Have you guys seen Black Swan? If not, you really should. Great stuff! Tron Legacy? Not so much. Tron is far superior. That said, everyone should watch Fringe! Don't let the bastards even think of cancelling such a masterpiece. Mwuhaha!

Advocacy aside, enjoy this chapter! :D


Charmed

Chapter 7

Hermione had left before the first light of dawn. Fleur had insisted that she walk Hermione home, to which the younger woman had declined.

"It's late," Hermione had said. "You need to sleep."

Any retaliation Fleur had managed thereafter had been sealed with a kiss.

The kiss had been only for a short moment. It involved no tongue and no random groping by other limbs. It was a simple contact of one pair of lips to the other, but Fleur knew a great kisser when she kissed one. It had felt strange and amazing to receive, especially since it had come from Hermione. It declared a welcomed lack of innocence and a skillfulness she had not previously attributed to Hermione. It was as if Hermione had wanted to state "I'm not a child."

And a child Hermione wasn't. She had indeed grown and was no longer the same child Fleur had fallen in love with so many years ago. The change had made Fleur love her all the more.

"Are you sure you do not want to spend the night?" Fleur had remembered saying that, dazed as she had been. They had both parted from the kiss and continued in a close embrace. Their foreheads had touched so closely, it was possible to theorize that the world's first mind link had occurred then.

"One step at a time, Mademoiselle Delacour." Hermione managed a small laugh. "Not that I don't want to. You can check if you want to."

Fleur had caught of Hermione's left hand before the younger woman could present her thoughts. "I believe you. And it is not like you can resist my charms, hm?"

Fleur was alone now, hovering over the same parchment she planned to send to Gabrielle. She was not sure how to finish the rest of her letter. So many things had happened in only a single night Fleur was not sure if the parchment would have enough room.

Now that Fleur was no longer feeling borderline suicidal, she did not see the need to go to work. Alas, an obligation was an obligation, especially when she had owled in that she was coming. She blamed the lack of foresight on her part, still knowing all the while that a sudden bout of romance was not something one could really plan for.

Or is it?

Fleur smelled conspiracy. The presence of Hermione on the street that night had been a welcomed anomaly, one that is likely catalyzed by Harry and Ginny. It seemed too convenient, too well-timed. And after considering that Hermione was not athletic, even by wizarding standards, it seemed even less likely for her to be taking a nightly stroll.

It frustrated her that she had not thought of the possibility before, but her mind tended to work differently when Hermione was around.

But even if it was a grand conspiracy of some twisted kind, Fleur felt uncompelled to pursue the answers. To know that Hermione felt something even remotely similar to affection for her… It was as if her life before had just been a long-winded prelude.

It was morning. She wasn't obligated to clock in at a specific time, though the general rule dictated something along the line of "as soon as possible".

Donning her work robe, she resolved to make the best out of it. She was glad that the beers were no longer affecting her, or else the morning light would have killed her retinas the moment she Apparated to the snowy-white front of Gringotts Wizarding Bank.

Fleur was greeted by the usual scene of rows of goblins calibrating the scales on their raised workstation. She walked past them to the last goblin of the row, whose quill immediately paused at the sight of Fleur.

"Mobok. I am working today, as you have probably noted from my letter last night."

"If by 'last night' you mean just before the crack of dawn, Miss Delacour," said the goblin sardonically. His sharp, white teeth appeared in midst of the wrinkles. Mobok was considerably younger than most of the goblins staffed in this branch of Gringotts. His voice also had the tendency to squeak whenever he felt the need to be humorous. But the wrinkles seemed to be there no matter the age of the goblin in question. It must be a goblin thing. "Yes."

"Any new assignments?"

"Yes. One just came in today, in fact. But here is not the proper place for discussion. Come."

The goblin hopped from his chair and led Fleur to the staff only section of the bank.

"I don't know how much you make reading the Daily Prophets to be a habit of yours, Miss Delacour. Considering the fact that you're French, I don't think it's very likely." Fleur glared at the goblin's receding hairline. "Umbro Horliner died last night. As you know, he's one of our best private contractors."

And the best he was. Of all the securities measures for Gringotts, Umbro Horliner's works were the most elaborate. His Geminio was the longest-lasting, his Flagrante the most powerful.

"Considering that he just suddenly decided to take a dirt nap on us, replacements must be made. The usual, as you know. And so I extend the offer to you, Miss Delacour."

Fleur froze. Sure enough, she had secured a steady reputation gain for herself. But to take on this job meant something else entirely. The countless hours, the schedule, the potential grievous bodily harm. It filed under a higher hierarchy in her line of work, which was dangerous enough to begin with. All the curses and dragons and flames… It was the kind of career that, while lucrative, had people exiting more often than entering, often in a receptacle akin to an urn.

Yet it was the kind of contract that ensured that she would never be out of work ever again. If she lived through it, that is.

The goblin drummed his fingers against the table. Every inch of his body dripped the most concentrated kind of loathing. It was a common sight, considering how much goblins hated to part with their own gold, to admit to their inability to conjure elaborate, creative, and often downright insane security measures. The fact that she was a quarter-veela had not helped much when it came to dealing with goblins. She looked too human for them to feel like they should go easy on her. Her vela charms were too weak to affect a suspecting goblin. And Mobok had the kind of high-strung paranoia that surpassed the usual contemptuous type.

But a job was a job. And what a job this was.

"I did not see this coming," said Fleur, still gaping.

"I didn't want to talk about this over the owls," grunted Mobok. "Too much detail is involved. Instead, let us go to the vaults in question."

"Wait. I would need more time to decide."

Mobok rolled his eyes. He saw this coming, no doubt, but was annoyed nonetheless. "Understandably. A week, perhaps?"

"A week."

"To the vaults, then."


Sunday. A citizen's weekend was a bureaucrat's free time. Hermione Granger had spent what was left of her weekend so far thankful that she had not done something she regretted under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol. But what were copious amounts of alcohol to a young Englishwoman if not typical.

Not typical enough, thought Hermione. Drinking alone and social drinking were completely different. On her own, she would have downed a couple of pints and spring right back in the morning. The whole process does not happen whenever she drank amongst friends, where the "No" in "No more" was often omitted and if she still acted prudish, she obviously was not drinking enough. But judging from the lack of hangovers, Harry and Ginny undoubted held back last night. Due to Fleur, no doubt, though the reason to why eluded her.

Hermione crawled from her bed and to the bathroom. Then she walked out of the living room, where her previous night's attire had created a snaking trail leading from her bed to the front door.

Then it occurred to her why she was feeling so cold and glanced down to confirm. Ashamed for no one's sake except for her own, she brought a hand to her forehead.

I really have been single too long, haven't I? And in this weather. Ugh.

She quickly showered and got dressed, with hope to shake away the groggy feeling before she would have to stick to her rule: No Apparition when you're proper drunk or feeling proper shit.

Hilariously enough, the feeling persisted and no amount of swearing made it go away.

On her way out, Hermione heard a faint series of baritone chimes from a church bell. She wasn't able to place the exact direction or proximity, just "Pretty far". The bells were so distant to her ears, she wondered if they were even there to begin with.

Hermione was unable to remember the last time she had ever ventured a single step into a church. Her parents were not much of the church-going sort, which was great since otherwise the notion of Hermione attending a wizarding school would never sit right with them, let alone happen.

On her way to Diagon Alley, Hermione came across a simple glass-fronted flower shop. She paused in front of the bucketed flowers that lined the front. The florist was nowhere to be seen.

Fingering a stalk of lavender, Hermione imagined the purple of the flower against the older woman's silvery-blonde locks.

A passing thought came to her. …What kind of flower does she like? Doesn't seem like she's allergic. I'll have to ask.

Then she wondered what flower Ron liked, only to remember that she never knew. Not that he would have ever owned up to it. He always liked for people to think that he was macho and capable. It annoyed her how hard he tried.

She left the lavender in the large tin bucket and made a turn for the Charing Cross Road. Soon enough, she was right in front of the fashionably run-down Leaky Cauldron.

The interior was eternally grubby, as if the look was consistently maintained and tailored to the occupants. Puffs of smoke emitted from a dark corner. A faint murmur of conversation drifted from the less shaded of occupants. Eyes were cast towards Hermione and soon left her once they have determined she was not a Muggle.

Oddly enough, Hannah Abbott was nowhere to be seen. Hermione was hoping to have a little chat with the woman, perhaps give her praise for how well she had been maintaining the place ever since Tom retired. But since the landlady was gone and the guests were left to their own devices, Hermione continued on to the back.

Wand drawn, she tapped the bricks of the back wall in a counter-clockwise motion. The bricks yawned and gaped into a passageway soon enough.

Diagon Alley was as lively as its pre-War days. Robed men and women shuffled about, enthralled by various assortments of magical doodads. Children too young for Hogwarts glued themselves to the shops of their choices, ignoring dubious sales pitches from various street peddlers.

But Hermione's destination for the time being was no shop. Without any delay, she entered Gringotts.

Fleur was discussing the final details with Mobok in the main hall when Hermione entered. Chatter from various patrons erupted around her.

"It's Hermione Granger."

"Harry Potter's friend, isn't she?"

"Where's Harry Potter then?"

Fleur felt irate. All the talk about how Hermione was a friend of The Chosen One and the like got on Fleur's case in a nasty way. 'They're not even looking at her,' she thought angrily. She liked Harry just fine, but it wasn't Harry that she was crushing on, was it?

Trains and trains of French obscenities circled her mind. Before she could stop them, Hermione was already in front of her. The younger woman was clad in Muggle clothes of fitted jeans and a black wool twill coat. She hesitated in front of Fleur for a moment.

And then the bomb dropped.

"H – H – Hi. Are you working?"

Fleur flinched instantly. Why are you being so meek? And the fidgeting. Too cute. TOO CUTE.

Fleur turned to Mobok and excused herself before making a hasty retreat. She took hold of Hermione's elbow and began leading her towards a doorway.

"This way."

"Where are we going?"

The room was empty and, since it was situated underground, severely lacking in windows. One of the walls was lined with lower-than-average counters. It occurred to Hermione that it was some sort of a break room for the Gringrotts staff.

As soon as the door had closed behind them, Fleur pulled Hermione into the crook of her body.

Hermione wiggled out of Fleur's embrace hurriedly. "Are you mental? What if someone walks in?"

"Feign nonchalance?" suggested Fleur. "I have locked the door, so do not worry."

"…You ARE mental. I can't bloody believe this."

"Would you rather I do this in your workplace?"

Hermione grimaced. In the Ministry of Magic, the bureaucracy galore? "Most. Definitely. NOT."

"I am just happy to see you. Is that wrong?"

"No. Here is just a shitty time and place to be snogging."

Fleur seemed confused. "Who says we are? …Does this mean that you want to?"

Hermione reddened into a dangerous shade. "I – I – Oh, just shut it."

Fleur leaned in whimsically, still gauging the safe distance to which she could prod Hermione and not be hexed. "Can I still hug you?"

Hermione buried her face into the older woman's work robe like a tired and tamed animal. "…Fine."

And so they remained latched together for a moment, perfectly content.

Fleur decided it was a good time to break the news as any. "I got a new offer. For my work."

"Then why are you being so odd?"

"It is too sudden. Great opportunity, but the hours… I am not sure if I should take it."

Hermione gulped. It felt wrong to see Fleur so nervous, so vulnerable. She felt the quarter-veela's heartbeat quicken abruptly. Fleur kept going still, albeit nervously. "We… We barely just started. I would like to have the free time to spend with you as much as possible."

Hermione glared. "That's not how it works, is it? You still need to work. And it's a great chance! …And it's not like I'm going anywhere. I'll come by often, if you want."

As Hermione continued to glare menacingly, Fleur blinked blankly. Was that an offer? It sounded like an offer.

"And it's not just because I like you or anything, all right?" Hermione straightened herself. "It's a big job and you need to focus as much as possible."

"…Thank you." Fleur held Hermione tight. Such an open support felt alien to her. It was not something Bill had given her, especially after marriage. He had always insisted on her settling down in some demented "War veteran" to "Housewife" fashion. The idea never sat right with her. She had tried to adjust herself to the role before and found that, while she was not terrible at the typical array of wizarding household chores, the notion of being house-ridden had bugged her terribly.

"It is barely a day and it seems like you are the best thing to ever happen to me."

"It's called the honeymoon period." Hermione huffed, unsure of what to do with the older woman's praise. "Anything you look at right now might as well be shooting rainbows out of its arse."

Fleur laughed. "I will take it anyway. Would you like to come over tonight? Just the two of us."

"What about dinner?"

"I cannot cook much. And if you don't feel like cooking, I am willing to give Chinese takeouts a try."

"An adventurous Frenchwoman. I like. Whatever happened to the whole 'No place like home' thing?"

Fleur grimaced for a moment. She then plastered on a smile, for Hermione's sake. "Life is too short. If there ever is another war, I don't want to die living such a… limited life."

Hermione pressed further into Fleur's body, searching for the warmth she had come to know during the worse period of their lives. They were the lucky ones, to go head-on against the Death Eaters and live. But they had paid a hefty sum for their survival and never remained quite the same as they were.

"It won't happen again," said Hermione, hopeful. "We took care of that."


Poole was good at keeping his mouth shut. It was an occupational habit he had unwittingly picked up so many years as a tavern master. Like a taxi driver's tendency to turn to the side while speaking, it was a hard habit to overcome.

And secrets often needed an outlet. No exceptions.

Like all happily married men, Poole's outlet was his wife. Whatever conspiracy to murder or anything like it that Poole had overheard, his wife was the first to know.

It was comparable to pouring water onto the ground, really. Not only was the water not retained, it spread itself thin and went everywhere.

The populace had Rita Skeeter to thank for that.

See, Rita Skeeter had been listening in. She had been doing so for quite some time.

Poole's wife, Magmilla, was not a woman who shared Poole's occupation. Being a florist specializing in mildly carnivorous plants, she was quite adept at small talk. It was the kind of small talk that gets people engaged enough to not notice the plants nibbling at the end of their robes. It was the kind of talk that bordered on gossip, with the intention to cause harm the only thing that was missing. It was the kind of talk that Rita Skeeter fed on. As for the intention to cause harm, she had plenty of that to fill the gap.

Needless to say, anything Poole shared with his wife had the tendency to spill onto the general public. This was all thanks to Skeeter, who had been using Magmilla as a source for quite some time. Of course, she was never in the shop in her human form. People tend to be tight-lipped around her. Things they read on the Daily Prophet were enjoyable only when it was scandalous and it wasn't about them. Skeeter can be found as an inconspicuous little beetle high on the ceiling, safely out of reach.

But Rita shifted from the high beam and made for the topmost window. Work was done for the day. Anything she was up to after that was for the sake of seething, overdue revenge.

While she set off to orchestrate her grandest work in history, the animangus felt that it was going to be a good day.


And so the plot thickens. Dun dun DUNNNNN.