a/n: The characters belong to JKR; having nothing but respect for the authoress this is my spin on the Potter-crew, presenting them with situations that teens often face this day and age. Yes, this is another f/f fiction, whether you like it or not, please let me know but if it offends you…then don't go any further. As always your comments are very welcomed.

Two.

Not more than just a few hours before…

She paced the length of the hallway just outside of the Great Hall, with seemingly no other soul in sight. Hearing her footfall come in contact with the cobble stone path, Ginny thought how lonely it sounded. How fitting then that the fair skinned Witch was here in a state of overwhelming misery.

Misery loves company…

Her insides wrestled with doing the easy and right thing or…to go on protecting Hermione from the inevitable. Ginny had all but chewed her nails to the fleshy nub wrought with worry and fear. Shifting her nervous habit, the slender witch's fingers busied themselves along the frayed edges of her School approved sweater – not that it eased the anxiety. Before long her slender digits wormed their way back to her lips. Her fear was mounting she couldn't stave that emotion off for the life of her. It was a fear of losing her; She who had become a friend and a sister.

As Ginny passed the opening to the Great Hall for the third time, she lobbed her concerned gaze into the room. Hermione was in a state of Nirvana…The Muggle was so lost in the moment, cherishing whatever time was granted with him. The Git of all Gits. Hermione had been absolutely radiant for the past year – the Muggle born likened it to being over the moon in love. Romanticism at its best, hopeless in all its glory.

Something the lightly freckled faced youth thought a little illumination was needed. The guilt was torturing her.

Ginny didn't want to be the one to do it. She couldn't watch those immaculate cocoa depths wither in front of her. The Witch's eyes shifted towards movement that stirred from the corner of her eye knowing who it was by just his earthen scent.

"It's not your place." the voice murmured.

The shadows caressed his features, like her fingers did once.

"Like bloody hell it's not," she turned about, still gnawing liberally upon her shoddy nails, "And what of you? You're the very soul that got me into this pickle, so don't you dare." The young woman never bothered to lessen the venom that licked the edges of her utterance.

As Harry pushed off from a nearby wall, while a slew of girls spilled from the main entryway en route from the courtyard. Ginny rolled her eyes as she witnessed Harry unable to help himself from putting on his boyish charm. It always appeared in the form of either a flash of a smile or his hand slipping through his roughshod hair that sent them wonky, Ginny never knew which but in her mind it was just a play of utter adolescent stupidity. As if on queue, the girls had paused affording a few hushed words, giggles and admiring looks.

"All right already! We know you're all budding little whores, …sod off," elicited a very irate young Weasley.

Harry hadn't appreciated that; he did not like being discomfited in public. But considering his one time love in this conduct, didn't sit well with him either. He glanced apologetically towards the group who were looking towards the green eyed Weasley in disbelief.

"Ginny…," urged Harry in hushed tones, "C'mon. Be nice."

Letting loose a sigh, she relented. Plastering on a debutante's dazed smile from one of those Muggle pageants, Ginny clopped her hands in marriage and offered with faux pax sincerity,

"My apologies…I'm in a delicate state at the moment…but…If you would ladies, Mr. Potter and I have a personal issue to discuss…so sod off," they gasped in unison. She paused, inwardly delighting in their reactions before adding, "Oh gods fine… Please. Sod. Off," with eyes filled with sarcastic mirth, Ginny watched the dumbfounded herd, "Is that better?"

Horrified, the girls skittered away nary sparing a look to either Ginny or Harry. Not that they'd've noticed – since they'd taken a keen interest in one another, each fitted with a look of neutral ambiguity. But she was the first to break eye contact with the Wizard; quietly the Witch wandered near the opening of the Hall.

"…I said please. You heard me," the young woman afforded not a few moments afterward; mostly in hopes to ease the phantom wall that now stood between them.

Unphased by Ginny's sudden show of wicked mockery, the stubborn Gryffindor seeker pursued the truth that was so barely hidden beneath the rouse they've cultivated. Slipping his hands into a pair of ruddy jeans, Harry steered the conversation.

"He's your brother."

"And? She's one of your oldest friends."

"Don't worry…I know where my loyalties lay."

She narrowed her eyes and turned their fury onto Harry, who stood not more than a breath away from her now.

"Then prove it!"

There was a coppery taste that leaked from the back of his throat, Harry's teeth were clenched so tight against his inner cheek that it cut the soft flesh within. The wizard was challenged. As cliché as it may be, he never backed down from a challenge.

"I already have and already AM, more times than you could possibly count! Whether you like it or not," he suddenly raged. But Ginny refused to give up any ground to him, Harry had always admired that part of the red topped woman so out of whatever respect that he still had for her, the Wizard's voice dipped a notch lower, yet coated with intensity, "I expected you of all people to appreciate the situation…It's not hurting anyone. It won't, I swear."

"Do you hear yourself? Do you honestly believe that," Ginny gawked incredulously, burying her face into the nest of her palms; a torrent of emotion just ripped from her, "How can that kind of mentality not be hurting anyone?"

"Because unless y'opened your mouth, sis we wouldn't be here having this conversation." Ron edged closer to the pair, draping his lengthy arms over both their shoulders and drawing them away from the gaping mouth of the semi emptied Great Hall. Where he knew Hermione looked on from in morbid curiosity.

" You two need to tone down –," Ron chuckled amicably, "Speaking of…I read somewhere…"

"Are you sure you're not just looking at pictures and slapping on your asinine babble?" she sniped; gone was the usual press of play of his sister's tone.

Ron pressed his chapped lips to his younger sib's temple whispering harshly, "It's that fire that burns everyone else that hurts, careful Gin." He cleared his voice and pressed on, gripping the two snugly,

"As I was saying…I read somewheres… fact t'was one of my 'Mione's scientific Muggle readers…said high decibels aren't any good for a baby….isn't that a kicker…" Ron paused in reflection, "So you two oughtn't be fighting so much, yeah?" An arm dislodged itself from about Harry's neck before it, along with Ron's hand vigorously rubbed at Ginny's concealed belly.

Harry grew frigid. Ron wouldn't dare…

Ginny's eyes had begun to mist as she looked pleadingly towards Harry.

"Ron! That's enough!," implored his best friend.

"At's right," Ron continued non-plussed, sympathetically his eyes trailed towards his sibling, "The bun didn't bake…."

Not more than a second passed before the elder Weasley felt the moisture of Ginny's saliva trailing on his cheek, he then wiped off the bodily fluid with the back of his hand. By Merlin that was a healthy hock, the twins would have been especially proud. He deserved it…

"You calloused bastard," shakily hissed Ginny.

Ron felt culpable for stooping so low.

And it wasn't blackmail, not in his book.

But it was the only way his sister would understand. Not more than a few months had passed when he and Hermione were told about his sister's circumstances. Ron remembered wanting to murder Harry for first…defiling her that way. With much canoodling from Hermione, on behalf of Ginny, Ron gradually warmed to the thought of playing uncle. No one else had known. Not even the rest of the closely-knit Weasley clan. The secret had been kept.

Harry ached to reach out to her, but reason stood in the way. She never forgave him for being so…indifferent that day she told him. In truth, Harry had been in shock and still so young he had not an iota of what to do. The hero bungled. Ron moved towards his sister, his hands gently nestled about her shoulders then drew her into a loose embrace.

Ginny's body convulsed purely on its own accord; she couldn't believe that the hurt was still raw in her. Above her pangs of deep breaths, the young Witch heard her brother speaking.

"…Not nice is it?"

She shook her head. Don't let the tears fall.

"Hurts?"

She nodded.

"…All you wanted was t'be protected, huh?"

She hic-coughed and nodded.

"And that's what you're doin', Gin. Keep that in mind."

Yes. Protecting Hermione.

"We all just wanna be happy…, and she is happy; not knowing makes her that way, don't you want the same for your brother?"

She barely nodded.

"Good…," Ron kissed the top of her head, "C'mon. Hermione's waitin' on us for dinner."

In a daze, she followed obediently. As they entered the Hall once more, Ginny quickly mopped her eyes free of the distress from earlier – hoping she succeeded. Hermione lifted her eyes from her reader and gave the lot a broad based smile.

"Finally. I thought I was going to have to brown bag the whole for myself..."

"Geez 'Mione! Don't want people thinkin' I'm dating some porker!" guffawed Ron, plopping himself unceremoniously alongside his girlfriend, already beginning to pick from her stash.

"Really Ron – being pleasantly plump only signifies one's contentment in their lives," gingerly replied Hermione, her eyes flicked towards Ginny her jovial nature eased into deep concern. Rising from her seat, the brown eyed woman cupped her friend's chin. She encouraged a gentle smile to play over her blushed colored lips as their eyes met.

"Gin…talk to me…"

It was simple as that, Hermione could always coax a heart to open and bleed to her once she sees something off beam. The athletic Weasley righted herself as she allowed a fleeting smile to form over her lips. In quiet earnest, Ginny studied the Muggle born – God she admired the woman.

She was an incredible friend. Who couldn't love Hermione Granger?

Ginny nodded somberly. Ron, who looked on, grew a deeper shade of crimson. Softly, with much gruffness to her voice she began,

"Have you ever seen Crabbe and Bulstrode try to make out…? They looked like two pigs mucking around without mud. I…my eyes couldn't take it."

It was delivered with that Weasley 'matter-of-fact'-like quip that it had to be a joke.

The Head Girl blinked as her lips and chin quivered, failing to hold back the gale of laughter that erupted from her. Ginny immediately drew Hermione in, holding her close as she afforded instances of customary chuckles to wrack her body. Ron soon relaxed.

The charade ploughed on as Ginny Weasley came to terms.

…Ignorance, is bliss.

Currently …

Most normal wizards…or witches for that matter…would have exploited the ability to Apparate at will to any given spot. It's convenient and ultimately quicker than what Fleur DeLacour had presently done. By her logic, this was far more challenging and daresay…fun.

Fleur shifted her rag-topped Cooper into fifth pushing the steadfast car within the city proper, images of buildings, landscape and people whizzed by. Speed had become a compulsion for the Frenchwoman; it pushed her motor skills to the limit. How quick could she respond, how simply would it come to her without thinking…Naturally her muscles flew in absolution, shifting one gear to the next while in tandem her feet worked in asynchronous precision. Fleur could see why Muggles had a carnal lust for such things. At times she found it more liberating than magic – the adrenaline quickening through her was a testament to that fact. But more importantly this made her forget.

London's streets though readily negotiable, were detrimentally narrow and more often than naught strewn with people constantly in a rush needing to be somewhere. Whether they wanted to be there, was a different topic altogether. Eventually reality blurred into her headspace bringing a close to her freedom for the day. Fleur navigated her vehicle into one of the many winding alleyways of Muggle London finally making it to her destination.

Having coasted the Copper to a halt, Fleur glanced towards the run-down pub. The words were barely decipherable but to the wizarding community the Leaky Caldron was the portal her world, tucked away in a little shanty part of London's east side. The Frenchwoman spilled from her vehicle as she did every workday then quietly flicked her wrist accompanied with a soft enchantment. The dependable car slowly began to fade from view.

With a sweep of her arctic gaze she made sure that no prying eyes linger; Fleur tucked into her deep azure cloak, which seemed more of a stylized poncho, then drew her lofty height towards the entryway of the pub. In little more than a blink though, the woman was engulfed in a plume of soft mauves and grays….

- - - -

"Why'd it have to be me…"

No answer was given, save for the soft echo of her despondent voice.

Grudgingly she moved through the massive labyrinth passing Olympic like torch holders set ablaze lighting her way and leading her further into the bowels of the Earth. The ground the witch was treading had always been treacherous so she knew she needed to be doubly careful – that alone was a mind-boggling chore to do.

The deeper she went, the hotter it had began to get – eventually she could not bear it and shed her cloak. Finally, the Witch arrived to the designated area. Since her eyes had already been acclimated, it wasn't difficult for her to pinion the massive void that lay just off to the side. A gaping wound in the otherwise meticulously protected realm.

Then a sudden wave of nausea rocked her senseless. She barely had time to press herself against the slick craggy walls for stability. Her eyes refocused as before her a plume of soft-gray shown. But the face was unrecognizable save for the greasy page-boy like haircut.

"Well."

"Just like he had promised it would be."

"Get on with it."

"You could say please you know," dryly commented the Witch

The image sneered dissipating with the slightest wind that rustled the plume of smoke.

"I still say we could have just asked."

Looking towards the massive emptiness, the Witch pressed tongue to cheek and deftly twirled her wand tween her fingers. As the wand nestled at the padded flesh of her thumb and forefinger, it began to pulse alive with a lavender glow.

Peripherally the Witch saw the dark stir. This is what she had been trained for…somewhat.

"Wakey wakey kids, mum's got a lovely treat for you t'day."

- - - -

A thunderous clap was heard throughout the fourth tiered office space alerting the menagerie of workers, that someone just Apparated in. It was a common occurrence in their workplace but at this time of day could only signal who it was. And she was always punctual.

"Cheek up ladies and gents…The Bird jus' landed," a slew of excitement bubbled from the cubicles about. Some accompanied by grunts of disdain.

"I just all about wet me knickers," another guiltlessly admitted while preening herself.

"Didn't know you played tonsil hockey for the other side luv."

The former chuckled, "Oh please…no, I love men and their lil dangly bits! But by Flamel…"

The office had gone still even the ever uptight goblins took this opportunity to pause in the wake the Charm-Breaker – she never spoke and never needed to have to; just a cutting icy look from her and one would beg to do her bidding. Fleur had entered pulling an errant tendril of her mane and slipped it into her haphazard bun. Casually she acknowledged her officemates - goblin and human alike - with a cant of her head soon coupled with a softly uttered, "Bonjour," then slid into her private enclave.

"…I would turncoat for just one night of that."

Day in and day out, the Frenchwoman walked into Gringotts Bank doing her job – a thankless one that she was bequeathed with when her ex-fiancee left. Bill had returned to his roots exercising his maleness in tomb raiding.

Fleur's prowess in charms and charm-breaking had grown by leaps and bounds, but there could only be so much one can do for a place that's been highly touted as The Safest Place in the Wizarding World. Except for Hogwarts.

Her office was every bit as pristine as the most flawless gem. Or close to. Contemporary in shades of White-Gold and Pewter it was plain to see how much Fleur enjoyed the finery of her creature comforts, especially that of the Muggle world. Granted you'd've still found a few floating candelabra, busying dusters and stirred coffee, she was a woman that walked the fine line of Magic and Normality, marrying both cultures easily.

Even before the door closed completely, the Veela had whisked her wand from the confines of her poncho-cloak that had pooled at her feet. Taut in her grip, Fleur had it pointed to the backrest of her office-seat which had spun about simultaneously.

"You've been busy."

Fleur arched a silvery brow, pulling her black rimmed 1960s-esque glasses from the perch of her nose and lobbing it aside. "Does it bother you?"

"Yes.", diminutively answered the intruder. "Achingly so."

"Why," The Veela enchantress lowered her wand, curious now with what the young woman was about to say.

Intrigued, Fleur watched. The younger female dipped her head slanted with shyness. Her dirty blonde hair was retro-fitted as a star from those Muggle movies of the 1930s – 1940s, flowing loose curls. Fleur decided she loved the look. In delicate fashion, the girl rose from the Veela's leather backed seat. Smartly dressed in knee high socks, the navy sweatshirt she sported was emblazoned with her house symbol – Fleur found the irony funny. Finally, she polished off her attire with a deep midnight blue pleated skirt.

Pressing her wears with the flat of her hands, the girl duly replied, "Because this," the young witch motioned around with a delicate wave of her hand, "Takes you away from me."

The Veela made her way closer, inevitably reaching her desk. Her thighs pressed against the cold steel as she leaned forth, using her hands as props while she spoke,

"And just who are you to dictate what's best for moi…?"

The girl met Fleur half way with only the desk separating them. She leaned towards her and softly said, "Someone that's loved you all her life and who has missed waking in your arms after those thunderstorms."

"Iz that all, you came here just to tell me that?"

"Isn't it enough," countered the younger.

Fleur narrowed her gaze intensely observing the youth's deep hazel eyes. There. The girl's gaze wandered left for just a split second. The elder pulled back while as the younger woman blinked the panic set in. How the hell does she do that?

Something had not been right. Something…else, thought Fleur. She realized what it was and that the young woman's visit was more than just coincidence. The Veela pivoted about all of the sudden and determinedly crosses the expanse of her lavish office, her wand nestled snugly at her hip.

"Where are you going…?"

"To work," she eyed the young woman carefully – knowing her knack of manufacturing trouble, Fleur had to be on her feet. "I'll deal with you later," the threat went unfinished. The French woman though paused at the door and glanced backward, "Ravenclaw house…?"

The youngling crossed her arms over her chest and wrinkled her nose, "It's where they sorted me."

"You'll make the boys go mad," smirked Fleur.

She laughed, "Please, my talents lay elsewhere…and besides…Not as mad when you were there."

"Ahh, zat was my evil twin."

"Then the harlot made a name for herself, non? What did you do?" mocked the young teen.

"I killed her for her treachery." Fleur winked, "Go back to school, mama will have my hide if anything happenz to you."

The transfer student watched her sister take her leave. Gabrielle she did what she needed to do and knows she'll be paying for the ramifications…later; IF Fleur could catch her. But Gabrielle came here for more than just. The fourteen year old was so tied to her sister, she could feel the elder DeLacour succumbing. Fleur hadn't looked well. Not by Veela standards – she pushed that out of her mind for now. Casting her eyes towards Fleur's fireplace Gabrielle wandered over and gave her now brandished wand, a slight flick then swish. It roared to life.

"She's coming."

"you were supposed to stall her!"

"blah blah blah, I did what I could!"

"but…?"

Gabrielle grinned Cheshire-like then shrugged, "Obviously, it didn't work."

"Watch it girly, you haven't won the bullocking bet."

She waved her off. "yet…And you had best get going ma soeur doesn't know how to play fair."

- - - -

Pulling herself from the shadows was like trying to heft oneself from a pool, with your clothes still on you. Barely even a breath was managed before Fleur found herself countering an offensive spell. She had finally broken from her dark-bindings and stumbled forth.

"Cielo lumina!"

Fleur thought she heard a woman's voice curse out loud but couldn't pinpoint the source; the intensity of her spell-casting exploded into a brilliant – blinding light, affecting all else, sans herself. The Veela had shaded her orbs from the possible backlash.

"…you fugging slag!"

Got you.

But the walls magnified echoes ten-fold throwing yet another difficulty in her attempts to contain the intrusion, but it was a human's voice; the one aiding and abetting these things and this witch was hiding. All about her, the Veela felt the onset of blackness swarming. It only alerted Fleur that there was a hole in her enchantment.

That…angered the proud French Witch. Her enchantments were nigh unbreakable. Were, at least. This meant that this was a predetermined assault.

The smattering of shadows popped up from the gaping crevice…gremlins poured in and blindsided knocking Fleur onto her back, taking the wind from her. After getting over her momentary displacement, the Veela rolled onto her side breathing in as much air as she could to feed her deprived lungs.

Fleur needed to disrupt the source. At any given time, the invading sorceress' vision would return to normal. And these creatures would have their general back. With little more than a flick of her wrist, the Veela began orchestrating her symphony. She sealed the wound caused to her enchantment locking in the remaining weevils before concentrating on the main aria.

"Vox Et Praeterea Nihil!"

Then…

There was a deafening pulse. A small, nearly indiscernible ringing in her ears erupted and was unforgivably incessant. The screeching yowls of those things became muffled despite a plethora of them spilling from the broken seal. Aside from that everything had gone deathly still – almost everything. The spell would last no more than a half hour; it took an enormous amount of concentration to uphold the enchantment. Rising to her feet, the French Witch heard a faint noise – a slew of whining complaints in the thickest English accent she's ever heard booming from her left.

Fleur whirled about just in time to witness a stumbling form from behind a quagmire of rocks. The body-shape was fit despite being slim.

Easier to break.

Her eyes came into focus, realizing too little too late that everything except her, was seemingly on mute. The punked out Witch felt her body physically slam into the wall…or ground. Nymphadora Tonks couldn't which way was up anymore. Her legs gave. But she elicited a choked gasp of surprise; she felt herself straddling someone's….thigh? Wincing, her chameleonesque eyes blinked in rapid fire succession. Tonks' head was pinned back by a forearm, while the deepest pools of ice blue angrily peered at her.

Tonks' predominant thought was that this was the most erotic positioning she'd ever been in and most importantly…the most frightening; she didn't DARE move. The friction alone caused undue tension.

Fleur pressed herself against the intruder a bit more, pinning her and sharing the same air-space. She knew this face. Bill would speak about his friends almost nightly and described their antics, their look, and their persona. The Veela flashed a snide smile, but all the while her head had been spinning from the massive spell casting and maneuvering she had just done.

"Deletrius…"

The voice was smooth as silk and coated with venom, all about scores of things were buried into the dank oblivion that shadows can only provide. Tonks managed to pry her eyes from Fleur's burrowing ones.

"Could you PLEASE tell 'er t'git off," gasped the pink haired woman.

But the Veela never relented.

"Ms DeLacour. I suggest you do as Tonks pleads for." The Frenchwoman turned her attentions towards the newest intruder. A wand of pure Onyx was pointed at the gentle slope of her neck; the French Witch could have sworn she felt the tip feather against her flesh and feel the man's presence, shudder in lustful delight.

"Please," he added as an after thought.

Sweeping her eyes from Tonks to Serevus Snape, Fleur let loose a tired breath, she pushed from her prey, eyeing Tonks as she sped off – It amused the Veela. Plumes of smoke puffed into view. More people, among was her sister…and Bill Weasley. Both affording their best 'feigning ignorance' smiles.

"If thiz was a party, why was I not invited…?", remarked Fleur.

"Oh but you were Ms DeLacour. If you hadn't noticed…You were the guest of honor," Snape had oozed.

Letting loose a breath sent a few strands of her hair, fluttering from her hooded gaze, "Why are you here."

"Because…," began the snake tongued man, "I have a proposition, that you have no true right to refuse."

Later in the week…

It was a habit that she couldn't break from, but then again Hermione had always been programmed to wake before her alarm clock had sounded. In fact for her, the latest she's ever slept in would be over the weekends…by her standards. Anything later than eight-thirty was a day wasted.

Thankfully since becoming Prefect, then Head Girl she had adopted certain privileges that came along with being titled. Of the most important had been getting her own room. But it also heralded a downside; Hermione had become isolated from her fellow Griffyndors. And now with OWLS looming in the horizon, the Muggle Born had been seen few and far between.

Pulling herself from the comforting warmth of her beddings, the Muggle trundled her way towards her vanity bureau. Or what Hermione referred to as her, truth mirror. The truth of it was, if she still felt horrible like this, she must look just as bad off if not worse. Sleep still closely clung to the Witch, so in ginger movements the Muggle Born began to work them awake. Slipping her fingers through her ecstatic morning hair, Hermione loosed a guttural groan of displeasure.

"Positively…lovely," her fingers had met with pockets of tangles, "Have to remember 'Mione m'girl, we can't us all be perfect like those bloody tele folk," she chuckled then, and pulled her fingers free convincing herself that there are no real people that flawless.

Real people have to work for it.

Sitting at her truth mirror, she dourly chuckled, "And I'm as real as they get."

Taking up a brush Hermione began to work through the mass that was her ungodly hair, her reflection loved to mock her. The eyes that looked back were darkly rimmed, indicative of all those late nights at the library, her lips were constantly chaffed – a sign of negligence to her dietary staple. And her skin…Well, God Save the Queen, her skin was the only look that she took pride in. Hermione's intellect was a given. The Head Girl was a child of the outdoors making her flesh a deep golden tinge off-setting her rather gaunt looking countenance. Her brushing slowed as a deep crinkle set between her brows.

The brightest Witch of her time sat there contemplating on whether or not to let the tears fall. In a huff she stood. In a huff she decided.

"Stupid girl. Does it matter? You're the only one making mountains out of dung hills. Ron loves you just as is."

Are you sure?

Incessant thoughts of the Great Hall incident the night before danced into her thoughts…For the first time in their relationship she began to doubt. Hermione's eyes slipped towards Crookshanks. The pig like cat lay sprawled in content upon the cool stone floor of her dormitory, quietly she knelt beckoning him with a waggle of her fingers. Lazily, he gave her a blank stare before languidly stretching and rolling over to forego her call.

Hermione shook her head, "And that…as they say, is that."

Suddenly her door had swung opened, giving wide birth to anyone on the outside, to look in. Aghast she jumped up, as her arms barely managed to fly up to protect her otherwise topless form, "RONALD! HARRY!"

"She's uh…Hermione, your…"

"Oh, crikey…"

"ti-t.-t…er…I mean…b-br..."

"…D'ja brush y'hair?"

"For crying out loud – Yes I did, is that all you noticed!"

"It's kind of 'ard not t'notice your hair, lo-."

She glared. He grinned.

"And the word's Breasts, Harry, of which I have two. Now if you PLEASE!" flushed beet, the Muggle summoned her wand to her hand and in ordered fashion swished the door shut then summoned a bedsheet to wrap about her form. The two Quidditch players winced. Ron, toying with his ear lobe took a tentative step forward.

"Normally…"

"Normally? You two are never up this early," sniped Hermione.

Ron began to turn is signature lobster color, though not because of Hermione's lack of modesty. "Get off it! I'm your boyfriend, I reserve the right t'barge in on you any time I so please."

Harry affixed his glasses securely on the bridge of his nose picked up the sudden shift. "What he means is…We thought we'd surprise you. Been sometime since we'd have breakfast together."

Hermione shifted her eyes repentantly from Ron's own, "I'm sorry…just had a rough go at it this morning."

Ron shrugged and made his way towards the muggle's yet unmade bed, lazily he flopped onto the support and yawned out, "Yah, could see that, what with all the bare backing and that HAIR. You've GOT t'get that cut up some. Straighten it…y'know, like…like…"

Hermione had quietly returned to her vanity and continued to primp herself, she glanced towards her lover from the reflection he cast in her mirror, "….Like Parvati…" she quietly murmured in askance.

Harry had diverted his gaze towards the window. Hoping to find something of interest other than his loafers.

"Mm, yeah. Sum'mat." He absently replied as he gazed towards the ceiling.

Setting her brush down Hermione nodded faintly; the Muggle wandered towards Ron, "Give me a little, I'm almost done." She leaned forward, but Ron turned his head away.

"Dragon's breath, 'Mione."

Her jaw tensed, for some reason that little rejection winded her. The muggle would not show it. "You give yourself airs, Weasley. Get off my bed," and snatched her night shirt from under the pillow Ron laid upon.

He laughed heartily, "Gods, you're more'n touchy!" The door to the restroom slammed shut. He blinked and loudly called, "Awright, we'll be out in th' courtyard." Looking towards Harry Ron shrugged continuing, "Must be that time of month."

Harry bobbed his head reluctantly, "Must be."

But then a resounding knock on Hermione's door echoed just as she eased herself from the confines of the private restroom (another privilege). Doing up her tie she looked questioningly towards Harry and Ron. "It's opened."

For a second time, the massive oaken door swung unlocked. Revealing a still PJ wearing wizard beading with sweat.

"Should've known you lot would be in 'ere as well, make's it alla more easier."

Hermione stepped forth, "Neville? What's wrong..?"

"…we 'ave a visitor."

"not uncommon Professor's do a lot of those surprise inspections," shrugged Ron.

"…It's not an inspection, a'least I don't think. "

"Then what," urged Harry.

"An' well..."

Fed up with waiting on Neville Longbottom's oft naught nonsensical babble, Hermione brushed past the boys, "Rubbish. No one can apparate in without express knowledge of where the common rooms are – nor without consent from either Head's of the house, OR the respective House Professors."

"'At's jus' it 'ermione," began a very flustered Neville. "Y'see, 'cause the fire was ragin' in the common room an' th'girl's dorm, th'only other place she found was safe an' not in use was…ours. So…she ah, said anyway."

"She?"

"So you spoke to her?"

Neville, rubbed the back of his neck, giving a half shrugged, "She, ah, did all the talking before leavin' th'room, we were a mite…well…pleasantly shocked."

"Common room," prompted Hermione.

He nodded, motioning out her door. Resuming her resolute trek with Harry and Ron in tow, the Head Girl eased her way towards the common room. Where it seemed the rest of the house had stirred awake. The was an amazing feat in itself… as it was only six-thirty in the morning.

"Please move…pardon me, Head Girl!" Ordered Hermione, just peripherally she saw the caramel skinned Patil, seated off on an ottoman, harboring a nervous twitch. Parvati's eyes had been rooted on one source.

Oh's and Ah's floated around amongst bodies jockeying for position.

Finally reaching the centrifugal point, the Muggle loosed the stress that had built up. Least of which this incident may end up biting her rump. She was charged with the upkeep of the Griffyndor security.

"Whoever the hell you think you are…," her throat constricted and Hermione narrowed her gaze, "…You."

There was nothing remotely spectacular in what the intruder was doing. In fact, it was rather normal. The woman stood there with her back turned to the developed crowd, wiping off the soot that no doubt clung to her flawless features as they were echoed in a mirror that hung precariously over the roaring fireplace. The woman's hair was gathered into a silver pony-tail that shimmered with every god given graceful movement she made.

Fleur had slowly turned to regard the young woman that just addressed her, the only person that truly did. Even if venom was laced behind within the wordsmithing, she welcomed the opportunity to speak with someone . Those eyes burned. She knew that this muggle had always harbored ill will; but what astonished the Veela was despite how overly dominant Hermione Granger had seemed in this situation towards her…the aura surrounding the teen was infinitely…lifeless. The empathic Witch moved towards Hermione, uncaring of the eyes that undressed her. Boys, will be boys as some of these girls will be…just as.

"Oui. Me.," she stated with a murmur, accompanied with an ever slight cant of her head.

Such a simple reply encompassed everything that Fleur DeLacour ever was. Independent, assured, cocky…Sexually desirable.

Everything Hermione was not…And only wanted to be…stood now, not more than a few feet in front of her.

She never thought she could dislike Fleur any worse than she already had.

a/n: Too long, but I swear it's going somewhere. And yes, I know Gabrielle's a whole lot more younger than how I portray her here. But…artistic discretion, ne?

L - Vox Et Praeterea Nihil! (voice and nothing more)

L – Cielo Lumina (heaven's light)