"I…hate the rain and sunny whether..
And I..
Hate everything about you…"
Ugly Kid Joe
Three.
"You're the bloody Head Girl for crying out loud Granger, do what you're good for and nag her out of here."
The insipid request came out of lips that she'd have never expected. Hermione swept her eyes over the faces of Griffyndors, briefly meeting Ginny's tired gaze. As if reading the Muggle's mind, the red haired Quidditch woman shook her head and flicked her eyes towards Parvati. It seems that nervous twitch wasn't so much nervous as it was envious.
A subtle hint of Jasmine mixed with the air. It lingered all about Hermione even before she felt her quiet intensity engulf her from behind. Fleur gently rested her hand over Hermione's own; unaware that that simplistic need of the Veela's to touch someone else caused a chain reaction within the shorter female.
The French Witch directed her silver pools towards Parvati.
"I would appreciate you look at me when you speak about…or to me – I like to look into the eyes of my assailant" Fleur intoned with her deep contralto; lapping at the plump of her lower lip she added, "But above all, do not create any unnecessary headaches for both my Heads of House. Zey have enough to deal with without catering to petty whims."
Akin to matches played at Wimbledon, scores of eyes bounced between the volleys that each player set forth.
Gritting her teeth Parvati grabbed Lavender's wrist, the latter visibly winced before begrudgingly following the former out of the common room. Or at least…out of view.
Hermione was faintly conscious of the Frenchwoman's hand; it lingered over hers far longer than it should have – but it was giving the Muggle an assurance of support and was astoundingly…familiar with its confounded warmth. A warmth that overrode her logic because her body immediately caved to the touch. Her body needed that touch.
Something she'd been lacking.
But her upper, more defined state of mind regained its battle for reason.
Fleur's supple flesh on hers was an odd feeling that sent waves of tingles along her arm; Hermione dismissed the them as nothing more than an underlying need to recoil from the Veela…
That's got to be it; Fleur DeLacour equals nemesis.
But as the Silver tongued enchantress eased away…the contact was broken; Hermione had begun to absently trace idle patterns of where the French woman's hand had been and frowned a touch as the feel of her own warmth was…discomforting.
"M'sieur Weasley," beckoned Fleur, the soft trill brought Hermione out of her stupor. Her eyes wandered towards the older woman intently watching.
As he always did, the red haired pup fell in line, puffing up proudly and oh so eager to serve her; she glanced about knowing that all would have been under her wiles in just mere minutes, or show signs of immense jealousy. There were those though with wills of stark iron, they were so few and far between; but they were the ones that her kind pursued, risking everything to bathe in that balance of liberation and completion that only that companion could bring.
Fleur regarded the boy before her and solemnly smiled, "Make sure ze little onez are ready for breakfast…and please…some crowd control? Comprenz?"
With a toothy grin Ron readily agreed, barely able to formulate even one coherent word. Hermione surmised that at this point, he couldn't remember his name. Fleur took control of the room in little more than just a whispered breath, whether they wanted knew it or not, the beguiling woman enchanted them all.
Hesitantly, the crowd finally disbursed at the urging of Head Boy Weasley (who in faithful fashion, glanced to Fleur to get her stamp of approval). Hermione inwardly tousled with how to balance the sensation of gratefulness for the intervention with Parvati and annoyance she had for Fleur just because the Veela was the epitome of perfection and whether she knew it or not, had rubbed it into Hermione – the mere mortal – with every gesture and musical word she spewed. The Muggle Born stymied the built frustration as much as she could. Hermione could, with effort, be as every bit endearing as the Frenchwoman.
"Is there anything you'd have me do as well…"
Fleur lobbed a curious and pleasantly surprised look towards the Muggle. "A question I was not expecting from you, m'elle Granger."
"…What? Am I that transparent that you expected otherwise from me? I know how to be civil you know…," she bit her tongue all too late. Hermione silently chided herself as her restraint in one fell swoop ebbed into Never-Never land.
"Touché," replied the Veela.
Undoing the clasp of her robe, Fleur freed herself from the constraints and her thoughts became a messy stew of truncated orders and images. Least of which was the job she was sent here to do, her mind should have been on that. But, more important things needled their way with stubborn abandon. Why was she despised so?
She found it difficult to swallow Hermione's lingering dislike, or have those concentrated eyes of the Muggle dissect every movement Fleur had done. It was as if the Veela had to impress Hermione in some fashion to be granted just one of those tender smiles from the younger woman's softly blushed lips; but no, only the muggle's tried and true friends were awarded that…
Her what?
The three-quarter Veela rubbed the bridge of her nose in agitation. Her experiences of late have finally gotten to her. As she turned about Fleur realized, the room had become utterly vacant. Save for the soft pop and crackle of the fireplace, they were the only two souls alive there.
Inescapably, their eyes met. Dogged as their nature was something had sparked, they were gauging one another; pulling and feeding from the strength that the other willed. It had become a dance of intimate proportions. Hermione felt Fleur's gaze peel back every layer of insecurity she had of herself, searching…just as she was watching Fleur watch her. The Veela was so complex to read, but too remarkable to not try to understand. Hermione had always been drawn to puzzles after all. The French witch was getting too close, looking too hard. What does she see?
The firelight danced over Fleur's fair skin caressing every contour from the woman's neck to the gentle way the corners of her lips gave a fleeting, but knowing smile; the woman's brow was unmarred by wrinkles brought on by thinking too much, unlike Hermione's own. The Veela had a reputation for being the most beautiful of creatures in the wizarding world.
Hermione knew, that they couldn't've held a candle to Fleur… a thought she would never express in front of the Veela.
The Head Girl managed to look away letting loose her breath that she hadn't realized she was holding. Hermione had all but suffocated under the Veela's scrutinizing yet surprisingly tender eyes.
Winded, Fleur had been glad to find her release she didn't know what to make of the Muggle, nor was she in a hurry to find out why she had been affected by just a mere…happenstance…glance. Casually…she lowered her eyes; above all, composure had to be maintained.
Trailing her fingers over the bric-a-brac that littered the room Fleur began to busy herself, acquainting with her new surroundings and shoving what had just happened, far from her mind.
The Veela furrowed her brows at the gritty feel of dirt clinging to her digits. The house elves hadn't been doing their duty apparently. She wondered why…but an answer was provided; Fleur's eyes slanted towards a roughshod piece of clothing left upon the top of one bookshelf it…looked like a hat, with two awkward holes, one farther back than the other. But in little more than a blink, the article was ripped from her laxed grip. Hermione stood there - her face pink as she was gripping the tatty rag. She haphazardly tucked it under her ashen sweater top.
Fleur couldn't comprehend the look that coursed Hermione's features; it was mixed with emotion, raw and unyielding anger, or was it embarrassment? Suddenly…
"What kind of cockamamie bullshit is this anyway?" Hermione heard herself fuming aloud the embarrassment of her shoddy knit-work sent her spiraling. Fleur now had fuel for an assault on how imperfect she is.
"How did you get in, why are you here?", she continued blindly, wringing the piece of cloth. "Why in the world did you say 'my Heads of House'? What's happened to Professor McGonagall?"
Crossing her arms over the full of her chest, the elder woman good-naturedly waited till Hermione finished.
When the Muggle didn't receive a reply, she prompted impatiently, "Well?"
"Je suis désolé …iz it my turn to speak?"
The younger woman gave a mock 'o' look, "Is that where I'm supposed to laugh? Because it hardly registered a chuckle."
"Some people 'ave no sense of humor."
"While others make no sense at all," injected Hermione, cushioning the venom in her spite with, "Where do you fit in…What sense do you make in this place, or are you the type that's blissfully happy in your perfect world while we normals struggle to meet your expectations."
The dregs of Hermione's anger were deeply rooted and now…Fleur felt the backlash. She remained near the fireplace, gingerly using a fire poker stoking the dying flames within the pit. The ash flew up at intermittent speeds; they died in succession as did the Veela's hope to ease the long standing strain between her and the Muggle.
Something changed in Fleur it wasn't so much her body movements as much as the downturn of the corner of her lips. There was no warmth of mirth on them, Hermione felt guilty for lashing out at Fleur to alleviate the ire that had been fostered for a while and even before the Silver Haired enchantress returned to Hogwarts. But there was still no stifling the annoyance and frustration that only Fleur could bring out in Hermione.
"That…I was out of line…I…I'm sorry…I've just--"
"No. No you're not. Vous êtes un menteur. "
The remark was soft, yet so palpable that the Muggle felt it shatter the air they both breathed.
"Did…did you just call me…"
"A liar."
The Head Girl couldn't believe her ears and the ever patented crease that only Hermione Granger could conjure up, now appeared between her brows.
"How…how dare you! I'm apologizing for how", Placing a hand upon her chest the younger woman tried to continue her tirade, "Jesus, forget it…Are you that inhumane that you feel the need to exert your fake superiority on me?"
Her throat rippled with a sour taste of a laugh beginning to form – amazingly, she stifled it. Fleur lifted her gaze and swore she saw Hermione visibly and nervously swallow. Her eyes must have shifted to another unearthly color or fangs must have sprouted… something, because it caused the youth to recoil.
"Are you not the smartest with in Hogwarts, fille?" Fleur's voice was not her own, it was clipped, guttural.
Hermione's eyes must have conveyed her ignorance, because before long, Fleur shot back. She had replaced the steel poker back into its cradle. The sound of metal grinding against metal was unsympathetic, and tore the serenity of the room to pieces. The Frenchwoman began to advance towards the still rooted Muggle Witch.
"I am three quarters Veela; my humanity m'lle Granger, iz diluted. Veela are empathic creaturez – even with what little blood I have in me I can feel everything you are feeling and when your feelingz are, 'ow you say, vigoureux…strong…Zey scream louder in my 'ead." Fleur's concentration crumbled as her brain felt as if it just imploded; as did her English but gallantly she continued. Civility be damned.
"Because what you are feeling right now towards me, contradict ze words you 'ave spoken…" Fleur said pointedly, "I know 'ow you feel about me--"
"—I don't like you, everyone knows! I have been nothing but upfront about that and I don't have to have your bloody power to know you feel the same way about me." charged Hermione who hadn't let Fleur continue to get any word in edgewise,
"But what I am not Ms DeLacour, nor will I accept is being labeled a liar. Especially from the likes of you."
Both women hadn't realized that through their seeming repulsion of one another, they had come within a breath apart, that jasmine scent was overwhelming the shorter female. Hermione's pulse had gone erratic and she began to feel light headed as she was staring straight into the welcoming Silver pools of the Veela's eyes.
God…don't look…don't…let me…
They were eyes that the Muggle teen desperately tried to avoid for the remainder of the morning. How could one being cause so much emotional upheaval in such little time.
"And I," Fleur's breath was heated, blanketing Hermione in cascading waves "…I will not tolerate your angst – you 'ave an over abundance, non? Use zat energy for other thingz. Because it will all be wasted on me."
Hermione gawked, but Fleur pressed on, "So zen, we 'ave a dilemma – 'Ow will I work with someone I don't trust--"
"Hold on," interjected Hermione, "On what world do you reside on that we…you and I…will have to work together, least of all trust one another?"
Fleur gave a slight lift of a shoulder, letting a veil of her bangs sliver forth obscuring her eyes for a beat. It was enough to break the hold that it had over the Muggle. Unaware, Fleur had turned about summoning her cloak to her as she decided that her welcome was worn.
"The world which I am the Head of Gryffindor House while Professor McGonagall is on leave. That, ma chere…would be thiz world," Fleur stalked towards the entryway before glancing over her shoulder, "…You are also responsible for the security of Gryffindor non?"
Hermione's lips had thinned. The Charms mistress smirked, as her silvery brow had lifted in jest. It was all the answer she needed.
"We have much to discuss about your…Charming skillz…" Fleur paused in thought, "Both counts, one iz just barely passable, no?"
"Do you think this is through between us?"
Fleur chuckled and sighed, Hermione's ire grew.
"I thought you didn't like me."
"Not even close to it."
Slowly, the French Maiden slid her gaze upon the Muggle Born, her eyes listed closed for just a second before her lips quirked and the smooth contralto tone purred outward,
"Zen…stop trying to keep me 'ere," remarked Fleur, nary a smile clung to her lips, nor her prose…only the quiet intensity, "au revoir m'lle Granger, I 'ave business to care for – I leave ze 'ouse in your otherwise, capable 'ands..."
The Veela had slipped through the portal leaving the Common Room; not soon after Hermione had grabbed a throw pillow and hurtled it towards the now closed gateway.
Out of nowhere – or so it seemed - the student body of the House had poured from every orifice of the room; alive with activity they were all gussied up in their regulation school attire. Hermione's brows knit. She glanced about feeling a multiplicity of eyes pinioning her. Ginny had made her way towards her friend stopping just behind her. It was tentative at best but as she always customarily did, the red headed 16 year old began to pet the back of Hermione's head.
"That was…"
"Horrific…a blasted nightmare, is what." She took a breath, "coming in here shoving her god awful face at me…." the muggle became quiet, deep in thought – Ginny scrutinized her features and smirked. If only Hermione was able to see herself , right now.
It was a face of mixed serenity. Hermione's eyes were alight, brighter than they had been previously. Granted, the Muggle's eyes had been just as effervescent when she and Ron finally got together, but this…this, her friend couldn't place. Ginny Weasley could have sworn…somewhere, seeded deep inside Hermione had enjoyed the tit for tat exchange much more than she let on. And…
"Did you know she has a mole just under her right eye," The Muggle softly stated, then snapped out of her reverie to add in a more defiant tone, "God I hope it's cancerous," finally remarked Hermione.
The red head, regarded her friend quietly giving a soft laugh, "You don't mean that."
Hermione huffed then whirled about, "Of course I do. She was absolutely horrid. Come on Gin – you must have seen what--"
Her friend nodded, "Mm yes, in fact, I saw a whole lot."
The muggle witch stared at her friend curiously. But her attentions were soon drawn away as Hermione was finally fed up with the odd glances, "Don't you people have classes to go to?"
A wave of protests erupted, but inevitably the filed out to greet the day.
Ginny arrested the slightly shorter female by the shoulders, "Easy girly – The lot of us has yet to have breakfast--"
In agreeable fashion, Hermione's belly groaned.
"And by the sounds of it, thanks to your little run in with," the auburn trussed teen seemed as if she was ready to retch, but in grand Weasley fashion she summoned a grotesque, choked purr from the back of her throat, "Phlghuer," at which Hermione shoved her, "you're suffering as well. Off with you, get your things – I'll be here."
Ginny watched the wound up Muggle bound up to the secluded wing for the Head Boy and Girl's dorms. She gave her head a thoughtful shake before letting herself flop carelessly onto one of the many love seats that lined the Common Room.
Firm hands gently gripped her about her shoulders before feeling the thick digits begin to admonish the knotted muscles that developed.
"Don't touch me."
"Your body says otherwise," teased Harry. Her body acquiesced. The icon of Gryffindor smiled and continued; he had missed this. "So…what do you think?"
"Of?"
"You know. You and I and everyone that was here saw."
"They like to fight."
"C'mon Gin, I know you…you thought the same thing I thought…"
That Hermione and Fleur had an intense chemistry and how difficult it was for them to resist gravitating towards the other, to not look at each other; the common building blocks of a budding relationship. That's how it always begins – whether it ends or not depends on how willing both people are to work at it. Ah yes, she knew exactly what Harry was speaking of. But Ginny wouldn't admit it. To admit means…she and Harry still had that bond. That she still…No.
It was easier to be angry. Safer. She didn't have to constantly hurt.
Ginny slapped his hands away and rose from the couch. The girl glared at him, "No...NO. You knew me, Harry. You screwed that up when you abandoned me."
He stuffed his hands into his pockets, "I wasn't ready," half expecting the explanation was enough.
"And you think you are now," she challenged. She then glanced towards the northern spiraled stairway hearing Hermione make her way from her room.
"You know…I could have any girl I wanted to," the jealous and angry demon that Harry had always had in him, breathed once more.
Ginny felt it, "Yes. I'm sure you could. But…" she paused glancing over to him, "They all aren't me."
"I won't stop trying."
"I'd think there was something wrong with you, if you did."
Hermione cleared her throat garnering both parties' attention, "…if this is a bad time…" the muggle shifted her gaze from one to the other, it was in hindsight a stupid question. Ginny had negated that though as she tucked into her robes and took Hermione by the arm.
"Hardly. Besides…You promised I could borrow your notes from last term for Flitwick's class, yeah?"
"By notes, you mean all the exams I'd ever taken for Charms…"
"Did I say that?"
Hermione pursed her lips, "Try to convince me otherwise."
Ginny grinned, "Just the tests that matter, the heavily weighted ones."
"that would be all of them Ginny."
"Well," pondered the teen, "They matter."
The muggle born lobbed a look towards Harry, who trailed not too far behind as they began to cross the immense expanse of the Common Room, "Do you believe her..?"
He shrugged in a non-committal fashion, "I've made it a rule to pick and choose what to believe when it comes to dealing with a Weasley."
Ginny would have liked to have socked the Boy Wonder at that point but only managed a steely eyed glare. Harry didn't realize what he said till…
"Alohomora," the great entryway towards the Gryffindor common room groaned opened and Hermione lead the way. She paused shortly, her hand braced against the frame of the doorway, "That's a funny thing to say, isn't it…? If one can't begin to believe or trust their friends…what else left is there?"
The muggle then glanced backward to the pair, "It's a good thing…I trust you all."
- - - -
Late fall – History of Muggles class (boring)
you've been my only confidant, you've even taken that special place reserved for her – my best friend. you're not just my diary.
I'm in class, apparently. there's a debate going on…not that it's any of my concern. funny thing happened today, the house that I temporarily bunk in just got a new Headmistress. couldn't care less what hapened to McGonagal..(spell check? – who cares) – she was an old hag anyway. bout to keel over if anyone cared to ask me. but they didn't so…
but the new one, fleur, she's so…fuckable - scratch that, i mean attractive, we have to be PC - whatever. things may change around here. my friends and I hope so. she put that nosy assed granger in her place. that nosy slag'll get hers soon.
this place just pisses me off to no end. all these labels that everyone plasters on, it's degrading, no one understand what it's like to be what I am. to think the things I think…fuck the teacher's calling me.
Her dull blue eyes lifted from her personal journal and found that included with the Professor's gaze locked on her, so were her classmates'. Sheep. Gently she placed her quill lengthwise upon her extravagantly aged desktop, while her hands moved to cover the pages of her diary from prying eyes. Everyone in this damned school always find something to pry about.
"'Er upper lip's sweating!"
On queue, the heckles began and the sick part of it was, her own housemates were the very ones that started the trouble.
"shut th'ell up Finnegan! we can't all us 'ear her stutter th'answer!"
"Ron, that's not funny!"
A whooping gale of laughter erupted. The professor had suddenly gotten a little busy with a run-about courier from another class to deal with the raucous. She wanted to fume, she wanted to rage, but…
"So this is what the mighty Gryffindors are all about? Just a bunch of bullies you are…far worse than Slytherin, I think."
The girl was just that, just a younger teen, standing up to her elders her words brought a shocked silence to the room. Though, most would argue it must have either been what she said or…her looks. No one could deny the resemblance either.
Gabrielle folded her arms over her chest, grinning madly at the attention she'd just garnered. She had felt sorry for that one Gryffindor girl. A plain Jane that looked utterly…disconnected from reality. She continued her distraction,
"In fact," the young French native began, "I've already started a pool for your Quidditch match against Slytherin. And the odds are," she shrugged and somberly said, "…not looking in your favor, I'm afraid – Bets will be taken in the Great Hall during lunch," she smiled serenely.
Pivoting about, the fair-skinned youth offered a supportive cant of her head in acknowledgment towards the lonely Gryffindor female. Then, she took up the parchment she had been sent to round up signatures for. Within a blink of an eye, Gabrielle DeLacour's infamy, was born.
The Professor resumed his control over the class once young DeLacour took her leave. Not that he ever had control of the class to begin with. He had to admit helped that the mixed bag of 7th year Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors had been muted dumb by the magnetic Ravenclaw.
"There will be no gambling permitted on school grounds, miss DeLacour will would do well to keep that in mind, as should you all," elicited the Professor, "Now…where were we..." he glanced over his bifocals and pinioned his target.
A rumble of dissention was birthed but they had all settled in for the long haul.
"ah yes again the question was for you Ms. Brown – Tell us why you think most Muggle Teens of the late 90s expressed such rage in their student body and resorted to horrific acts of random violence in their schools…Was it anger? Depression?"
Lavender's eyes trailed the retreating French girl for as long as she was in view. But as Gabrielle disappeared, the partially extroverted Gryffindor regarded the elderly Professor. She swept her eyes from him then towards the rest of her classmates. They all had bored expressions plastered on their faces, save for Hermione Granger…ever wide eyed and bushy tailed, completely dumbed to what's been going on right under her nose…And Parvati…her best friend, the one she loved in secret was too busy trying to get in good with the upper echelon of school society and getting there through another woman's man, if you can call Ron Weasley that at all…He was a bastard in his own right…and pity-me Harry Potter, too popular to know what to do with himself, always needing to play up to that stupid White Knight complex.
The pallid teen witch gripped her journal's hewn edges as her eyes once more regarded the Professor. Nicknamed the Caterpillar by his students, just because of those ridiculously out of control eyebrows that were seemingly connected; they writhed insidiously with every waggle of he did. He was new, so Lavender forgave his repulsive look not to mention his idiocy in regards to student rules. Unspoken as they were, it was understood that:
a – You do not cross the Slytherin elite, unless you're the damned 3.
b – As in the muggle world, Don't Ask, Don't Tell…just suffer.
c – Mixing cliques is a hazard
d – And never…EVER call on an outcast to answer in class. It's detrimental to your health.
Gathering her resolve, whatever was left of it, Lavender replied simply,
"Because they hated everyone and everything."
Dead silence.
The bell sounded the release of the students was a god-send. And none too soon thought Lavender. She quickly rustled her things together, sparing no look-around. Until she heard that familiar Indian accented lilt; the one that had always caused her to weaken at the knees. Lavender would have given her life if the object of her affection so willed it.
"Lav, love…," Parvati draped her arms about her best friend from behind. "I'll be…a little late coming home tonight. Raincheck on that study thing…?"
Lavender shifted her eyes towards Ron, who also had corralled his so-called beloved, no doubt feeding the same bogus line she was getting. She shrugged Parvati off, "Fine. I'll be out myself."
"Oh, who with? Date you're not telling me?"
"Outing with friends, I'm allowed that, aren't I?"
Parvati chuckled musically, "Scandalously delicious! You need to go out, sweetie you've been looking frumpy lately."
Lavender rolled her eyes, "Whatever…" she paused and turned to face the Caramel colored goddess, her voice was concise but audibly clear, "Do us a favor, Parvati – Use protection tonight…"
The Indo-English girl tensed her jaw – garnering as well, the curiosity of most of the room. This brought about a twisted smile over Lavender's lips but then she shrugged good naturedly,
"There's a storm forecasted, after all."
- - -
Hours Later…
This was a day that was so close to perfection – so very rare for the English countryside that was steeped in a bloodied history. It was the kind of day where even the effervescence of the rolling emerald hills paled to what Mother Nature concocted. The sky was sparingly painted with wisps of cotton-white clouds.
You could see the 'forever' beyond them…
The kind of forever that was filled with hope and a never ending promise for a new day and all its included surprises. And so the charade went on with its normal carnival atmosphere, everyone in a state of blissful happiness was dwelling in their scripted roles.
But not even in a cosmic blink of an eye did someone of a higher power decide to change the script. Then again, perhaps it was all planned…The actors and actresses just needed to play out the drama to the conclusion…
Daylight bled into Nightfall, a murky one that blotted out the diamond studded skyline. Even the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling reflected the solemn nature of the evening. As promised by one student's prophesizing remark…it rained. Buckets of torrential downpour bathed the aged School grounds washing away what debris may have been lingering.
She couldn't vouch for the element's cleansing prowess. Not tonight. Hermione was the dirtiest she'd ever felt about herself in a long while. Her body pressed against the antiquated structure's northern wall for support; her knees begged to give way, she never heeded to the whims of her body's desires. The young Muggle tilted her head towards the onslaught of the biting cold that the rain provided, she was beyond the point of numbness, fully aware that time continued to tic-tock its way towards the next day. The unknown.
Her mouth opened collecting the liquid till she choked and coughed it out. As she did, Hermione's gaze though blurred and irritated from the water, glanced towards her hands. They were pruned, aged to a point of being unrecognizable. She didn't know how long she had been out there but her body decided that it was enough. Hermione felt herself move through the muck and mud, dimly cognizant of her surroundings.
The Witch found herself at Hogwarts' northern courtyard where the majority of the school staff was residing at. It was a requirement that all staff members were to be accessible at all times, should student needs arise.
Hermione's eyes aimlessly searched until she found the corner wing. Just as the Headmaster mentioned in his impromptu assembly-speech that night. There was a soft illumination of light that filtered from a window; it was indicative of someone still awake. As she neared the domicile Hermione stood at the massive door, with only the head of a worn brass Gargoyle-knocker gazing back at her. Despite her listlessness, the Muggle grabbed the enlarged ring…
- - - -
"So, do you like it?"
She stared at the youth from behind her onyx rimmed glasses, "You are purposely avoiding my question, Gabby."
The young woman huffed, "Fine. Bill thought you needed a change, which is why--"
"—He got me fired from Gringotts."
"No. Reassigned. I keep telling you, Fleur!", Gabrielle vehemently cried out. Fleur knew how attached her little sister had become to the eldest Weasley. "Don't you like being in the Order?"
She cut into her sister's words with an effective cold look.
"Sorry. But don't you?"
Fleur dodged the question and regarded her sister, "Let me get this straight – He broke my charm, because he was testing me for recruitment purposes. And you helped him…why?"
"Because…" she shyly responded. Fleur curiously looked at her sister and understood almost immediately. It was more than just an attachment.
"Because…Is not an answer, ma chere."
"They needed you, and sometimes two Veela are better than one," the youth pulled the bed sheets about her frame, glancing out into the midnight rain filled sky. Nearby the blackened pitch illuminated by a singular stab of lightening. "And he asked me to."
Fleur became livid.
"You shouldn't 'ave to be involved. I 'ave a good mind to send you back."
"Bill trusts me, why can't you?"
"You're my baby sister, I know what's best for you, better than M'sieur Weasley," she sniped irritably.
"Please. Like you have any idea? I'm not eight anymore, Fleur."
The older woman refocused her eyes upon the parchment she had been working on as a wave of nausea blanketed her. Warm hands had suddenly, gratefully appeared from out of nowhere, cupping her face gently. She lifted her strained eyes to look upon Gabrielle's angelic features.
"Look at you," the young DeLacour began softly, "Someone needs to care for you now." She handed her elder sister a chalice of water before threading her fingers through Fleur's immaculate strands and pushing them from her eyes, "You haven't taken the potions Professor Snape's made for you, oui?"
"No."
"Fleur…"
"Stop…I don't need to be lectured, Gabby. I can do my duty for the Order without taking that nonsense."
The enigmatic Veela pushed from her desk, tying her silk robe about her waist. She remained silent for an unnatural amount of time – trying to calm her annoyed nerves. Fleur softly queried, "What's this I 'ear about you…and some bets?"
Gabrielle nervously laughed, "You see…"
It was so minute, one could have missed it. In fact it was amazing that either the sisters had heard it. The knocking was both hesitant but incessant, with weather like they were having it wasn't a wonder – Someone was seeking shelter. Fleur gave a negating glance towards her sibling to not follow before crossing the length of her lavish, temporary domicile.
Fleur slid the slightly rusted over privacy viewer open, but could barely make out the figure's features, but she didn't have to visually confirm who it was. Torrents of emotion made it clear to her. Stepping back, the barefoot woman took hold of the knob, pulling the massive oaken door wide…
- - - -
She had her whole excuse, if needed, pre-planned. But as the door grunted from being opened, Hermione's mind went blank and her lips refused to form words of coherency. There she stood clothed in nothing but what the Muggle could ascertain was a silk, or satin dark colored bathrobe. The French woman never pressed for a reason and only stepped aside bidding her a quiet welcome.
Hermione shakily entered. Everything on her person was soaked through, even her bones began to creak from the wear of the water it seemed. The room was infinitely warmer thanks to a roaring fire place in an adjacent area and smelled incredibly familiar to her.
The wing seemed more like a tucked away French Château nestled in the heart of a rolling valley. The contents within were a mix of old and new worlds. Knick knacks of Ankhs and runes were graced upon bookshelves, along with globes and rolled up spell parchments accented only with deep blues, beiges and sables of what furniture was housed inside.
It was amazingly appropriate considering the woman it sheltered. Off at the corner of her eye, the muggle spotted a Grimore placed upon a Cherry Wood pedestal. Within its pages was a drawing of a creature she didn't recognize. But it was intriguing enough to keep her mind occupied. The book was closed gently and blocked by the Veela. Her soft prose broke the awkward silence that befell the room.
"Gabrielle…? Please, tea and towels."
The teen, always wanting to please her sister complied with a quick nod and bounded off.
Hermione gripped her damp hands behind her, her head slightly lowered, "I thought it would be rude to not have properly welcomed you to Hogwarts." She heard herself begin. Her voice was barely audible and sounded harsh about the edges; inexorably…with each sentence, her tone was peppered with her silent plea.
"M'lle Granger--", Fleur gently protested.
Hermione wouldn't hear of it and pressed on, "-- And seeing how I was extremely rude early on I…"
"-- You really don't 'ave…"
"…feel I should apologise because…"
"…There waz nothing to be sorry for. So--"
"…BECAUSE I need to!", cried the girl. Hermione's eyes were red rimmed and imploring, "It's the only thing I have left! The only thing I know how to do right…please just let me apologize. L…let me…do something right"
The damn broke under the immense pressure her body began to unabashedly convulse as her withered hands flew up to her mouth trying in vain to stop those choked sobs. But even before the first tears fell to the earth she was encompassed. And that familiar scent was finally placed…
It was incense and… jasmine…it was Fleur.
She collapsed willingly into the Veela's arms. The only person that reached out and held her up. Hermione's hands gripped at the frontal lapels of Fleur's robe clinging onto her savior.
Soothingly, the French enchantress held her close, resting her head upon the youth's own as Hermione desperately tucked in further for contact. She murmured above the pangs of sharp intakes of air and sobs that cut the room,
"I'm here… I can handle all of it...So give me everything," with no rhyme or reason, Fleur placed a chaste kiss to the youth's damp forehead.
As the tears free fell…the broken teenager did.
- - - -
next: What we didn't see.