On Teenagers & Love

a story by anamatics

Part Two

Chapter Eight - On Travels

AN: This is just a teaser for the next part which is nearing completion. I went back and extensively edited Chapter Seven - "On the Most Joyous of Days" as well, so you should check it out.


They go to France after Christmas, and Fleur takes Hermione to Paris for the New Year's celebration. Hermione has been to France before, yes, but never like this. Fleur is not from Paris, her family's home is out in the country to the north, but Fleur knows the city like the palm of her hand.

"You sure you don't want to stay with us," Harry asks as Hermione buttons up her coat and slings her overnight bag over her shoulder. He's leaning against the doorway to the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, his face twisted down into a frown. Hermione knows that he's thinking that she's a fool for going away when everyone is in such clear danger. She wonders if it had been Fleur, rather than Cedric who had ended up at the Triwizard cup if it would be any different. She can't imagine what that would feel like, and she shakes her head no.

"I want to do this," Hermione confesses. Harry's always been the most understanding person she's ever known. He still seems sad that she's leaving him to deal with the mess of Mr. Weasley being so badly injured and Sirius cooped up in this god-awful house. "This might be the only chance I ever get."

Harry pulls his glasses off the bridge of his nose and rubs his eyes, the skin on his forehead twists as he does so and his scar seems to dance in the dim light of the hallway. "You shouldn't think about things like that," he says fiercely.

"There's a war coming, Harry," Hermione shakes her head. "I'd be a fool to not at least think about it."

Harry stands tall; his eyes exactly level with Hermione's own. He's stopped growing, she's noticed, he is probably always going to be short because of how his aunt and uncle treated him when he was a child. "She wouldn't have been picked as a champion if she was just a pretty face, Hermione. You'll make it through this."

"I hope so," Hermione bites her lip and says nothing more. Harry's right, Fleur is a brilliant witch, but she's still so full of fear and nerves over everything that's happening right now that even the slightest seed of doubt grows within her.

She tips forward, wrapping her arms around Harry, grateful that he's always been there to be her rock. She hugs him tightly as she always does when they part. She knows it's stupid, but when she leaves him, she always feels like there's a chance this could be her last goodbye.

"Give my best to Mr. Weasley and the others?" she asks as they pull apart.

Harry nods and gives a small salute. "Bring me back a shirt or something?"

Hermione glances down at his over-sized t-shirt that's poking out of last-year's Weasley jumper. "One that fits you?"

"Cour'," Harry laughs and Hermione turns towards the door.

They're meeting in a bathroom at King's Cross of all places. Hermione takes the Tube and falls back into the embrace of what she knows and has always known. The people here are not aware of the world that exists just underneath their noses, cloaked by magic and secrecy laws so strict that Hermione sometimes finds them barbaric.

There are times when Hermione is sitting like this, surrounded by muggles, that she feels completely out of sync. This isn't what she wanted when she first received her Hogwarts letter. She did not want to feel as though she is an outsider in the places where she's grown up.

She glances to the right and reads the headlines of the Financial Times that the business man sitting next to her is perusing. There's talk of some piece of American legislation that the government are interested in replicating. Hermione doesn't know what the acronym that is printed across the front page stands for, but she's willing to bet that it's something foolish and reactionary like most American policies.

Shifting, Hermione reaches into her bag and pulls out the book that Fleur gave her for her birthday. She's got some time before they're truly in the heart of London. She opens it up and begins to read.

When Professor Lupin was teaching their Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, he did not spend much time teaching about sentient magical creatures. Hermione knows that if Umbridge was not in charge of their class that they would at least be touching on the varying magical styles of differing species. She remembers the sixth year girls discussing the seductive powers of Vampires at length last year in their corners of the library.

Hermione wonders if they should discuss magical creatures at all in the DA, since they'll definitely be on the Defense O.W.L. She makes a mental note to look into it and goes back to her book.

When the next station is announced as King's Cross, Hermione stands and holds onto a bar by the subway car's door. There're more people on the train now, a thick crush of people that makes Hermione far more nervous than she rationally thinks that she should be. She's among muggles, not Voldemort's followers here, but she cannot shake the anxiety. It's like the Quidditch World Cup last year, the same sort of panic that grips her stomach as she pushes her away through the crowd towards the bathroom where they're set to meet.

She ducks under the Out of Order sign and presses her wand to the third indentation of the interior door. It opens soundlessly and Hermione steps into one of the three International Portkey stations in London. She's never been here before, but it looks every bit as busy as the train station outside.

Fleur is standing by a ticket counter, deep in conversation with the clerk. She's got both of her elbows up on the counter and is leaning forward on one toe, her other knee is bent and Hermione's swallowing a little self-consciously as she hurries over to stand beside here.

"Bon," Fleur is saying. She turns to smile brightly as Hermione hurries up and rummages in her bag for her muggle passport and the wizarding equivalent that she's had since her second year when her parents took her to France. "Ah, 'ermione. I was just telling ze clerk 'ere zat 'ou would be along, 'e needs your ..." She turns back to the clerk. "Pardon, which passeport will we be needing?"

The clerk smiles politely and turns to Hermione. "If you have a muggle passport I will need to stamp it as well," she explains to Hermione, who hands both of them over. "That way if the muggles catch you can prove that you entered the country via ferry in Calais." She stamps both of Hermione's passports and hands them back to her. "Do you have anything to declare?"

"No, thank you," Hermione replies.

"Alright, you and Ms. Delacour are leaving for Portkey Gate 20 in ten minutes. Take a left and go to the end of Corridor B." The clerk hands them two tickets and Hermione's face falls, had Fleur paid for her ticket? She has Christmas money from her aunts and uncles; she can pull her own weight.

The hallway is long and winding; it takes them a few minutes to get to where they need to be with the crush of wizards coming and going from the small alcoves littered with bits of what appears to be muggle rubbish. Hermione spots their departure point and they find a bench to wait the remaining fifteen minutes before they depart.

Hermione doesn't know how to articulate that she's annoyed that Fleur took care of her ticket. She chews the inside of her cheek and folds her arms across her chest.

"'ermione?" Fleur asks, her face a picture of concern. "Is everything alright?"

Swallowing, Hermione shrugs. "I could have paid for my own ticket," she says, feeling petulant. Fleur has family money, as does Hermione when she thinks about it. She's never wanted for anything in her life - not like Harry or Ron. It's just a different sort of feeling, somehow. Like she doesn't want to be taken care of because she's younger and still in school. They're supposed to be equals.

Fleur's face falls and she reaches forward and takes Hermione's hand in her own. It's warm and Hermione is very distracted by the feel of their skin brushing against each other. She's a bundle of nerves and hormones and it's a mess. "Je suis desole, I meant no'zing by it. I 'ad 'oped to erm... accélére - expedite the process."

"Okay," Hermione says. And she thinks she understands.

Fleur's hand tightens in her own and Hermione lets herself be pulled to her feet and into the portkey alcove and then across the Channel and into the heart of Paris.

The hotel is owned by a squib cousin of Fleur's father, so they don't have to pay to stay there. Hermione peeks at the nightly rates in the brochure and winces, quickly doing the conversion from pounds to galleons and then to francs in her head. This is a much nicer place than Hermione had anticipated. She was thinking of an inn like The Three Brooksticks in Hogsmeade or the Leaky Cauldron. This... this is different and a lot nicer than what she's used to.

They leave their things and Fleur draws Hermione out into the city.