Stand alone. Irrelevant. Shaking writer's block, gearing up for NaNoWriMo. This went so far in the opposite direction of where I intended it. Hope you enjoy it despite the pointlessness of it and lack of originality. Cheers.
Curiosity is easily given into, but no one has to be blunt about it. She sat among the onlookers of the goblet of fire not as obviously drawn to the spectacle of watching people volunteer to put their life on the line for the promise of fame, fortune, and glory. However, she was just as interested as the lot of them. She otherwise wouldn't even be there in the Great Hall, sitting at the one of the tables pushed to the side as far as the walls would allow in order to accommodate the goblet and the age line administered by Dumbledore himself. The Tri-Wizard Tournament was shaping to be, no offense to a certain Bulgarian, far more interesting than even the Quidditch World Cup held earlier that year. Aforementioned Bulgarian had been spotted walking in to the Great Hall with fixated intent. He threw a cursory grin at the audience of swooning fans, which Hermione noted included Ron.
"You see that 'Mione‽ He smiled at me!" he sputtered excitedly, shaking Hermione's arm to get her attention, jostling her quill enough to leave an ink blot in an unfortunate spot on her parchment.
"Congratulations, Ronald, shall I be invited to the wedding?" she teased. He threw her a broody look, but said nothing.
"He'll be chosen - no doubt," Harry commented.
"No doubt," Ron agreed.
The two had been assessing the possible competitors all morning. They would compare the likelihood of their being chosen, but no one could really know how the goblet would decide. Still, bets were going to be set if the Weasley twins could only keep track of it all. The twins settled for this job once they gave their best attempt at crossing the age line and were rewarded with matching, moppy, white beards that could only be removed by Madame Pomfrey.
She didn't expect to be approached by anyone in the hall; least likely of all by an older Beauxbaton straying from her collection of classmates.
The words coming forth from her mouth dazed Hermione at first, but it was mostly from the shock of being spoken to by the foreigner. So drastic were their differences, emphasized if only because they were different. Blue robes to strike against the sea of Hogwarts black. Separate customs and standards. Unrecognizable strings of sounds. Only drastic because they were different...
"...May I borrow this?" the French preamble was punctuated by an English request so that Hermione may understand, with an added gesture for extra clarity in case the accent that made this sound more like zees distracted too much. She pointed at Hermione's quill, hanging still in her hand just above her essay.
"- Oh yes, sure," Hermione sputtered just as Ronald had, only more nervously than excitedly, and she couldn't identify - or wouldn't admit - why exactly.
Hermione handed over her quill to the girl who accepted it with a flourish and a tiny grin that captivated in its subtlety. Hermione understood enough French to know she was thanked.
"Such a charming thing, non?" the French girl hummed conversationally, "So much like a muggle pen these types of quills. Makes you wonder why not just use them?"
Hermione's charmed self-inking quill did work remarkably like a convenient muggle pen where she didn't need to lug around bottles among bottles of ink, dangerously crammed into her school bag among her papers and books. The last time she had tried to use a pen, though, she was stared at quizzically by her wizard-worldy friends. Harry smiled with empathy at her while Ron looked like... well, like a muggle would to witchcraft. She and Harry had a good laugh recalling how they had to have special lessons with McGonagall to learn how to write with a bloody feather.
"Pens don't write as well on parchment, though," Hermione had hoped she didn't sound so smug. She honestly no longer cared what Hogwarts students thought when she seemed like a know-it-all. Those who mind didn't matter to her and those who mattered didn't mind, as the muggle saying goes. There was something, though, about the visitors. Maybe it was being welcoming or something, but you had to try to be as hospitable as possible.
Maybe that's why Hermione didn't mind when the French girl took hold of the book in her lap she was using as a writing surface for her essay and began to scrawl something upon a fancy slip of paper. Close proximity was necessary for the girl to get a steady hand. Hermione wondered why she couldn't just use the table pushing into her back - or rather she was pushing back into. She tried to give the girl as much space as possible. Hospitality and whatnot.
With an accomplished nod at the flourished finish, because it seemed this girl had to do everything with elegance, she pulled back.
The paper she was writing on was too thin; the ink had seeped through and marked Hermione's essay with what looked to be a name. Fleur Isabelle Delacour.
"I will take care of that," presumably Fleur Delacour assured her.
She swiped her wand across the parchment, ending with a tap on the spot Ron botched, and all the excess ink disappeared.
"You are right," Fleur said, "Pens do not write as well, not enough flare, I say."
Fleur Delacour was all about the flare.
Hermione was thanked again, in English, before Fleur spun on her heel and strut across the hall, over the age line, up to the goblet, and sent her fancy paper up with a whirl to be consumed by the eerie blue flames. The ensuing applause every volunteer garnered was joined by a few howling wolf whistles that Hermione felt offended by on Fleur's behalf.
"Don't you dare!" she barked at Ronald as he opened up his mouth.
He again looked broody.
"Was just going to say, I think she's getting picked too..." he grumbled.
Hermione was sure Fleur was going to be picked. She was all about the flare, and did everything with elegance. If she wasn't picked, it would be the greatest mistake the goblet made.
"What about the Hogwarts champion?" Harry diverted the conversation away again, "Think it'll be Cedric?"
"Nah," Ron shook his head, "They'd definitely want a Gryffindor in the tournament. Makes things interesting."
Interesting, Hermione thought as she followed Fleur's trail with her eyes, was turning out to be an understatement.
She was conflicted over dinner.
Where Ron's daily concerns at the table were always something along whether he wanted more meat or potatoes tonight, Harry's was another scheme to get or not get killed, and Hermione's was coursework, all normal thought trains were derailed for the selecting of the champions. All grew quiet as Dumbledore took the floor.
Hermione was still debating on what she thought of Fleur. She seemed nice enough when she borrowed her quill, but over the course of the day she was getting another perspective of the girl.
The rumors were mostly ignored because those simply were never accountable. Petty jealousies, misjudgments, prejudice... She knew enough not to believe them.
But when they were backed with all she heard the girl actually say? Jokes, insults, arrogance...
She thought Fleur was nice. Oh well. Hermione bit her lip and ignored the glum pull she felt in herself.
The goblet ended up making a terrible mistake, but it wasn't Fleur not being picked. Much worse a thing could happen, Hermione learned.
The following week, after a little of the buzzing about it subsided, Hermione could finally leave Harry's side every once in a while. He was being assaulted by accusations on every side. It seemed only a select few believed in him and were willing to support him. Hermione found that Ron was not included in that group. Petty jealousies.
Part of how she knew Harry would be okay on his own again was when he told her she could go off to the library without him. It was at the beginning when Harry volunteered to accompany her when she really started to worry about him, but now she could at least put it out of her mind for a bit of light reading.
Her coursework for the day was completed and double checked. Her friends were arguing, but alright. She was just about to hit her stride, in her zone about three pages into what was looking to be a wonderful wizarding novel when she was approached again by Fleur.
"How do you do, Hermione?" Fleur started with a good attempt at pronounced H's.
"How did you get my name?" Hermione asked immediately. So she wasn't planning on being hospitable any longer, but it would eat at Hermione if she didn't find out.
Fleur laughed. It was a bad reminder of how easily Fleur found Hogwarts, Hermione's home, laughable. Something along the lines of boring, stuffy, incomparable to her wonderful Beauxbaton. Pride in her school was one thing, but haughtiness... Hermione would not stand for it.
"It was written on your charms essay that day in the Great Hall," Fleur explained, "I could not help a peak. You had extroirdinary insight."
Hermione felt herself heat up at the compliment. That was certainly unexpected.
"Er... Thank you," she sputtered. She would have to stop that. Extroirdinary insight? How could she get that from a glance? Oh nevermind. "What is it you want?"
Fleur took the seat across from her.
"You are not for pleasantries, are you, Hermione?" she grinned, but it was anything but subtle. It was far more forward. "Such a shame. Can we not have small talk?"
It was sort of rude, Hermione thought. They were in a library. She pointed this out, as if Fleur didn't realize it.
"Hm, then perhaps somewhere else?" Fleur hummed, leaning forward on her arms. Hermione was so confused. She couldn't figure - admit - why.
"Perhaps another time," Hermione sidestepped the offer and began packing up, regardless that she'd just sat down what felt like a minute ago. "I must be going. It's almost curfew."
"May I walk you to your dormitory?" Fleur requested, rising from her seat as Hermione did her own. "Or wherever it is they have you students hold up?"
This was another reminder of Fleur's attitude toward Hogwarts.
"No," she answered. She could have elaborated, but she felt no inclination to explain herself. "Good bye."
Fleur did not try to follow, and Hermione thought that was that. She didn't expect another attempt.
Or another attempt. Or another attempt. Or another attempt. And one last try. Elegant, a thing for flare, and persistent... all things Hermione would take as synonymous to Fleur Isabelle Delacour and the French in general.
"Please?" Fleur smiled hopefully. She found that she had more pull with Hermione when she spoke in English. It was almost as if the girl found her native language offensive. It led Fleur to look more into studying the finer points and nuances of English. Those were horrible nights of confusing studying, but if it got her in the end, it would all be worth it. Her accent grew less blunt. She had a solid grasp on most of the unusual sounds. She could now properly say, Hermione if she tried, but she liked to think her lilt made her a little more exotic.
Beauxbatons knew they had to only speak a line of French to impress a majority of the British students. Fleur, particularly, had a knack for getting people's attention. She was, after all, a Delacour.
Hermione seemed to be immune to this. It made her all the more attractive to Fleur. She probably wouldn't have made much of the girl if she'd not been so abrupt to push her away.
But now she wanted Hermione, decidedly.
She was shot down once more.
She may have been the foreigner, but it was Hermione who needed to stretch her vocabulary a little more. Fleur was tired of hearing just a no. When she asked to do something with her? No. When she asked why not? No. When she asked maybe for another time like Hermione had once promised?
No.
Fleur could only take so much.
" - Will you go to ze ball wiz me?"
Fleur's accent had slipped into her voice again, but the frustration in her desperation was becoming too much to keep in.
Hermione was stunned.
She was not just asked to the Yule Ball by Fleur Delacour. No.
She absolutely was not. No.
Actually, she was, but it was rather unbelievable. Not just the situation, but also the nerve of her.
"And why would I even consider going to the ball with you?" Hermione demanded indignantly, ignorant to the fact they were standing in an unsecluded corridor. Ignorant or uncaring, which was more what she took for Fleur's style.
Fleur chortled icily with a roll of her eyes, "Why wouldn't you go to the ball with me? I am 'ighly desirable! You are ze only one in zis entire school 'oo cannot see zat!"
Lividity coursed through her furiously. All this time, she tried to get Fleur to leave her alone and avoid starting something, but now...
"Well it will be easy for you, then, huh? Go find someone - anyone - else in this castle! I don't care who takes you to the stupid ball, but I certainly will not!" her eyes were stinging bad so she knew she was on the verge of crying. The only one in the entire school who can't see how desireable Fleur is? Oh gosh, thank you for pointing out how lucky she is! The only one in the entire school that asked her to the freaking Yule Ball... Fleur oh-so-full-of-herself Delacour.
"You couldn't just let me be, could you? You couldn't stand the fact that I can see right through your facade, you insolent, arrogant, conceited, little... trollop!"
She had no idea where the words were spilling from, but they were laced with all the angry frustration built up since that sickening moment she realized Fleur was just a fake.
Hermione hated to admit it, but she would now. She thought Fleur was pretty... and attractive... Hell, she was outright sexy! But Hermione didn't care how good she looked, or how sultry she sounded, or whatever it was she did for Hermione if she was just going to be some snotty, privileged, bitch that constantly looked down upon everyone around her. Hermione wouldn't have that. If she were patient enough, she might've appealed to Fleur about this, but as it stood, she couldn't stand to be in her presence another minute. She left.
" 'ermione!"
She didn't turn back, refusing give Fleur that satisfaction.
Hermione did not expect to be followed.
Fleur did not anticipate a chase.
When Hermione stopped trying to escape Fleur, she couldn't hold back from sobbing either, which felt pathetic to her. She couldn't even figure out why she was crying exactly. Over Fleur? She didn't think Fleur was worth it, so no that wasn't it. It was probably just the feeling. The only time she's ever been asked out was in an afterthought by some snob that couldn't accept that she couldn't have her. Have her, like some sort of prize. It disgusted Hermione.
"Leave me alone," Hermione begged.
Fleur did not wish to leave her in such a state. She hesitated, but slowly advanced until she blocked Hermione from going any further, even if it seemed Hermione was finished running from her.
"Why won't you even consider me?" Fleur asked, perhaps a little petulantly, "I do not get this. Call me insolent, arrogant... whatever else it is you 'ad said..."
She really did have trouble keeping up then.
"But why not consider me? You 'ave never given me time of day enough to judge me. 'onestly! If you can see through my façade, then why is it you've never allowed me a chance?"
She stared very hard at Hermione, who was trying so hard to compose herself, blinking away tears she refused to acknowledge like how she refused to look at Fleur straight on.
"I am really not that bad..." Fleur reached out to smudge away the tear trails from Hermione's face. Such a pretty face, she must say. Even tearing, sniffling, and red-eyed... All the more precious.
Hermione's hands shot up to rip Fleur's away, but another choking sob stole her strength and she remained simply clutching Fleur's wrists weakly.
"You're t-terrible..." she began, determined to shake this demeaning front. Her sniffling didn't help. "This is all a game to you! I don't want to be one of those idiots that fall at your feet because y-you're pretty with a charming French accent. That's not... I won't. And if your only interest in me is my disinterest in you... Can't you see that won't work out?"
Reasoning, Hermione could always fall to reasoning.
"You find my accent charming?" Fleur smirked, which Hermione was confident was how she flirted. Hermione swatted her away then.
"That's what you got from that‽ Unbelievable, Fleur, you are incorrigible," her irritation swelled again at the sound of her condescending laughter.
Fleur stumbled back a step she was laughing so intensely. At herself. This was rich.
"What is so funny?" Hermione demanded.
Fleur pulled herself forward and closer than she'd ever been to Hermione since borrowing her quill that day in the Great Hall. Hermione shied away from the proximity and bumped into the wall. Fleur did not press too far, but she certainly had the girl trapped.
"It comes to my attention zat this is ze first time you 'ave ever called me by name," Fleur continued with that knowing smirk and lilting, breathy accent, "I like it... though you do not say it exactly right. That can be fixed."
Hermione thought about it, and it could be true. Where Fleur made a point of getting Hermione's name correctly - which went ignored not unnoticed - Hermione never used Fleur's much. Most of their interaction consisted of Hermione telling her no. She began reconsidering whether it was wise to jump to such a decision to block the girl out entirely.
But she still feared the worst.
"Give me a reason," Hermione offered, "I'll give you a chance, and you give me something to go on."
She fidgeted to get Fleur to back off some. She was too close for comfort.
"Fair chances on both sides," Hermione reasoned, "Show me you're not into me only because I'm not into you."
Which was a front too.
"And for goodness' sake, don't ask someone to the Yule Ball so carelessly! Really! The nerve..." she huffed.
Fleur was grinning in such a way that reminded Hermione of the time they'd met. Fleur borrowed her quill, but really it may have been her heart Fleur took in such a slight way. That was when Hermione found Fleur really charming, when she wasn't trying so garishly to be ostentatious. Not using French language to sound exotic, just letting it slip into her speech because it couldn't be helped... Not showing off to draw attention to herself, just moving naturally... Not smirking to elicit emotion, but smiling because of her own emotion.
"Non, you are right. I will put more thought into who I take to ze ball..." Fleur smirked knowing exactly who she was going ball with. Maybe she went about the asking part in the wrong way, but she was damn sure who it was she wanted to ask. Again. She'd just have to hope the answer was yes.
It would be a yes.