Author's note July 2012: Reworked for readability.
Disclaimer: JK Rowling and some mega- corporations own "Harry Potter". I do not, and I'm not making any money with this story.
Part one
Justly deserved holidays
Chapter Two
Four days later, the Granger family was on board their Volvo, driving on a highway leading north- they would arrive in Paris in the early evening.
The rest of their stay at the resort near Nice had been very calm and recuperating, mostly idle hours at the pool or the beach, only broken by a few short trips to tourist attractions in the vicinity.
Hermione was intensely studying her travel guide again, marking sites she wanted to see in magical Paris, while Charles and Miriam amused themselves with counting the holes and bumps in overtaking cars.
"That one has at least three on the front alone!" Charles said, pointing at a red Citroen that was speeding by.
"It's really another mentality, isn't it?" his wife asked with a faraway look. "Cars aren't seen as protrusions of your own social standing and ego here, but as objects you use, and then use up."
The last sentence had penetrated Hermione's concentration, and she decided that this was an opening for one of the philosophical discussions she had with her parents from time to time.
"Why would you consider it a positive trait to see the objects around you as something you just use up? Couldn't that behavior lead you to treat people the same way?" she objected pointedly.
Her mum turned around in her seat and gave her a brilliant smile.
"Ah, you are back with us darling. I thought that line would get you out of your book for a few moments!"
Hermione got an outraged look on her face, but before she could find the words to counter her mum's antics, her father intervened mockingly. "Stop teasing her Miri and answer the question- that is if you can."
"Very well- let's see... in my view, objectification of people is a danger for those of us who see things like cars as part of their own person, as some kind of "proof" for their status, or even as an emotional crutch. This kind of thinking estranges you from the people around you, it produces a mindset of "the more I have, the more I am".
"From there, it's only a small step to do the same thing with other human beings. Your spouse, your children, the people working for you- they sooner or later become a part of your ego, not in form of an emotional connection, not love or kindness, but possession and control."
Hermione looked thoughtful for a minute, letting her mums argument pass through her mind again. Then she fired her well prepared next salvo.
"If you are right mum, why does this car here" she patted the seat beside her. "look like it's fresh out of the assembly line, while it's actually five years old already?"
While her mum looked gobsmacked by the way Hermione had turned her own argument around against her, Charles had a hard time holding the steering wheel steady- he was laughing so hard that his whole upper body was shaking.
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While her parents were conducting the check in at the counter, Hermione sat down in one of the black leather couches scattered around the huge lobby of the Hotel Ritz Paris, and tried to take it all in.
The hotel had a reputation for luxury, but the few pictures she had seen in muggle travel books hadn't done it justice.
Marble floors and Hellenic columns dominated the visible architecture, mahogany furnishings gave the impression of sophistication, while golden chandeliers lighted the room and crystal glass doors led deeper into the building.
The personal was wearing bright red uniforms- but the other guests were even more interesting.
She saw a group of deeply tanned man in traditional Arabian garb having a loud discussion, wildly gesticulating and thereby letting everyone around having a good look at their golden Rolex watches.
Businessman in severe suits, most of them holding leather cases, paced through the hall, undoubtedly on their way to important negotiations.
In contrast to their unheeding hurry, some of the people around seemed to be here only to socialise.
There was a very aristocratic older pair sitting on a couch near her. Their clothing looked like it's price alone could've fed an Ethiopian family for a decade, not to mention their glittering jewellery.
Leaning against one of the massive pillars at the other side of the lobby was a beautiful young women in an obviously expensive - and pretty revealing - dress, who seemed bored with her surroundings.
"I wonder if she is what they call a "hostess" in the mysteries?" Hermione thought agitatedly.
She started to feel ill at ease in this place of splendour, it appeared like smoke and mirrors, as if it was obfuscating some ugly reality - she wished her parents would come back and take her to their rooms.
She decided to walk over to them, to see what was taking them so long, when something changed. Hermione couldn't pin it down, it felt as if the atmosphere had been suddenly charged with electricity.
Casting her eyes around, she observed that even the muggles must have taken notice, because every single male in the room straightened their posture and turned in the direction of the revolving door that marked the entrance to the hotel.
There, seemingly oblivious to the stares, was a family of four, a couple and their two daughters.
They were wearing flowing, silken garments and strange pointed hats, and that alone would've let them stand out like a sore tooth, but the really shocking thing wasn't the eccentricity of their clothing, but the earth shattering beauty of the mother and her older child.
In general, Hermione wasn't much interested in outward appearances, but to her surprise, she couldn't take her eyes from the strange family.
If the stories about the ancient Greek gods were true, Athena and Venus would have had a hard time looking more intoxicating than those two women.
Their blond hair was shining like spun gold, their features had an unearthly, angelic symmetry and their bodies - Hermione nearly choked when she found herself checking out two females - would make every muggle supermodel green with envy.
Ignoring the greedy looks that were cast their way, the family moved over to the counter, and after a few seconds Hermione remembered that she wanted to find her parents.
She forcefully stopped her staring and set herself in motion. She spotted her mum and dad at the end of the counter, her mother was just pocketing a set of keys while her father instructed a young man in hotel uniform about their luggage.
Not 15 feet away, the only man in that strange family of semi- goddesses was having an animated discussion with the concierge, while his wife was whispering something to her younger daughter and the older one gave the room full of bewitched man a disdainful look.
A thought shot through Hermione's mind. "Bewitched- that's it! They are a wizarding family, and there is some kind of beauty charm on them! What are they doing in a muggle hotel? Who are they?"
Before she could gather her wits in the face of this revelation, her mother touched her shoulder and asked her if she was all right. She could only nod silently, while she still gazed at the magical people in front of her in wonderment.
"Lets go up to our suite darling, you look like you're asleep on your feet."
Although she wanted desperately to speak with the wizarding family, Hermione was painfully aware of her lacking skill in the French language.
Even more important seemed the fact that it would be very rude to just walk over to them and confront them about their magical origins in the midst of dozens of muggles.
"I'll have to find a better way to speak with them, hopefully they'll stay for a few days." she resolved.
Then her parents led her to the lifts and they made their way to the suite they would live in for the coming week.
It was a very nice setting, even larger than the one they had at the resort in Nicce ,and definitely more luxurious. The furniture was of rare quality and the suite didn't look like the rooms were part of a hotel at all.
Only fifteen minutes after the luggage boy carried her suitcase into her room, Hermione fell down on her bed. She was exhausted from the long drive and the excitement of meeting a magical family in a muggle hotel, and so she drifted of to sleep quickly.
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When she awoke the next morning, Hermione had vague memories of a disturbing dream floating around her head.
She couldn't remember any specifics, but she was quite sure that beautiful blond hair and the most charming of faces had played a prominent role in the nightly rumblings of her brain. After a few minutes of laying dazed on her bed, she brushed the half-remembered pictures away, stood up and walked into her bathroom.
"Here I am, in the midst of Paris, a full week of sightseeing in the muggle and wizarding world ahead, and all I can do is fighting of dream images? Pathetic!"
She showered, threw on a practical Jeans/Sweater combination and went resolutely into the living room to wait for Charles and Miriam.
After the Grangers had a breakfast of the highest quality in the Ritz's restaurant, they made their way outside to the next Metro station.
Hermione hadn't seen the mysterious magical family in the restaurant, but the disappointment soon vanished when she began to lay out her plans for the day to her parents.
"First, we should visit the muggle Centre of the city." she pronounced with surety.
"I thought we may take a walk down the Champs Elysée towards the Arc de Triomphe. My travel guide says it's one of the most impressive streets in the western world, and not only because of the shopping possibilities either."
Her father smiled mildly at her enthusiasm, and soon they were on their way.
When they emerged from the Metro, Hermione felt her breath catch in her lungs.
In front of her was a street nearly 150 feet wide, that stretched seemingly endlessly in eastern and western direction. Thousands of people mingled around, doing their shopping, sitting in cafés or just enjoying the scenery, like the Grangers.
They took their time, lingering here and there, walking with a leisurely pace towards the great Arc of Triumph in the distance.
When they got there, after more than two hours, Hermione began to explain the bronze castings that covered the huge buildings walls.
She had to raise her voice because the cars driving madly around the plaza surrounding the Arc de Triomphe produced an ear shattering noise level.
From there they made their way southwards, reached the Pallais de Chaillot and crossed the Seine in front of the Tour Eiffel.
"What a brilliant example of muggle engineering" Hermione thought, looking up the gigantic steel construction. "Sure, I have seen higher buildings, like TV or radio towers, but this is something else! It was build for one purpose only, to show what human beings could do with the materials and tools of the industrial age."
After waiting in line for half an hour, the Grangers boarded one of the escalators of the tower, but when they reached the highest observation platform, Hermione had to take her fathers hand before she dared a look over the railing.
Her fear of heights had been the reason why she didn't like to ride magical brooms, but here, on a secure building of steel, she finally let go and could appreciate the far reaching view.
Their next stop was the Hotel des Invalides , where Napoleon Bonaparte had found his last resting place. Hermione's cheeks were slightly red with excitement when she stood before the impressive tomb, and she eagerly whispered an explanation to her parents.
"Napoleon was much more than a muggle general and ruler! He was in fact born into a very large and old magical family here in France, and he lived the first years of his life as member of the wizarding world."
While she told the story, her voice grew louder, and her mum reminded her that they were still in a muggle church. She reduced her volume and went straight on with the impromptu history lesson.
"When he got older, and never showed any signs of magical ability, his family became suspicious that he might be a squib. They tested him, and when they were sure of it, they cast him out!"
Hermione had to struggle to keep her voice low and her anger about the historical injustice showed clearly in her scrunched up forehead and her furiously blinking eyes.
"Can you imagine how barbaric some wizarding families were even in the late 18th century? They made an 11 year old child into an outcast, obliviated - that means erased - all connections to their family out of his memory, and send him to life with a muggle family in Corsica."
She looked up to her parents expectantly, but Charles and Miriam's faces showed only confusion.
Finally, her mum summed up their puzzlement.
"Even if the magical account of Napoleons early history is true, why is it important? After all, he lived and worked and fought in the muggle world for the rest of his life, didn't he?"
Hermione shook her head forcefully. "No, not at all! Why do you think Napoleon had the drive to succeed in everything he did? Why was he such a master on the field of battle?"
Her parents looked more confused then ever.
"The answer is, he met an old wizard on Corsica shortly before his new muggle family could send him of to the French military. That old man detected that someone had manipulated young Napoleons mind, and he helped him to regain his memories. Do you see now?"
After a few seconds, Charles began to nod in understanding.
"What you want to tell us, is that Napoleon fought his way to the emperor's throne, started all those wars, and devastated huge parts of Europe, just because he wanted revenge against his family, because he wanted to show them his worth?"
His daughter gave him a hug.
"You've got it right, dad. In the wizarding World, Napoleon is only known as "The mad squib". He even had a few criminal wizards on his side and he was only defeated when wizards and witches began to fight against him in earnest."
"Well, well" her father mused after digesting this information. "It would seem as if the wizarding world isn't too different from the muggle one where emotions are concerned. And if I remember the long list of "Dark Lords" you rattled down last summer, when you tried to explain magical wars, they don't learn from their errors either."
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Two days later, Hermione was taking her morning shower and groaned under her breath, while she massaged her hurting calves.
The Granger family had tried to make the most out of the last 48 hours, and the long ways they had walked from one famous historical sight to the next were taking their toll on her.
Hermione wished she could use her wand to try a pain depleting charm she had read about in one of her private study books, but, alas, even here in France she was still forbidden to do that by magical law.
Regardless of the muscle soreness, she didn't regret one minute of the past days, because she had seen so many interesting, impressive and colourful vistas.
From the medieval cathedral of Notre Dame, to the Louvre with it's uncountable cultural riches, from the beautiful but megalomaniac castle of Versailles to the starting point of the French revolution, the remnants of the Bastille, it had been a whirlwind of fascinating impressions.
"Today is the last day scheduled for exploring muggle Paris" she thought excitedly. "Tomorrow we'll visit magical France for the first time! I can't wait!"
With this happy musing in the forefront of her mind, Hermione went down to the Ritz's restaurant for breakfast, escorted by her parents.
She was so deep in her own world, that she didn't notice anything amiss, until she had filled her plate with the delicious French food and began to walk over to her families table.
A very broad shouldered, fat muggle stood in her way and didn't even react when she politely asked him to let her pass. He kept his place, staring open mouthed in one direction as if he'd been struck by a Petrificus totalus.
More alert now, she listened to her senses and they made her aware that something unusual was going on. The whole feeling of the room was somehow wrong.
She followed the muggle's line of sight, and finally her eyes caught the reason for his strange behavior.
Only 20 feet away from her, a family including two demigoddesses was having their morning meal.
The mother and her older daughter hadn't lost any of their magical attraction, and Hermione had to shake her head a few times to clear it.
"So, they are still here, not only staying in a muggle hotel, but carelessly mingling with them - and that while they have put some charm on themselves that drives most members of the male gender nearly crazy. What are they thinking?"
A wave of anger rose inside her, and before she could form a coherent plan of action, she strode over to their table and asked the older women in a hushed and angry tone. "Exuse moi, parlez vous anglais?"
The beautiful blond, Hermione thought she looked about 40 years old, tilted her head in a lazy and slightly provocative gesture.
Ignoring Hermione, she addressed her daughter in a low melodious drawl.
"Look what ve àve 'ere Fleur, ma cherie. A little English witch, furious in 'er jealous zeal against those of superior beauty and charm."
The gorgeous girl - obviously Fleur - didn't answer her mother, but she shot Hermione a look so full of disdain, that she felt as if a red hot iron had been plunged into her heart.
"What is it about her that unsettles me so much?" she thought frantically.
Gathering her Gryffindor courage, Hermione turned back to the older witch.
"You may insult me as much as you want, Madame, but I think I have every right to question what exactly you are doing here! The Statute of Secrecy is enforced by the French Ministry of Magic, or am I mistaken?"
The women looked surprised for a moment, then she leaned back in her chair and laughed as if she had been told a good joke. Although the witche's voice sounded like heavenly music, Hermione could still detect the scorn underlying it.
She blushed and had to force herself to remain at the table, wishing with all her might for the terrible, humiliating laughter to end.
Finally, the women got hold of herself and her mirth subsided. She took a deep breath and let her shining blue eyes settle on Hermione again.
"You are a foreigner in this country, child. Didn't your parents teach you any manners? You come 'ere and insult me and my family, without even knowing who we are."
She paused a moment, and Hermione opened her mouth to defend herself, but the women just raised her right hand and send her a forbidding look.
"To your information, my 'usband" she tilted her head in the direction of the man, who appeared to be slightly amused by the confrontation "is the undersecretary to the French Minister of Magic."
Gulping, Hermione realised that she was in a situation that went far over her head, and she began to terribly regret her brashness, but the beautiful witch was just starting with her tongue lashing.
"You, little girl, might 'ave assumed that we are 'ere for - ah, what is the English word - muggle baiting" She shook her head and disgust showed on her lovely features.
"As if we of the ancient and famous DeLacoure line could ever sink that low. I assure you that our presence 'ere is in accordance with French and international magical law." She nodded as if to amplify the importance of her words, then shot a look over to Charles' and Miriam's table- their obvious alarm must have given her a clue whose offspring she faced.
"Before you trot back to your obviously crude and unsophisticated parents, like the eager puppy you are, I will give you one, eh, 'ìnt. The next time you are in that wet and windy rustic excuse for a castle you British use for a wizarding school, go to the library and look up the term "Veela" in a book about magical creatures."
She gave Hermione a false smile that was still brilliant enough to charm an eunuch, then she moved her hand as if to swat away a fly and said in an ice cold tone. "You are excused. Don't bother us again."
Fighting back tears, Hermione turned around and all but fled to her parents table. She never saw the look of pity the girl named Fleur cast after her retreating form.
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Hermione's mood was subdued when she left the Hotel with Charles and Miriam a few hours later.
Not only had she made a fool out of herself, and had gotten a harsh verbal trashing from the wife of the second most influential man in wizarding France. No, once they were back in their suite, and her parents had forced her to tell them what had transpired, the Grangers had given her a severe scolding too.
They didn't really understand what had provoked her actions in the first place, and so they focused on the scene their daughter had made in the middle of a high class restaurant.
When they were through casting around the classical parental adjectives of disapproval - like "disappointed", "immature" or "embarrassing"-, Hermione had cried in shame.
A bit later, when everyone had cooled down a bit, Charles and Miriam decided to let the incident go, so that they could all enjoy the last days of their vacation.
They took the Metro again, and soon arrived at the foot of the stairs leading up to the famous Sacre Coeur, a church build solely with white marble stones.
Climbing up, Charles shot pictures from time to time and the family fended off the seemingly omnipresent souvenir traders. After they took a look at the church's magnificent interior, Hermione led her parents to the backside of the huge building, where the world famous Montmatre, the artists quarter of Paris, began.
From the border of the district, the Grangers were sucked into a maze of small, winkled alleys, and soon Hermione forgot her gloominess.
Nearly every house held at least one small gallery, or smoky artist café, and all free place was used to present some form of art, be it a painting, abstract statues or fantastically ornamented pottery.
She was amazed by the variety of stiles and the wide range of quality, which went from truly stunning to amateurish and mediocre.
The people flooding around the Montmartre were as diverse as the art presented, bohemian man in billowing cloaks mingled with camera toting Japanese tourists, and young art students of Sorbonne university presented their works to clochards and smartly dressed businessman alike.
Taking their time, Hermione and her parents strolled through the crowds, enjoying the uniqueness of the place and halting here or there to admire an especially brilliant piece of creativity.
Quite suddenly, the street they were following opened up to a small square that was populated by dozens of portrait painters. Working back to back with their competition in small open air studios, mostly just two chairs and a drawing board or easel, they gave the impression of a surreal art factory.
Before Hermione had a chance to take it all in, her mother grabbed her right hand and started to pull her forward.
"Isn't this a great place darling?" Miriam enthused. "Now we only have to find the best one of them, and we can take a hand made picture of you back home. Wouldn't that be a great souvenir?"
Hermione's first reaction was to refuse outright - she couldn't imagine many things she would like less than to sit model for an artist, only to get a portrait of her plain face - buckteeth and messy hair included.
She turned to her mum and opened her mouth to protest the ridiculous idea, but the determined expression on Miriam's face stopped her in her tracks.
"Oh no, I know that look." she thought desperately. "It's all fixed in her mind and I would bet my wand that she has already planned where to hang the damn thing."
Resigning herself to hours of motionless sitting under the probing - and probably quite disgusted - eyes of a Parisian artist, she nodded her reluctant consent.
Her father, who had been left behind by her mums wild dash, caught up with them and the three started an inspection of the available painters. Many of them used only pencils for their drawings, but a select few considered themselves good enough to offer portraits in oil colours.
When her mother stopped at the stand of one of those, Hermione decided to draw a line.
"Mum, you can't be serious! Do you know how long it would take for him to make ones of those" - she pointed to the few examples the man presented for his customers - "with my face on it? We could be here the whole day!"
Huffing in exasperation, Miriam started a scorching reply, but Hermione's luck turned, when her dad decided to intervene on her behalf.
"Miri, I think Hermione is quite right. If you want an oil portrait, you could always order one back home. A pencil drawing will be a nice enough souvenir."
Miriam was a bit put out by her husbands words, but in the end she gave in, and they began to search for an appropriate artist again.
They found what they were looking for in one secluded part of the square, where an old man with long white hair, covered by the typical French barrette style hat, had set up his stand.
He appeared to be very nice, with laugh wrinkles in the corners of his keen eyes, and the two pictures he used as examples of his Oeuvre were of indisputable quality, nearly photo realistic.
Charles introduced them in French and asked for the price of his services. The sketcher - his name was Maurice - didn't barter long, and they settled on 450 Franc for an upper body portrait.
Hermione sat down in the model's place and followed the painter's gestured directions for her position. After several minutes of tilting her head in different angles and shuffling back and forth in the chair, he was finally satisfied, and she prepared herself for a long, tortures time of holding still.
"Where is a basilisk when you need one?" she asked herself grumpily.
While Maurice began his work, her dad excused himself, but she had the suspicion that the threat of boredom was driving him away much more than the need for a loo.
Her mum took a place next to the artist and sat in silence for a few minutes, alternately observing the painter drawing the first outline on his paper, and her daughters face.
"I think this picture will be a very nice thing to have in the coming years." Miriam said in a conversational tone. "You are beginning to change so fast, darling, growing up from my little girl to become a young, beautiful women."
Hermione had to take a hold of herself not to flinch when she heard such a grotesque misrepresentation of her appearance, but something must've shown in her eyes, because her mum continued with much more gravity.
"You might not believe me now, but soon you will have proof of my words through the interest the boys will show you. If I'm not much mistaken, it has already started - Kevin Rutherford gave you a once over, didn't he?"
Feeling her stomach begin to knot painfully, Hermione came to the conclusion that this was a "mother - daughter heart to heart" of the worst sort.
"And due to this infernal portrait painting, I can't even tell her that she has it all wrong!" she thought in agitation. "I'm as "beautiful" as a wallflower and that slug Rutherford was just a low- life pig bursting with hormones!"
After a slight pause, as if to give Hermione the chance to ponder her words, her mum continued in her monologue.
"Sometimes you really baffle me, darling. Before you went to Hogwarts, you were some kind of bookish tomboy - if that's not an oxymoron - and now that you begin to flower as a women, you still believe all the nasty things that cruel children told you about yourself."
Shaking her head slowly, Miriam let a sad smile play around her lips and brushed away a few wisps of hair the soft Parisian summer breeze had blown in her face.
"Very soon, even your friends Ron and Harry will notice that you are a girl, and that will produce all sorts of complications. You can't run from yourself, darling - I wished you would let me help you".
Letting her mum "help her" was the farthest from Hermione's mind at the moment. She was seething and doubted that she could take another five minutes of this enforced muteness.
"I can't believe her!" she fumed. "This whole portrait thing was just a set-up so that she could bother me again with her ideas of teenage crushes and proper puberty!"
While Hermione and her mum loved each other dearly, they had never seen eye to eye about certain things, like the time she was allowed with her books, the mostly non-existent "friends" of her early childhood, or - since last year, when her period had set in - love and the other gender.
"As if I could ever be interested in playing those teen-girl games of dressing up, painting your face like some mannequin or "dating" one boy today and the next tomorrow!"
She felt repulsed by the mere thought of it.
"There are so many things to learn and to explore, and there are also Harry and Ron and our friendship."
A shiver ran down her spine when one last thought manifested itself, one of her deepest fears.
"Maybe... just maybe, Voldemort will return. He has tried it once before with the philosopher's stone. I have no time for silliness!"
Miriam watched her daughter intensely, and tried to read at least part of her emotions from her eyes alone.
"I'm not surprised that you are angry with me, but I had the feeling you should hear some things without the chance to transform a very personal chat into a general debate about "useless dating rituals", or whatever other distraction you would come up with."
She smiled briefly, remembering their last "mother-daughter" talk, but soon her expression turned grave again.
"The reality is, your mind might be much more developed than that of most of your peers, but your body - it will have it's way with you regardless. Hormones can't be trumped by intellect, darling."
She let her last words hang in the air for a few minutes, while a multitude of feelings played over her features. Hermione identified worry, doubt, hope and finally resolve, before her mother spoke again, this time in a much gentler voice.
"The events of this morning gave my thoughts in regard to this whole problem a push in a totally new direction."
Miriam stopped again, as if she was steeling herself for her next words.
"I have no experience with this at all, I may well be absolutely wrong... but could it be that your reactions to that family were not so much motivated by simple anger at them, but by... fear of your own feelings? After all, the Delacour girl is quite lovely..."
A hammer blow to her head couldn't have stunned Hermione more than her mothers last words. She felt herself getting numb inside and for an indefinable time, she sat there, blind and deaf to her surroundings.
She was startled out of this inner state of limbo, when her mum got up, came over to her and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
"Honey, even if I'm right about this, there is no reason for you to fret. You know that your dad and I love you very much and that nothing will ever change that."
Rubbing her daughters back gently, Miriam continued to whisper softly, and Hermione's brain unfroze and began to work with frantic speed.
"What if she's right? Do I like girls in that way?"
She had never thought about it before, had never even given the possibility any consideration. Why would she, who wasn't interested in dating anyone, give a second thought to the laughable notion that she could love her own gender?
"It can't be true anyway, what about the crush I had on Professor Lockhardt last year?"
She felt a wave of relief begin to flood her, but then an unbidden, hazy image of golden blond hair rose out of the depths of her subconscious.
The significance of that dream picture was much clearer now, and her attempts to suppress it again were fruitless. She couldn't deny any longer what her sleeping mind had tried to tell her two days ago.
"Maybe mum is really on to something I never knew about me myself." Hermione admitted to herself with a heavy heart.
The next half hour of the portrait drawing flew by, while the young witch tried to organise her thoughts and sort through her feelings.
Her mother had returned to her seat and kept silent, just giving her a comforting smile from time to time.
"How can it be that I never noticed attractive girls before? Isn't that a sure sign that I'm straight?" she reflected. "But on the other hand, maybe that charm the Delacourts have about them broke open a dormant part of me?"
Hermione resolved to thoroughly research the subject before she talked to her mum again. She hated confusion and inner turmoil, and only a planned and well structured examination of both her own emotions, and the available information about same-sex relationships, would help her overcome the distress from which she was suffering now.
Eventually, Charles returned from his excursion, and walked up behind the artist to check on his progress.
"Wow! That is a phenomenal work!"
He smiled brightly at his daughter, and seeing the piercing glance she send in his direction, decided to tease her.
"Maurice here must be a wizard, he has conjured a smile on your portrait, while you sit there looking as if someone has died."
He stepped behind Miriam's chair and entertained them with the story of his search for a working toilet in bohemian cafes.
"Maybe the proprietors don't need one" he joked ."After all, most of their costumers seem to nurse a single coffee forever."
Another quarter of an hour passed before the painter finished his work, signing it in a flourish.
He turned the easel around and watched Hermione expectantly. She had to admit that it was a good likeness of her, but that was, of course, part of the problem.
Faking a smile for Maurice's benefit, she got up, stretched for a moment and thanked him when he rolled up the paper and handed it to her. Her dad paid for the drawing, then the three left the old man in his corner and were on their way again, roaming the Montmatre in a relaxed pace.
Hermione was too deep in thought to do more than follow her parents around. She didn't take in much of the sights for the rest of the day, and hadn't said more than ten sentences to Miriam and Charles when they arrived back at the hotel that evening.
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The soft glow of the great fireplace was the only light illuminating the Gryffindor common room.
Hermione was alone, snuggled down on one of the couches near the fire, her favourite book "Hogwarts- a history" open on her lap. Comforted by the familiar environment, she closed her eyes with a content sigh.
She was save in here, protected from malicious Slytherins and her own confusion alike. Nothing could hurt her, no one could disturb the peace she sought, as long as she stayed in the calm the room offered.
Time went by, but she didn't care if it were minutes or days. All she wanted was the relaxed peace she had found here at uncounted occasions, when the unruly masses of her classmates had retired to the dormitories for the night.
The rest of the school knew mostly her eager, assiduous side, and she was mocked for it, but from time to time even a "know-it-all bookworm" needed a refuge from her own restlessness - the late evenings in the common room gave it to her.
Hermione twitched when the serene quiet was broken by a slight sound - the portrait of the fat lady was letting someone in!
She opened her eyes warily, but couldn't make out the one who must've broken curfew to come back this late.
The person stood near the entrance, wrapped in shadows, and dread began to rise in her.
"Who are you, show yourself!" Hermione challenged, but her vocal cords produced only a croak that sounded tiny and intimidated in her own ears.
Nonetheless, the noise seemed to affect the intruder, because he - or she - began to move slowly in her direction. They had a flowing gait, graceful but somehow alarming.
Shrinking back against the backrest of her sofa, she prepared to bolt at the first sign of real danger, but when her nightly visitor finally reached the circle of light around the fire, her breath faltered.
The vision before her was an embodiment of perfection, long blond hair falling down an elegantly curved neck in golden waves. Blue eyes deeper than the deepest sea stared at her, and the most delightful smile played about red lips.
"èllo èrmione." the apparition whispered, the velvety sounds of her voice wafting around the petrified young witch like the essence of a rose garden in summer.
She couldn't move a muscle, couldn't breath, couldn't even tear her eyes from the angelic face in front of her, and so she didn't even flinch when Fleur DeLacour touched her cheek softly.
"I àve waited a long time for this moment." the French demigoddess declared, then she bend down to Hermione's motionless face.
Their lips touched, softly at first, but soon a fervent duel of hot tongues ensured and the scorching kiss blew away her sanity like a tornado...
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Waking up with a start, Hermione found herself entangled in her sweaty covers and moaned in frustration. She didn't know if it was because her dream had ended prematurely, or because she had dreamed of the French girl at all.
Growling, she hit her pillow, then threw it across the room, where it impacted the wall with a satisfying thump.
"Mum may be right about my feelings, but I really don't need this!" she raged to herself.
Having what amounted to a "wet dream" about Fleur Delacour went against her self image as a controlled and sober young witch, but what brought her ire to the boiling point was the knowledge that her dream-self had actually enjoyed abandoning her defences.
"Well, there is nothing to be done about it now, so I'll better get on with the day" she decided, and left her bed grumpily.
Once in the shower, she remembered that today was the great day. She would see magical Paris for the first time! The excitement won over quickly, and her bad mood evaporated like a drop of water in the Sahara.
Back in her own room, she rummaged through her suitcase, until she found the Hogwarts dress robes she had taken with her solely for this occasion. She put them in a small duffel bag and changed into one of her beloved - and sensible - Jeans/Sweater combinations.
Standing over her opened luggage, she hesitated.
"Should I take my wand with me or not?" she pondered.
Sure, she wouldn't been able to use it legally, but she had gathered some first hand knowledge about the hidden dangers of the magical world, even in supposedly "save" places like Hogwarts.
Making up her mind, she tucked her wand into her duffel and set out to wake her parents.
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Authors Note: This is the first half of what I had originally planned as the third and last chapter of „Justly deserved holidays". It's not as long as the first two chapters, but the second half (new 4th chapter) will arrive shortly and compensate for that. I would like to thank everyone who has read and reviewed this story until now, I hope you like the direction I take with it starting with the events in this chapter.