Ever since Maeve had arrived unexpectedly and in a wave of fear, Hermione couldn't stop watching her.
Maeve was at the Burrow with Harry and Ron and Hermione for safekeeping, and was now the Orders new Brewer, though Hermione suspected it was mostly Professor McGonagall's clever on-the-spot excuse to keep her around and out of harm's way.
In the morning by the time Hermione finally peeled herself out of bed, Maeve had already gone running in the early quiet morning, bathed for the day, gotten herself suitably clothed in some pretty dress she'd magicked together out of fabrics she paid whoever was going to Diagon Alley to pick up, her hair dried into perfect waves tumbling down her back, and was chatting with Mrs. Weasley over coffee or tea as the older woman prepared the days breakfast.
Hermione would walk down the stairs and sit across from her in her pajamas, feeling utterly inadequate at the older girl's obvious adult-like inner schedule, and the way she was so put together. Whether or not there was a conversation going, she always had a thick tome at hand with some random thin article stuffed between the pages to mark her place, and would return to it after a suitably long enough lack of anyone speaking directly to her. The most current of the thick books was apparently about medicinal herbs, the last had been on the usefulness of having the offending object which caused a poisoning on hand to determine what antidote to make, and how to use the blood or other fluids of a person to create it in a pinch.
"Don't you know most of this already?" she'd asked thoughtlessly once.
"Yes, I suppose I do, but it's never a bad time to brush up on things you're not allowed to forget. Of course, I have these books at my disposal during most instances I'd need the information in them, but I can't always look it up you know," Maeve smiled good-naturedly at Hermione's embarrassment at having asked such an obvious question.
During the morning, assuming she wasn't needed to make any sort of potion, she would do things around the house to help Mrs. Weasley, especially with the upcoming nuptials of Bill and Fleur. Once, Hermione had observed Fleur and Maeve sitting alone for the first time in the kitchen, the dark haired and eyed girl in stark contrast to Fleur's fair Veela-like features.
Maeve had asked timidly "Parlez-vous français?" and Fleurs face lit up in recognition of her mother-tongue, which then prompted them to begin speaking more speedily in French than Hermione's elementary level could keep up with.
At lunch, she would sometimes take a sandwich outside to eat alone in the garden with her book, but every once in a while Mrs. Weasley would weasel her into staying with everyone else. Hermione tried not to bother her too much by venturing out to eat with her, thinking the older girl would want to be alone anyhow.
Then at Dinner, she would sometimes wash the dishes with whoever would help, meticulously cleansing every dish by hand and with wand to ensure they all looked nearly new by the time she'd finished scrubbing them.
She didn't speak all that often, Hermione had surmised, but when she did it was often in length and left little room for argument. Hermione often asked her questions, to which she would reply in kind, and make it obvious when the younger girl had exhausted her or simply broached a subject she herself hadn't yet questioned enough to research. Once, Hermione had forgotten herself and asked somewhat briefly about Maeve's Uncle, but a closed expression would cross her face, however smilingly she would tell stories of her adopted parents.
Harry avoided her like the plague, though not to the girl's obvious disappointment - "If he's not going to put any effort into getting over himself, then I won't stop him." - but at least Ronald would smile at her as they passed and acted with civility, though Hermione suspected that was simply because Mrs. Weasley was often within earshot. Remus was cordial enough, as they had apparently known each other before her arrival, and would sometimes find himself cornered in a quiet conversation about Tonks- who also acted cordially to her by extension. Bill had seemingly decided that since Fleur liked her so much, he could live with it, as did Fred, George, and the visiting Charlie. Maeve would sometimes find herself in an interrogation by Mr. Weasley when he was home about Muggle items or services, which Hermione aided in.
No one had dared truly provoke her ire so far, especially Hermione, but one evening Harry had been in a particularly foul and dark mood that not even Ginny could assuage. It had happened just after Mrs. Weasley had asked about a potion Maeve had been asked to make for one of the order members who was in hiding. Harry had finally gotten to the edge of his own ire, and had raged "Why don't you just leave?" silencing the whole table.
Maeve had worn a familiar expression of suppressed rage for a split second before it was overcome by a sudden aging tiredness that split her generally youthful and neutral presence at the seams.
"And be deprived of your engaging company?" the sarcasm was a haunting reminder of her association with the murderer. Even the raised eyebrows were painfully familiar.
"Seeing as you so obviously know all about how these things work, then enlighten us all on how I can simply cajole out of the bounds of this property's wards off into the sunset without a single worry? Let's see here," she held up both hands, counting off things on her fingers. "Most people can go to their parent's for help, but mine have been dead for about two years so that's out," Harry winced.
"I can't very well go to my bloody bastard of an Uncle and live my short and pained life out in servitude to a dogma I can't stand to be around," another wince. "And, ooh, I can't go to any one of my friends' houses and stay or they'd be murdered in front of me, hides stripped and crucio'ed to death like my cat," everyone winced at that one. "So here I am. You can either go on being a completely obtuse little shit, or you can get over it and move on. Yeah?" she then excused herself, and had apparently found her way to the roof of the precariously constructed house, where Hermione had found her crying.
Other than that instance, she was generally her own person in contrast to her Uncle. She was mild mannered, gentle, and patient, traits Snape had obviously never possessed in his life save possibly with his crafts, and held the ability to sustain polite and sometimes lengthy conversation with anyone in the house who'd attempt it, though she rarely began any.
Hermione thought Maeve put Fleur to shame. Her dusky black eyelashes naturally long and thick, giving her the appearance of having on eye-makeup but actually not. Her black eyes were wide and expressive, making up for their lack of color like Harry's vivid green or Ron's light blue. She had a slim figure, accentuated by her physical fitness from running nearly every day, yet filled out by womanhood with roundness and gentle curves. Her nose wasn't anything like Snape's had been, but a fitting, smaller sort that fit her face properly. Her lips were perpetually rosy, though not a lipstick red, and her teeth (to the eyes of a Dentist's daughter) were dazzling when she smiled. Her neck was graceful, her skin a normal healthy shade, however slightly paler than most, chest of an average size, legs long and slender in the flattering dresses she made with the effortlessness of a few wordless flicks of her wand. Beautiful, graceful, the picture of what Hermione thought as a real woman.
She could also play the piano.
On one of the rare occasions any of the teenagers from the Weasley Residence had been allowed to go to Grimmauld Place to have a change of scenery for once, Hermione had accompanied Maeve to the sitting room with the upright grand piano, thinking she'd gone looking for the library. When a few spells were cast, the piano looked good as new, keys restored to a youthful luster, and apparently perfectly tuned.
She sat down, staring at the keys for a moment, her fingers poised just above the surface in an almost palpable nervousness. Then, with grace borne of practice she began what Hermione vaguely remembered as Chopin's "Raindrop" Prelude. Its soft pensive notes reminded her of its namesake, even in the darker portion of it, which reminded her of a more introspective sadness sometimes one could get caught up in while thinking. A few of the Order Members were standing in the doorway watching with mild interest and listening to the soft music began to climax into the harsher notes, plateau, and descend back into a sadder version of it's original. She seemed to cut it short in favor of transitioning smoothly into Arabesque No. 1 by Debussy, a more familiar piece to Hermione's ears.
After it seemed Maeve was done playing, and so soon, Hermione inquired after where she'd learned it.
"My mum taught me from when I was very little, she used to always let me sit in her lap and watch her play the notes, and I'd repeat the pattern. I can't hardly read all those little lines and dots that make up sheet music, it's just easier to do it by ear sometimes."
Later that same afternoon, Hermione was sitting with her stargazing on a bench out in the garden long after Ginny had gone off to have some alone time with Harry, and Ronald had slunk off to bed in a tired stupor after having played Quidditch all day.
"The stars are beautiful at night, aren't they?" Hermione had whispered, looking up at the swirling masses of lights dotting the sky.
"Hmm…" Maeve hummed in agreement.
Their hands were close enough on the bench for Hermione to feel the slight warmth coming from the other girls' person. Observing her own reactions over the past few weeks, Hermione realized why she'd been watching, why she'd been following, and quite nearly obsessing over this nineteen year old witch. She had a crush.
Should she say anything? Was there grounds for it? Did she even like women? Was Hermione just infatuated?
This was, after all, a war, and if she didn't act now, she thought with melancholy, she may never get to.
Maeve seemed to be deep in thought, and Hermione took her chance, lightly taking her loose hand into her own two, examining it with her fingertips. She still seemed not to notice as Hermione gazed deftly into the perfect reflection of the night sky in her black eyes. Her fingers traced lightly around the fingertips, grooves, fledgling potion-stirring callouses, and knuckles, finally feeling of the soft flesh between the digits with slow deliberate sweeps of her index finger. She felt the stiffening of the muscles in Maeve's arm, and then the intense stare on her face as the older girl shuddered from the contact.
"What are you doing?" she whispered, her voice a full octave lower than its usual alto cadence, almost bordering on tenor.
"You have lovely hands," Hermione whispered back somewhat shyly, and it was true. Fine boned and neatly manicured, they were well taken care of.
"That doesn't quite answer my question."
Were Hermione's face totally visible in the dark of the near-midnight, she'd be red as a beet.
"I really like you." There, she'd said it. She didn't even know if Maeve was interested in her, let alone women in general. Hermione wasn't usually interested in anyone these days, but she made exceptions in exceptional cases.
"Hermione," came the reply. She looked up and met almost sad eyes, the stars still reflected in their obsidian depths.
"Hermione you must understand. I've heard of Harry's plot to run off," her hammering heart dropped in her chest, "and I know you well enough to know you're too loyal a friend to let him run off. Ron, I know, is going as well. They'll need you," an almost panic gripped Hermione's heart, and she turned to flee, but quick reflexes and better strength found her back on the bench, now closer to the object of her affections than she had ever been before.
Unbidden, tears sprung to Hermione's eyes to be wiped away by gentle thumbs.
"Hermione," the tone was a gentle warning. "I'm not saying no. Not forever. But I won't be able to bear it if I allow myself to get in too deep only to have you run to the hills with your friends off on a perilous journey I know nothing about, where you could be killed without ever being found and there I'd sit waiting for the rest of my-" Hermione cut her off with a chaste kiss, lingering slightly.
Maeve was startled at first, but then kissed her back almost timidly, as if waiting for reply, which was gladly supplied, tentatively and with much care not to break the spell. Fingers tangled languidly in long curly tresses with surprising ease, and creeping hands made it further around hilly, lean backs, before parting in silence.
"I'll wait. I'm not happy about it, but I'll wait," Hermione whispered before quickly sprinting off to the safety of the house, where she could sulk alone.
Maeve sighed, curling in on herself on the bench, drawing her knees up to sit in fetal position, ignoring her tingly lips and disheveled dress.
This was going to be one hell of a long war.