A/N: I'm pretty sure this is the end for this flufftacular story. It was a fun challenge that a friend asked me to do and I didn't take it seriously, but I did laugh a bit and it seems like people enjoy it. Thank you so much for reading!
And of course, I own nothing at all.
French Traditions
Part III
Hermione Granger was feeling fed up. Twice the little genius had been fooled by her French friend. Hermione was thinking about that saying, "fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me" and it made her face burn.
After all, Hermione was the smartest witch of her age. She shouldn't be fooled so damn many times from a little floozy from France. It was insulting, not only to her personal intelligence, but also to her country as a whole. Hermione never really thought herself as much of a patriot, but allowances must be made in times of emergency.
Hermione considered talking to Harry about her problem but the bespectacled hero had been MIA as of late. There were sightings of him sitting in front of a club called the Man Hole standing on a soap box and using a sonorous charm to spread the sensation of S.L.U.T.
He was expected to be arrested at any moment.
Since the Boy-Who-May-Have-Survived-To-Only-Waste-The-Rest-Of-His-Existence was not around, she decided to go and ask the third member of the trio, one Ronald Weasley.
"Ron," began Hermione, taking the young boy by surprise. He had been bending over a letter. When she interrupted his reading, his face turned as red as his hair. He quickly rose to his feet and looked particularly sheepish.
"Hey Hermione."
"Ron I need your advice on a certain sister-in-law of... what is that you're reading?"
"What, this?" he pulled the letter out and then quickly his it behind his back. "Oh, it's nothing. Just a space bit of parchment."
"Really? Just a spare bit of parchment, is it?"
"Yeah," he began, then squeaked a protest when he found the letter accio'd out of his hand by a certain bushy-haired witch. He made an attempt to get it back, but one glare from said witch made him stop halfway.
"What's this then? Is this a poem?"
"No!" cried Ron who, if it was possible, had gone even redder. Hermione raised a disbelieving eyebrow before reciting the poem out loud, much to Ron's chagrin.
My Ode to a Weasley
Who makes me go Wheezly
I adore your back door
The flight makes me sore
Perhaps we should use some cream
"Wow, Ron," began Hermione, who was grimacing at the nowhere near Shakespearean quality of the words. "You have an admirer here. Who happens to be... Blaise! Blaise Zabini, Ron?"
"Oh don't be daft!" huffed Ron. "There's nothing wrong with it. You were always talking about inter-house unity after you gave up that vomit campaign."
"It was S.P.E.W. and I have nothing against Slytherins in general. It's just... Blaise is a boy, Ron."
"Oh, spot on," he rolled his eyes. "Look, it's not that I'm a queer, alright? He looks like a girl. It's practically straight. Stop looking at me like that. Harry does it too! Stop judging me!" Ron got so flustered that he simply got up and ran out of the room. Hermione sputtered after him.
"Oh, big help you were, you sod."
It's times like these that Hermione decided to put the fact that she was the brightest witch of her age to use. She had hung around Draco enough to pick up that revenge, that dish the Slytherins were famous for, was best served cold.
Hermione went to her bedroom and floo'd Fleur under the guise of a great distress. When the blond arrived, wearing an almost transparent dress that revealed more than it showed, Hermione gulped. Hot, cold, it didn't matter. Revenge was hard to put past such a beautiful woman.
"You 'alled, oui?" said the girl with a knowing smirk. Hermione didn't even bother to answer. She approached the taller girl, and, raising herself to her tiptoes, placed a kiss on Fleur's lips. Fleur responded and each settled into a routine of nibbling and licking, the caress of tongues against one another.
Hermione moved the taller girl to the bed and they collapsed onto the welcoming, silken sheets. The bushy-haired Gryffindor was on top of a change, and the french quarter veela was enjoying her ministrations. She gave a feminine cry of desire and submission when Hermiones finger entered between her swollen lips.
"You're beautiful, Fleur," she said truthfully. The girl under her only smirked as if to say, 'oui, I know.'
With her free hand Hermione kneaded her breasts, before swatting away the other girls hand.
"No, tonight it's my turn," she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Out came Hermione's wand, and after muttering a spell ropes cam shooting out and attached themselves to the headboard and Fleur's dainty writs.
"Ma petite fille! You like it naughty, no?" said the blond, whose laughter at this turned into heady moans as Hermione continued to stroke. She whimpered when the Gryffindor pushed in another finger, then another. Her thumb made maddening circles on that nob of pleasure, and soon she was writhing beneath Hermione on the verge of release.
"Oh please, oh please!" she begged.
And then Hermione stopped. Fleur panicked.
"Ma petite fille, what is wrong? Please, please continue!"
"You know," began Hermione, getting up. "We have traditions here in England as well, such as screwing the French over."
Hermione put on a robe and walked out, leaving a begging, sweaty Fleur still bound to the headboard. Hermione made a mental note to floo Bill in an hour and collect his wife. She smirked. Revenge was sweet.
