Fleur Delacour was an observant woman, not at all curious nor the least bit interested in the most peculiar woman that stumbled across the cobblestone path beneath her. No, not in the least was she fascinated; nor allured, she was merely examining the pair that stood near the terrace of her flat. Their laughter emanating around her, a sound both precarious and inviting as she listened – no, observed – the women as she sighed.
She sipped her Moscato on occasion, stirring the wine as she held the savory liquid against her lips. Her other hand tipping the bud of her burning cigarette as she listened to the sifting sound of feet shuffling and laughter humming below her.
"There's something about you, Hermione," whispered the one nearest, and Fleur could not help but roll her eyes at the predictability of the statement. "You're a stunning girl," she continued, and lifting her cigarette Fleur feigned disinterest, inhaling another breath of nicotine as she sighed.
Beneath her, Hermione twirled a strand of the other's scarf. "I'm not as interesting as you'd like to believe, I'm afraid, and there isn't a thing alluring about me," she murmured. From above, Fleur imagined the flush of red that lighted her complexion. "Unless you count alphabetizing your bookshelves, and knitting, that is," Hermione added, and she would not see Fleur smile match her own as she laughed.
"Let me come up," the other suggested, and Fleur stiffened, her breath hitching in her throat as she exhaled a trail of smoke from her lungs. "I would love to see your place," the woman continued, and Fleur scoffed. Imagining that it was not the place alone that the woman wished to explore.
"Perhaps another time, love, it's getting rather late," Hermione muttered. Fleur's lips pursed around the cigarette as she leant her head in witness of their farewell. She tiptoed in the woman's embrace, a chaste kiss meeting her cheek and relieved, Fleur slumped back into her chair. "I had a wonderful time though, thank you for tonight."
"You're most welcome, Hermione," the woman answered, and if she had not been nauseated enough Fleur watched as the woman's mouth pressed against her palm. "I hope to do it again," she muttered against flesh.
"Me too."
Fleur promptly simmered the last of her cigarette, wine in hand as she stomped into her apartment. "Comment pouvait-elle être si aveugle," she huffed. Ignoring the hissing mewl beside her as the cat sauntered past. "I cannot believe that she could be so foolish," Fleur exclaimed, muttering to herself aloud as the familiar rustling of a door knob met her ears.
Composed and hurried, Fleur tossed a quilt over her shoulder, all but diving for the sofa as she shut her eyes. Being sure, of course, to finish off the remains of her wine as she then feigned sleep.
"Fleur? I'm home," Hermione called. Fleur heard her purse plop against the counter. "Bugger off, Crookshanks, I'm tired," she continued. Undoing the clasp of her heels, a manicured hand held against the wall as she sighed, and Fleur recognized that sigh as she braced herself for contact.
"Honestly, whatever will I do with you?" she whispered, and the blonde's heart tightened in her chest as a hand brushed through her hair. "I do not believe she even uses her bed, Crookshanks," Hermione continued. Having paused for a moment to adjust the quilt higher atop her shoulder, and Fleur fought to withhold her smile.
"Goodnight, Fleur."
It was then as soon as she entered, Hermione had went, as she descended down the hall to her bedroom. Fleur's eyes squinting open to watch her go as she mouthed her own farewell.
"Bonne nuit, Hermione."