"Things that are French just smell better."
It was a calm Sunday afternoon; the gang were stuck inside because of the downpour but they found ways to distract themselves. 12 Grimmauld Place had vastly improved with an intensive cleaning schedule and protection charms but it was far from a delightful home.
Hermione felt like a nap. It was peculiar and unlike her to rest during the day without previous exhaustive activity; but she felt like it. Only, the witch couldn't find a spot comfortable enough to settle down. It was infuriatingly simple and yet a defining factor.
First, Hermione tried the logical location. The bedroom she shared with her roommate and best friend; the only girl of the Weasley clan, Ginny. Said redhead was seated on her own bed in silence, with broomstick in hand. She took the afternoon to tend to her most prized possession; the first of which she purchased herself. Hermione admired the dedication but she at that time, only cared for a lie down.
Rest didn't come.
Her first thought went to the comfort position but after a shift to one side, then the other, nothing worked. Hermione was more awake than ever.
As she gave a huff, dust filled her nose. It was ghastly, thick with a strong smell of oil, likely from Ginny's kit but it clung to the inside of Hermione's sinuses and she sneezed. Her grumble caught the other witch's attention; a look of confusion covered her face.
"Ah, everything alright 'Mione?" But no reply, not even a look of recognition as the brunette got to her feet and pillow firmly in hand, stomped out the door. Ginny, left alone in the room, watched in bewilderment.
Next choice wasn't the most comfortable but it would be quiet and warm.
No one was baking, cooking or making a racket in the kitchen and Ron had proven it possible to knock out at the table multiple times at breakfast when he clearly hadn't gotten his long hours rest. Hermione figured she could too.
The pillow was a godsend; the wooden surface was sturdy, flat but the most uncomfortable thing the brunette had leaned against. How the redhead buffoon did it was a mystery.
Five minutes in a slumped position had Hermione further aggravated by her wakeful situation.
A heavy thump of a fist hit the tabletop, the brunette stood with a grunt and glared at the pillow with a scornful gaze. It wasn't the end of the world but certainly closer in the witch's opinion. Hermione stormed out of the kitchen, pillow in hand and almost bowled over a startled Ron; no doubt in search of an afternoon snack.
Mouth open and hands up, the lost young man couldn't verbalise his confusion in the few seconds of their encounter.
A further gruff sound sent Ron all but scampering into the kitchen for safety.
Harry was comfortably settled in the lounge space. Large armchair next to a small coffee table; of which sat a muggle chess set. Despite the charmed kind, the half-blood favoured practice on the base set. The pieces couldn't walk off the board while Harry pondered in deep thought.
He didn't look up at the sounds of footsteps nor the thud of a body onto the couch next to him.
It was the silence that made the green eyed young man glance over.
Head of wavy brown locks, partially scrunched body on its side and even but slow breaths sounds; Harry watched as his best friend lay there in awkward suspense.
Hermione never napped. Not before or after study sessions; exams or not, nor their death defying year of adventure either. The boy who lived knew this. Everyone did. So, the image before him was an unexpected if somewhat amusing one.
After the first groan, Harry stalled his next move. At the third, he contemplated his Queen's position with lacklustre and patiently awaited further interruption from the occupant to his right.
"Should I ask if everything is alright Hermione?" Harry glanced sideways. "Or just leave you to it?" The witch didn't acknowledge him in the slightest. Instead, Hermione tried again to get comfortable.
The space was relatively clean; certainly better than the bedrooms upstairs but the brunette's nose collected dust particles along with scent of ash, foot odour and old tapestry.
It wouldn't work.
Hermione moved like a dead weight zombie. Any logical thought was all but unravelled as she trudged onto her next location. Hopefully her last.
Even without plausible sensibility, Hermione usually found her way into a library, study or otherwise related stockroom of bookcases. The once Black home still housed a multitude of rare and long unread scriptures and thanks to the brunette's insistence, it was one of the first rooms spotlessly cleaned.
Draped across the sole couch, head elevated on the armrest, legs crossed at the ankles and short novel firmly cradled between fingertips, was Fleur Delacour. Happily oblivious in her own world.
Hermione was disgruntled; aggravated to see her girlfriend so calmly relaxed while she felt tired.
The Veela born woman didn't blink twice as the brunette approached and gently nudged her arms upwards. While her eyes never left the page, the Veela felt the neediness. Hermione practically collapsed on top of her, legs interwoven and arms somewhat curled round her middle. Without missing a beat, the blonde relaxed her arms once more as the brunette found her comfortable spot; nuzzled into a pale skinned neck and golden locks.
The couple would eventually be found that way near dinner time. The other occupants of the house popped their heads in to witness the serenity of the scene; Harry was amused while the siblings were confused.
"Well that explains it." He chuckled softly, green eyes on his knocked out friend and her content smile. "Fleur just smells better."
Midmoon Kitsune out!