Over the next week Fleur and Hermione found a rhythm. Each morning at precisely 7:45am Fleur would knock on Hermione's door while Hermione pretended to not be waiting and ready to go for the last 10 minutes. They'd stop at a little café at the end of Cowgate where Fleur would get a flat white and Hermione an English Breakfast tea with one sugar and a splash of milk. Fleur would tease her for fulfilling stereotypes as they strolled the remainder of journey.

They were always the first to arrive, besides the morning reports that were banished to Hermione's desk by whomever had drawn the shortest stick the night prior. While they finished the last dregs of their drinks, they would throw out any and all theories that crossed their minds- each more outlandish than the last. Hermione's favorite thus far had been a particularly inspired idea proposed by Fleur which involved Professor Umbridge making an alliance with the North American Wendigos to alter the runes to ensure that any clothes that touched her person were turned a brilliant shade of pink.

When Hermione questioned how Wendigos would even change the runes, Fleur dismissed her with a dramatic swish of her hair and a "it's a Veela secret." Hermione still wasn't sure what Veela had to do with Wendigos.

It was, in a word, nice. It reminded Hermione of days at the Treehouse where there was always something to do: a problem to fix, a meal to cook, or a fight to disrupt. But this satisfied the intellectual itch that had been unable to be scratched when she was in Québec. The very same itch that had caused her to leave.

It was because of this routine that when Monday rolled around after a weekend of Hermione dodging summons to the Burrow with half-hearted "perhaps next week?", that she found herself waiting impatiently just behind her front door at 7:30.

Her foot started tapping at 7:35. 7:40 found Hermione absentmindedly changing the color of her scarf in a vain attempt to distract herself. She straightened up at 7:45.

By 7:50 Hermione was glaring at the door in such intensity it was a wonder the thing hadn't burst into flame. At 7:53 she decided to go to Fleur, before realizing with a start that she didn't actually know which apartment she lived in.

She scowled as she contemplated her next move. A part of her, that she desperately ignored, wanted to go and knock on each and every door until she found the correct one and she could give Fleur the verbal lashing she deserved for missing their unofficial meeting. But that would be irrational. Obviously.

Instead, Hermione decided to wait for 7, now 6, more minutes, and if Fleur didn't show then Hermione would just have to suck it up and walk by herself. Something she was more than capable of doing! Yes, make no mistake Hermione Granger is more than capable of walking sans a beautiful French witch. Capable, yes. Desired? Certainly not.

She couldn't help but feel snubbed. Really, the nerve of the woman! How hard was it to send a patronus ahead to say that Hermione was being unceremoniously dropped from Fleur's morning routine? It was what was done in polite society. Hermione swore then and there if the other woman showed up again she would-

There was a knock at the door. Hermione took several generous deep breaths so as to attempt to quell the anger and indignity she felt lingering deep in her stomach; a task that she had undertaken countless times in her lifetime only for her to actually succeed enough times to count on one hand. Nevertheless, she tried. She opened the door.

Fleur stood there looking, dare Hermione say, uncomfortable. Up until this point Hermione didn't think Fleur could feel uncomfortable, never mind look it. She had seen the other witch incensed, impatient, miffed, but never uncomfortable. Fleur's ability to be comfortable in the most uncomfortable of positions, i.e Molly Weasley's face-to-face not-so-subtle digs, was in fact number 8 on Hermione's mental list of potential Veela abilities. It was sandwiched between number 7. Persuasion Despite Victim's Previous Disdain for Whatever Task the Veela Thought Would be Funny to Make Victim Do, and number 9. Getting the Last Word in No Matter What the Conversation was Actually About.

Hermione was sure she had never been as glad as she was now to have the ability to raise a single eyebrow. And raise it she did.

"Bonjour."

Silence.

"I am sorry I'm late, I hope you weren't waiting long?"

Silence.

"Well, if you're just going to stand there and not talk I'll be on my way!"

No, no, no, that would not do. Hermione couldn't have Fleur reverting back to irritation, an emotion the French witch was well known for, when she had her in such uncharted territory! If she was going to completely dismiss Rule No. 8, then she was going to at least come up with a new Rule!

"Why were you late?"

Satisfaction rained supreme as Fleur's face morphed back into the uncomfortable look she had arrived with.

"I, ah, had a personal matter to attend to."

"Sounds ominous."

"One could say that. Do you still want to walk?"

"Well we might have to cut out the drink stop, but I suppose I can suffer."

"What bravery."

"I was a Gryffindor you know."

"A fact I find difficult to forget."

It was time to investigate. The memory of No. 8 would not stand to be forgotten. An innocent sounding question would do to lure in the unsuspecting victim, ahem, woman in to a false sense of security.

"So, what did you get up to this weekend?"

"I visited my family in France."

"Oh? When did you get back?"

"About 7 minutes ago."

Really. How was Hermione supposed to compare to a witch who had just come from an international journey at 7:54 in the morning looking as though she just stepped off the runway at Paris Fashion Week.

"That explains the state of disarray I suppose."

Disarray indeed. Fleur had precisely one lock of hair out of place on her otherwise flawless head, completely normal and not at all noteworthy head Hermione was sure to note, that the British witch was itching to brush into place. She restrained herself.

Fleur didn't dignify the comment with an answer; instead choosing to roll right along.

"Ready to go?"

"Let's go then."

Hermione let the conversation fall into familiar territory as they walked.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like I'm a target you were paid to perform a hit on."

"You don't what me to hit on you?"

Fleur rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean."

It was time for a pivot.

"How was your family? Did you see your little sister… Genevieve was it?"

"Gabrielle. Physically they're fine, but there's been a bit of unrest in the French Ministry. A new law just passed preliminary rounds that sets certain… restrictions on the Veela."

Hermione felt the desire get the better of Fleur drain away.

"Oh Merlin. I'm sorry. Has anything like this happened before?"

She knew British legislation was insufficient and at times outright insulting towards the magical creatures that resided in the isles. It was her understanding that despite its recent improvements it was considered barbaric by many other Ministries, America was one such instance, so it came as a surprise that the French Ministry would enact any such law that would attempt to regulate another species; particularly one it had traditionally held in seemingly high regard.

"Non. The Ministry has always allowed us to rule ourselves, as it should!" Fleur was beginning to grow more incensed. She was gesticulating in a way not unlike Hermione did when impassioned, but with a severe edge that made clear that Fleur was frustrated.

"What's the new law?" She rushed to add, "If you don't mind me asking, that is."

"They want to track our population." Fleur nearly spat.

It appeared Hermione had misjudged Fleur's emotions. It was not uncomfortableness that had marred her features. Hermione chastised herself for being so utterly daft.

"Well that's just absurd!"

Fleur hummed in agreement, but made no move to continue the conversation. "What did you get up to?"

"Oh this and that" She waved her hand dismissively. It wouldn't do to say she sat in her apartment in solitude the entire weekend, only venturing out for an occasional meal, and an admittedly large bottle of cheap wine. "What are you planning on doing about the law?"

"I don't know." Fleur snapped in annoyance. Hermione's eyes widened. Fleur took a deep breath before saying, in a much calmer voice, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap, I'm just worried and I've had maybe seven hours of sleep over the last two nights."

"You don't have to explain. I shouldn't have pried. But if you want to talk my door's always open."

Fleur softened. "Merci. It is good, I think, that you are here."

Hermione was struck in this moment that she did not know Fleur. Sure, they had enjoyed a bit of banter over the last week, and yes, they had fought alongside one another in the war, but she didn't know the date of Fleur's birthday, or what her favorite season was and why, or what silly childhood fear had stuck with her to adulthood. She was essentially a stranger masquerading as a friend.

The conversations that they had had up until this point had nothing of personal value. Hermione resolved to fix that. She pushed No. 8 into a neat little box in the back of her head that she could come back to in due course.

"So Fleur. There's something I've been meaning to ask you. I don't want to say our friendship is contingent on you answering correctly, but it may just change the way I think of you if you answer wrong." She paused for dramatic effect; making a clear effort to take a deep breath and steel herself for what she was about to say. "What is your favorite season?"

Fleur, who had been steadying herself for a particularly controversial question, could not stop the bright laugh that escaped her.

Hermione fought to rein in her own smile as she attempted to keep up her facade. She was only partially successful.

"Fall."

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Why?"

"Why wouldn't it be? It's not sweltering 'ot like it is in the summer, nor is it frigid like the winter." She made a show of shivering. "I still have not grown accustomed to the Scottish air in winter. It is miserable. Absolutely miserable."

"I suppose it can be rather depressing. Why not spring?"

"It's too muddy."

Hermione winced. It wasn't particularly noticeable, Hermione herself hardly realized she had, but someone who was staring directly at her, like Fleur was, it was nearly impossible to miss.

"You don't like the dirt?"

"Something like that. Bad memories I suppose."

"Ah, yes I 'ave noticed some students like to parade around the grounds no matter the state of the grass at the first indication of Spring."

"Fleur, could you honestly see me traipsing across the grounds in the mud?"

"You do not strike me as someone with a light constitution."

Hermione snorted.

"I think I forever lost any trace of daintiness the moment I was attacked by that mountain troll."

"Pardon, I thought I just heard you say mountain troll?"

And just like that, Hermione was retelling the story of how she gained her two best friends. Best friends that she was determined not to blow off this weekend, Merlin as her witness.

By the time they reached the cave, the awkward tension between the two had evaporated. For the first time since Hermione had started the case, she was not the first person to the site. She wasn't even the tenth. Most of the Unspeakables were present and already diligently working.

The ministry had allowed two photographers. They were already overworked, despite only being on the case for about three days. One of the photographers, Jason, if memory served correct, was a tall thin man, so thin that you would struggle to find any indication he was anything but a skeleton with a thin skin. He had an even thinner mustache that was hardly recognizable for what it was at any distance beyond 3 feet. His coworker, Richard, might as well have been his exact opposite. Where Jason was thin, Richard was fat, where Jason was tall, Richard would have barely reached Hermione's shoulders with a top hat on. Where they differed in appearance they made up for in a shared personality that was anything but pleasant. Neither Hermione nor Fleur could fault the staff on their unanimous disdain for the men. It had proved quite the task for Hermione to manage both the emotions of the Unspeakables and the photographers enough to ensure everyone actually did the work required of them. It was not enjoyable.

Hermione had never been a people person. She just couldn't bring herself to waste the time understanding each and every persons' emotions enough to figure out how to interact with them. It was part of the reason she was never particularly popular in school. If she knew something that would help another, why shouldn't she bring it to their attention? But according to nearly everyone that was the hallmark of a know it all. She had long since come to terms with it.

It was such a disagreeable task that when Amanda Bulstrode came straight at them, dragging an indignant Richard by the scruff, an exacerbated expression plastered across her face, Hermione held up a hand before either could get out a word.

"I'm sure you aren't here to complain about the other's work, seeing as we already covered that on Friday. If there is something else you may talk to Fleur about it."

Hermione ignored Fleur's angered glare and strode to her desk. Perhaps she was still a bit bothered by the other witch's tardiness, even if it was caused by a good reason. She never claimed to not be petty.