hermione fights not to look impressed. Whoever Fleur really is, it's someone to be reckoned with.
Hermione sighs, knowing that her superiors are going to be less than pleased when they find out she lost their prisoner to the French. "Would it be alright if we took her in for an interrogation first?" She's trying to lower her voice to sound mature and comprisable. "There's a portkey not far from here. We could walk there. It'll take us to the Ministry."
Fleur's eyes narrow, Hermione suddenly becomes aware of their proximity. She can smell peppermint and lavender; it makes her dizzy. "Twenty four hours." Hermione looks up at Fleur, confused. "I said you have twenty four hours with her."
Hermione writes a quick report to Kingsley Shacklebolt, she has more than an inkling that Selma Beatrice is part of a larger scheme but has nothing to prove it at this point. The way the old hag escaped prison, who she murdered, those people weren't just wizards but renowned politicians, Hermione just needed enough evidence to start a treason investigation.
Fleur watches her work the entire rest of the night, from her writing and reading reports to her questioning of Selma who she is unable to provoke. It's irritating, to have the French woman hanging over her shoulder as she is scratching away on parchment. Fleur has declined an offer to stay at a hotel even at Hermione's insistence.
Together, they're awake until the elves come in to do their morning clean up. Hermione's desk is tidy already and they leave her alone, sweeping and mopping the surrounding areas. Fleur notices this immediately and calls for the working elf, Tawny. "Excuse me. You have missed a spot, Madamoiselle."
The frightened elf jumps and so does Hermione's heart. Tawny looks between the blonde and Hermione, a look of fear and indecisiveness cut into her boney features. "T—Tawny is very sorry Miss Granger, I did not know you wanted your area to be cleaned." With a snap of her fingers, the broom rushes under Hermione's desk.
"No. No. Tawny, please stop. Thank you but you know my preferences." The broom quickly falls to the floor. "And please, address yourself with first person pronouns when you're around me," Hermione smiles reassuringly at the small creature, giving her a sure nod.
Tawny hurriedly cleans the rest of the area and disappears. Fleur looks at her with confusion and shock. "Why do you demand such things?"
"I do not agree with how most of wizardkind treat magical creatures—elves especially." Hermione sighs, looking down at her large stack of paperwork. "They are people and deserve to be treated as such. Not as servants."
"Says who?" Fleur daringly asks.
"Excuse me?" Hermione has never had anyone ask her such a loaded question.
"Who says that elves deserve such rights? Is it written in a book somewhere?" Fleur makes a hand gesture as if she's asking for an explanation. "If we follow magical logic, the bond between wizard and elvenkind, master and servant, has lasted for over a half millennium. Magic bonds the two together. It can be assumed then that natural law allows for such a relationship."
Hermione is more than enraged, her fists ball. Fleur was one of those witches. "Just because it's been that way for so long does not mean it is designed by nature. There is a killing curse but its existence does not justify its use."
"True." Fleur then rebuffs, "How do define your heroic morals then? What gives you the right to deem elves as equal as wizards? We are different from them, in our bodies, the way we perform our magic, this difference separates us. Your imposing idealistic values onto the whole of wizardkind is equally dishonorable as those who believe that elves can be mistreated and abused."
"I breath, I have feelings, I can feel pain." Hermione's ears are red and burning with rage. "So do elves. Yet if I do something wrong, no one has the right to physically or emotional abuse me. My services to the Ministry is compensated. When I have children, they will be their own being and free from servitude. Don't you see that there's something wrong?"
"Of course."
"Then—"Hermione gawks, "Why were you questioning me?"
"To see if your views are lofty." Fleur smiles, "They are not."
"I'm not trying to superimpose my ideals onto the world. I reckon there are elves who would rather stay with the families they've been in than leave but I wish them protection." Hermione returns to her work. "When they are abused, threatened or mistreated, I don't want them to feel as if they deserve. No sentient being should ever feel as if they deserve pain."
At that moment, Fleur kisses her.
Hermione is stunned then surprised and then kissing Fleur back. The amount of relief she felt was immeasurable when she saw Fleur with a wand, saw that her true face resembled that of someone in her early or mid-twenties. The sight made snogging Fleur five shades less of wrong.
Fleur's kiss is sweet and tasting like the coffee she recently drank. Hermione's head spins in circles, her eyes shutting close and tight, feeling as if she's lost her balance. Before she knows it, they're standing, Hermione leaning against her table with Fleur pushed at her front. When they break away for air, Fleur lets out a small chuckle.
"What's so funny?"
"I had imagined this differently." Fleur lays an affectionate kiss on her cheek. "My French heritage makes me quite a romantic, you see. I thought maybe I'd kiss you in the school's rose garden—maybe on a lovely snowy night. That would've been ideal, hmm?"
"You had no problem kissing someone who was presumably years younger than you?" Hermione asks, wondering if her guilt towards Fleur's assumed age was uncalled for.
"Non," Fleur said, "I had long figured out your true identity. It was truly a flattering experience to see you struggle between your crush on me and my younger self. I found it entertaining."
Hermione presses her face into the crook of Fleur's neck, feeling completely embarrassed. "Do you like getting a rouse from me?"
Fleur holds her tight, "Frankly? Yes. I find your scowl very lovable."