Five .
He loved them. He loved them all. There was just something about a girl, or woman in a plaid and pleated skirt…with a necktie. By the gods and all that is divine – he had surely come to the right place. Blatantly his eyes raked over each budding woman's form as he passed. They did the courteous thing, giggling and offering come hither looks accompanied with delicate finger waves. He still had that devilish charm and an infernal itch that could only be scratched by one woman.
Granted…he hadn't mind taking an occasional side dish to sate that appetite.
But it wasn't the same. He stuffed his one of his mammoth paws into the pits of his tatty cargo pants and let loose a beleaguered sigh fall from his lips. Bill Weasley stood amidst an exodus of students crossing the sloshy knoll of green. Classes were out for lunch he supposed. Good, it gave him time to stave of facing that insufferable greased up cur, Professor Snape. Bill filled his lungs with the brisk English air, causing him to cough uncontrollably. Torture of a smoker, he thought.
"Bloody clean air's goin' t'kill me…"
It was ages since he'd set foot in Hogwarts. The grandiose Citadel was still daunting with its sweeping spires, topped off with sagging wooden shingles. So decrepit that with a stiff wind they would surely be eradicated from this existence. But…Hogwarts proved to be an indomitable force of nature itself. Sweeping his gaze towards the Quidditch Pitch, Bill could see the erratic weaving and bobbing of pin prick sized players with the clearest skies of blue as their backdrop – quite the scene especially after a storm surge.
Someone had scored, considering the high pitched tinny of yelps wafting from that direction. Ah, to be young once more. As he continued towards the massive edifice's gaping entryway to its many outer corridors, Bill felt his trek slow. His eyes had been aimlessly searching, for what? His mind wouldn't acknowledge. From one of the inner rings of the school's outer hallways, she came. Bill was blindsided. Fleur was knelt before a troupe of students. They were varied from houses and equally varied in ages.
Some say that even before you're aware, your body becomes cognizant of its attraction to the one. That everything clicks, that it reacts subtly with each touch and longing glance. Everyone else will notice, but the person enamored.
That was bullshit in Bill's mind. If you're horny, you're horny, and you fess up then do something about it. Love's just a laymen's excuse to use before they bang the living daylights out of the one he or she wants to snog. He had always said he loved Fleur without ever really knowing what exactly he meant, it gave him a free pass to ravage her as he so wanted.
Bill only knew that with saying that word…he was the first to own her in everyway possible and in ways that pre-pubescent boys dreamed of. And that alone gave him an immense pride.
She rose from her position, ruffling the top of a youth, who had swoon under the effect of the Veela. Fleur paused in her stride and turned, someone had called her name. He immediately sought refuge behind a massive banister from where he continued to observe. Another female had approached the French Witch. Easily recognizable, he smiled – His brother's bird. But that smile went away, for the youth had seen better days, it concerned him. Then again, when standing in comparison to the object of his desires…
Hermione was gaunt looking, with bags under her eyes. It seemed Fleur had noticed as well. The woman drew closer towards the teen, a hand moving upwards to make note of the darkened patches by gently tracing the shadowed pockets with a thumb, she eased her hand back to her side. Their heads had lowered casually towards the other as if…as if…what they had to share to one another were only for their ears and that everyone outside were intruders to their bubble. In a move that only brought the younger female as close as possible she then reached forth, plucking something off of Fleur's robe. But Hermione then drew back, failing miserably at stopping a smile to crack her lips which faded only after they had departed each other's company. In just a blink the conversation was over.
The younger woman continued on, no doubt to another class before she abruptly turned calling aloud, "Why is it, you French have the crudest jokes."
The elder too had taken pause, she then glanced over her shoulder and replied, "Because you English are too stuffy to make any of your own, non?"
They then both turned about with nothing but a flicker of a smile and a look in their eyes that said that those words had been something only they knew the secrets of, like…a secret handshake of a newly formed club. It was the way they said it.
And how, they looked so comfortable together. He had to question: When the hell did that happen? It was at this instance, the eldest Weasley felt the pangs of something other than lust for Fleur and a sibling friendship with Hermione.
Simply by observance, Fleur never looked at him like that.
- - - -
She came upon a peculiar sight but couldn't contain her smile. The young Ravenclaw bade her clique of friends good-bye before stopping in her stead. Gabrielle chuckled as probably the most handsome Weasley righted himself, pawing at his 5 O'clock shadowed chin. He was tall and broad shouldered, to be sure. But his face, his face was utterly pleasant to look upon. Tender brown eyes, aged in experience, yet impish in his forever-youth. His newly cropped hair wasn't as shockingly red as the rest of his sibs. It was a notch deeper – auburn perhaps. His angular face turned and he afforded a broad Cheshire smile.
Gabrielle recalled the day they had seen one another after a year or so. She garnered a response that she had craved. Sufficed to say, she had shocked him. He often said 'if only you were a few years older, you'd give your sister a run for her money.' The young Veela never cared for things of that sort.
Her sister hadn't even remarked on her transformation that day they reunited. Gabrielle wouldn't admit how it…hurt.
The tall man's arms slighted open and with a jaunt, the youth bounded to him, colliding solidly against his chest.
"Bill!"
"Penguin…," he affectionately prodded. Bill preemptively curled from the impending smack of her hand to whatever body part she had in mind this time. But it came this time as a pinch. He loosened his arms quickly.
"Oh GODS that nickname! If there was a reason to hate my sister, it would be for that."
No thanks to her beloved sister, that name was pegged on for life. It was noted by Fleur that Gabrielle had a little swagger to her step…well…a waddle to be precise. Since then, the young Veela had become immensely self conscious about how she walked. Having been set down, Gabby teetered backward, her hands marrying behind her, coming to rest at the small of her back.
Bill piteously looked at his arm, "Tha' 'URT!"
"Good per'aps it'll bruise. It'll give you something to remember me by."
"You're already hard to forget, lass."
That brought a thoughtful look over her features. Her eyes wandered pass Bill and spotted the older Veela entering the Hall for their lunch meeting, "Harder than my sister?" Her prose was a soft timbre, not meant to be heard.
"Wussat?" Bill finally regained his composure. And Gabrielle shook her head.
"Nothing," she shrugged amicably, "Why are you here?"
"Nothing important, jus' business is all," he acknowledged with a casual shrug.
Gabrielle had immense pride for herself. There were things that she excelled – far better than Fleur. It was a quiet triumph for her to surpass her sister's renown tempered with her admiration for the elder Veela…an admiration that she admits, could border obsession. But above all, she felt her wit…her brains were of exceptional stock. So at Bill's utterance it was a given that he was here specifically for one reason: To discuss her sister's 'lack of production' with a member of the Order.
It was a simple deduction for the sharp Ravenclaw. The headaches, the bruises and her listless movements were proof for Gabrielle, that Fleur was taxed to her limit. It didn't help that her sister's unique illness had grown because of the use of her powers. The younger Veela felt it was time to take action. To protect her sister she had to bring herself into the limelight.
"You and I," she quietly began, Bill side-glanced the young Ravenclaw, "Love her with everything…and perhaps more than we both really know."
"Nothing passes y'does it?"
Gabrielle shrugged casually and pressed on, "But…You know…She's not the only empathic here. If she can't produce," she paused recalling instances of Fleur's serene features, hiding a struggle beneath, "You need to consider using me."
Bill crossed his arms over his chest, looking incredulously at the girl, "Ever 'eard of tact?"
"There's no need for it Bill," she chirruped. Her eyes brimmed with excitement she couldn't contain, "I can do it…why else did you bring me on? I'm just as good…if not better than she is. I love her with all my heart, but if she can't keep her duties straight…"
Gabrielle by all accounts had a talent, to be sure, but it was only in swindling people for a profit; quite suited for the business world – where a double edged blade belonged. Fleur's empathic ability had been honed thanks in major part to their Veela Grandmother. But Bill wouldn't confess that his was also a selfish reason, a possessive reason; Gabby was his trump card to ensnare Fleur into their cause, to hold Fleur to him. It was a convenient thing that he happened to find out the younger Veela was to be schooled at Hogwarts on an exchange program.
His hands rested about her slim shoulders, expertly avoiding the youth's question with: "I think we're speaking of two different people, lass. Fleur is the most duty conscious woman I-"
"Knew," intreceeded Gabrielle carefully.
"KNOW."
She shook her head and looked up to Bill, "There's a reason why she's my sister, m'sieur."
"And why I'm 'er lover," said Bill in a manner that made it seem as if his statement would have more weight than Gabrielle's. "Intimacy brings a great many revelations of a person – I have been with 'er fer three years y'know." He had no qualms talking to the youth in such a manner. After all, the girl was smart – and on the whole teenagers weren't idiots.
She grinned undeterred at the challenge and proudly effused, "And I have had her for a lifetime."
Her previous query was all but forgotten; all Gabrielle wanted now was to be the dominant, the right. The youth's gaze detracted briefly from her opponent as a certain semi bushy-haired Head Girl came into her field of vision. Hermione glanced fleetingly towards Gabby's direction, meeting the younger Veela's eyes; it was obvious to the youth that the Muggle recognized Bill, but didn't want to approach. But moreso, Hermione seemed unsure of crossing the young Veela's path.
As well she should be wary…Her recent memory suddenly conjured Fleur and Hermione in that bed, and that look Gabby caught unmistakably in her sister's gaze – She recognized it for what is was, because she had witnessed it within everyone's errant gaze that ever looked at her sister. Now a more important facet faced Gabrielle.Again, her mind switched tracks.
It took a little while to get used to the idea of sharing Fleur with another person. Let alone dealing with the loss of her sister to London's debauchery. Gabrielle would not accept any more undue interventions in her young life. The fourteen year old refused to acknowledge Hermione and returned her attention towards Bill.
But she needed to know the one thing that was hinted at; it was an impossible truth whispering to her in the back of her mind all day long about Fleur…And the only thing she would not swallow.
"What makes you think you know Fleur better than me?"
"Tons of reasons," he gloated in reply.
She smiled sweetly, nudging her foot for effective purposes against his own, "So tell me…"
Hermione by then lowered her eyes and departed the causeway of the corridor, moving out of Gabrielle's view.
"Just give me one good reason."
Bill bought the bait…Gabrielle stood motionless watching his animated face regale for a few minutes, the instance of the reasons. One worse than the previous; the sole thing she was concerned of was then affirmed. She fought to have every fiber in her to remain collected. Her pride was at stake. As she studied the man before her, the youth felt her insides twist; bile pooled in the back of her throat. She wanted nothing more than to spit on this…this…animal. She was vaguely aware that Bill had stopped in his prose, whether she began to walk away then was an entirely involuntary reaction – she had been sick to her stomach, thinking that this was a man she had…feelings for. Luckily it was just a crush – an insignificant feeling that was snuffed out as easily as one kills a candle lit flame.
"Hey…!"
He was speaking to her. Gabrielle turned about, her gaze expressionless, "…yes?"
"Lost your common courtesy Penguin? Ain't you gonna say thanks an' g'bye, love ya Bill?"
She looked him over, inwardly wincing at that vile nickname. Gabrielle saw him amount to nothing more to her now other than being a gigolo – a sad but true fact. If that was the truth he uttered to her, the young Veela had her work cut out. In this instance, on this day – Gabrielle took it upon herself to reclaim, retain and cleanse the once proud French lineage of the DeLacour Family. Dimly, she smiled.
"Good bye m'sieur Weasley. If I see you again, it will be too soon."
He gave her a questioning glance, one that she refused to answer and made her way from the corridor.
How could you let yourself fall so far? Doesn't our name mean anything to you?
'Of course it does Gabrielle, and you'll make sure it does…won't you? The pride that name reverberates…If she doesn't, YOU'LL fix it.'
The faint whisper was barely audible among the tinny of voices erupting about her. But she had heard it. And she nodded in reply to it – as if…in a trance. Things needed to be done. Her glance traveled then towards the Great Hall where she knew Fleur would be waiting for their late lunch date. Her sister will have to forgive her for missing lunch; her mind whirled into action – the emotions that were burning in her wouldn't be quelled.
A confrontation would be inevitable with Fleur. She realized the consequences but didn't comprehend why there would be. Fleur had to have seen how this revelation would have affected her; she didn't know now how to regard her sister as…Heroine? Savior?…Whore?
She shook her head. Fleur was family, the only family that was worth a damn…and she'll make sure, her sister won't forget it either.
- - - -
He stood like a solemn sentry watching over a throng of youths hulking over their steaming projects. Columns of pungent smoke lingered about the torch lit dungeon, which served as a place of academia. There were instances of frantic hand waving before their faces, a vain, futile attempt to be rid of the stench.
Were he susceptible to it, surely he would have been just as taken aback by the horrific nature of the liquid that was currently being stewed – Ultimately, it smelled of human excrement and excreted animal glands. But Serevus Snape could have cared less. His stomach was iron clad, and his emotions just as concrete. Snape betrayed nothing of himself making him the most intimidating Professor in Hogwarts' history.
"Twenty-five minutes," he commented dryly. Ladles anxiously stirred.
The obsidian pools of the Professor's gaze fixated on a student who had begun to retch involuntarily.
"Should you feel IT necessary, recall that there are tin pails graced at every station-"
His gaze unforgiving, rested on a very wan looking Neville Longbottom, "-USE them. For if I should find one iota of liquid other than this project spilled on my floor, I'll have you bloody lick it off."
He was already in a fickle mood, and his meeting at the beginning of the week with that ginger haired imbecile of a Weasley, bore nothing but an agreement to hate one another. In the end, though it was unnamed by words – They wanted her for their own tortuous pleasure; if only to watch her from afar and defile her name in the middle of the night with their own carnal imaginations.
Fleur-
That magnificent, sinewy, temptress…
- Was the only candidate suited for this unique task.
…Wicked, dangerous and one that wouldn't give you the time of day, Snape. But in your dreams…
The Professor turned about, staring off in the distance, pinioning his beady eyes on a domicile in the Northern Courtyard. Things were getting worse in Hogwarts, these sinful emotions were nearly too much to handle. He hated being succumbing to these desires. Angrily, he lashed out once more.
"This is 50 percent of your final grade…I will accept nothing BUT the best."
Worried sobs were choked out. Among them was Ron's own grave voice, which now sounded remarkably like a mouse-squeak. Regaining his composure, the Quidditch player felt the burrowing eyes of his sexual partner resting on him; a casual glance over his broad shoulder affirmed that suspicion. It was a few days since he and Parvati consummated their affair – an affair of bodies. She was there to quell his animalistic urges to rut. And no one knew the better. Save for a few select comrades. Like the one he currently leaned towards and conspiratorially said:
"Is it just me, or is it possible th'ol'bloke's gotten nastier?" Ron then pondered, "Maybe he just needs t'get snogged."
"We aren't all us lucky y'bastard," the brown, bowl cut haired youth asided, "Will y'be seein' Parvati t'night then?"
"Maybe not."
"Think I could 'ave me soma o'that actio-"
"-Then again maybe I will be," Ron quickly stated.
"Well then, what say I keep 'Ermione comp'ny?"
"That you're outta you're flippin' mind. You forget she's my girl."
"Y'can't 'ave it both ways all th'time."
"Says you."
The Irish lad that he spoke to - Seamus Finnegan – shook, garnering a cutting glance of silence from the Professor. But Ron easily averted any roused problem by having lobbed his gaze expectantly towards his left at an empty seat; the teenager had a sudden urge to see a reprimanding stare. It was Hermione's assigned seat. His lips thinned. It had been the second time this week in as many classes that the Muggle hadn't appeared. On a project day, she was never ever late; Christ, she was never late for anything dealing with grades. Her poor lab partner – Neville – looked as if he'd lost his wits….but not as much as he'd lost his lunch.
Ron's face went rubbery at the sight.
"Ten minutes," alerted Professor Snape.
Suddenly…The Proffesor was prompted to halt in his resolute trek by the unmistakable sound of the rusted metal ring on the classroom door; it had groaned open in protest announcing a visitor. Those able to see through the haze paused in curiosity, glancing from their hunched positions.
With the door given wide berth, some of the smoke-ridden air had escaped. The girl entered unaware of what scene she'd just caused in the dank Dungeon classroom, the immense door took its time in closing, and allowed whatever ray of sunlight bathe its occupants. It garnered their first view of this intruder. She shrugged her robes from her slender form, giving her the freedom to roll her perfectly pressed and regulated blouse-sleeves to be rolled up into a haphazard manner; tucking casually at the crook of her elbow. The first glint of her golden flesh was afforded. Her hair was loosely braided and…illustriously tinted with highlights of blonde. Before the first rays of soft-luminescence graduated to her features….the room was once more dimmed.
Neville had been beside himself. As the young woman rounded their lab table and awkwardly flung his arms about the Muggle. She loosed a lopsided smile, before letting her arms lax about the Wizard in return.
"How kind of you in deciding to grace us with your presence, Miss Granger," oozed Snape. "Thirty points from Gryffindor."
An outward cry of displeasure was rumbled from Gryffindor House, while Slytherin laughed at their dismay.
The Head Girl offered no apology or showed signs of any regret for her sudden disturbance; a wall of unlaughing Gryffindor eyes glowered at her. This was not the Hermione they knew, the girl would have stated a reason for her tardiness, rebuffed it in some way; instead, she had paid no heed and begun to quietly instruct Neville to pass the required herbs. Eagerly complying, the Wizard set to work.
Ron hadn't realized that his were not the only eyes that became glued on the Muggle.
Tucked in a far off nook, the Slytherin Prince callously raked his intense gaze over Hermione.
Daggers were spewing from Parvati's gaze.
Harry found his spectacles worthless as they kept sliding from the perch of his nose.
It had only been three days of not seeing Hermione since the night of the assembly. No one had a clue where she had been.
He was never apart from her for that long. She was now in the flesh, and just a few feet from him that Ron found he sincerely missed her presence. The young woman glanced upward – her hazel flecked eyes were hooded, not betraying her thoughts in any way - and met his gaze. Purposely or not, Hermione nibbled on her lower lip before turning away – there was a look in her eye that was fleeting, that if there was more time, he would have deciphered it. As it stood…
She suddenly seemed unpredictable…foreign. Tempting…
"Ron." A pause, followed by a more forcefully stated, "RON."
He blinked and looked towards his right, Parvati had been standing there, with a kerchief in hand.
"I asked if I could have some Astragalus."
The query turned out to be more of a command as she remained rooted in front of Ron's field of vision. He rose from his seat, using his height to his advantage. Parvati's breath had caught – She immediately felt the rawness, the heat that Ron produced. He stared down at her, his eyes were implacable. They were telling her she did something wrong.
In a twisted manner, it excited Parvati.
Ron's gaze never wavered, but his calloused hand pawed at a batch of freshly cut herbs – much to Seamus' Irish garbled protests -
"'At's our effen stash, man! OCH! Y'fuggin…."
…and dropped them abruptly onto Parvati's open kerchief, she barely managed a word out. A grunt was proffered instead; stalking off, she began muttering threats – consisting of withholding sex from the eternally hormone engraged Weasley. Ron hadn't heard her.
His eyes had drifted back towards the Muggle. Hermione had been oblivious to most things that stirred about her. Including Ron's need to be acknowledged – His ire blossomed. He had a right to be seen, he had a right to have been told where the hell she was, he had this right. Ron wouldn't accept being put out.
He tossed a glance towards the slab of his shared table and off handedly pointed out, "Ey, Seamus. We ran out of Astragalus…"
Seamus looked up, mopping the irritability off his face, "No shit? 'Ow th'fuck d'ya reckon tha' 'appened…."
Ron furrowed his brow looking at his lab-partner; he couldn't understand why Seamus was so…aggravated. He motioned with a tip of his head towards Hermione and Neville, "I'll jus' ask them for some."
The Irish Wizard motioned forth with a sweep of his hands, "Go right a'ead, mate," and offered in a hushed tone to no one save himself "– I 'ope she slaps the shit outta ye."
His stride carried him briskly across the room. But as he arrived at his destination, Snape had summoned the muggle. As Hermione eased passed Ron, he was immediately bathed by a fragrance he couldn't place. It was sweet, it was stimulating. Before he let the moment shuffle by, he called out to her.
"Hey," he paused briefly only long enough to run his thick digits through his hair – as if that alone would make her swoon. She barely gave pause in her stride and only offered a hint of a smile hidden in her eyes as a reply. Before long Hermione stood before Snape, her head held aloft. The Hermione Granger that he knew was still resident – her obtuse, and determined side.
Yet…She wasn't at the same time.
Stifling a growl of frustration, Ron lopped towards Neville. "I need some 'erbs."
Neville had been the quiet factor in Hogwarts, there was a value of being seen and not being heard – He preferred it that way, there was a time though that the quiet Wizard would have gone to bat for his comrades. At least before those rumors began to spread in Gryffindor's common room, rumors he didn't want to believe. Hermione had been the first to befriend the introvert their first year. No one could blame him for having a special place in his being for the brown haired intellect. He made it his own personal cause to be that silent pillar, should she ever need him. In the meantime – he would remain at her side, watching from a distance.
Ron now stood before him.
Ron Weasley's a good guy, he wouldn't do that to 'Ermione… Don't believe th'rumors, Nev. Unfortunately, his first instincts said otherwise.
Quietly he lowered his gaze back towards the sputtering cauldron.
"If I've got what y'want. Then," he shrugged.
"Charitable of you, Nev," Ron mused then murmured as his attention was steadily pull towards Hermione, "…Yeah…y'got what I want." His glance returned to the table, "'Erb wise that is."
Neville scrutinized Ron's words in his mind and found that he didn't understand, nor like the freckled Quidditch player's tone. Ron grinned adding, "Say…Did ah…she," he motioned with a cant of his head towards the Muggle, "y'know, say anythin' 'bout me? Or where she's been?"
The wizard continued slow stirring and chuckled to himself. She hadn't said anything, "No, nothin'…nothin' 'bout you anyways," he couldn't disguise the grin that clung to his words. Hastily Neville continued, "..Jus' that she's been workin' with a friend on a project is all. Reckon it's pretty important."
Ron grabbed a few roots from some of Neville's bowls and clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. There was an indignant tone in the fiery haired wizard's tone as he replied with the cursory thanks. Neville simply bobbed his head in acknowledgement and Ron left.
Lifting his eyes Neville regarded the Head Girl as she returned from that impromptu meeting with Snape.
"Y'dinnae get in trouble did you?...Ah good. Wussat?...He said that? For who? An' why...I thought you din't like 'er. …Is she really? No no…I'm sorry, y'just got this look on your face is all…It's sorta…I dunno, hard t'explain. But aye…she's, WOW. Don't know 'er though, I'll take your word for it, jus' that she's a drop dead looker…Me? 'Ermione, don't think she likes th'younger guys. Sides, she's got Bill Weasley, dun she? … Really? Doesn't talk about him much? Ah, privacy's a big thing, yeah…Wussat?...Really? Do you think I'll be…you know, good for that position? Thank y'for the vote in confidence…yeah, means a great lot…Dance? Och please 'Ermione, I'll 'elp with settin' it up, but no no…these left feet are retired…You will! A'right, I'll save a spot on me dance card jus' for you."
- - - -
"You're not with him…so, why don't we-"
"Not interested."
"C'mon, it'll be worth the effort."
She laughed. A mirthless laugh.
"We don't have to fu-"
Ginny rounded on her latest suitor and hissed, "I bloody fucking dare you to finish that sentence," Her eyes were fire and brimstone incarnate; "You want some bangtail? Call the Patils you fucking wanker."
Then a soft - albeit devoid of emotion - interjection was offered, "I could…?" Luna remarked, her head bent towards her upside down periodical before raising her incredibly perceptive eyes on the young man before them. "I was once told that I have exceptional ora-"
"Luna!"
"Fill-in-the-blank, skills," censored Luna.
She then blinked furtively towards the beauteous and ever popular red-head after the unnamed boy sprung away from the two young women. Ginny though thankful, hand her hand covering the majority of her face, peering through the splayed digits at her oddball friend. The grin disappeared which was replaced by a tap of a frown.
"Boo. Hiss and Jeer. Do you suppose that's why I can't get a date – I would have thought boys enjoyed a straight-forward woman such as I.", the comment was delivered with a touch of helpless wonder.
Slinking an arm about Luna's shoulders, the taller female pulled her into a loose embrace. Ginny knew that this was as close to showing sadness as Luna had ever gotten. She pulled back suddenly as the Potions class had finally come to an end. The door violently swung opened and amidst the billowing glob of smoke that spewed from the Dungeon, there was an array of hand waving and coughs.
Ron and Harry were among the first to escape the class.
"Over here," called Ginny.
They followed the sound of her voice, still sniffling and coughing. Luna smiled, offering her usual inflection of admiration towards Ron by means of a 'hello', he countered with a cautious smile.
Luna was pleased with that.
Cleaning his spectacles, Harry glanced at the two now blurred women and asked, "Where'd you two come from?"
"Madame Pomfrey's."
Harry replaced his spectacles upon the bridge of his nose, before Ginny shook her head and eased herself forth. She had absently begun to push the boy wonder's scraggly bangs from his eyes, licking the pad of her thumb and rubbing a smudge of soot from his face. He smiled. And she continued her prose as she pressed the wrinkled lapels of his collar down. They insolently resisted.
"Tell me you two had forgotten about Lavender Brown?"
Then it dawned on them. Lavender had suddenly taken ill – it was whispered that she looked as if death had visited her.
"'Ow could we forget 'er? She wasn't all right in the head you know."
Ginny stared at her brother. Harry shook his head.
"What? What'd I say? Innit true though?"
"We went to see she was getting along," murmured the auburn topped Witch. The note in her timbre was weighted, almost pained. "She's…Madame Pomfrey wouldn't allow us to stay longer than necessary, as we were disturbing her rest."
"Oh…!" Luna edged out. It grabbed the attentions of all parties. Ginny followed her friend's line of sight.
The smoke had dwindled revealing the tail end of the fleeing students of Professor Snape's class. Before the four of them a scene had unfold. Parvati accidentally collided into another girl in knee high sock and the robes that everyone was regulated to wear, hung limply at her folded arms. Her tie was loose and blouse unbuttoned a tad, which almost made it seem…indecent. Both the exotic Gryffindor and the resolute Muggle faced one another. No words were said, but somehow…a gauntlet of challenge had been thrown in how they parted ways.
"Her…mione?"
The Muggle paused and slowly turned her gaze towards Ginny. Hermione held her head aloft and left every available emotion pour from her. They were emotions that only the other witch could read. And the young Weasley choked on every accusatory insinuation being formulated in those cocoa eyes that she had sworn to protect, they screamed those unsaid words: You knew, didn't you?
Pivoting on a planted heel, Hermione quietly took her leave after having shared a few words with Neville. Ginny broke into a run tailing the muggle who didn't exactly hurry from her. The auburn haired Witch took her chance.
"Hermione wait. God, please wait!"
It was desperation that forced Ginny's hand forth grabbing Hermione at the crook of her arm. The latter twisted violently away from her and Neville quickly wedged himself between the two. It gave Hermione enough time to make her escape.
"Gin…Gin…Ginny no!" Neville urged quietly, "She told me she can't talk to you…not yet, she thought she could. Give 'er time."
"Nev…it…it wasn't my fault," she helplessly pleaded, "Please, could you just...TELL her, please!"
The wizard didn't acknowledge, he felt helpless because he didn't understand what happened. He slipped a hand into his pocket then lowered his head. Behind her, Ginny heard the footfall of Harry, Luna and her brother.
"Why'd y'do that…" Ron's voice, it was accusatory. Ron's idiotic prose. "Dija apologize? After all, she finally shows up an' y'go an' piss 'er off."
She boiled then wheeled on her brother. Ginny eyed him with such resentment that even Luna was taken aback by its passion; she had never seen her friend in such a light. She turned away groping for a semblance of sanity to keep herself calm.
Being afraid of her brother was no longer an option, but before Ginny was able to launch her fists into her brother's smug face, Harry and Neville restrained her.
Ron had no clue what just happened and gawked. In her final heat of rage, she spat out her hate for him:
"Fuck off and die, Ron."
- - - -
There was a tender sound as the book upon her vanity gently clopped closed for the night. Though Hermione's eyes were tired from the deluge of written words being flung at her, she realized that her mind hadn't absorbed any of them. In vain she had been trying to read the first paragraph, but barely made it out alive from the first sentence.
Annoyed by how a simplistic task turned difficult, she pressed a thumb between her now creased brows, "As if that would help, you blasted idiot."
Helplessly, her body slumped back until it came flushed to the back rest of her chair. Hermione acknowledged silently, that her ever astute mind had drifted far from her reality. It traveled past Ginny's imploring eyes.
Ginny… her best friend, was pained just as much as she was. And Hermione found that she couldn't look at her, that she couldn't speak with her. She had wanted so desperately to hate Ginny as much as she knew she needed to hate Ron.
But no – She was still ever so hopelessly in love with the Weasleys. Ron above all. Hating them, being angry with them was a waste of her energy. It would have eaten her alive. She had resolutely sworn to herself that she was better than that and would show them how much. She would reinvent herself and earn their respect.
The whys of everything…Why they hid, Why he had to seek solace in another's arms, Why…Why…Why? Hermione felt that she failed to understand. She only knew, in their eyes, she hadn't measured up.
He could have to fall in love with me again. It was my fault for being bland in the first place…
The loneliness of her room began to swallow her…slowly Hermione pulled her listless frame forward, as if trying to break from its impending grasp. She felt the streak of wetness fall from its lofty perch. Her tongue had slipped passed her lips and tasted the tang of salt.
"Crying," murmured the Head Girl finishing with a scoff, "You sad piece of flesh."
Irritably she stood, using the back of her hand to wipe the excess liquid from her eyes; she began to pace her room. Hermione glanced expectantly at the timepiece graced upon her slim wrist and felt her nerves awaken with an anticipatory surge. The luminescent face pulsed a time of 9:55pm. Quickly her feet whisked her to her window.
She realized her room was alight with candles and immediately summoned her wand, drawing its tip close to her lips. Gently she blew and the candles about her waned. Across the grand vista of the courtyard below, Hermione saw it lit by the intensity of the new moon. It seemed straight out of a fairy tale.
But not more so than the elegant figure that crossed its immense face. Her lips quirked into a faint smile; she watched the cloaked figure for a moment before whirling about and grabbed her own robes. It was curfew, and only meant that everyone needed to be in their Houses. People could be loitering about in the Common Room.
She didn't care.
As expected there was the usual cliques lingering. The dominant topic being conversed tonight: Lavender Brown. Her stomach lurched. But as she made her way from the depths of the shadows and there was an instantaneous quiet that draped the room; she would be the next topic of those looting gossipers. At the corner of her eye she caught the signature red huddled in a corner. It was either Ron or Ginny. That was all she knew and would only acknowledge TO know.
Quick strides brought her to the exit – brought her to freedom. Quicker still, she found herself bathed by the cool night air. As with the previous two nights, Hermione easily made her way to the aged entry way of the Northern Wing. And for the third night, the Muggle pressed her forehead against the cold surface of the wooden door. Her glance fell to the knob. She reached for it and whispered a soft prayer that it wouldn't be locked.
A sigh of relief escaped her body as she heard the welcoming click. As Hermione entered the foyer, she felt her lungs fill with the warmth of the room. It was then she realized she had begun to breathe normally.
Giving a casual roll of her shoulders the robe slipped from her body. Hastily she gathered the article.. Then the sound of the first notes of a song began to drift aimlessly about the whole abode. She recognized the soft tinny of a muted trumpet and the tender basso of a cello. Jazz –I would have never thought… She chuckled, there was still so much to learn, so much to know of the mistress of this domicile.
Her eyes drew in the ambiance of the room as her lips formed a smile at the sound of the footsteps just in the next room. Here she felt detached from the cruelties of her Hogwarts world. Here…she felt safe. Here…she was herself.
She set aside her robe, and pressed her hands upon her still uniform clad body. Hermione lifted her head in the most arrogant manner she could summon. The Muggle cleared her throat and offered the first words of their now common greeting as she rounded the entryway towards the inner den…
"And here I thought the French were inept to recognize good mu…"
Her voice was cut short as it caught at the pit of her throat.
Fleur sat at the edge of a lounging sofa, one leg slung over the other outstretched one; clad in a silk bathrobe – just as the first night she came. It was draped about her body, leaving little to one's imagination, the robe did nothing but accentuate the femininity of the Veela who had just gotten out of a bath. It was almost lewd, but Hermione couldn't stop looking…Admiring. Her lips parted and allowed to hear the ragged nature of her breathing.
The Veela's posture was a marriage of a woman of fortitude and delicateness. Her head was lowered, as her right hand administered to a calf muscle. The kneading motion of the woman's perfectly manicured fingers worked the robe open, lending an unprecedented view of the Veela's toned leg that mercifully ended at the junction of her thigh and hip. Fleur's hair was damp and clung desperately upon any naked flesh the enchantress bore; from the gentle slope of her neck, to the hidden valley between her breasts. Breasts that when the woman finally righted herself, was full and with every slight breath Fleur took, lifted and pushed her nipples against the thin fabric.
Hermione screwed her eyes shut and turned away, trying to regain their greeting jibes. "…inept….to recognize good music."
A soft laughter made its way passed those gently blushed lips. "Ah, ma chere – we French do…" She rose from her position, drawing Hermione's gaze back to her. Fleur had closed the gap that rested between them in a few strides. For a time…the muggle didn't know how long…the Veela stood looking at her. Hermione felt naked under the intensity of Fleur's eyes. She was vividly aware of the music…and the words that accompanied it.
'You give your hand to me…
And then you say hello.'
"…Except zat British noise," it was a coy reply, she continued to smirk in aristocratic arrogance before offering a softer greeting, "Bon soir."
'And I can hardly speak…
my heart is beating so.'
"Hi," murmured Hermione then followed as Fleur stepped back into the room. She inhaled deeply and reprimanded her body, her mind could not comprehend why it seized that way…Because there would be no possible way…that. No.
"I…I think it may work." She watched Fleur pause as her back was turned to her. The Veela was amidst stirring a drink for the both of them.
"It should," Fleur replied suddenly, turning about with a raised brow to accentuate her words, which seemed forced to Hermione, "You are taking lessons from moi, no? 'Ee will be yours once more in every way you wish."
'No you don't know the one…
Who dreams of you at night…'
Hermione gave a laugh, "You're so sure about yourself."
Her eyes lowered towards the fireplace, but she felt the heat of her presence. Hermione's body once more reacted, as if with a mind of its own, it screamed in muted silence: touch me…. Instead, the Veela offered the drink and the muggle glanced upward. She felt…disappointment but murmured thanks to the offer.
"Oui," she kittenishly smiled, "If there is one person that I am sure about – it 'az to be moi. It iz a dog-eat-dog world, ma chere. And when it 'ow you say, 'boils down to it'…the only person you can trust, iz yourself, no?" A casual shrug was giving to the youth. "Besides…"
Fleur eased herself from Hermione, letting her frame come in contact with the sofa's arm rest…slowly, she draped her form against it, canting her head to the right; she allowed a few stray bangs obscure her stormy gaze.
"I am fairly sure…that we both know where my talents lay."
Hermione nipped at her drink and chuckled affording a few droplets to trickle from her lips. "If I hadn't known better, m'lle DeLacour – I have it on good mind, that…"
Fleur arched a brow, in daring.
"…You are flirting with me."
'And longs to kiss your lips…And longs to hold you tight…'
Silence.
The tune gently continued to play behind them. The Veela had not stopped looking at her. Hermione had tried to gauge Fleur's features. Panic soon followed, it burned through Hermione's mind. She wasn't thinking, she shouldn't have said that. Her mind knew better…but the words her lips uttered, were said without effort. As if they needed to be said, as if they'd belong there and all Hermione had to do was acknowledge them audibly. But…
She hoped that Fleur knew it was a jest. Wasn't it?
With a slight curve of her lips and a slow inclination of her head as her eyes drifted towards the moonlit night out of her vestibule, Fleur replied softly:
"And if I were?"
Hermione had forced the laughter from her lips. But it came too soon. And sounded too harsh. Demurely, her hand cupped her mouth stifling her offered apology as well. Fleur had risen from her prone position and moved to the wet-bar. Hermione followed her with her eyes – she felt the dread seep into her frame. Hastily, the Muggle fought for words that…were devoid of emotion.
"It…it would be impossible. I mean…That's a good joke," she accompanied that with a curt chuckle, "Besides…we know my…our…preferences." Hermione took a healthy swig of her drink, murmuring desperately to herself; hoping to reaffirm her commitment, "I love Ron…I…"
Fleur whirled about after refilling her half emptied chalice, lifting it in toast, "To…good jokes…To…"
'Oh, I'm just a friend,
That's all I ever am;
'Cause you don't know me…'
"To our friendship. Because that is all we 'ave." Fleur tipped the rim of her glass to her lips downing the contents in one easy mouthful.
Hermione stood, with her body pressed to the cool stone of the fireplace. The warmth should have engulfed her. But as she watched Fleur and searched her eyes…it felt as if nothing could offer that warmth she sought.
Quietly…the song faded and only the grating noise of the needle and vinyl reached her ears.
- - - -
Teaser:
They stood before one another both knowing there was no way to fight the merging of Crystalline Blue and Deep Hazel. Fleur lifted the glass from Hermione's hand and offered a faint smile. Her lips parted taking in the remainder of the Muggle's unfinished drink. Hermione's gaze lowered and was transfixed with the gentle rise and fall of Fleur's chest.
Setting aside the empty glass, Fleur murmured, "Turn."
Hermione looked to her questioningly.
In swift motion, Fleur had invaded the muggle's personal space, a hand was placed upon the younger woman's hip, and the other lifted the girl's curtain of hair, irresistibly, the teen was drawn into the elder woman's arms. Fleur lowered her head allowing her lips the privilege of almost tasting Hermione's supple flesh – a sinful torture - and slowly eased the teen about.
"Turn," came another…softer command from Fleur. The muggle complied.
Hermione's back was gently pressed against Fleur's body; the muggle fought to quiet a moan that ached to be ripped from her throat. She felt Fleur's heart beat joining with her own erratic one – it tamed it; she felt the Veela's breasts push against her back before the pressure of the woman's firm leg slipped between her own. But nothing…nothing was more intoxicating was when she felt the heat between her thighs erupt in a moist assault, all at the breathless utterance of Fleur's following words, flowing over the nape of her neck:
"…Melt into me."
- - - -
a/n: I know you all must despise fillers and this could rank among the worst…I promise to make it up with an installment that will be worth your time. For those willing enough to leave comments/suggestions…Thanks, and those who quietly watch from the shadows, I hope you're enjoying it. FYI: since I rushed this, aside it being not one of my better wordsmithing times, I neglected to edit. My sincerest apologies.
a/n2: The song is an actual jazz/swing piece: "You Don't Know Me" – Michael Buble'