On Teenagers & Love

a story by anamatics, beta'ed by HyperCaz

Chapter Three - On Missed Appointments


Author's Notes: You guys are amazing! Thank you to everyone who reviewed. :)

A word of warning for the story - there will be a good but of underage sexual content over the course of the story. Hermione is fifteen during Goblet of Fire and Fleur is seventeen, while they age up over the course of it, I feel it is necessary to warn the readership who might find such sexual situations triggering.

There are also some mentions of general World War Two history and aspects of the Holocaust.


"Put it on my life baby

I can make you feel right baby

I can't promise tomorrow

But I promise tonight"

-"Give Me Everything Tonight"

"Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string." – Self Reliance

Hermione doesn't go back to the library the Monday after the Second Task during her lunch hour. She has no reason to. Her need to research underwater breathing methods had been gleefully answered by Dobby the House Elf and Professor Binns had finally moved on from the French Resistance to another topic on Grindelwald's reign of terror. At least, that is what she tells herself as she listens to Harry and Ron argue with Ginny over Quidditch national rankings and half-pays attention to Parvati trying to get her to share details of how good a kisser Viktor Krum is. She wouldn't know, she says testily, she hasn't kissed him.

She has kissed two of the champions, though. Just not the ones that would be expected of her. Harry when he was twelve when he had just saved the entire school from a giant evil snake, and Fleur Delacour - only that was certainly not Hermione kissing anyone, but rather being abruptly assaulted with freezing cold lips. Fleur had said it was a thank you, but the French pet name she only ever heard in movies was not lost to her. Hermione guards this secret with her life. She doesn't want Rita Skeeter catching wind of it. The damn woman would have a field day.

Her fork, balled up with a bit of lettuce, is half way to her mouth when Harry and Ron suddenly stop talking, staring towards the doors at the end of the Great Hall. Hermione follows their gaze, setting her fork down and staring at the serenely beautiful, if very angry-looking, form of Fleur Delacour. Hermione swallows. She thinks she knows why Fleur Delacour is angry.

She probably should have gone to the library today, to tell Fleur that she wouldn't be coming back for a while. Or to maybe have arranged a different meeting time. Anything to not have Fleur looking so angry at her.

Hermione knows why she did not go; the feel of freezing lips pressed against her own and the shock of how that small gesture of gratitude and affection filled her with such confusion that she did not know what to say - or how to feel. Her fingers clench into a white knuckled fist as she resists the urge to run. There is something terrifying about the way that Fleur Delacour is moving towards her with a bestial rage that seems to be just barely hidden beneath the woman's pale skin.

Fleur draws level with the Gryffindor table, and stalks down the side opposite Hermione, very purposefully not looking anywhere in particular. The eyes of the students who have noticed her (every man and a good bit of the women) watch her cautiously, wondering why she looks so livid. Hermione knows that Ron likes it when they walk in those tight Beauxbatons uniforms that leave so little to the imagination, but she can't help but feel a flush rising to her cheeks as she watches Fleur approach. The memory of their kiss is still fresh in her mind.

"She looks right ticked," Ron whispers, and Harry elbows him in the stomach.

Hermione swallows hotly, and Fleur comes to a stop, standing just behind Ginny, her expression livid. "I zought zat we 'ad an arrangement, 'ermione."

God, she is beautiful when she's angry.

Hermione opens her mouth, closes it, and looks away from piercing blue eyes. She hates being the center of attention, hates it when people are watching her and she hates that she cannot control what they're thinking. She's just a girl, entangled with yet another champion (she collects them like pogs or something, she swears she isn't trying to) and full of fear of what will happen when the school finds out what Fleur did.

Suddenly, this has become far too public a venue. Hermione stands, gathering her things and wordlessly slinging her book bag over her shoulder. She does not speak to Fleur – she barely spares her a glance as she stalks out of the Great Hall, knowing full well that most of the eyes of Hogwarts are upon her. The soft sound of shoes against flagstones tells her that Fleur is following her.

Good.

Hermione climbs stairs and cuts through half-hidden secret passages, trying to think of a place where they can truly be alone. She has to ask Fleur why. She knows that the French are different, that they convey affection in different ways, but that kiss had not been one of those ways. That had been a hesitant peck, something one did with a girlfriend, with someone they wanted to fall in love with.

Hermione is not a fool, certainly not a fool for love.

She's lying to herself when she says it cannot happen again. Fleur's lips are too intriguing, and her kiss too wonderful, for Hermione to never experience it again.

"Arrêtez-vous, 'ermione," Fleur says as they reach the sixth floor. There are a few empty rooms up here where they won't be disturbed. Hermione taps the first door handle she sees with her wand and whispers the unlocking charm. When there are no three-headed dogs and only the smell of old chalk to greet her, she feels satisfied enough with their location to turn and face Fleur.

"'ou stood me up," Fleur fumes. She's almost predatory like this, hands folded moodily across her chest and her eyes flashing dangerously. She's advancing on Hermione now, arms dropping, moving, preventing Hermione from dodging out of the way.

"I was not aware we had a date," Hermione retorts. She's backed up against the wall now, Fleur leaning in close to her, breathing heavily against her. It's almost too much. Fleur is staring at her intently, blue eyes harsh and glinting dangerously. Hermione wants to slide down the wall, to escape, but she finds she cannot move. She's too paralyzed by the fear of what Fleur might say or do. She swallows, and then continues, "I needed some time to think."

Fleur tilts her head to the side, blonde hair still trapped in that pony tail that Hermione hates so much cascading down over her shoulder. Hermione longs to reach out and touch it, to run her fingers through it, to be close to Fleur once again. "Pourquoi?" Fleur asks and Hermione knows enough French to understand the meaning of that particular word - why.

Her cheeks burn, and she looks away. "You kissed me," she mutters. "I... I'm not gay." At least, she didn't think she was. She's never really been attracted to anyone before - save Fleur. And she was very attracted to her.

"No one ever said 'ou were, 'ermione," Fleur laughs. Hermione can almost bring herself to not feel mortified any more at the gleeful triumph in Fleur's eyes. She exhales slowly, and tries to smile back. She nearly succeeds when Fleur pushes her hard against the wall and kisses her once again.

Unlike the last time, this kiss is not innocent. It tastes of warmth and of passion whereas the other one was freezing cold and devoid of anything other than tentative adolescent exploration. Fleur's tongue is everywhere, and Hermione gasps as Fleur grabs her hands and forces them above her head, not letting her touch, not letting her move.

"Alzough, I do zink zat 'ou are not opposed to expérimentation," Fleur continues, her lips still half pressed against Hermione's. She's tugging at Hermione's tie, loosening it, pulling at the knot. Hermione can only imagine what Fleur is going to do when she gets it loose. "You are of ze scientific mindset - non?"

Hermione whimpers, her head just barely moving up and down in agreement. Fleur has got her tie undone and is wrapping it around the candelabra right above her head. Gryffindor colors cut across her wrists as Fleur secures her hands above her head, leaving her open, vulnerable - wet, wanting.

"Zen zis is an 'ypothesis." Fleur smiles wickedly, fingers nimbly undoing the buttons on Hermione's school shirt. "I am going to make you come, make you scream, make you beg for more. And zen, and only zen, tu peux me dire si 'ou are 'omosexual."

"Are you?" Hermione grinds out after struggling to form a coherent thought. She knows Fleur well enough to know that if she wanted to say no, she could. She doesn't want to stop this feeling though. This is better than any of her fantasies. She feels so wonderfully out of control, and Fleur is enjoying driving her higher.

Fleur pauses, a pensive look on her face. Blue eyes turn darker with something that Hermione will later learn is desire. "When it suits me." Her lips are harsh, angry, biting and bruising and Hermione wants more.

Never before has it been like that. She's experimented a bit, masturbated to see what it felt like after her parents gave her one of those 'growing up for girls' books when she started her period. It was hard to do such things in the Gryffindor dormitories, with two other girls living in close quarters to her. There is next to no privacy and when there is, Hermione is far more likely to use it for sleeping. Up until this year, that is. Now she's touched herself thinking of Fleur, thinking of other people, but never like this. It had always been innocent, child-like, not so deeply sexual. She doesn't know how to act, how to think, how to breathe.

She wants to touch Fleur, to pull that stupid Beauxbatons jacket off of her and to touch the skin she knows it is hiding. She can't move, she doesn't want it to be like this – not her first time, anyway. She's not opposed to trying this again in the future.

"Let me go," she whispers, her voice taking on a hard edge as Fleur freezes.

"Is zat what you want?" Fleur asks, her lips against Hermione's ear. Her teeth are sharp, grazing against sensitive skin that makes Hermione shiver.

Hermione shakes her head. "I've never..."

Fleur smiles wickedly. "Oh, je le sais." Her eyes are hard, dark and lusty. She leans in, brushing her lips against Hermione's swollen and over-stimulated ones. "Zat is part of ze fun."

"Can we have this fun properly?" Hermione asks, glad that Fleur has backed off, just a little bit, so that she can think again. "I mean, how am I supposed to help you prove your hypothesis if I cannot have you too?"

Logic, the greatest weakness of great witches and wizards everywhere.

Fleur considers this, flicking her wand and wordlessly banishing Hermione's tie (she'll have to get Fleur to bring it back later – she only has a few of them to last the entire year and they're always getting ruined). "Allons-y, zen."

Hermione isn't a seventh year about to take her NEWTs. She's not even in her OWL year, but she's good at Transfiguration and Charms. She wants to turn one of the desks into something more comfortable, but Fleur's fingers close over her wand hand and she shakes her head. "I will," Fleur says and does the spell quickly and efficiently. Sometimes, Hermione catches herself wondering why Fleur's even competing in the Triwizard Tournament, but it is moments like this – such as during their impromptu history lessons – that Hermione realizes that the Goblet of Fire made the right choice. Fleur Delacour is an amazing witch.

Her fingers are pulling at Fleur's jacket; her own shirt is already unbuttoned and hanging open. There's ties and more fabric than Hermione knows what to do with. "Offff," Hermione mutters, frustrated at Fleur's stupid jacket and its lack of cooperation.

Fleur's fingers are on her own, helping with hidden buttons and clasps. She pulls off the jacket, triumphant, and Fleur pushes her down onto the newly transfigured mattress. Her hair has come undone and Hermione finds herself framed by Fleur's pale blonde mane of hair. She reaches up, her fingers tentatively touching Fleur's hair. She's suddenly afraid, fearful of what she's doing.

Is this even right?

And then Fleur's lips brush against her own, their movements ginger, as if afraid to disturb her. Hermione realizes that she doesn't much care if she's doing something wrong right now. Nothing that is so wrong should feel so right. Fleur's lips move against her own, whispering things that Hermione can't understand. She doesn't speak French; she wishes she could.

Even then, she could not communicate in this language. This was the language you did not learn in the classroom, but rather in the bedroom.

Fleur Delacour was an excellent teacher, after all.

Her hands have grown bolder, and as Fleur moves from her lips down to kiss Hermione's neck, she tentatively slides them up along Fleur's thighs, pushing her skirt up, tentatively touching skin. She's marveling at how soft it is, at how good it feels under her fingers. She squeezes gently, experimentally - as this is, after all, just a science experiment - and Fleur growls into her neck. Hermione feels a thrill of pleasure shoot down between her legs and her back arches up and into Fleur.

Fleur's hands have found her's again, pulling them away from that oh so soft skin and pinning them once more above her head. "Zat is quite enough of zat," Fleur says, her grip firm. She's shoved Hermione's bra up and out of the way, her lips pressing against the soft skin of her breast. Hermione moans – she can't help herself, it's never felt this good before.

Curious lips close over her already far-too-excited nipple and Fleur releases her hands once again. Hermione's hands tangle in Fleur's hair as Fleur begins to fumble for the zipper on her skirt. Hermione doesn't know why she's doing this – her skirt is bunched around her hips as it is – and shifts her legs to drive this point home.

"You do not know what you do to me," Fleur whispers, her tongue flicking out over Hermione's nipple. She shifts, moving to lavish the other with the same affection, fingers replacing her mouth, toying with the pert nub, driving Hermione wild with want.

Hermione can't think; she can't even breathe. Her words are coming out all wrong, garbled up and full of breathy moans that she would have looked down her nose judgmentally at just hours ago. She never thought of herself as one of those women, the ones that come completely undone during sex, but Fleur's fingers and tongue and the way that Fleur's hair feels tangled up around her fingers beg to differ.

Fleur bites down, sucking greedily with her teeth and her tongue, the pain and drowning sensation going straight between Hermione's legs, pooling there, making her squirm. Hermione recalls, dimly, that in her fantasies, she is the one doing this to Fleur. She is the one who longs to shake that serene calm and to wipe the quietly amused smile off of Fleur's face.

Hot kisses trail down her stomach, Fleur's lips burning their path, pausing to linger on her hip. Fleur spends a prolonged moment on the spot just below Hermione's bellybutton that she's never thought as particularly interesting, but God, it feels amazing to have lips brush against the sensitive skin there.

Where did her skirt go? She doesn't remember Fleur taking it off.

"Why- are you still dressed?" Hermione demands as Fleur stops for a moment, her breath hot and heavy against Hermione's knickers. The sensation is maddening, and she squirms, knowing that the evidence of her arousal must be showing through the thin cotton of her underwear. Hermione swallows. "This experiment won't work if you're dressed." She knows she sounds stupid, whiny even, but she knows she has a point.

Fleur sits up, her hands already unbuttoning her uniform shirt. She's giving Hermione this look that Hermione cannot place, as though she's trying to figure something particularly difficult out. Her shirt is discarded, set down on top of Hermione's skirt (so that's where it went, she thinks) and Fleur is kissing her once again.

This kiss is hard, forceful; Fleur's tongue is in her mouth, exploring, pushing in and out, not giving Hermione a chance to suck on it. She pushes her own tongue back, colliding with Fleur's attack in a fierce duel. Hermione's hands are on Fleur's back, feeling the skin there, tentatively toying with the back of her bra. She wants to undo it, but she's hesitating, wondering if this moment is even real.

Her hands move seemingly of their own accord, pulling at the fabric, undoing the clasps, letting the garment release its cargo. Fleur sits up, adjusting herself so that she's straddling Hermione. She's holding her bra up, covering herself and Hermione wants it off.

"Take it off," Hermione says, her eyes narrowed, her chest heaving. Her own bra is shoved up around her chin, her breasts just beginning to show the love bites that Fleur so lovingly bestowed upon them. She doesn't think it is fair, and she wants to see what Fleur's been hiding under that infernal Beauxbatons uniform.

A coy smile plays at the edges of Fleur's lips, masked as they are by the shadows of her hair, falling over her shoulders and distracting Hermione from her end goal. Fleur is so damn beautiful, it is almost inhuman.

And then there are breasts. Hermione can't look away; Fleur's tossed her bra aside and has pushed her back down. Their lips meet and Hermione's hands come up, tentatively touching the newly-exposed skin. Her fingers pull on already-aroused nipples – she enjoys how Fleur gasps into their kiss, and how her body seems to tremble under the carefully applied pressure that Hermione is placing on her breasts.

Almost too soon, though, Fleur pulls away, fingers running along the length of Hermione's thighs, pausing at their juncture, lingering over the obvious mark of Hermione's arousal. Fleur's smile becomes smug, and she presses down, her fingers drawing a groan out of Hermione. "Do you like zis?" Fleur asks, her fingers beginning to pull on the fabric that stood as the boundary between Hermione and becoming completely undone.

Hermione swallows. Her cheeks are bright red, her chest is rising and falling and she cannot look away from Fleur's eyes. They're half-lidded and full of desire. Hermione can see how Fleur's nostrils flare, and how she seems completely and totally fixated on where her hands are and how unbelievably slowly they're moving. She nods, watching as Fleur's lips jerk upwards.

"'ow is ze experement, mmmmn?" Fleur continues, her grin widening as she hooks her fingers around the waistband of Hermione's kickers and pulls them down and off in a motion that is so seamless it must be practiced. Hermione lies there, the cool air of the classroom hitting her sex, driving her wild with small sensations. She's watching Fleur, wondering why Fleur is backing away, lying down, her legs twisted together and bent at the knee. Hermione doesn't understand, until Fleur leans in close, blonde hair brushing against over sensitive thighs, and blows gently.

Hermione throbs. Her body contorts, arching up towards Fleur's mouth, dimly aware of firm hands on her hips holding her in place as Fleur continues to scoot herself forward. She wants Fleur to touch her, but she doesn't know how to ask. She's almost afraid to, afraid of what Fleur might say or do if she asks.

"Non, séjour là, chérie," Fleur whispers, her breath brushing against overstimulated and over sensitive skin. Her tongue follows the breath of air, a tentative kiss, and then another. Hermione thinks that she's died, gone to heaven, and still is drowning in the sensation of Fleur's hot tongue playing along her clit. All the sensation in her body has been driven there, to the points where Fleur's tongue lingers, circling and flicking over hot bundles of nerves. Fleur trails deeper, her fingers pressing hard into Hermione's hips, holding her steady as her tongue pushes deep into Hermione.

"Fl..." Hermione groans, trying to say Fleur's name, trying to say anything. She can't, she can't. Her thighs are shaking and her fingers are buried in Fleur's hair, holding her head in place and resolutely refusing to be moved. She knows she's pulling Fleur's hair, that it probably hurts, but she does not care. Fleur's tongue has taken everything from her, and she is a single entity around that sensation. "Pleaseee," she groans, knowing that she sounds pitiful and desperate. She can't help it; she doesn't even think she would if she could.

Fleur is sucking on her clit now, tongue swirling and Hermione knows that it won't be long. She's too turned on, so aroused that she can't even think straight. Her body moves of its own accord, twisting, trying to get away from the maddening sensation, but Fleur holds firm. She does not relent her attack and Hermione begins to shake, her body clenching tightly around Fleur, desperate to get away, and yet dying to never move again.

When she finally does come, it is over far more quickly than she expected. Hermione likes to draw it out, to stay in that blissful state for as long as possible when she masturbates, but Fleur needs to breathe and Hermione is probably suffocating her. She relaxes, and Fleur pushes herself up, dragging her body upwards and over Hermione's still sensitive one. Her lips press against Hermione's and she tastes herself for the first time, tangy and intriguing, definitely worthy of a second sampling, preferably at a later date.

Their kiss is languid, slow, and Hermione finds herself calming, her breath coming in deep, no longer in short pants.

Fleur's hand is in between her own legs as they lie next to each other, and Hermione bats it away, eager to touch and to please. Fleur is so wet and Hermione's fingers slide easily inside as she touches her lover for the first time. She moves slowly, her breathing still returning to normal, her eyes never leaving Fleur's. She's calmed down enough to be able to move now, and she pushes Fleur onto her back. "I think your experiment is a success, Professor Delacour."

The smile that greets her as she moves to kiss Fleur's neck is triumphant.

At dinner later, Hermione hears one of Fleur's friends from Beauxbatons ask her where she was all afternoon. She smiles, full of the private knowledge that she has had what all of Hogwarts desires and tunes out the conversation, not wanting to appear rude. She's only half listening to Ginny talk about Professor Moody's class when she hears some incredulous gasping and a very smug "Oui, on a pris notre pied". Fleur's fingers are covering Gabrielle's ears, and their voices are not raised, but even Hermione, who doesn't speak much French at all, has a pretty good idea of what Fleur just said.