- I don't have a concrete plan for this, like, at all.

Chapter 2 - I Remember How Cloth Hung

There was an argument. Or at least what sounded like one.

Hermione sighed and continued down the stairs. Slowly taking each step, she tried to recount her day so far. She doesn't remember getting here, at all. Vaguely, she remembers Dobby's funeral, an arm wrapped around her while she tried to stand, and the sand between her toes.

She remembers the feeling of helplessness as someone frantically worked above her, muttering incantations that Hermione recognized as healing spells.

The voices became more apparent as she neared the kitchen. Hermione stilled in the hallway, trying to discern what was being said. (A voice in the back of her head said that eavesdropping was childish, but she really wasn't inclined on giving a fuck right now.) She took a step nearer to the kitchen and heard Harry's voice.

"We can't stay here! There's… The—"

Harry was interrupted by Fleur. "J'en ai rien à foutre! Hermione is hurt, and you are safe here!" Fleur huffed before her voice grew softer. "Just… tell us what's going on, Harry."

Hermione needlessly observed that Fleur's accent was faint now. She shook her head, that wasn't really important at the moment.

She heard Harry scoff, but before anything could escalate she heard Bill step in. "Save it. Hermione will be down soon, I'm sure she doesn't want to hear you two argue." Hermione furrowed her brows and bit her lip. That's exactly what she was doing. Should she just walk in and pretend she had heard nothing? She should wait for the natural lull in the conversation, right? Shit, was that now?

As Hermione shifted her weight, the floorboards underneath her creaked and she could feel the heat rush up to her face at being caught. Heads snapped up in her direction. She stepped fully into the kitchen while nervously looking around the room.

"Uh-um, hi." Super articulate. Hermione crossed her arms in her wool sweater (Fleur's) and rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet.

No one said anything. She took a deep breath in. Was she supposed to say something?

Hermione's eyes landed on the pot of pasta Ron had been hovering over. After clearing her throat, she asked, "Spaghetti?"

Thankfully, Ron came barreling across the kitchen, almost knocking over Dean in the process, and hugged her tightly.

She buried her face in his chest, trying not to laugh hysterically because Ron was definitely wearing one of Bill's shirts that said, 'Cannabis Soup', instead of 'Campbell's Soup'. She chuckled and pulled back to say, "Nice shirt."

Ron looked down and frowned in confusion. "Bill won't tell me what it means," he whispered conspiratorially. She was about to joke back 'Maybe that's for the best', when Harry stepped in and hugged her.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into her ear. She knew what Harry was apologizing for. She huffed in exasperation and squeezed his shoulders. "Well I'm not." They drew back and Harry dipped his head down, smiling lightly.

Dinner was… Interesting.

Luna, sitting sitting next to Dean, tilted her head to the side, as if examining Hermione from afar. "I'm glad to see you well, Hermione. You seem to be wrackspurt free," she said with a smile.

"Oh, um, thank you, Luna," Hermione replied, while twirling her fork into her pasta. Wrackspurts were bad right?

Bill, who sat next to Hermione, had adorned his face with a shit-eating grin throughout most of the meal. Hermione looked to Fleur to see if she noticed that her husband was batshit insane.

Fleur was seated opposite to her, and Hermione was about to call her name to get her attention, to thank her for all she had done of course, when she noticed Fleur was trying to look anywhere but in her direction. Instead she was fidgeting with the tablecloth, and looking annoyed at the cutlery.

Hermione, now confused, looked back to Bill, who was busy rolling his eyes and chuckling. What? Did she miss something? She looked around the table, and no one else seemed to notice the silent play that was happening before them. Hermione let out a deep breath and jumped back into the small talk the table had eased into.

Not five minutes in, Ron, with his mouth full of spaghetti, slapped Dean on the back and exclaimed, "Well done mate!" It sounded like a garbled mess.

Dean, however, was now choking on his meal (Which Hermione can safely assume Dean himself had prepared) whilst Ron looked on concerned. Ron's eyes grew wide and slapped Dean harder on the back to cease his choking. The whole table now turned to watch the debacle play out. Luna said something about the Nargles messing with the food.

Hermione spoke up, now concerned that Dean was going to die at the hands of… spaghetti and Ron.

"Ronald, stop slapping him, I don't think—" Hermione was cut off by a short incantation from Fleur's mouth and a flourish of her wand.

Dean, now looking less purple, smiled (although it looked like a grimace) at Fleur. "Thanks," he said through wheezes. Fleur nodded curtly and locked her gaze on Hermione. Hermione shifted in her seat uncomfortably. Was it getting hot in here?

"I think it's best for you to get more rest, Hermione," Fleur suggested.

What? Hermione's eyebrows shot up at the recommendation (demand), and quickly shot a look at the clock in the kitchen. It was six. She returned her attention to Fleur with a mildly exasperated look, who had an eyebrow cocked at Hermione; she didn't seem to be amused by the resistance. The dinner table grew impossibly more silent.

Hermione was about to give a retort, when Bill interrupted with a nervous chuckle. "That sounds like a good idea," he turned to look at her, "Doesn't it Hermione?"

Um, no. It didn't. But Bill was giving her a pleading look. She briefly wondered if he inherited puppy dog eyes from his attack.

Hermione blinked a few times, her eyes shifted to the boys'. Was this a joke? They looked even more confused than she did.

"Ok," mumbled Hermione, surprising herself. Maybe she was tired. Or maybe she simply was not in the mood to argue with someone who was generous enough to offer their home to her.

Hermione stood, awkwardly turning in the direction of her room, muttering something about not being a child, when Fleur stood as well, face neutral.

"I will accompany you," she said matter of factly, and came around the table to place her hand on Hermione's back. Hermione let out an involuntary shiver from the contact and looked back at Bill in alarm. He looked pleased with himself. The rest of the guests were openly watching the display, although Ron seemed to still be trying to inhale all the food in front of him.

"Oh, um, yeah— Ok," Hermione had spluttered out. Did she do something to offend her? Maybe Fleur was taking her out back to kill her.

Hermione shook her head slightly, now was not the time for intrusive thoughts.

When they made it to the room Hermione turned to Fleur, ready to ask what she had done wrong.

Fleur beat her to it. "I hope you like it." A smile ghosted her lips.

Hermione blinked slowly and parted her lips, "What?" She really hoped this conversation wasn't going to continue to be this uncomfortable.

"My room," Fleur supplied while stepping nearer to her. "I wanted you to be comfortable."

'When you murdered me?' She really had to stop thinking Fleur was going to kill her. She had nursed her back to health. That's like, the total opposite of murdering.

Then it hit her. She had been staying in Fleur's room. But that didn't make any sense. Harry had told her Griphook was staying in Bill and Fleur's room. Did Fleur just have an extra room? She glanced around for a moment and spotted picture frames that held people with a striking resemblance to Fleur. One frame in particular, held a girl that was making silly faces; was that Gabrielle?

Before she could ask, Fleur vaguely gestured with her hands to Hermione. "Do you need any help getting out of that?"

Hermione looked down at her sweater (Fleur's) and bit her lip. She had trouble getting into it a while ago when Bill had gave it to her. Her arms had felt like they were going to fall off.

"Uh, yes," Hermione laughed nervously, "My arms… they, uh, hurt still." She wondered if she lost her ability to talk like a normal person. Maybe she should stop speaking. Yes. Good idea.

Fleur nodded, looking concerned, and she lifted the hem of the sweater up. As she watched Hermione's face contort with pain when the sweater finally came off, she asked, "William gave you the potion, no?"

Hermione nodded, not yet ready to break her resolution of thirty seconds ago.

She looked up at Fleur, who was… staring at her? Hermione looked down at herself, clad in only a bra and sweatpants (Fleur's).

Hermione swallowed. Maybe she was right about Fleur murdering her.

Hermione looked back up at Fleur, (She hoped she didn't look like she wanted to get murdered), and Fleur broke the silence by clearing her throat.

"I should let you rest."

Hermione nodded in agreement. Though, she was totally sure she was going to pick something off Fleur's bookshelf in a few minutes.

Fleur turned for the door, and Hermione's resolution seemingly flew out the window.

"Fleur!"

Fleur turned quickly, looking mildly alarmed at Hermione's raised voice. Hermione wanted to pull out her hair; could she not say anything normally today?

"I wanted to thank you," Hermione swallowed, "For, well...everything." That was somewhat normal. Small victories, Granger.

Fleur smiled, "Of course, Hermione," and promptly left the room.

Hermione dramatically flung herself on the bed and immediately regretted it after feeling her muscles ache beneath her. She groaned. Fleur was trying to kill her.

Chapter title inspired by the music of: James Vincent McMorrow - Cavalier