A/N: Hello! And here is the chapter showing Fleur's interview experience and FIIIIINALLY an honest-to-god, serious conversation between Fleur and Hermione.
Thank you to all of you who have dropped a comment or a message about this fic. A special thank you to all of you who have chipped in towards a new laptop over at ko-fi! I'm slowly getting there- won't be too many more chapters of chiselling away at a half broken keyboard, thank god! If you wanna chuck a few $ towards the efforts, or shout me a coffee, I'm on kofi at /zerozerozero :)
Anyway, I really appreciate all the interaction from people letting me know that they're enjoying the fic.
xx
Z
Fleur kept her head held high as she followed Hermione into the depths of the dreadful Ministry of Magic. It seemed like each floor they descended, the winding hallways grew darker and dirtier. For a Ministry that regulated all magical affairs in the United Kingdom, they really didn't have the most glamorous of buildings.
Fleur eyed the chipped stone hallway with distaste.
Her high heels clacked loudly on the cold floors, the sound bouncing back off the hardened walls to ring in her ears.
It was hard to remember it was the peak of summer outside. They were so far below ground level now that there was a damp chill in the air, causing Fleur's skin to prickle and goosebump under her thin summer dress.
Fleur's stomach was in knots. She wished she hadn't screwed up so royally the previous night. She wished things were easier.
The sting of rejection was fresh in her mind. Nobody had ever denied her sex before, especially when she already had them melting beneath her the way Hermione had been. Fleur tried not to dwell on it, instead focussing on Hermione's seemingly honourable intentions for halting.
Hermione had seen straight through Fleur. She knew that Fleur was struggling to trust her deeper, to open up fully.
Fleur wanted to talk to Hermione about it… Explain that she simply wasn't able to function like that. But she didn't even know how to begin, or what to say.
Sorry I can't get my shit together?
Sorry you might end up with a hefty fine and prison sentence because of me?
Sorry I'm bringing us both down because I'm a shadow of a person?
Whatever unfortunate wording she might have settled on— Fleur didn't get a chance to speak, as they had scarcely entered the reception area when Hermione was whipped away for her interview down one corridor by a polite receptionist.
Within five minutes of Hermione leaving, Fleur was ushered down a different corridor by a burly man brandishing a wand.
Fleur frowned, not quite expecting Ministry staff to be aiming wands at members of the public.
The man escorting her was wearing heavy black cotton robes, belted with a thick leather belt. A number of keys jangled loudly from the belt. Something was off. He didn't seem like someone who would be simply asking her administrative questions about a marriage.
Fleur's shoulders tensed and she held her head higher. She was growing more on edge with each step through the cold and dank corridors.
The man had a heavy scowl and closely shaved head. His narrow eyes kept darting to Fleur as they approached a heavy wooden door.
Fishing the right key out of his keyring, the hulking man unlocked the door before directing Fleur to enter with a wave of his ham-like arm.
Fixing the man with an icy stare, Fleur entered the room.
It was a dark, dungeon-like room, lit only by one blindingly bright orb of light in a corner. The room was scarcely furnished— with two steel chairs and a curious steel table. The table stood out to Fleur. It was strange— gleaming bare steel that was unblemished except for two large latches.
Standing in the room was a small man with horn-rimmed glasses, a brown set of dress robes, and a clipboard. He was flanked by two hulking, dark robed men similar to the one that had just ushered Fleur into the room. The men in the dark robes had their wands raised at her.
"What is this?" Fleur asked suspiciously, her eyes flicking between the men and the odd metal table.
There was a sudden shuffling and with a gasp, Fleur found herself being choked by a warm beefy arm and restrained by another beefy arm around her waist. The man who had led her into the room had grabbed a hold of her roughly and was half-lifting, half-dragging her towards the table.
Fleur gasped for breath, hating the warmth of the large man against her and the sour smell of his sweat as he man-handled her.
The two other men in dark robes kept their wands trained on her. The man in brown dress robes simply looked bored, looking at his clipboard. His lack of reaction assured Fleur that this had been planned before she had even entered the room.
"Veela," the man in the brown robes intoned loudly, ignoring the scuffle in front of him, "A humanoid, sentient creature, first discovered in the woodlands of Eastern Europe…"
One of the other dark-robed men came forward to assist. Fleur was wrenched into one of the steel chairs, which was pushed right into the table so firmly she barely hard room to breathe. Her hands were roughly pulled out onto the table before her.
The table, which had confused Fleur with its metal clasps built into it, now made horrific sense. The men snapped the clasps tightly around Fleur's wrists, binding her to the table.
The men stepped back and Fleur gulped in the cold air as much as she could from her uncomfortable position. The cold, damp air burned her throat as she swallowed down a burgeoning panic, already beginning to stab the pit of her stomach.
The man in the brown dress robes slowly wandered over to the seat across from her, walking at a leisurely pace with his eyes still on his clipboard.
"…Veela are highly dangerous, capable of hypnotising and mesmerising at their best… and attacking with scaly wings, talons and fireballs at their worst," the man intoned. He sat down in the seat across from her, crossing his legs and placing the clipboard on the table in front of him. He straightened it, ensuring it was at a perfectly lined up with the table edges.
"I'm not a Veela, my grandmother is," Fleur said through gritted teeth. Having her hands bound on the table was sending a numbing chill up her arms and forcing her to sit on an uncomfortable angle, half hunched over the table.
The anxiety coursing through her system was making her agitated, a feeling only made worse by being bound in place.
The man finally looked up from his clipboard, eying Fleur with disdain. He straightened his robes, though they were already immaculate.
"A quarter of that dangerous creature blood runs through you," the man responded, prodding at his parchment, "You do not have full human heritage, therefore you are not human."
"I—" Fleur attempted to interrupt with the French Ministry's definition on mixed heritage, but was instantly interrupted by the infuriating man.
"Trevor Harrison," the man introduced, "I'll be running your interview today."
"Interview?!" Fleur snapped, "More like detainment. I'm shackled to a table. This can't be legal."
"Under Section 758(b) of the Dangerous Creatures Safety Act 1623, this is a perfectly legal and appropriate way for us to ensure the safety of Ministry staff during our interviews when dealing with a Schedule 2 creature or part-creature," Harrison replied without missing a beat, "Now, to our first matter… Where were you first registered?"
Fleur frowned, her anxiety twisting into outrage and anger. She tried not to let her temper run away with her, despite the appalling treatment from the jumped up pencil pusher in front of her. It wouldn't surprise her if part of their intention was to make her snap— just to prove she had the stereotypical Veela temper.
"Veela and part-Veela are not required to be registered in France," Fleur replied tersely. Instead of savaging him verbally, Fleur settled on trying to burn the man into a crisp via her glare alone.
Harrison smiled, a sour smile that reminded Fleur very much of Umbridge. He scratched his quill across his clipboard in an irritating way.
"But they are here," Harrison asserted, his passive aggressive smile twitching. A firm tap of his quill on his paper emphasised his point.
This was a pointless line of questioning, seemingly aimed at throwing Fleur off and fixating on her status as a part-creature. As someone that was somehow lesser. Fleur fisted her hands on the table.
"The Headmistress of my school, Madame Maxime, filed the necessary paperwork to register all part-creature students when we came here for the Triwizard Tournament. It is my understanding that we only need to register once with your Ministry, on first arrival to the United Kingdom," Fleur retorted.
Harrison frowned, clearly hoping to have caught Fleur on a technicality, but scribbled on his clipboard all the same.
Fleur pulled against the shackles attaching her to the table, hoping there was some give that would relax the discomfort. The cold metal was digging into the skin of her wrists, pulling her forward at an angle that was already causing her back to ache. At the slight movement, all three of the dark-robed men raised their wands at her again. Fleur sighed.
"Please remain still, Veela," Harrison instructed, fixing her with a severe look.
"It's Fleur," Fleur corrected angrily, "And excuse me for readjusting, despite the comfort of a freezing and hard table."
Fleur's tone was dripping with ire and sarcasm, but Harrison nodded as if she had been entirely earnest. Fleur glared at the men in the room, her temper continuing to ratchet upwards. Her frustration had now almost entirely outweighed her panic at her situation.
"We at the Ministry have a duty to ensure that we are careful with granting residence visas," Harrison said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "Particularly when it comes to those classed as dangerous creatures" — he interrupted Fleur as she opened her mouth, "— or part-creatures. We don't want another magical region's problems to become our problems, you see. It would hardly be fair for the population of witches and wizards in the United Kingdom to take on all of France's lethal creatures."
Fleur chose not to reply, not trusting herself to speak evenly. She bit the inside of her cheek as she fixed Harrison with a cold, unreadable stare. She had no idea how she was to maintain her temper for the entirety of this interview. Fleur didn't have a great hold on her temper at the best of times.
Harrison seemed almost disappointed at the lack of retort, before looking down and scribbling on his clipboard again.
"When is the last time you transformed, Veela?" Harrison asked, not even bothering to look at her now.
"Never," Fleur replied in a forced tone, "As I have stated a number of times now, it is my grandmother who was the Veela. I am human with a fraction of creature heritage. I cannot transform as I am not a 'Veela.'"
"Right," Harrison replied as if he did not believe her at all, "And what affiliations do you have with the Veela? Which clan do you belong to?"
"None," Fleur replied, her tone growing more impatient, "Veela do not recognise me as Veela. They see me as a human with Veela heritage, which is what I am. As I stated, it was my grandmother who was the Veela, who was part of the community. I am not Veela, therefore am not a member of any Veela clan."
"Sure," Harrison said abruptly, again speaking as if he didn't believe a word she said.
Fleur frowned deeply, pulling her wrists against the shackles on the table again. The hard metal was digging into her skin harder, and it hurt. She could see angry red marks burning into her skin from the pressure of the metal.
The dark robed men again raised their wands in a threatening manner, but Fleur ignored them. She focussed on trying to keep her temper under control.
"How many times, on average, per week, do you use Veela powers?" Harrison asked, he flipped to another page, "This includes, but is not limited to: fireballs from your hands, producing claws, wandless magic—"
"I am getting sick of repeating myself, I cannot do any of that because I am not a full blooded Veela!" Fleur snapped.
As she raised her tone, the dark robed men all took shuddering steps back, brandishing their wands even more desperately. Harrison edged his chair back slightly, though not so slightly that Fleur did not notice it.
Fear.
Their behaviour was built on fear.
Fear of the unknown. Fear of a difference that they didn't quite understand.
They had wanted to provoke a temper that would somehow prove she was dangerous and undeserving of a visa, but they were afraid of what that temper held.
There was a tense silence in the room as the men regarded Fleur with extreme caution. Fleur bathed in the realisation that the men treating her so appallingly were truly afraid of what she might be capable of. It was an odd feeling. Powerful. Alienating.
Harrison cleared his throat, apparently snapping out of his fright.
"We have heard via interviews with numerous people who have previously met your acquaintance that they detect the unmistakeable draw of a Veela Thrall," Harrison said slowly, accusingly, "Can you explain for me how you claim not to have any of the Veela powers and yet, those around you can feel the Thrall?"
Fleur refrained from rolling her eyes.
It was hardly a Thrall.
Anyone who had felt a true Veela Thrall would know that. The vague, intangible draw and attraction that people felt towards her was merely a weak hangover of the Veela lineage. It was common amongst those with Veela further up their family tree, and in no way indicative of any special Veela powers or abilities.
Fleur knew it would be futile to attempt to explain that to the small minded man in front of her. It would be opening a door to a line of further challenges and disbelief.
But how to explain the slight draw that the general male population could feel towards her?
Fleur set her face in a proud smirk.
"Did you attend the Quidditch World Cup a few years ago when Ireland played Bulgaria?" Fleur asked innocently, smiling widely to show her perfect white teeth.
"Yes," Harrison said cautiously, narrowing his eyes with suspicion.
"Buncha us from the office got seats all together," one of the large dark robed men said, before being silenced with a curt look from Harrison.
"And you remember the show from Bulgaria's… mascots," Fleur said the last word distastefully. The bigotry towards those with Veela blood had been at an all time high following the high profile use of Veela as exotic mascots.
"Yes," Harrison said simply, though Fleur noted a slight blush creeping up his neck from his collar.
"Then you must have noticed the effect that the Veela Thrall has," Fleur continued, "Despite being at some distance from the spectators, I can imagine all those attracted to women were eager to get out of their seats. I bet some had to be restrained by friends and family members to prevent them from trying to get to the Veela."
The red blush travelled up Harrison's neck and Fleur knew that he must have been one of the weak-willed spectators that had needed to be held back from physically running to the Veela.
"And?" Harrison bristled.
"And yet, here I am," Fleur said daintily, "Sitting mere steps away from all of you men. Despite the claims of being a Veela, I have yet to see any one of you climb over the table to get to me, or fall on your knees for me. If I truly had the Veela Thrall, this interview would have been over in thirty seconds at my request."
"Then how do you explain the feeling of—" Harrison purpled with awkwardness and embarrassment, finally losing his cool as the power suddenly shifted in the interview dynamic. At a loss for words, he gestured vaguely in Fleur's direction with his hands.
"I am simply an incredibly attractive woman. Anything anyone might feel is just standard attraction— though I must say, this seems incredibly inappropriate for you to bring up," Fleur said with a cocky smirk, "Now, did you men drag me into this hell hole of a room to hit on me or to interview me?"
Harrison made a strangled noise halfway between a choke and a yelp. His skin was bright red and purply, his eyes practically bulging out of his head at such an undignified insinuation. The dark robed men simply looked uncomfortable, shuffling from foot to foot.
In an attempt to escape his mortification, Harrison drew his clipboard up and in front of his face— almost to shield himself from Fleur.
He rifled through the pages madly, as if searching for a solution to the situation.
A heavy silence — punctuated only by the rustling of pages— fell over the room. Fleur felt her anger ease a little. The dark robed men were already looking less sure of themselves in the wake of Harrison's rattled behaviour.
"Trev?" one of the dark robed men ventured, looking at a loss as to what he should be doing. The wand he had trained at Fleur had slackened a little.
"Oh, shut up!" Harrison barked, slamming his clipboard down on the steel table with enough force to make two of the dark robed men jump with surprise.
He was still quite red, though he looked like he had regained some of his composure. His eyes, previously bored and smug, were now alight with anger and hatred. They returned to Fleur, regarding her with malice.
"We are here to assess the level of danger you pose to the general population, and whether we should decline your application on that basis, Ms. Delacour," Harrison spat acidly.
Fleur, smug smirk still firmly in place, was inwardly relieved. At least that meant that the questions would probably remain on her heritage— a topic she was fine to navigate.
"I was under the impression that you would be assessing the validity of my relationship with Hermione," Fleur said silkily.
She really didn't mind this turn of events. She had been a bundle of nerves thinking of all the obscure things they could ask her about Hermione that she might not know yet.
"Of course we are," Harrison shot back, "That's why your wife is being questioned on details of your relationship as we speak. She is a human, and we need to assess whether she has legitimately entered a relationship with you."
"And me?" Fleur questioned, arching an eyebrow at the detestable man.
"You are a creature," Harrison replied with barely hidden disgust, "Before we even approach such matters, we have to assess your danger level."
Fleur drummed her perfectly manicured fingers on the steel table, the only relaxed action she could do while bound in such a way.
"And what are the Ministry's findings thus far?" Fleur asked, putting on her best bored tone.
Harrison glared at her.
"Undetermined," Harrison replied sourly, "I am not convinced of your answers regarding Veela traits. Veela remain classed as a high-danger creature."
"That's a shame," Fleur sighed breezily, looking around the room as if Harrison was the least interesting thing in the world to her.
Harrison exhaled heavily through his nostrils. He seemed to be working hard to hold back what he really wanted to say.
This was enough of a victory for Fleur. She had broken the buttoned-down man's composure. She had derailed his efforts to rile her. The dynamic had been successfully reversed between them. She could chalk this interview up as a win.
"So the interview is over, then?" Fleur asked casually.
"Far from it," Harrison scowled at her.
There was a curt knocking at the heavy door and two of the dark robed men turned their attention to it.
"Eh? Enter," Harrison barked, confused. He did not seem to expect the interruption.
Fleur heard the light clunk of the lock and the creak of the opening door. She heard footsteps as one or two people entered the room.
Fleur couldn't turn around properly to see who had entered, but she could see from Harrison's face that he wasn't happy about the intruder.
"You are not to be in here," Harrison said curtly, "That is the entire point of these sessions."
"Yes, so Ms. Umbridge already explained to me," the voice of Hermione rang out like a beam of light in the dank dungeon, "But I want to see my wife and I want to know why she is being interviewed under armed guard. Did you really think I wouldn't notice the line of armed guards all the way down the hallway to this room? Do you take me for a fool?"
"We tried to stop her, Trev," a voice sounded from behind Fleur, in the same direction as Hermione's, "But… Well, we weren't sure what the rules were around hexing her."
"Buffoon," Harrison spat, before turning his attention back to Hermione, "Ms. Granger, armed guard is standard procedure for dangerous creatures. I would appreciate if you could stop apprehending our staff and go wait in the waiting room for your… spouse."
"I will not,"
Hermione's signature bossy tone rang louder as the brunette ventured further in the room. Finally she came into Fleur's vision, pausing abruptly as her brown eyes locked onto the shackles.
"And what exactly do you call this?!" Hermione shouted, gesturing at Fleur's wrists bound to the table.
"Standard procedure," Harrison bit back, inclining his chin in defiance at the young woman.
"He said he feels attracted to me, too," Fleur told Hermione puckishly, enjoying the purpling of Harrison's face once again.
"I— That's not—"
Hermione looked positively thunderous.
"I don't know what passes for an acceptable interview in this Ministry," Hermione enunciated with carefully controlled rage, "But this is not okay. What on Earth possessed you that you would think—"
"The interview is over," Harrison spoke quickly, clearly cutting his losses in the face of an irate Hermione Granger. Fleur smirked. Hermione would likely still bury the man in paperwork with complaints about this.
One of the bumbling dark robed men stepped forward and released Fleur's wrists from the table.
Relieved, Fleur leaned back in her chair, clicking her sore back and rubbing her bruised wrists.
"Thanks, babe," Fleur thanked Hermione with a grin.
She should be furious. Part of her still wanted to take advantage of her freedom to lurch forward and slap Harrison across his stupid face.
But mostly, Fleur was relieved to be free. Relieved to see Hermione in this godforsaken place.
Hermione, her brown eyes burning with concern, glanced at Harrison. It seemed like she was similarly weighing up harming the man. Sighing heavily, Hermione took one of Fleur's hands. Her tanned hand felt warm and soft against Fleur's cold and sore skin.
It felt like a lifeline.
Tonks swore.
She was sitting across from Hermione and Fleur in a low-key bar, her pint of beer entirely forgotten as the couple filled her in on the "interviews."
Hermione felt validated by the reaction of the young Auror— who was looking strangely serious for once. She had jet black hair today, long and straight, and bright blue eyes that were wide in shock.
Hermione still felt sick at the situation she had found Fleur in. She had barely let Fleur out of her grasp since then, and was currently rubbing a soothing balm into her wife's wrists. The blonde's wrists were already bright with fresh bruises and pressure marks from her shackles.
Fleur had been largely silent since recounting her interview to the women, which had sounded like some bigoted attempt to try and paint her as a dangerous creature in order to disqualify her from the chance of a visa.
"I mean, I shouldn't be surprised," Tonks said finally, scowling, "The Ministry, though it has it's bloody decent folk, has always had factions of dreadfulness. We saw as much when Harry was hauled in over being attacked by a Dementor. There are people not afraid to use the system to set people up, to control people, to manipulate."
"They clearly know that Fleur is part of a wider plan involving Harry," Hermione said, circling her thumb to rub the balm soothingly into Fleur's poor wrists.
"And clearly don't care how they try to disqualify Fleur from the visa," Tonks frowned, "And using your interview to try and find out where Harry is?! I don't like it. That's not just crooked bigotry, that stinks of Death Eater involvement."
Fleur withdrew one of her small hands from Hermione's grasp, grabbing her glass of gin and tonic from the table and taking a heavy swig. Hermione couldn't blame her. She'd thought her own interview with Umbridge had been bad enough.
If anything, Hermione was surprised why Fleur wasn't angrier.
The blonde had been near silent since they had left the Ministry, only speaking to greet Tonks at the bar, place her order, and then recount her 'interview' with a disturbing lack of emotion.
Hermione bit her lip.
She needed to make sure she had time to speak to Fleur alone after all this. She was worried about her.
But for now, they had pressing matters at hand.
"So, what do we do now?" Hermione asked Tonks, "Make a run for it? We could move in with Harry and Ron."
Tonks shook her head.
"That would just be a non verbal confirmation that something is definitely afoot. For now they just have their suspicions. You both did a bloody good job keeping them at bay during the interviews," Tonks explained, "They'll be licking their wounds and regrouping for their next tactic. At the moment you just have to act normal. It will keep them off-balance and buy us more time to think of our next moves."
"What are we going to do next?" Hermione growled, "I feel like we're just dodging crap with no solid ideas of what we're going to do."
Tonks drummed her fingers on the wooden table, looking between the spouses across from her.
"Look, I'd be frustrated too if I'd just copped the afternoon you two have," Tonks said sympathetically, "But the worst thing we could do right now is just make knee-jerk reactions. I've had progress with Fred, George and Andromeda! I think we can tentatively plan to meet at Harry's in a couple of nights and lay all our cards on the table."
"Fred, George and Andromeda Tonks…" Hermione intoned flatly, "So… The twins and your mum?"
Tonks held up her hands in mock defence.
"I know what you're thinking! It doesn't sound like much! But you just wait until we get stuck in," Tonks said quickly, "Besides, I might have more luck tracking down Hagrid before then. Or thinking of someone else useful. Just… hold tight, yeah?"
Hermione cast a look at Fleur.
Fleur was nodding politely, her face expressionless and proud. Previously, Hermione would have written this off as Fleur being distant, cold and proud. But now she knew it was Fleur with her walls up, holding herself tightly together.
Hermione looked back at Tonks. Injustice, anger, frustration were all swirling within her. Every fibre of her being screamed for her to take action.
The Gryffindor took a deep, steadying breath.
"Sure."
Fleur was feeling a little numb.
She had barely followed the conversation with Tonks and Hermione at the bar. Hermione had owled for the colourful auror as soon as they had got out of the Ministry, saying they simply had to take action after what had happened.
Fleur, now she had the time and space to process what had happened to her at the Ministry, felt differently. What was the point?
At least her wrists were no longer aching. The balm Hermione had picked up from a nearby potion shop and rubbed in had done wonders to ease the bruising from the Ministry shackles.
After their drink and chat with Tonks, Hermione had insisted that they go for a walk to clear their minds.
Hermione had taken Fleur to a quiet park. It was pleasant, bright flower beds and darting creatures.
Fleur enjoyed the heat of the late day sun on her shoulders as they walked hand in hand. The grass at the park, unlike at their tiny cottage, was vibrant green and healthy.
"Fleur," Hermione finally broke the silence that had lasted for most of the walk so far.
Fleur sighed, not wanting to talk, but knowing it was unavoidable.
"Mhmm," Fleur replied.
Hermione squeezed her hand. It didn't soothe Fleur.
"You mentioned your mum once…" Hermione began. Her voice was sure and strong, but her words were clumsy, like she wasn't convinced she was using the right words.
"Mhmm," Fleur replied again, guarded.
They walked past a small pond, where a number of small ducklings were chasing after their mother.
"Have…" Hermione paused, before she tried again, "Have you been let down a lot by other people, too?"
Fleur let out a low, humourless laugh.
Everyone she had ever met in life had harboured an ulterior motive. Everyone except Gabrielle.
Even Madame Maxime had simply seen her as a tool to launch Beauxbatons' reputation to new heights.
Every date, every friend, every adult in her life growing up. All of them had wanted some piece of her to take. Taking and taking and taking. It was a wonder there was any of Fleur left.
Arm candy. A notch on a bedpost. An exotic, part-creature to introduce to friends. A model student. Someone with a useful connection. Someone who had fame after the Triwizard Tournament that they could exploit.
And the latest? A lamb to slaughter.
A means to an end.
Fleur knew Hermione was outraged at every injustice she saw doled out towards Fleur. Fleur knew that Hermione cared in a way that others hadn't cared.
But when Hermione looked at her like she was the only one in the room… It echoed of all the other people in the past who had looked at her the same way. Only to take what they wanted and toss her aside afterwards.
It was hard to break a lifetime of expecting the second shoe to drop.
"I'll take that as a yes," Hermione surmised, seeming to sense that Fleur wasn't going to follow up her laugh with an answer.
She squeezed Fleur's hand again, trying to be comforting.
Fleur wished she wasn't so numb inside and that Hermione's actions of comfort could actually soothe her.
The birds chirped around them cheerily, oblivious to the sombre mood of the young couple.
"I really did loathe you at Hogwarts," Hermione admitted, catching Fleur off-guard. She hadn't expected that.
"I mean, now, especially after being grilled about that year by Umbridge, I recognise a lot of it as misdirected sexual frustration… Of not knowing how to deal with how damned attractive you were and feeling incredibly awkward and angry about it," Hermione rambled, "But at the time… I just thought you were such a prat. You were so cold and arrogant and didn't bother trying to soften your opinions on anything."
Fleur was thrown. She felt a slight smile tug at the corner of her lips, both at Hermione admitting she had found her attractive during the Triwizard Tournament, and the way she had called her a prat.
Hermione paused briefly in her quick talking to take a breath.
"And— I know this sounds bloody awful— it does, doesn't it? Ron always said I was terrible at dealing with people… And I've never agreed with that… But maybe he has a point… Anyway, that's not what I'm talking about right now…"
Hermione was rambling even more now, gesturing awkwardly with her free hand. Fleur quietly thought it was quite cute.
"Anyway, it drove me insane that everyone would talk about you— At the time I was angry that people were giving such a dreadful girl so much attention," Hermione shot a cautious look at Fleur, momentarily concerned she had crossed a line, "Um… I mean… Well— Now, I think about the way people spoke about you…"
Fleur remained silent, allowing the rambling brunette to gather her thoughts and continue.
"People spoke about you like you were an object," Hermione eventually explained, "They talked about your body, speculated about your heritage… Even the straight girls were fixated on how you got your hair to look the way it did. Heck, Ron would stare at you daily like you were one of the magazines he thinks he has so well hidden in his trunk."
"After you were selected for the Triwizard Tournament, it got even worse," Hermione continued, "People speculated that you had been picked for your looks, to add a pretty face to the mix for audience interest. People tried to boast about supposed past conquests with you. Some Durmstrang boys made it a game to try to snap some upskirt photos of you whenever you would have to walk up the staircases for classes."
Fleur frowned. She hadn't thought about that part of her Triwizard Tournament experience for some time. But it hadn't been anything she hadn't expected.
She recalled that a handsome Ravenclaw boy, Roger Davies, had befriended her— briefly giving her hope that some of the male population were interested in actually getting to know her for her. Only for him to drool over her mindlessly for the entire Yule Ball and try to force sex afterwards. She smirked at the memory of how in response, she had given him a black eye that hadn't faded for weeks.
Hermione's hand was sweaty as it held firm to Fleur's. She was nervous she was screwing this up, Fleur could tell.
"Um— What I'm trying to say— I swear I'm not just trying to make you feel terrible— What I'm trying to say… Is I understand if you carry some kind of baggage from the way people treat you," Hermione managed to get out, "And… I know I can't possibly know all the dreadful ways people have treated you, or let you down… But I know that it can't be easy for you to trust people at face value."
Fleur was stunned at Hermione's words. It wasn't that long ago that the brunette had misunderstood her to such a degree that they would simply exchange barbs.
"I know it isn't as simple as me just telling you that I care, that I won't let you down… Say or do something awful to you…" Hermione was rambling again, "But— But, I promise I'm here for you. And I'm fine to wait as long as it takes to show you that you don't have to be afraid of trusting me all the way."
Fleur squeezed Hermione's hand.
"Thanks, Hermione," Fleur said softly, "I do trust you… It's just hard to trust people fully. It's hard to open up."
Hermione looked incredibly relieved that Fleur had finally spoken, taking the pressure off her awkward rambling. But mostly she looked happy that Fleur had taken on board what she had said.
"There's no rush here," Hermione promised, "As long as it takes, really."