I do not own Harry Potter or any of the related characters. The Harry Potter series is created by JK Rowling and owned by Warner Bros. This fanfiction is intended for entertainment only. I am not making any profit from this story.
Chapter 1
"What do you do?" the woman led, settling into a position that allowed her to lean over more than half the table. Suffering from a repetitious and dull and too-long night, Hermione startled at the unexpected greeting.
"Beg pardon? Do you mean 'how do you do?'"
"No," the woman returned. "I meant to ask what it is that you do."
"Uh, well. I'm a waitress –– a server –– now, in the Hamptons." Hermione hesitated to say anything more.
The woman without a name allowed a moment to lapse. Where before there was a creeping discomfort, Hermione felt chilling mortification shoot through her body. This is a mistake. This, being speed dating.
Last Thursday, Hermione had celebrated her 30th birthday with the wrong company, twice. Lunch was hijacked by her parents and dinner by close friends, and both parties used their opportunity to unbalance Hermione's sense of self by prying into her apparently woeful love life. Hermione never did and certainly still didn't consider herself romantically impoverished nor incomplete but, confronted with the awareness of a life passing by, she had allowed herself to be shepherded into speed dating.
While her friends hastily enrolled her in an event, Hermione had reasoned that there were advantages to speed dating. Hermione was busy, with little time to find prospective dates herself. Hermione could meet multiple people at once without the anxiety of an awkward first date. Hermione hadn't dated for two years since the disaster that was Pansy and she couldn't know how to begin getting back into the dating pool. Hermione couldn't possibly reveal all her dark secrets and fears to fill the space of three minutes.
Actually, Hermione hadn't reasoned these at all. She had morosely nodded along as Ginny and Lavender eagerly reasoned speed dating beyond reproach with each glass of wine poured. It was thanks to the fog of a hangover that Hermione believed their words to be true. Sitting across from desperate people put her situation in sharp relief. No, Hermione thought, 'relief' is far from the right word.
All the post-youth singles in the Tri-State area appeared to be packed into that musty, cramped pizzeria. Dateable men and women gathered like candies on a tray to choose from, but Hermione had felt the evening slip farther and farther from her grasp as one by one the aspirants proved…wanting. Three minutes is not a very long time to discover the nuances of a romantic candidate's good character, and three-minute sessions are insufferable in multiples. Hermione wanted a fraction of scintillating, unrestrained conversation. It was clear, however, that others were less than hopeful and engaged, or else were focused to the point of distraction. A few of the conversations could be described as delicately floating, others painfully halting. Most candidates, pressured by the time limit at the table and on their social lives, launched quickly onto the topic of domestic aspirations. Being a server at 30 had thus far brought its prejudices.
"Ok," the woman resumed slowly. "Then, what is your dream job? You know, I spent 5 years slaving away, too, before I finally got my head on straight and into the world of politics."
The woman smiled then. She wiggled her eyebrows in comradery at "slaving away" and unfolded her arms to jab the air with a jolly right hook at "world of politics." She's emulating welcoming gestures, conducting her tone into an encouraging lilt. She just might make it in politics. If only she chose her words slightly better.
"Actually," Hermione enunciated equally as slowly, mostly to swallow back onsetting rancor and-or panic. "I'm happy being a server –– I make fat cash. I get it, though. I like surrounding myself with powerful, rich people and getting them to see my way, too."
The woman smiled wider.
"Really? I didn't think that superficiality is characteristic of waitstaff, though such is rampant among those in Washington."
"To have your cake and eat it," Hermione sniffed dismissively. "But I think you and I are rather different."
"Maybe. Evidently, you make cake as well."
"Waitress –– server –– I said!" Hermione bit out. "Evidently, politicians are poorer listeners than sycophants but deficient as both."
At this, the woman laughed heartily.
"On the contrary, it's my job to listen well to the troubles of my community and make people happy. I admit the performance can be wearing when there is a disconnect between what seems and what is important. Did you know that rather than 'what do you do' the question used to be 'where are you from?' I believe where I'm from, my past, informs my actions."
"You want to have a conversation about pleasantries?"
"That's right –– I didn't get your name…"
"Nor I yours."
The bell rang and the hurried scrape of chairs sounded over muttered goodbyes. Hermione also stood.
She knew who the woman was without introduction.
The catching glances thrown her way as she moved between tables to the door were like the passage of lights down a plane aisle. She hadn't intended to make a scene, dammit, but calling it quits halfway through drew equal admiration and annoyance. Suddenly she was leading the resistance, a second cacophony of chairs and a gaggle of malcontents following her out the door. They spilled out onto the sidewalk and lingered as a displaced crowd of revelers. Blessed with a sufficient buffer, Hermione nearly ran to increase the distance between herself and further disaster.
Ginny was due to pick her up in 30 minutes, but Hermione texted her not to bother and she would find her own way home. To be extra spiteful, Hermione resolved to turn her phone off so that her friends could stew in unfulfilled nosiness for as long as Hermione felt petty. Because Hermione was certain that tonight had been orchestrated.
"Hermione!"
Hermione was jogging gracelessly now, searching frantically for a cab. Opting for heels on a night spent sitting was patently foolish. She rushed across the blacktop to the median, frantically looking left and right for a cab going in any direction (ANY DIRECTION!) so long as ––
"Ma chère," Fleur laughed as she caught Hermione by the elbow. "Where are you off to in such a hurry? We haven't yet been acquainted."
Fate was a malicious thing to put Fleur back in Hermione's life like this. This moment was Hermione's greatest hope and worst nightmare. She couldn't bear to look yet found herself spun around. And the image of Fleur was arresting. Fleur was wearing a toothy, perfect smile and a pretty, pink bloom on her cheeks, and she was slightly breathless from having chased Hermione. The infernal rain that had poured in the afternoon was now absent but left mirrors on the floor that reflected the glow of streetlamps onto Fleur's face. Hermione dared not let her mind compare celestial beings. This feeling, it wasn't the thrall.
Fleur playfully nudged closer into Hermione and stepped out of the shroud of light.
"Drop the ruse, Fleur. There is no one privy to the act except you and me, and I find this unfunny." Fleur did not relent, her fingers gently rubbing at the patch on Hermione's coat.
"Mon dieu! You are so rough around the edges." It was terrible, just terrible, the gratification radiating from Fleur. The innocent ease of her laughter –– as though they truly were strangers tittering over ridiculous games –– chaffed at Hermione.
"Is this the culmination of your politics, word play?"
"Do you not delight in badinage?"
"I don't think I like anything about this situation." Hermione felt herself wilting beneath the weight of her words. Few people could know how far her unhappiness distended and it would be like Fleur to understand.
"Did you mean what you said? That you want to remain a waitress?"
Merlin, Hermione could see pity in Fleur's eyes.
"Yes," she bit out. The pity came in waves, then. Fleur gripped Hermione's elbow tighter.
"What happened to you, where did your real dreams go? You used to have ambition –– wanted to serve a higher purpose."
Caught between confusion and indignation, Hermione only possessed the composure to sputter out "I still serve." Fleur scoffed; her body tensed.
"Oh, bravo. Then, dishing out anything is clearly your métier."
"Always looking down your nose at others, then." Oh, sweet Morgana, smite me now.
In Hermione's mind, the chance reunion that she envisioned (in weak, fleeting moments) might happen with Fleur ranged from agonizing and depressing to rapturous and fulfilling. Never did she imagine she would say something so completely base. They volleyed accusations with pure ire and prodded into each other's weaknesses, but even during the most upsetting arguments they didn't say untrue things. They did not hurt each other for hurting. The Hermione now couldn't seem to stop.
"You really know how to ice the cake, hmm? Is that your final cut –– to use my French-ness as a pretext for our disagreements?" Hermione felt pain in her elbow. Fleur's face was dangerously inches from hers, Fleur's breath hot on her cheek.
"Oh, fuck you and your airs! And stop extending the metaphor –– incorrectly, I might add!"
"Ok, fine. Va te faire foutre aussi!" Fleur threw up her hands and stormed off, shouting her last words over her shoulder. "You have changed, Hermione!"