Golden Haze, Act Three, Interlude One

AN: Holy unplanned chapter, batman

Sorry to put an interlude in here so quickly, but I had to keep moving on with some of the things that I started to talk about in the previous chapter in more detail and I didn't want it to just suddenly be Christmastime and everything. This chapter was unplanned, but I really do thing that it was important to the plot.

Hopefully the site has worked out its issues so y'all can review. :3

Music of the Story: Tokyo Police Club – Your English is Good

She, unlike her friends and the others in her year, did not apparate home. Instead Hermione Granger cast one last look over her shoulder at the tall and cloaked form of Fleur Delacour, standing on the train platform with Harry, Ron and Ginny, and boarded the train. She had gone down to Hogsmeade the previous weekend and apparated to a nearby muggle town to use a payphone and call her mother to tell her of her holiday plans. Hermione had done it the muggle way because she wanted to be old and familiar – not the alien magical being that she had apparently become in the eyes of her parents.

She sat on the train with two first year Hufflepuffs and played some exploding snap with them before pulling out the book that she'd been working her way though and settling in to read for the rest of the trip. The pages turned as the two young girls chattered away and Hermione found herself lost once again in the world of learning.

This was a book that Fleur had given her about veela. Or rather, the one that Fleur had quite accidentally allowed Harry to borrow for the DA that Hermione had forgotten to return very much on purpose. The veela were a mysterious race, plagued with the impractical and yet not entirely unheard of in magical creature communities problem of single-person attraction. Hermione found that reading about the aspect of Fleur that she so deeply detested was both fascinating and deeply troubling. There were so many things that Fleur had yet to tell her about what it meant to be a veela. So many things that Hermione did not, as of yet, understand.

On Halloween they had done something, the book had mentioned it briefly (along with a few hastily scribbled lines in French that Hermione assumed Fleur had added to the margin) but other than that it was silent on the subject. She wondered if they had violated some sort of taboo and because of this Fleur was being very careful to avoid talking about what they had done. She had tried to ask, but Fleur was clever and could silence even the most persistent of Hermione's questions with a few quick kisses and apologies about not being able to be completely honest at this moment.

Hermione blamed the marriage law, and steeled her will more completely to change it if it was the last thing she did.

Pages fell by the wayside as she read, the countryside becoming more densely settled and the almost-winter night growing cold and dark around her.

Just before they arrived at King's Cross Station, Hermione shoo'ed the two first years out of their shared train compartment for a moment so that she could pull on a pair of worn jeans and a sweater (one of the few she owned not made by Molly Weasley) over her school blouse. She did not have any interest in presenting as anything other than a normal girl home for her final Christmas before she completed school. She pulled on her winter coat and pulled the door to the compartment back open to find the two first years waiting patiently. Thanking them, she returned the favor so that they could change in peace.

The train whistled loudly as it pulled into the station and Hermione tucked her book into her pocket and hitched the duffle she'd brought with her clothes in it further up her shoulder. After jostling by the door for a minute and almost getting run over by a pair of fifth years laughing about something positively lewd, Hermione stepped out onto Platform 9¾ and inhaled deeply. It smelled of London and of city and of muggles.

She was home.

Her parents were waiting just outside the barrier when she crossed and she hugged them out of habit and tried not to think about how angry her father had been at her when she'd finally explained what she had done to keep them safe. She had not had the words then to make them understand, and she still did not.

The hurt was evident in her mother's eyes as she held Hermione at arm's length, considering her carefully.

"You've lost weight," she said at length.

"I've been under a lot of stress," Hermione replied. Her father had picked up her duffle from where she had dropped it onto the dirty floor of the train station and had slug it over his shoulder.

"The car's in the carpark across the street," he said, pointing to the exit they'd need to take. "Hope you're bundled up, Hermione, it's a bit nippy outside."

She laughed and followed her parents out the doors, unable to quell the nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had so much to tell them, and she was not entirely sure how much they were going to want to hear.

x

"Mum, can I talk to you and dad?" She'd been home for three days and the ache of not being around Fleur was almost too much for her to mentally handle. She had never really dated someone before. Ron, she supposed, but she had never missed him as though a part of her heart was missing just by being apart. She longed to apparate over to The Burrow to see her friends and to check up on how Bill's reconnaissance work was going, but she knew that she could not until the order meeting, still a few days away. The newspaper had been publishing her letters faithfully, and the reporting on the attacks had gotten a lot better since Rita Skeeter (still a good reporter despite the drivel she'd written about Albus Dumbledore) had been put on the story.

She was worried, heartsick, and she knew that she desperately needed to clear the air between herself and her parents or else the chance to do so would be completely ripped away from her by the bombshell she knew that she needed to drop on them as soon as humanly possible.

Her father had appropriated her copy of the Daily Prophet and was reading it with his eyebrows raised as he compared it to a story out of The Financial Times. The article, Hermione noted, was about the current Prime Minister's want to push some legislation with regards to restrictions on certain types of airplanes through parliament. The Prophet's article had talked about the implication of 'muggle flying tubes' being rerouted over traditional areas of denser wizarding populations and how to best protect one's self from such a device if one were to encounter one on a broom. Hermione watched his eyebrows climb higher and higher up his forehead as he read and tried not to shake her head.

They really didn't understand the wizarding world. And she had no real way of helping them to understand it.

"Sure sweetie, what is it?" Her mother asked, taking a bookmark and carefully marking the page of her novel with it.

Hermione sat on the couch, staring at her hands, flexing them. She thought of Draco Malfoy's hands, still so scarred (probably beyond repair) from an attack that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with his mother's-aunt's-second-cousin-twice-removed or some equally distant relation who happened to be a veela. There was no way that her parents could ever really understand the world that she had been born into, nor the power that she now possessed. She was one of the brightest of her age, if the school reports and McGonagall's boasting were to be believed, yet she could not explain magic to her parents.

She chose her words carefully, still staring at her hands. "I wanted to apologize for what I did." She looked from her mother to her father, so innocent and so blissfully unaware of all that had happened in the last year. "It was out of line. I should have found some way to explain it to you better."

Her mother frowned, leaning over to squeeze Hermione's shoulder. "It's alright sweetie, you did what you had to do."

"To do what I did is illegal mum," Hermione stressed. "It is against the law to tamper with a person's memory even slightly and I erased myself. I could go to prison for what I did. I probably should." She shook her head. "But I won't. It's not because I helped defeat Voldemort or because I am Harry Potter's best friend, but because they cannot lose me. I am too important to them."

Her father grunted and folded the paper, leaning forward, listening intently.

"So I wanted to say that I'm sorry. I was wrong to do it. I hope you understand that I knew of no other way to protect you from that evil."

Her mother looked sad for a minute, but nodded. "Is this why you've been moping about since you got home?" she asked, her hand squeezing Hermione's shoulder in what she thought was an encouraging gesture. Hermione wanted to shy away from the touch, fearful if it would become violent once she finished speaking.

"No. That is something else." She said, not looking at her mother. The rug, she noticed, was far more frayed that she remembered it being.

Her mother made a thoughtful noise. "Then you are lovesick. Don't worry Hermione; every girl goes through it eventually. It's a sign that you're growing up."

"I'm an adult already mum," The words came out more quickly than she'd intended.

Her father chuckled, "Who is this lucky person?"

Feeling heartened by his lack of gender-specific pronouns, Hermione swallowed whatever fears that still remained in her stomach and began to speak. "The same person who took care of me after I got hurt last year," she didn't know why she was being so vague, but it felt right. She had told her parents, when they had seen the scars that Bellatrix LeStrange had left on her body, how she had gotten better despite the severity of the wounds. How Fleur had held her when she had nightmares and how they still had not spoken of what had happened since (and still had not). How that kindness had not been something she deserved, given her relationship with Fleur at the time. "She's come back to teach at Hogwarts and we were able to spend a lot more time together this year than the last time she was here. Her name is Fleur Delacour, she's French."

"She?" Her mother's hand on her arm was shaking, but her voice was calm. Hermione hoped and prayed that this was a good thing and that nothing bad was about to happen. Every muscle in her body was tense and on edge, her eyes flicking from her mother to her father. She was filled with the urge to flee, to run from the room and expel the bile that had risen in her throat as she spoke.

"I met her when I was in fourth year, mum. Fifteen. She was seventeen at the time." Hermione swallowed, "She was the Beauxbatons champion in the Triwizard Cup."

Her father was silent, his hands clenched into fists, his face a passive mask of calm. Hermione eyed him fearfully as he slowly gathered himself and stood.

"I – I need time," he said, not looking at Hermione. He drew up to Hermione and touched her cheek gently, muttering, "My little girl," before turning and walking out of the room.

There were tears on her face and the clock in the hallway started to chime. It was ten o'clock at night now. Her parents should be going to bed soon. They had to work in the morning.

"Give us time Hermione," Her mother said, standing and collecting her book. "Thank you for apologizing, but please, give us some time."

As she left the room, Hermione hunched forward, palms of her hands pressing against her eyes as she struggled with the torrent of emotions cascading down around her. Soon only her sobs could be heard as her mother's footsteps on the stairs fell quiet.

x

An hour later, Hermione had finally calmed herself down enough to pull the small pouch of floo powder out of her pocket and her wand from its wrist holster. She flicked it in the direction of her family's seldom used fireplace and tossed a pinch of floo powder into the fire, hoping desperately that she'd be able to get in touch with someone who could get her Fleur without too many questions. She hoped she did not look like she'd been crying as she knelt in front of the crackling green flames and said very clearly, "The Burrow," before sticking her head into the flames.

The Weasley's kitchen swam into view and its lone occupant jumped as Hermione's face swam into view. It was quiet, but Hermione had spent enough time at the Weasley household to know that it was only because most of the occupants of the house had retreated to their beds and private conversation. Sitting at the large kitchen table and flipping through a packet of papers, scribbling things here and there, Bill Weasley set his quill down and came to squat in front of the fireplace. "Hey Hermione," he said with a bright smile.

Hermione's stomach turned when she saw that he was not wearing the ring that symbolized that fake marriage on his finger. She had always liked Bill, liked his easy way of smiling and the way he never judged as the rest of his family was sometimes quick to. "Could… could you get Fleur for me?" She asked quietly. She did not trust her voice very much after all the crying she'd done.

"Of course," Bill said with a glance towards the door. His face was drawn and he looked far more worried than she'd seen him in months. She hoped that the undercover work was not taking too much out of him. "Do you want to come through?" He asked as he stood back up.

Hermione shook her head. She did not think it was a good idea for her to go over there and risk Molly Weasley getting involved in her own personal heartbreak. "Your mum, you know."

"Ah," Bill said, nodding as well. Hermione brightened knowing that they had an accord. "You stay put, I'm going to just nip into the other room and get her. She's reading in there with George. Everyone else has gone to bed." With that, he stepped out of view and Hermione bit her lip.

She felt strange and alone, staring into the Weasley's kitchen, flames licking at the side of her face as she waited for the face she longed to see. The door banged open and Bill reappeared, talking quietly as he collected the papers from the table and waved to Hermione. Fleur answered him and then waited until the door closed once again and they were alone.

Hermione stared as Fleur sat cross-legged in front of the hearth, her elbows resting on her knees. She looked as world-weary as Hermione felt, and Hermione found herself speaking without preamble, "I told them, Fleur."

Fleur looked pensive, her fingers catching a lock of hair and twisting it around as she stared thoughtfully at Hermione. "I think they did not take it very well, non?"

She wondered how Fleur could be so perceptive. It was next to impossible for Hermione to read Fleur's moods, but Fleur could take one look at her and know what to say. She frowned, "They asked for time. I don't even know what that means." A small sigh escaped her lips, "I miss you." The admission hurt for some reason, like she was trying to be strong for Fleur and her illusion of calm and control had suddenly failed.

She was young still, and she could not handle the rejection. Not again.

Fleur shifted, her eyes sad. "Do you want me to come through?" she asked quietly, her voice low and intense. Hermione shivered, she should not be reacting this way, not at such a time. She wanted Fleur when she spoke that way, wanted her painfully and desperately.

She bit her tongue, knowing that to do this was foolish with her parents still potentially at her. "Could you, just for a few minutes?"

"Of course, let me tell William," She stood and stepped away from the hearth for moment before bending down and offering her hand to Hermione, who plunged her hand into the flame and pulled Fleur back into her own home.

Fleur landed in a heap on the rug her mother had placed in front of the fire. It had a Christmas pattern on it and Hermione remembered making it in primary school, felt shapes and glitter and pompoms dotted its deep green surface. Hermione felt incredibly awkward that Fleur Delacour was standing on her childhood creation. She reached down and pulled Fleur up from the ground where she'd landed and brushed her off – the soot was not that bad (probably because Fleur seemed incapable of getting dirty) and a quick scorgify took care of Hermione's arm and hair.

Hermione swallowed as Fleur looked around, eyes curious. "So… this is a muggle 'ouse," when she spoke, her voice maintained that quietly intense tone that Hermione found so irresistible.

"Yes, keep your voice down, my parents went to bed." She could not help being short, but she felt like she was fifteen again and sneaking around with Harry and Ron once again. They'd never come to visit her here, but she liked to think that Ron, at least, would have had a similar reaction to her parents thoroughly muggle sitting room. This wasn't the time, it was a bad idea, but she needed Fleur so desperately right now, there was no way that she could not allow herself to be pulled into a tight and loving embrace.

"You are so brave," Fleur said quietly. Her fingers played on Hermione's shoulder as Hermione felt herself start to crash. Her breath came in harsh pants as Fleur continued to allow her hands to roam freely across Hermione's back. "Are you alright?"

Hermione inhaled sharply, her breath still hitched as she tried to calm herself. She could handle this; she had handled far worse in the past year.

The thought of her parents no longer loving or accepting her, however, Hermione shook her head to dislodge the thought. "I think so, just very afraid that they'll disown me or something," she admitted, pulling away from Fleur's comforting embrace with a half-hearted smile.

Fleur looked pensive, tapping her finger on her chin as Hermione shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Hermione was struck in that moment with just how beautiful Fleur was. She looked like Aphrodite herself framed in the pale moonlight that flooded her family's sitting room, her hair glowing almost serenely in the half-light. Hermione used to think that Fleur took her looks for granted, but further examination had proven that fact to be completely the opposite. Fleur was beautiful in a conventional way, but there was a second layer to that – Fleur had a beautiful soul too. That kind of person only shone brightly for one individual.

"I think that if they were wanting to do that, they would 'ave done it right away." Fleur reached out and touched Hermione's cheek. "That would make sense, non?"

Hermione leaned into the touch. "It would," she laughed quietly. "I like the way you think."

Fleur leaned in and pressed her lips against Hermione's. The kiss was chaste, gentle, and above all else, reassuring. Fleur did not longer long, which made Hermione inwardly groan in frustration and debate the merits of dragging Fleur up to her bedroom and using her strongest silencing charms. "You 'ave a most intriguing mind yourself, Mademoiselle Granger," Fleur said with a smirk.

Upstairs, a toilet flushed and Hermione jumped. Fleur looked alarmed as Hermione reached into her pocket and shoved her bag of floo powder into Fleur's hands. "Bugger, they're still awake, you have to go," she hissed, her face burning at the fact that she had not planned for this. She leaned forward and pressed her lips against Fleur's, hoping beyond hope that Fleur would understand. "I love you, I hate to send you away, but please, go. I'll see you in a few days."

Fleur grinned at her, understanding clearly written in her eyes. "I love you too, 'ermione. Be strong, brave lion." She took a pinch of floo powder and threw it into the fire before handing Hermione back her pouch. Hermione watched with sad eyes as Fleur raised her hand and waved. "The Burrow," she said and vanished.