Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"Put it on my life baby
I can make you feel right baby
I can’t promise tomorrow
But I promise tonight"
- Give Me Everything Tonight

“Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string.” – Self Reliance

~

The first time she sees her, she hates her on principle. How can she not? A beautiful foreign girl with a bewitching smile and a charming accent that reduces all of her friends to nothing but stuttering fools is hardly worthy of Hermione's attention. Especially when she makes them all go to pieces over something as silly as asking if they are finished with the tureen of French cuisine that they’ve scarce touched.

Typical, Hermione had thought when Ron turned his nose up after lifting the spoon, present the English boys with a plate of something with spice and they turn up their noses.

Still, the girl is intriguing, she smiles at Hermione with the shy sort of smile that one extends to unfamiliar strangers. The smile is sure to win the hearts of the crowded Great Hall of Hogwarts, but not the heart of Hermione Granger. Not when she’s come to associate such looks with all the aspects of the girls who make a point in the toilets and in the hallways on the way to class to tell Hermione how she lacks these traits: hair too curly, teeth too big, annoying know-it-all. Hermione’s gaze slides over to the Slytherin table to see her twin tormentors watching the conversation with interest. Hermione closes her eyes and counts to five. She’ll hear about this for days then.

“No, we’re finished with it,” she says. "Er--" she pauses, trying to remember the French she picked up over the holidays. "Nous sommes fini?" She's not sure she got that right.

The attempt earns her a smile that is more open than the one before, all dazzling teeth and a softening around the girl's eyes that makes the back of Hermione's neck grow warm. "Vous avez terminé. Fini n'est pas..." She appears lost in thought. "The word is a little different in meaning." She tilts her head. "Thank you, though."

“It’s nothing,” Hermione says. “They weren’t going to eat it anyway.”

Objectively, she knows she should not judge this girl, because then she’ll be no better than her classmates that are so, so cruel when they want to be. She’s hesitant though, because the vapid girls in her year and the year above are empty underneath their looks; just a holier-than-thou attitude, terrible politics, and no substance. Certainly not any intelligence. Still, something in the back of her mind tells her that Beauxbatons would not put forward someone who is just a pretty face as their champion for the Triwizard Tournament. No, they'd put forward someone with merit, someone who'd earned a place to try and compete. 

Hermione gets awkwardly to her feet and helps the girl gather the bowl of bouillabaisse. Their fingers brush as Hermione secures the lid on the tureen and passes her the spoon. Heat rises, warm and gentle, in her stomach. She sits down, ears a bit warm, and watches her retreat to the Ravenclaw table.

What was that?

Ron makes some comment about them being built differently in France, and Hermione swats the back of his head. "She's a person, you know."

"They don't make people like that this side of the Channel," Ron retorts. 

Hermione rolls her eyes and goes back to her dinner. 

~

When Halloween comes and each of the schools pick champions, Hermione only has time to be shocked for a minute when the name that Professor Dumbledore reads as the Beauxbatons champion belongs to that same beautiful girl. Her name is Fleur Delacour. Hermione’s mind starts racing at the surname. Wasn’t there a Delacour in government? She’s sure she read the name in the papers before. Hermione watches as she rises from the Ravenclaw table. She looks triumphant. Was this always the plan? Was she the best Beaubatons had? She wants to know more -- Hermione turns to Ron, her mouth open to ask him, but he’s staring at the girl’s arse with a dazed look on his face. She pokes his cheek.

“What?” he asks, batting her hand away. He’s distracted still.

There’s a reprimand on her lips, but the back of her neck is burning too. She can’t say anything though, as the Goblet of Fire has belched up another name – a fourth name. Dumbledore reads it, and even from here, far removed from the head table, Hermione sees his hand shake holding the parchment. As Harry gets to unsteady feet and everything that was good and normal about her life vanishes in a cloud of angry smoke.

When Harry returns later, after curfew and deathly pale, he all but collapses into one of the sofas in the common room. “I can’t get out of it.”

“Did you put your name in?” Hermione asks.

“No,” Harry answers. His voice trembles as he speaks. He looks terrified. “I didn’t.”

The next morning Harry comes downstairs and confesses to Hermione that he and Ron have had a row. Ron is jealous – another year of Harry getting glory he says. Hermione is more worried he’s going to end up dead. Hogwarts: a History is full of stories of students who’ve died during the Triwizard Tournament. She ignores their feud as it continues over the course of the next few weeks, puffing out her cheeks every time one of them asks her to convey a message to the other. It is maddening, being caught in the middle of them.

One morning at breakfast when Harry and Ron are being particularly testy with each other, Hermione finds herself so exasperated with their arguments that she gets up and goes to sit at the far end of the table between Fred, George and Alicia Spinnet. "Alright?" Fred asks with a raised eyebrow. 

"I'm sick of them," Hermione replies, glaring over in Harry and Ron's direction.

Alicia sighs. "They'll get over it."

"Or come to blows," George adds.

Alicia rolls her eyes at him. He winks at her. Hermione watches them interact and cannot help but be taken the ease of their interaction, but she takes the Prophet from Fred after he pulls out the puzzles page and lays it flat on the table. "Right," Fred says. He pulls a muggle pen out of his pocket and bites the cap off. "One across is a long one. Saw dog wearing lead."

George hums and Alicia tilts her head to the side, thinking.

The answer is proverb, Hermione knows, but she says nothing. Let them guess at it, goodness knows wizards need more time thinking about logic puzzles. Her eye has caught the below-the-fold article on the Triwizard Tournament. In the build up to the First Task, the Prophet has been profiling each of the champions, and each article has been more unflattering than the last. This article is about Fleur Delacour, and the stance that Rita Skeeter has taken in her tone suggests that she doesn't much care for Fleur's looks, or her magical ability. Still though, there’s a little twist of vindication in Hermione’s stomach; she was right, there is a Delacour in the French wizarding government, Fleur’s mother. Rita has included some sordid details about the Delacour family's politics, about their blood purity as a largely Veela family, and about how many of the family had died during the combined muggle and wizarding wars. She doesn't go into much depth beyond died, which strikes Hermione as odd. She files that information away, along with the fact that Fleur Delacour is apparently on top of her class, and is very good at charms and ancient runes. 

"I say nothing," Fred says. "There's a full stop at the end."

"Ego," Hermione answers distractedly, running her finger down the article as she reads that Fleur has a younger sister, who's is still two years away from formal enrollment in wizarding secondary school. "Move the period."

Alicia turns and looks at her. 

Hermione flushes, meeting Alicia's eyes. "I do these with my mum a lot."

~

Maybe, Hermione thinks, watching Fleur Delacour roll away from her dragon during the first task of the Tournament, she’s allowed to be a little bit impressed. Fleur moves like a footballer, all grace on her feet as she dodges around the dragon. It sets the sleeve of her robe on fire but she still manages to retrieve her egg and complete the task. She receives good marks. Cedric’s are much worse, Hermione reasons afterwards. Harry is tied for first place, and Ron is speaking to him again. Hermione breathes a sigh of relief and goes about her business.

In December Viktor Krum asks her to the Yule Ball. Hermione, who has never really received any attention from anyone before, smiles shyly up at him and says yes. He tells her she’s beautiful and she doesn’t feel the butterflies in her stomach the way the books describe. Still, she likes talking to Viktor, likes how he views the world and treats her as his equal even though he is older than her and very, very good at quidditch. They go walking in the snow together and he regales her of stories of Bulgaria. She tells him about the creatures of the forest and about growing up in muggle London. It’s nice to have a friend like this.

When she gets back to the common room later that evening, teeth chattering and hair frizzing from the snow, Hermione realizes she cannot tell Harry or Ron about this. Viktor is her friend, but they won’t see it that way. They’ll find out, she knows, on the day of the Yule Ball, but she doesn’t want to tell them yet. Instead she writes her mother for advice on how to straighten her hair without an iron or any of the products her mother’s friends have used on her hair in the past. She would ask Parvati for advice, but they’re not really speaking at the moment after a rather testy conversation over Hermione’s dropping Divination at the start of term.

In the same breath she’s annoyed that Harry hasn’t asked her to be his partner for what is sure to be a grueling social ordeal. While she knows he means nothing by it, and that their friendship isn’t really structured around her being a girl and his being a boy, she would have thought he’d offer. The annoyance peaks when Ron and Dean stumble into the common room not long after Hermione gets back looking like he’s seen a ghost. “You alright?” she asks.

Ron says nothing. Dean supplies: “He’s just asked Fleur Delacour to the ball. Kind of shouted at her really.”

Something twists in Hermione’s stomach. She feels the unpleasantness when she looks at Ron and thinks about Fleur Delacour. She doesn’t understand why she’s angry at him – if it’s because he asked Fleur or if it’s because he hadn’t bothered to ask her first. She swallows back the annoyance and offers a weak smile to Ron when he looks at her funny. “Say, Hermione… You’re a girl.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, well spotted Ronald.”

“Are you going with anyone? Would you go with me?”

“As a matter of fact, I am going with someone” Hermione snaps. She gathers her things and storms out of the common room, curls bouncing across her forehead.

The next morning during their break, she says yes to Viktor. He smiles at her and she grins back at him. Whatever discomfort she feels about Ron and Harry recedes into the background. Hermione puts it from her mind.  

~

 Fleur Delacour is going to be the reason, the one and the only reason, that Hermione has ever been late to Professor Binns's History of Magic class. Fleur Delacour might be the only reason that Hermione Granger has ever seriously considered outright skipping Professor Binns’ class. It grates on her, the way she’s been worn down and the age-old curiosity – the eager mind that caused the Sorting Hat to suggest she might do well in Ravenclaw – that peaks every time she heads to the library. Fleur Delacour has taken to sitting near Hermione in the library during lunch while she’s looking for a solution to the wailing that deafens all of them every time Harry opens his egg. Once Harry figures that out, and they all realize that something will happen underwater, Hermione has sailed into book about wizarding nautical practice. His lack of preparedness grates on her, has her chewing her nails as she reads through lists of charms for seafaring. There's a pamphlet on canoeing from Canada that seems promising, but is written in French so archaic that Hermione wonders if it dates back to before the French lost the colony there to the English. How does one even begin to breathe underwater long enough to get back something precious that was stolen? How can she teach it to Harry when Harry’s absolutely pants at most charms? She chews on her fingernail and scowls down at the table of contents of the latest book she's pulled out of the card catalogue and found in the stacks.

At least Fleur doesn’t seem to mind Hermione’s nervous habits. She doesn’t really seem to mind Hermione. It is a welcome change from the usual frostiness of her peers.

And yet, every day at the end of the lunch period, sure as the sun rises, Fleur Delacour tempts Hermione with small and private smile and a friendly query as to her destination. Every day Hermione answers with a sad shake of her head and the name of her next class. Every day Hermione gets up to leave at the end of the lunch hour, and every day without fail, Fleur Delacour asks her to stay.

Hermione tries to be polite, really she does. Fleur Delacour’s smile is small, not overly polite, but certainly not unwelcoming. She has to go to class, but with time ticking down and still no discernible answer to Harry’s problem in sight, she’s beginning to seriously contemplate Fleur’s offer for company beyond the lunch hour. Lord knows she's going to need it by fortnight's end.

The Second Task is only two weeks away.

Harry is going to drown in that bloody lake if she doesn’t find a solution soon.

She slams the book shut, groaning in frustration at the utter lack of information it contained. It shouldn’t be hard – there are charms Hermione thinks she could learn. They’re advanced. Too advanced for Harry, probably. She needs something simple.

The book, Unusual Charms and their Counterparts, is useless. Hermione pushes it across the table and groans quietly. She might as well go to Professor Binns's class, nothing is going here.

She pulls her bag over her shoulder and the cycle begins again. She’s been sitting at a table in the far corner of the library, near some overstuffed armchairs – one of which is occupied by one Fleur Delacour, having arrived a few minutes after Hermione and settling into what appears to be an essay for Ancient Runes. Though, Hermione supposes, it could be for Arithmancy. The two subjects go together, after all. Looking up from her essay, Fleur glances down at her watch and then to Hermione. "Where is it this time?" she asks, accent thick but still full of that subtle and barely hidden curiosity that Hermione finds so intriguing.

Hermione makes her way down the bookshelf, looking for the empty spot where the tome in her hands originally resided. "History of Magic," she whispers quietly. Her cheeks burn. She doesn't know why; she feels exposed and scrutinized every time she speaks to Fleur. She turns her attention back to surveying the stacks, afraid to look at Fleur. She’s almost looking forward to hearing Fleur’s argument against Professor Binns' class. She hopes it can top Fleur’s argument against going to Potions class.

("Professeur Snape est un salaud. Je ne comprends pas pourquoi vous voudriez aller à ce cours. He does not respect his students. I do not know why you would go. I would not.")

Hermione slides Unusual Charms and their Counterparts back into its home between two thinner volumes that have collapsed into the space that the larger book had once occupied, righting them to fit all three back on the shelf. The back of her neck feels warm now too. She’s not used to being looked at like this. Fleur is curled into the armchair, parchment propped up on her knee. She’s staring at Hermione openly, her icy blue gaze drawing heat to Hermione’s cheeks and awkwardness to her movements effortlessly.

"Professeur Binns est un spectre, 'ermione," Fleur says. Her tone is earnest, if hushed. "I doubt that he will miss you."

They’re this far back in the library because Madam Pince does not tolerate talking. Hermione is a good student, however, so she’s given some leeway. She’s trying not to take advantage of the librarian’s kindness if she can help it. Harry and Ron have almost ruined it for her several times as it is.

Hermione looks at Fleur sideways from her place halfway down the long and overfull bookshelf. Her hand falls form the bookshelf to her side. She cannot think around Fleur. She cannot breathe. She cannot even talk for fear of making a fool of herself.

And yet Fleur seems to tolerate her presence – to seek it out, even. Hermione has noticed this through careful experimentation and more than a few missed lunches. On the third day of sitting in the same spot at the same table at precisely twelve fifteen, a sandwich wrapped in wax paper had appeared next to her elbow and behind it had extended a long fingered hand clad in a thick off-white sweater that was part of the Beautxbatons school uniform and connected to the smiling face of Fleur Delacour.

As Hermione sat there, flabbergasted and completely at a loss for words, her stomach growled, loudly. Fleur laughed then and asked if the seat next to her was taken.

Hermione nodded wordlessly and, in that moment, she'd gotten herself into this mess. She couldn’t even find herself hating Fleur anymore, not after those quiet conversations about nothing in particular and how completely willing Fleur is to talk about anything under the sun.

"The second task is two weeks away – he's not prepared," Hermione answers. She grabs another book at random from the shelf and flips to the table of contents. “I cannot let him be unprepared.”

“You are not, ‘ow do you say, in this competition,” Fleur says gently. “Sometimes we who are must do these things for ourselves.”

Yes, but… Hermione bites her lip and turns to look at Fleur. “You don’t know Harry. He’ll drown in the lake—” In the distance, the bells ring indicating the end of the end of the lunch hour. Hermione glances at her watch and groans. "I'm not going to make it on time; Professor Binns will take points for sure."

Fleur places her finger into her own book and brushes her bangs out of her eyes. Her hair is down today, falling into her eyes and around her shoulders. It looks effortless. Hermione’s fingers twitch. She wants to touch it. Fix it. The image Fleur Delacour courts is one of picture-perfect poise and control. Now here, in this casual setting, she is anything but. Nimble fingers, still stained with ink from the morning's classes, tuck silvery-yellow hair behind an ear even more perfect than any Hermione has ever imagined. She looks away from those distracting fingers and meets Fleur's eyes. Fleur smiles slowly.

The back of Hermione’s neck burns. She looks away. Why is Fleur affecting her in this way?

"As I said, Hermione, he is a ghost. You will not be missed."

Hermione glances at her watch once more, and then back at Fleur. "But..."

The words of protest die in her throat. Given the amount of time it takes Professor Binns to notice he has a class present for his lectures at all, Hermione isn’t sure he’ll notice that one student is missing. She genuinely likes the class and the current subject matter has turned to the near-present. For the better part of a month, Professor Binns has not mentioned a goblin war. Even Harry’s perked up in the class.

"Stay, with me,” Fleur demands. She uncurls herself from her perch in her armchair, sitting up properly and reaching down into her bag. She pulls out a notebook that looks worn and faded at the corners. Hermione squints at it and sees Fleur's handwriting and 'Histoire de Magie' written across the subject indicator at the top left corner. She's come prepared, this time.

Hermione bites her lip, looking down at her feet, before chancing another look back at Fleur. She isn’t sure what to do. Fleur’s prepared, after all. It’s only polite to hear her out.

Fleur fiddles with her notebook for a minute, setting it on top of her book and carefully pulling a loose page out of the back and tucking it into the place where her finger marked her page in her book. Hermione watches those intense blue eyes - obscured now by hair and a look of intense concentration – and comes to a decision. "Je vous enseignerai – teach you – what are you studying in history right now??"

"French resistance to Grindelwald in the 1940s." Hermione says, shoving the book back onto the shelf and conceding defeat. She comes back to her own armchair and sits down, glancing at her watch once more. She could still make it, if she hurried and cut through that passageway near McGonagall's office. She could also still make it in five minutes if she really hurried. Hermione bites her lip and turns her gaze to Fleur, resolving to at least listen to what Fleur has to say before she decides.

Fleur's smile at the mention of the course’s current subject matter is not lost on Hermione. She remembers how Professor Moody told Harry once that Fleur Delacour was no more a fairy princess than he was. Now, as Fleur’s small little smile turns from something polite and a little indifferent to something that feels more excited to Hermione, Hermione catches herself wondering if Fleur Delacour was far, far more intelligent than she let on. She certainly seemed to be knowledgeable in ancient runes, given the essay she’s been writing for the better part of a week that Hermione certainly hasn't been reading over her shoulder whenever she gets a chance. "How much do you know about the muggle resistance during that war?" Fleur regards Hermione with a curious expression, inquisitive, Hermione decides. Fleur taps a nail against the cover of her notebook.  “Given that the English had their own troubles during that time?”

Hermione shrugs. She can say very little on the subject - her reading of muggle history has been sorely lacking since she came to Hogwarts. She tries to read the books her father recommends her (he is something of an amateur historian in his spare time), but as her courses grow far more complex and her OWLs approach, she honestly hasn’t had the time.  Her spare time has dwindled into almost nothing this year with the Triwizard Tournament and trying to stop Harry from dying. She pulls out her class notebook and flips to the most recent page. Her notes are clear and concise as always, but she pushes it across the low table between them so that Fleur can see what they’ve learned thus far. “A bit – I didn't get to go to secondary school in the muggle world – so I cannot contextualize what we’re learning here against muggle history beyond what I've read in books."

“And you are muggleborn, non?” Fleur turns a few pages back in Hermione's notebook.

“Yes.” Hermione answers. She wonders if this is the moment when Fleur reveals her prejudice. She’s had conversations like this in the past.

But Fleur’s face is impassive. Her eyes are flicking across the page rapidly. She reads English rapidly, for one who occasionally makes as though she does not speak the language that well at all.

"Do you find them good, these books?" Fleur asks. She closes Hermione's notebook with a snap and opens her own.

Hermione’s brow furrows. No snide comment about her poor birth and surprising intellect despite that?

"Naturally," Hermione replies. She takes her notebook when Fleur’s offers it to her and watches Fleur carefully. She’s nervous, wondering what will come next. "C'est... C'est bon, then. I ask you to forget what it is that they taught you.” Unnaturally blue eyes look up now, their eyes piercing into Hermione's own curious stare. Never before has Hermione been told forget what she's learned in a book. The request feels as foreign as Fleur’s accent. She isn’t sure what she should say. She opens her mouth to speak, but Fleur silences her with a jerk of her chin. When she speaks, Fleur speaks with a deliberate slowness, choosing her words carefully. "La Résistance Française cannot be learned in mere books."

And that is how Hermione Granger ended up skipping her first ever History of Magic class.

~

The French Resistance against Grindelwald’s forces during the 1940s and the period of the second World War did not fare much better than the muggle resistance against the Nazis had. Yet as Fleur tells it, both parties worked closely together during the war. Hermione is surprised, Professor Binns has touched upon it, but he was clearly too caught up in following the overarching narrative of Grindelwald’s rise to and eventual fall from power to go into what the muggles were up to during that time -- despite the fact that there was a war on for them as well. Fleur, however, seems to have no such qualms, and honestly places emphasis upon that collaboration. She speaks at length about the differences between the two groups and how they worked in parallel but not in congress most of the time. Grindelwald was not opposed to the mass murder that the Germans committed, but he did not favor such selective extermination of muggles.

Fleur explains that if Grindelwald had had his way, the deaths from Europe alone would have been much closer to 60 million in civilian casualties, compared to the current estimate of around 45 million, and that was just for muggles. Hundreds of thousands of wizards died during that war, deaths that have never been added to the official figures that muggles report along with the reminders to 'never forget.'

She had friends, back in primary school, who were scarred by what had happened, missing grandparents, absent uncles and aunts. It was a great wound. Hermione’s heart goes out to them as Fleur tells her this story. She hasn’t spoken to any of them in years.

If she has anything to do with it, nothing like that will ever happen again.

Fleur tells her how when Marshall Philippe Pétain became the premier, his surrender to Hitler was a carefully orchestrated move in order to prevent further loss of life by both the muggle and wizarding governing bodies. Hermione isn't sure she believes Fleur at first, as a great many people, muggles and wizard alike, died after the Germans took France. She points this out and Fleur simply raises an eyebrow and says that she is the one teaching Hermione and not the other way around.

Hermione resolves to ask better questions after that.

With the Germans everywhere, Grindelwald's forces were able to move in, aiding the Nazis in catching as many who resisted as possible. In France, Fleur laments, they were no longer after those of mixed heritage, but rather anyone who did not fit the perfect ideal of the wizard, of the Aryan, or of both. Everything he (and she was not specific here) did was for the 'greater good'. Fleur spat the sentence out, anger in her eyes. Hermione wonders how many of Fleur's family died during that time. Rita's article had mentioned it, but had never given a number, nor a side. It makes sense, then, to hear that Grindelwald hated those who were mixed, even with the magical creatures that most in pure blood society considered acceptable to marry to keep the magic of their bloodlines strong. 

Fleur shakes her head at the mention of the Vichy government in Hermione’s class notes when Hermione turns back a few pages and asks a question about their role in all this. She tells Hermione that she is from the south of France, that it is there that her family had lived for generations. Her parents were young still, but the remnants of that government even cut into the wizarding community there. "Vichy was entirely a muggle creation," Fleur explains, "but there had been a few of Grindelwald's closest advisors pulling strings behind the scenes. Imperius curses and other forms of compulsion, you know?"

They created a secret police force within Vichy’s own secret police force. Fleur compares them to the sniffers that Voldemort had used during his time in power. They made people disappear - collecting people who seemed innocuous to the muggle secret police and sending them to a place worse than death of the Dark Wizard's own creation.

Grindelwald had set up a mirror death camp to the one the Nazis were using in the occupied French territory just to the north of the Vichy border. All Beauxbatons students are required to go there during their second year, for it is important to the French wizarding government that they learn from the horrors of the past. Fleur tells Hermione about the nightmares she had for weeks after going.

"And the resistance?" Hermione asks, on the edge of her seat and full of worry at the idea of Fleur having nightmares. She cannot explain her concern, and she frankly does not want to. It is just a horrible idea, this concept of Fleur Delacour (who Hermione is very quickly learning is not Practically-Perfect-In-Every-Way) being plagued with bad dreams about the horrors of the past.

She supposes that collective memory scars a lot deeper in a place where the war was actually fought, rather than merely attacked.

"Ah, la résistance," Fleur says fondly, as if recalling a folk hero. "They did not much care for Vichy and Pétain's clever plan to save France through capitulation." She bridges her fingers and looks at Hermione sideways with those strange blue eyes for a moment before beginning her explanation.

It turns out that a difference in opinions and being sympathizers with the Nazis and Grindelwald was the least of Vichy’s offenses. Pétain had apparently erased something from what was considered to be so core to the collective French psyche by creating a 'new order' and by taking away what Hermione had always been taught to be the true motto of the French people.

The first time she hears it from Fleur's lips, she is struck. She's never heard it in French, as spoken by a French national. 

"Liberté, fraternité, égalité," Fleur whispers reverently. "He took that away from us." She stares off into the distance. "Even in the wizarding communautés, it is so core. We would not stand for it."

They lapse into silence then, Hermione thinking about the implications of what Fleur is saying, about how it changes her perception of the French wizarding government. She is filled with questions, mostly as to why Professor Binns never mentions this when he talks about that period of time in history. There’s three major goblin wars, a giant uprising and all of the nonsense with witch burnings in America on top of several very important muggle historical events.

She exhales, "Why does Professor Binns never talk about how the muggle events might have correlated or even have causative or reactionary affects based on the wizarding ones?"

"Because wizards -- particularly wizards 'ere in Britain -- do not see the value in muggles. In France, and elsewhere on the continent, it is harder to live ... parallèles les uns aux autres." She pauses, as though searching for the right word. 

"Parallel, but not together?" Hermione gathers. 

Fleur nods. "How you do it 'ere is something of a joke at home. Ma mère, she tells us that it is infuriating to deal with, as our government has integrated into the muggle one. Well as much as it can, anyway, and still comply with the secrecy statutes. There is always some problem." She grins at Hermione and Hermione's cheeks feel hot and she looks away from Fleur. 

They lapse into silence, Hermione still puzzling over the gaps in her education. 

A few minutes of silent contemplation later, Fleur adds, "Did you know that Charles de Gaulle was a wizard?"

No, Hermione had not known that, but suddenly it all makes sense.

Charles de Gaulle had spent much of his time during the war exiled in London. Her father has told her how Churchill could not stand the man, and she smiles a little knowing that a ‘good sensible man’ like Winston Churchill probably would not have taken very well to knowing that there was a wizard in exile living in his country.

Via radio broadcast, Fleur explains quietly as Madam Pince walks by, he was able to organize and get the word out about how to avoid the camps and the conscription. Hermione knows this; her father has been marveling at Charles de Gaulle’s ability to orchestrate things in absentia for years. Being a wizard would make his acts so much more believable. She can’t wait to tell her father. She makes Fleur write down the name of a book that Fleur thinks is also available in English and sends an owl order off to Flourish and Blots as soon as she can.

Fleur smiles quietly at this, and goes back to telling Hermione her story. She talks about how de Gaulle probably was not the leader that he made himself into after the war, something that Hermione already knew, but it is nice to have confirmation on it. But de Gaulle did start a pattern of resistance that can be pointed to as a method that future groups used against Voldemort during his reign of terror.

Hermione contemplates this, and thanks Fleur for the lesson as the bell rings. Fleur says nothing for a long moment, her cheeks reddening as Hermione holds out her hand to her.

“In France, we do not shake hands,” Fleur says, standing fluidly and placing her hands firmly on Hermione’s shoulders. She kisses Hermione’s cheeks, first one, and then the other. “À bientôt, ‘ermione,” she says, accent growing thicker as her lips brush past Hermione's ear.

She is bright red, but Hermione manages a squeaky “Bye!” as she hurries out of the library.

~

She has History of Magic every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday right after lunch and Hermione has not been to class in a week and a half. She's retreated into the library, into that far corner away from the prying eyes of anyone who might look for her, and into Fleur Delacour's intriguing way of teaching.

Fleur Delacour is many things to Hermione; she can't even begin think of how to order her thoughts on the matter. She spends her lunch periods silently eating sandwiches and searching for underwater magic that could possibly help Harry with the Second Task. She spends her lunch periods watching Fleur Delacour write Transfiguration and Potions essays – watching her prowl the stacks and pull out novels from amid the thousands of reference books. She watches Fleur Delacour, the way she moves, the way that she twirls a lock of hair around her finger as she reads, the way her nose scrunches up when she can’t quite figure out a word in English.

Hermione spends the class period after lunch being taught about 'La Résistance Française' and she has to stop herself from referring to it as such in the most recent essay for Professor Binns. He gives her an O and tells her to keep up the good work before floating past her into the wall as she's on her way to Arithmancy on Friday.

"Do try to come to class eventually, Miss Granger."

His ghostly voice trails off as she stands there, stunned at how little he seems to care that she's skipped his class for a week.

Hermione decides that she has to go back. She is reluctant to give up the extended time she now has to spend around Fleur, and she struggles with it the entire weekend. Ron tells her to do what she wants and Harry tells her to ask Fleur for a tip about the Second Task.

To Harry, she retorts that if Fleur hasn't worked out the clue yet, she is not going to take away Harry's competitive advantage.

It is then that she begins to wonder why Fleur has offered to be her teacher. It is strange to have a teacher so passionate about the subject matter. Passion is something that Fleur Delacour has in spades. Hermione could listen to her talk for hours, and sometimes wishes that she could linger in the library to hear more of her beautiful voice.

"La Résistance Française," Fleur says on Monday after Hermione has carefully folded up the wax paper from her chicken sandwich. She is going to have to start surprising Fleur with lunch at some point. She doesn't like the idea of Fleur thinking she doesn't feed herself. "How do you think of it so far?"

Hermione sets her quill down and regards Fleur critically. "I think I have a biased instructor," she says with a laugh. "But a brilliant teacher."

Fleur seems to contemplate this, adjusting herself in her armchair and fixing her skirt. She looks up after a moment, eyes intensely blue and boring into Hermione's very soul. "How soon will the professeur move on... from this subject?"

She honestly does not know. With Professor Binns it is hard to guess, he tends to go on (and on and on). She shrugs. Harry and Ron both sleep through the class anyway, so it is not as though they would be able to tell her that they're talking about something else in class now. In the few moments when she's perfectly honest with herself, she doesn't ever want to go back to Professor Binns' class. Fleur Delacour's voice is much nicer to listen to, and the way that she finds herself furiously blushing every time Fleur leans in close to take a look at what she's writing down makes her feel warm inside.

"Professor Binns tends to... go on a bit. I don't know how long it'll be."

Fleur scoots closer to Hermione, a devilish little smile quirking at her lips.  When she speaks, her voice is low, a rumble in the back of her throat that feels more like a purr than a whisper.  "Then I shall continue to teach you. It has been... how do you English say? Un moment..." Fleur trails off, searching for the right word.

"A minute?" Hermione ventures. She's recognized enough of the similarities between English and French to pick up on the loan words that Fleur will sometimes use instead of their English counterparts, so it’s a reasonable guess. Yet she’s never fancied learning the French language before this moment; it has skyrocketed up her list of things to do whenever she has free time again. If she knew the language, she could speak to Fleur in it, and she could hear that beautiful voice speaking without the constant hesitation of not fully grasping the language it was speaking.

Fleur shakes her head. She seems to be concentrating hard, her eyes narrowed as she thinks. Hermione watches as her lips - oh so perfect in their shape and how Hermione longs to lean forward and touch them - form several soundless words, Fleur's head shaking every time the word is incorrect. It is fascinating to see one who has such a good grasp of the language struggle to find the right word.

Finally, Fleur is triumphant. "It has been a while, since I have had un étudiante - a student - so willing." She looks down at her nails and Hermione can see a slight tinge of pink on Fleur's cheeks. "Merci, Hermione, truly. Merci."

Yes, this penchant for blushing by the two of them when in close quarters to the other deserves further investigation.

~

The first time Hermione Granger is kissed it is not by Viktor Krum, though it is right in front of him. Hermione hopes he doesn't mind too much, but Fleur looks as cold as Hermione feels and together with teeth chattering they seem to warm each other up, just a little bit. Over the din of the crowd as the judges debate scores, Fleur holds her little sister close to her, gauze wrapped around her neck. Hermione had helped pull the girl out of the water, and had cast a warming charm far above her year in school over the little girl before Madam Pomfrey could even get close enough to do any diagnostic spells. When the matron had given her an odd look, Hermione had merely shrugged and said the girl was shaking. She'd held out her hand to Ron then, doing the same for her best friend, watching as Fleur hovered anxiously and held Gabrielle close to her.

"Grindylows?" Hermione asks after a moment of silently chattering her teeth in Fleur's direction. Water is dripping from her curls. It’s going to be a nightmare to fix her hair.

"They broke my bubblehead charm," Fleur mutters angrily. "Je suis une tache.  I cannot be champion if this keeps happening."

Fleur's sister pulls on Hermione's soggy robes and Hermione leans down, listening intently as the girl is barely speaking above a whisper and her voice is shaking. It is so loud here, as the three schools roar around them. "Ma soeur, she has need of – em – comfort."

Hermione smiles, and wraps her towel around the smaller girl. "You do as well, sweet girl." She stands and faces Fleur, scooting towards her. She feels strangely confident, and as she moves closer, Fleur lifts her arm and Hermione tucks herself into the space there, under the blanket and the towel and a far stronger warming charm than she's ever been able to muster.

"You are very sweet, Hermione," Fleur whispers. "You care for her, for Gabrielle, even though you do not know her from a 'ippogryph."

She blinks, not knowing how to respond to Fleur's compliment. "I just want to help."

Fleur leans in, brushing ice cold lips across Hermione's equally freezing ones. "You are sweet, chérie." They sit there, huddled against the cold for several more minutes, before Dumbledore announces the final scores and Fleur leaves to go thank Harry and Ron for their heroics.

Icy fingers raise shakily to touch burning hot lips, her cheeks flushed a bright red.

Fleur Delacour had stolen Hermione Granger's first kiss, and she'd stolen it as though it had been the simplest thing in the world.

~

Hermione doesn't go back to the library the Monday after the Second Task during her lunch hour. She has no reason to. Her need to research underwater breathing methods had been gleefully answered by Dobby the House Elf and Professor Binns had finally moved on from the French Resistance to another topic during  Grindelwald's continental reign of terror. At least, that is what she tells herself as she listens to Harry and Ron argue with Ginny over quidditch national rankings and half pays attention to Parvati trying to get her to share details of how good a kisser Viktor Krum is. She wouldn't know, she says testily, she hasn't kissed him.

She has kissed two of the champions, though. Just not the ones that would be expected of her. Harry when he was twelve when he had just saved the entire school from a great evil snake, and Fleur Delacour. Fleur had said it was a thank you, but the French pet name she only ever heard in movies was not lost to her. Hermione guards this secret with her life. She doesn't want Rita Skeeter catching wind of it. The damn woman would have a field day.

Her fork, balled up with a bit of lettuce, is halfway to her mouth when Harry and Ron suddenly stop talking, staring towards the doors at the end of the Great Hall. Hermione follows their gaze, setting her fork down and staring at the serenely beautiful, if very angry-looking, form of Fleur Delacour. Hermione swallows. She thinks she knows why Fleur Delacour is angry.

She probably should have gone to the library today, to tell Fleur that she wouldn't be coming back for a while. Or to maybe have arranged a different meeting time. Hermione knows why she did not go; the feel of freezing lips pressed against her own and the shock of how that small gesture of gratitude and affection filled her with such confusion that she did not know what to say - or how to feel. Her fingers clench into a white knuckled fist as she resists the urge to run. There is something terrifying about the way that Fleur Delacour is moving towards her with a bestial rage that seems to be just barely hidden beneath the woman’s pale skin.

Fleur draws level with the Gryffindor table, and stalks down the side opposite Hermione, very purposefully not looking anywhere in particular. The eyes of the students who have noticed her (every man and a good bit of the women) watch her cautiously, wondering why she looks so livid. Hermione knows that Ron likes it when they walk in those tight Beauxbatons uniforms that leave so little to the imagination, but she can't help but feel a flush rising to her cheeks as she watches Fleur approach. The memory of their kiss is still fresh in her mind.

"She looks right ticked," Ron whispers, and Harry elbows him in the stomach.

Hermione swallows hotly, and Fleur comes to a stop, standing just behind Ginny, her expression livid. "I thought that we had an arrangement, Hermione."

Merlin, she is beautiful when she's angry.

Hermione opens her mouth, closes it, and looks away from piercing blue eyes. She hates being the center of attention, hates it when people are watching her and she hates that she cannot control what they're thinking. She's just a girl, entangled with yet another champion and full of fear of what will happen when the school finds out what Fleur did.

Suddenly, this has become far too public a venue. Hermione stands, gathering her things and wordlessly slinging her book bag over her shoulder. She does not speak to Fleur – she barely spares her a glance as she stalks out of the Great Hall, knowing full well that most of the eyes of Hogwarts are upon her. The soft sound of shoes against flagstones tells her that Fleur is following her.

Good.

Hermione climbs stairs and cuts through half-hidden secret passages, trying to think of a place where they can truly be alone. She has to ask Fleur why. She knows that the French are different, that they convey affection in different ways, but that kiss had not been one of those ways. That had been a hesitant peck, something one did with a girlfriend, with someone they wanted to fall in love with.

Hermione is not a fool, certainly not a fool for love.

She's lying to herself when she says it cannot happen again. Fleur's lips are too intriguing, and her kiss too wonderful, for Hermione to never experience it again.

"Arrêtes-tu, 'ermione," Fleur says as they reach the sixth floor. There are a few empty rooms up here where they won't be disturbed. Hermione taps the first door handle she sees with her wand and whispers the unlocking charm. When there are no three-headed dogs and only the smell of old chalk to greet her, she feels satisfied enough with their location to turn and face Fleur.

"You stood me up," Fleur fumes. She's almost predatory like this, hands folded moodily across her chest and her eyes flashing dangerously. She's advancing on Hermione now, arms dropping, moving, preventing Hermione from dodging out of the way.

"I was not aware we had a date," Hermione retorts. She's backed up against the wall now, Fleur leaning in close to her, breathing heavily against her. It's almost too much. Fleur is staring at her intently, blue eyes harsh and glinting dangerously. Hermione wants to slide down the wall, to escape, but she finds she cannot move. She's too paralyzed by the fear of what Fleur might say or do. She swallows, and then continues, "I needed some time to think."

Fleur tilts her head to the side, blonde hair still trapped in that ponytail that Hermione hates so much cascading down over her shoulder. Hermione longs to reach out and touch it, to run her fingers through it, to be close to Fleur once again. "Pourquoi?" Fleur asks and Hermione knows enough French to understand the meaning of that particular word - why.

Her cheeks burn, and she looks away. "You kissed me," she mutters. "I... I'm not gay." At least, she didn't think she was. She's never really been attracted to anyone before - save Fleur. And she was very attracted to Fleur.

"No one ever said you were, Hermione," Fleur laughs. Hermione can almost bring herself to not feel mortified any more at the gleeful triumph in Fleur's eyes. She exhales slowly, and tries to smile back.

She isn't sure then, if it is her or Fleur who leans in first. She smells like something floral, softer than the hard edges she's taken on as she's moved into the room after Hermione. Hermione finds herself reaching for Fleur, a question on her lips, asking Fleur if this is alright. The words are right there, she knows she must ask. She nearly succeeds when Fleur pushes her hard against the wall and kisses her once again.

Unlike the last time, this kiss is not innocent. It tastes of warmth and of passion whereas the other one was freezing cold and devoid of anything other than tentative adolescent exploration. Fleur's tongue is everywhere, and Hermione gasps as Fleur grabs her hands and forces them above her head, not letting her touch, not letting her move.

"Although, I do think that you are not opposed to expérimentation," Fleur continues, her lips still half pressed against Hermione's and Hermione's nodding her agreement. She likes this, likes the idea of where this is going. Fleur's tugging at Hermione's school tie, loosening it, pulling at the knot. Hermione can only imagine what Fleur is going to do when she gets it loose. Fleur's breath is warm on her cheek. "Then this is okay, Then? You are of the scientific mindset - non?"

Her heart is thudding in her chest, but Hermione realizes that Fleur will stop if Hermione says no. She whimpers, her head just barely moving up and down in agreement. Her voice sounds almost alien to her, low and more intrigued than nervous. "Yes," she whispers, and when Fleur tilts her head to the side, Hermione hastily adds, "To erm-both." A smile erupts across Fleur's face and she's got Hermione's tie undone. 

"This an 'ypothesis." Fleur smiles wickedly, fingers nimbly undoing the buttons on Hermione's school shirt. "I am going to kiss you again. And, if it is okay with you, I am going to make you come. And then, and only then, tu peux me dire si tu es 'omosexual."

And Hermione, who knows just enough about the French language to catch that Fleur is speaking far more casually than she’s spoken to Hermione in the past, swallows.

Fleur’s fingers are like fire on her skin.

"Are you?" Hermione grinds out after struggling to form a coherent thought. She knows Fleur well enough to know that if she wanted to say no, she could. She doesn't want to stop this feeling though. This is better than any of her fantasies. She feels so wonderfully out of control, and Fleur is enjoying driving her higher.

Fleur pauses, a pensive look on her face. Her eyes are darker than Hermione’s ever seen them. "When it suits me."

She kisses Hermione’s neck. Her lips are biting and bruising and Hermione wants more.

Never before has it been like that. She's experimented a bit, masturbated to see what it felt like after her parents gave her one of those 'growing up for girls' books when she started her period two years ago. It was hard to do such things in the Gryffindor dormitories, with two other girls living in close quarters to her. There is next to no privacy and when there is, Hermione is far more likely to use it for sleeping. Up until this year, that is. Now she's touched herself thinking of Fleur, thinking of other people, but never like this. It had always been innocent, child-like, not so deeply sexual. She doesn't know how to act, how to think, how to breathe.

She wants to touch Fleur, to pull that stupid Beauxbatons jacket off of her and to touch the skin she knows it is hiding. She feels paralyzed, hands clawing at the back of Fleur's school jacket. She doesn't want it to be like this – not her first time, anyway. She’s not opposed to trying this again in the future. This though, she wants this to be perfect.

"Let me touch you too," she whispers, her voice taking on a hard edge as Fleur freezes.

"Is that what you want?" Fleur asks, her lips against Hermione's ear. Her teeth are sharp, grazing against sensitive skin that makes Hermione shiver.

Hermione shakes her head. "I've never..."

Fleur smiles wickedly. "Oh, je le sais." Her eyes are hard, dark and lusty. She leans in, brushing her lips against Hermione's swollen and over-stimulated ones. "That is part of the fun."

"Can we have this fun properly?" Hermione asks. She doesn't want to lose contact with Fleur, but she is grateful for the chance to think again, just a little bit, so this will be a memory for her forever. "I mean, how am I supposed to help you prove your hypothesis if I cannot have you too?"

Logic, the greatest weakness of great witches and wizards everywhere.

Fleur considers this. "Allons-y, then."

Hermione isn't a seventh year about to take her NEWTs. She's not even in her OWL year, but she's good at Transfiguration and Charms. She wants to turn one of the desks into something more comfortable, but Fleur's fingers close over her wand hand and she shakes her head. "I will," Fleur says and does the spell quickly and efficiently. Sometimes, Hermione catches herself wondering why Fleur's even competing in the Triwizard Tournament, but it is moments like this – such as during their impromptu history lessons – that Hermione realizes that the Goblet of Fire made the right choice. Fleur Delacour is an amazing witch.

Her fingers are pulling at Fleur's jacket; her own shirt is already unbuttoned and hanging open. There's ties and more fabric than Hermione knows what to do with. "Off," Hermione mutters, frustrated at Fleur's stupid jacket and its lack of cooperation.

Fleur's fingers are on her own, helping with hidden buttons and clasps. She pulls off the jacket, triumphant, and Fleur pushes her down onto the newly transfigured mattress. Her hair has come undone and Hermione finds herself framed by Fleur's pale blonde mane of hair. She reaches up, her fingers tentatively touching Fleur's hair. She's suddenly afraid, fearful of what she's doing. She remembers, back in Care of Magical Creatures, that touching a veela's hair was a grave offense if consent was not willingly given. "Is this okay?"

And then Fleur's lips brush against her own, their movements ginger, as if afraid to disturb her. Hermione realizes that she doesn't much care if she's doing something wrong right now. Nothing that is so wrong should feel so right. Fleur's lips move against her own, whispering things that Hermione can't understand. She doesn't speak French; she wishes she could.

Even then, she could not communicate in this language. This was the language you did not learn in the classroom, but rather in the bedroom.

Fleur Delacour was an excellent teacher, after all.

Her hands have grown bolder, and as Fleur moves from her lips down to kiss Hermione's neck, she tentatively slides them up along Fleur's thighs, pushing her skirt up, tentatively touching skin. She's marveling at how soft it is, at how good it feels under her fingers. She squeezes gently, experimentally - as this is, after all, just a science experiment - and Fleur growls into her neck. Hermione feels a thrill of pleasure shoot down between her legs and her back arches up and into Fleur.

Fleur's hands have found her's again, pulling them away from that oh so soft skin and pinning them above her head. "That is quite enough of that," Fleur says, her grip firm. She's shoved Hermione's bra up and out of the way, her lips pressing against the soft skin of her breast. Hermione moans – she can't help herself, it’s never felt this good before.

Curious lips close over her already far-too-excited nipple and Fleur releases her hands once again. Hermione's hands tangle in Fleur's hair as Fleur begins to fumble for the zipper on her skirt. Hermione doesn't know why she's doing this – her skirt is bunched around her hips as it is – and shifts her legs to drive this point home.

"You do not know what you do to me," Fleur whispers, her tongue flicking out over Hermione's nipple. She shifts, moving to lavish the other with the same affection, fingers replacing her mouth, toying with the pert nub, driving Hermione wild with want.

Hermione can't think; she can't even breathe. Her words are coming out all wrong, garbled up and full of breathy moans that she would have looked down her nose judgmentally at just hours ago. She never thought of herself as one of those women, the ones that come completely undone during sex, but Fleur's fingers and tongue and the way that Fleur's hair feels tangled up around her fingers beg to differ.

Fleur bites down, sucking greedily with her teeth and her tongue, the pain and drowning sensation going straight between Hermione's legs, pooling there, making her squirm. Hermione recalls, dimly, that in her fantasies, she is the one doing this to Fleur. She is the one who longs to shake that serene calm and to wipe the quietly amused smile off of Fleur's face.

Hot kisses trail down her stomach, Fleur's lips burning their path, pausing to linger on her hip. Fleur spends a prolonged moment on the spot just below Hermione's bellybutton that she's never thought as particularly interesting, but God, it feels amazing to have lips brush against the sensitive skin there.

Where did her skirt go? She doesn't remember Fleur taking it off.

"Why-- are you still dressed?" Hermione demands as Fleur stops for a moment, her breath hot and heavy against Hermione's knickers. The sensation is maddening, and she squirms, knowing that the evidence of her arousal must be showing through the thin cotton of her underwear. Hermione swallows. "This experiment won't work if you're dressed." She knows she sounds stupid, whiny even, but she knows she has a point.

Fleur sits up, her hands already unbuttoning her uniform shirt. She's giving Hermione this look that Hermione cannot place, as though she's trying to figure something particularly difficult out. Her shirt is discarded, set down on top of Hermione's skirt (so that's where it went, she thinks) and Fleur is kissing her once again.

This kiss is hard, forceful; Fleur's tongue is in her mouth, exploring, pushing in and out, not giving Hermione a chance to suck on it. She pushes her own tongue back, colliding with Fleur's attack in a fierce duel. Hermione's hands are on Fleur's back, feeling the skin there, tentatively toying with the back of her bra. She wants to undo it, but she's hesitating, wondering if this moment is even real.

Her hands move seemingly of their own accord, pulling at the fabric, undoing the clasps, letting the garment release its cargo. Fleur sits up, adjusting herself so that she’s straddling Hermione. She’s holding her bra up, covering herself and Hermione wants it off.

“Take it off,” Hermione says, her eyes narrowed, her chest heaving. Her own bra is shoved up around her chin, her breasts just beginning to show the love bites that Fleur so lovingly bestowed upon them. She doesn’t think it is fair, and she wants to see what Fleur’s been hiding under that infernal Beauxbatons uniform.

A coy smile plays at the edges of Fleur’s lips, masked as they are by the shadows of her hair, falling over her shoulders and distracting Hermione from her end goal. Fleur is so damn beautiful, it is almost inhuman.

And then there are breasts. Hermione can’t look away; Fleur’s tossed her bra aside and has pushed her back down. Their lips meet and Hermione’s hands come up, tentatively touching the newly-exposed skin. Her fingers pull on already-aroused nipples – she enjoys how Fleur gasps into their kiss, and how her body seems to tremble under the carefully applied pressure that Hermione is placing on her breasts.

Almost too soon, though, Fleur pulls away, fingers running along the length of Hermione's thighs, pausing at their juncture, lingering over the obvious mark of Hermione's arousal. Fleur's smile becomes smug, and she presses down, her fingers drawing a groan out of Hermione. "Do you like this?" Fleur asks, her fingers beginning to pull on the fabric that stood as the boundary between Hermione and becoming completely undone.

Hermione swallows. Her cheeks are bright red, her chest is rising and falling and she cannot look away from Fleur's eyes. They're half-lidded and full of desire. Hermione can see how Fleur's nostrils flare, and how she seems completely and totally fixated on where her hands are and how unbelievably slowly they're moving. She nods, watching as Fleur's lips jerk upwards.

"How is the experiment, mmmmn?" Fleur continues, her grin widening as she hooks her fingers around the waistband of Hermione's kickers and pulls them down and off in a motion that is so seamless it must be practiced. Hermione lies there, the cool air of the classroom hitting her sex, driving her wild with small sensations. She's watching Fleur, wondering why Fleur is backing away, lying down, her legs twisted together and bent at the knee. Hermione doesn't understand, until Fleur leans in close, blonde hair brushing against over sensitive thighs, and blows gently.

Hermione throbs. Her body contorts, arching up towards Fleur's mouth, dimly aware of firm hands on her hips holding her in place as Fleur continues to scoot herself forward. She wants Fleur to touch her, but she doesn't know how to ask. She's almost afraid to, afraid of what Fleur might say or do if she asks.

"Non, stay there, Hermione," Fleur whispers, her breath brushing against overstimulated and over sensitive skin. Her tongue follows the breath of air, a tentative kiss, and then another. Hermione thinks that she's died, gone to heaven, and still is drowning in the sensation of Fleur's hot tongue playing along her clit. All the sensation in her body has been driven there, to the points where Fleur's tongue lingers, circling and flicking over hot bundles of nerves. Fleur trails deeper, her fingers pressing hard into Hermione's hips, holding her steady as her tongue pushes deep into Hermione.

"Fl..." Hermione groans, trying to say Fleur's name, trying to say anything. She can't, she can't. Her thighs are shaking and her fingers are buried in Fleur's hair, holding her head in place and resolutely refusing to be moved. She knows she's pulling Fleur's hair, that it probably hurts, but she does not care. Fleur's tongue has taken everything from her, and she is a single entity around that sensation. "Please," she groans, knowing that she sounds pitiful and desperate. She can't help it; she doesn't even think she would if she could.

Fleur is sucking on her clit now, tongue swirling and Hermione knows that it won't be long. She's too turned on, so aroused that she can't even think straight. Her body moves of its own accord, twisting, trying to get away from the maddening sensation, but Fleur holds firm. She does not relent her attack and Hermione begins to shake, her body clenching tightly around Fleur, desperate to get away, and yet dying to never move again.

When she finally does come, it is over far more quickly than she expected. Hermione likes to draw it out, to stay in that blissful state for as long as possible when she masturbates, but Fleur needs to breathe and Hermione is probably suffocating her. She relaxes, and Fleur pushes herself up, dragging her body upwards and over Hermione's still sensitive one. Her lips press against Hermione's and she tastes herself for the first time, tangy and intriguing, definitely worthy of a second sampling, preferably at a later date.

Their kiss is languid, slow, and Hermione finds herself calming, her breath coming in deep, no longer in short pants.

Fleur's hand is in between her own legs as they lie next to each other, and Hermione bats it away, eager to touch and to please. Fleur is so wet and Hermione's fingers slide easily inside as she touches her lover for the first time. She moves slowly, her breathing still returning to normal, her eyes never leaving Fleur's. She's calmed down enough to be able to move now, and she pushes Fleur onto her back. "I think your experiment is a success, Fleur."

The smile that greets her as she moves to kiss Fleur's neck is triumphant.

At dinner later, Hermione hears one of Fleur's friends from Beauxbatons ask her where she was all afternoon. She smiles, full of the private knowledge that she has had what all of Hogwarts desires and tunes out the conversation, not wanting to appear rude. She's only half listening to Ginny talk about Professor Moody's class when she hears some incredulous gasping and a very smug "Oui, on a pris notre pied". Fleur's fingers are covering Gabrielle's ears, and their voices are not raised, but even Hermione, who doesn’t speak much French at all, has a pretty good idea of what Fleur just said.

~

The first time they get caught is in May. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, it is by Professor McGonagall. Hermione is mortified. McGonagall seems completely affronted that Hermione has her hands up the champion from Beauxbatons’ shirt and is in the process of leaving a rather spectacular hickey on her neck. Fleur seems completely unperturbed, if suddenly incapable of speaking the English language. It is a handy defense mechanism, not to mention a completely unfair one.

Hermione is in the process of being killed by schoolwork. She can barely make it to the library to see Fleur anymore. They’ve started to meet in the evenings, as Fleur is researching spells for the Third Task and working on her schoolwork as Hermione, Harry and Ron all frantically try to finish the mountain of work they’ve been set.

Sometimes Fleur sits with them, though more often than not she sits with Viktor Krum. They are sometimes also joined by some of the other students for their respective schools, sometimes alone. Fleur’s sister went home not long after the Second Task, and Hermione can tell that Fleur desperately misses her. Hermione does too, to an extent, because Gabrielle was always fun to have at the table with them. She is still young, still getting the basics of wizarding education before she, too, starts at Beauxbatons, but she is unafraid to ask Hermione questions. Hermione likes being able to teach, and feels the loss of Gabrielle’s bright eyes and smiling face from the table where Fleur and Viktor now sit like an empty pang in her chest.

Harry watches them at their table behind his glasses and Ron glares at Krum whenever he can get away with it. He is still angry that Viktor brought Hermione to the Yule Ball. Hermione thinks they’re both positively adolescent, and is glad that Viktor seems to understand that she’s not really ready for a relationship with him. She told him not long after the Second Task – not long after Fleur…

He seems to understand and she thinks that he knows that she is far too young to be involved with someone like him.

“I’m done,” Harry announces, throwing down his quill and blowing on his essay to dry the ink. Hermione eyes it for a minute, but holds her tongue. His handwriting is abysmal and he’s misspelled at least three words in the first paragraph alone. He’ll ask for her help if he wants it, she reasons.

Ron finishes a few minutes later and he and Harry leave the library together. Hermione is still checking her essay for mistakes and tells them that she’ll be along shortly. She hasn’t made any so far, but she’s worried that if she has, she’ll have to rewrite the paper. She adds another citation, carefully referencing the page number in her text before marking it down, and glances over at Fleur.

They’re alone now.

Hermione’s cheeks redden – she hadn’t seen Viktor leave. She busies herself with her work, finishing her read through and pretending that she doesn’t feel Fleur’s eyes on her. That she doesn’t feel herself start to squirm in her chair, knowing what is probably going through Fleur’s mind.

Finally, she’s satisfied. She tucks her essay back into her school bag and sets her books on the cart by the circulation desk to be put back in their respective locations. Madam Pince is going to shoo them out of the library in a few minutes anyway so Hermione doesn’t want to get caught deep in the stacks with an armful of books. Madam Pince likes her, but not that much.

Hermione leaves the library and turns right, not heading towards the staircase and Gryffindor, but rather on a longer route that will take her past a secluded alcove that she’s been eyeing for the past few days as a perfectly reasonable and out-of-the-way location for some further experimentation. She sets down her book bag and waits – Fleur will be along shortly.

“I had thought that you had left without saying goodbye,” Fleur comments a moment later when Hermione reaches out from her hiding place and pulls her into the alcove.

Hermione says nothing, standing on her tiptoes and kissing Fleur. She has Fleur pushed back against the cool stone of the castle walls, her lips moving against Fleur’s, telling her that she could never say goodbye.

Fleur’s arms wrap around her waist and Hermione leans in closer, her tongue pushing forward. She loves kissing Fleur, loves how Fleur doesn’t seem to mind letting Hermione take the lead. It makes it so much easier to really be sure about the suspicion that she’s been allowing to fester since Fleur first kissed her after the Second Task.

“Chérie,” Fleur whispers as Hermione pushes her shirt collar aside and kisses the spot that she knows will make Fleur moan. She lingers there, her fingers playing with the hem of Fleur’s shirt, grateful that it had been a warm day and Fleur is not wearing that infernal jacket that Hermione hates so much. “Come back to the carriage with me,” Fleur says, her voice coming in soft pants as Hermione pushes her hands up Fleur’s shirt. “I have my own room.”

Hermione’s fingers pause as she considers this, her lips never moving from their assault on Fleur’s neck. She’s leaving a mark and she does not care. She wants people to know that Fleur is hers, that she’s taken.

She pulls away, acceptance and agreement on her lips, when she is rudely interrupted by a bright light and the very scandalized-sounding voice of Professor McGonagall. “Miss Granger!”

Hermione gulps, pushing away from Fleur and squinting in the bright light emanating from the end Professor McGonagall’s wand. They are in so much trouble. “Er… Hello Professor,” she says lamely, shifting from foot to foot, drawing attention away from Fleur so that Fleur can fix her collar and not make it quite so obvious what they’ve been up to.

McGonagall’s hair is in a long braid, falling down the back of her neck, and she appears to be in casual clothing. It is a strange sight, and Hermione knows she has (foolishly) completely lost track of the time. “Miss Granger, it is past curfew,” McGonagall tuts. Her hands are on her hips and her square spectacles are glinting in the half-light of her wand. “You of all people should know that being out after hours is against school rules. Ten points from Gryffindor.”

It has been a long time since Hermione has lost points for her house. She’ll have to work extra hard tomorrow to earn them back.

McGonagall rounds on Fleur, her expression annoyed, but there is no real anger in her eyes. Hermione supposes that the wizarding community might have different views towards homosexuality than the muggle world. “And you, Miss Delacour, I have no doubt that Madam Maxine informed you of Hogwarts school rules before coming here.”

Fleur looks sheepish. “Désolé, Madame.”

“I should hope so.” McGonagall extinguishes her wand and makes shooing motions. Hermione bends to pick up her bag. She hands Fleur her bag as well, their fingers brushing and Fleur’s head inclining towards the library. Tomorrow then, at the usual time and place. “To bed, both of you.”

~

Ron gets one look at their exam timetable and bemoans the fact that their History of Magic exam is the same day as the Third Task. Hermione realizes that she’s not going to be able to concentrate or study; she’ll be so worried about Harry – about Fleur – about all of them really. She’s seen the maze growing down on the quidditch pitch and she knows that Hagrid is going to put all manner of unmentionable things within the hedges, once they grow to their full height.

She resolves to study, telling Fleur about this as she color codes her notes in chronological order, cross-referencing them by relevance and likelihood of essay questions. She’s glad her parents still send her off to Hogwarts with muggle school supplies, because she would have used up all her limited supply of colored ink a long time ago.

Fleur is particularly fascinated by the neon-colored flags that Hermione's mother sent along with her response to her daughter's most recent letter home. She pulls a bright orange one off of the stack and contemplates it for a moment. “I do not understand you English muggles,” Fleur says, carefully sticking the flag back into its place.

Hermione smiles at her. “They find wizards – and the French – to be quite confusing as well.”

That earns her a roll of Fleur’s eyes and a pout.

They haven’t had as much time together as Hermione would like. She’s been helping Harry get ready for the Third Task as much as possible, and Fleur has been disappearing off into the depths of the library with stacks of thick tomes to look through as part of her own preparation.

Fleur hasn’t asked her, and she hasn’t said anything about how Barty Crouch has disappeared and how Harry was one of the last to see him. There’s an air of unspoken questions between them, and Hermione can’t bring herself to say anything to Fleur. There’s something bigger going on here, and they don’t know what it is. She’s afraid that Fleur will find it as distracting as Harry does.

She pushes a list across the table at Fleur, who looks at it questioningly for a moment, before picking it up. “Quiz me on the major themes?” Hermione asks.

Setting down her quill, Fleur nods. She flips the page over and begins somewhere in the middle. Her voice is quiet, calming, and Hermione is able to answer many of the questions without consulting her notes. The ones that she cannot, or the ones her points are not concise enough on, Fleur corrects gently.

Hermione will not admit how much she is going to miss Fleur Delacour when she’s gone.

Later, when her hands are tangled in Fleur’s hair and her hips are rocking against the steady assault of Fleur’s fingers, Hermione realizes that she could be falling in love with Fleur Delacour.

~

The first time Hermione says 'I love you' to Fleur is when she's being carried up to the hospital wing after the Third Task. They're all shaken and rattled and horrified about what just happened. Fleur's bloody parents are standing right next to Hermione and she says it anyway. Fleur squeezes her hand and they let Madam Pomfrey take her behind a curtain.

Cedric Diggory is dead.

Hermione cannot stop repeating the thought in her head. She’s terrified that it could have been Harry, that it could have been Fleur. She can’t believe that the Ministry – that Dumbledore could actually let something like this happen. There’s no way. He couldn’t have known, but the betrayal of her one safe haven is everywhere around her. She’s shaking and she can’t stop and she blurts it out to Fleur as they help her up to the hospital wing to have the burns on her back and arms looked at.

Fleur’s parents are either too distracted or don’t speak enough English to react to what she’s saying. Gabrielle is trailing behind them all, her eyes full of tears, and Hermione recalls that upon her words, it is the first time she’s seen the little girl smile all day.

Thank goodness for small victories.

Madam Pomfrey helps Fleur onto one of the beds and gestures for them to all go and sit on another, at the far end of the room. She pulls the curtain shut and Hermione’s last glimpse of Fleur is those pained blue eyes searching for her own.

Gabrielle is crying.

Hermione wants to go to her and hold her and tell her that Madam Pomfrey is the best in the world at what she does and that her sister will be good as new in the morning. She doesn’t move. She cannot. Fleur’s parents are right there, staring at her curiously.

“Who is she, Gabrielle?” Fleur’s father asks and Hermione’s cheeks burn. She can’t look at them, and instead focuses her attention on Madam Pomfrey’s shadow moving behind the curtain over Fleur’s bed.

She knows she looks strange, her tear stained dirty face and overly frizzy hair from the beginnings of the heat of the summer a stark contrast to Fleur’s perfectly put-together family. Hermione has never felt so self-conscious in her life. She wraps her arms around herself and tries to stop shaking.

“Elle est une amie de Fleur,” Gabrielle says hurriedly, her voice betraying the tears that are still in her eyes. “Elle s’appelle ‘ermione.”

“Une amie? Fleur n’a pas dit…” Fleur’s father trails off, his eyes burning holes in the back of Hermione’s thin sweater.

She turns, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. “Hello,” she says. She wants to try speaking the few French phrases that Fleur has managed to teach her, but she doesn’t trust her voice right now. She’s so full of fear for so many things.

“Bonjour.” Fleur’s mother looks just like Fleur. It’s striking how similar they look, yet how much more unnervingly inhuman Fleur's mother seems in comparison to Fleur. Two generations removed from full veela blood dilutes things, Fleur had explained when Hermione had blurted out her curiosity about Fleur's heritage one afternoon, but there are some traits that carry over. It explains how Fleur’s mother looks so inhumanly beautiful, almost glowing in the dim light of the infirmary. “It is wonderful to meet a friend of Fleur.”

Her accent is still there, but nowhere near as thick as Fleur's or Gabrielle’s. Hermione remembers Fleur saying that her mother was a liaison at the French Ministry of Magic, which explains how her English is so much better than her children's.

Hermione forces a smile across her face. “Likewise.” She holds out her hand, “My name is Hermione Granger, I’m a fourth year student here.”

Fleur’s father reaches out to grasp Hermione’s hand and the door to the infirmary is once again pushed open and Dumbledore sweeps into the room, Snape and McGonagall in tow, along with Harry and Ron – both of whom look as bewildered as Hermione feels.

Madam Pomfrey appears from behind the screen and gives them an apologetic look before launching into a tirade about Harry constantly getting injured and how it’s a crime how accident prone he is. Hermione wants to laugh, but she can’t bring herself to do so. Nothing seems very funny anymore.

Cedric Diggory is dead.

Harry survived the attack and came back saying Voldemort has returned.

Everything is going to change now.

~

The first time Fleur kisses Hermione in public is also the first time she says I love you back. She's about to leave, to head back to France and to take her exams and belatedly take her Apparition test (her eighteenth birthday was right before the Third Task and Hermione remembers it fondly).

The end of term feast had been a somber affair. Hermione had sat with Ron and Harry and had watched as they raised their glasses as one in Cedric’s name. It was all so surreal. When Bill and Mr. Weasley had said that they would be having an exciting year, they had not meant this.

Fleur finds her after the feast is over and they’re all heading back to their dormitories to finish packing before the send-off ceremony later that afternoon. Hermione is lingering, talking to Luna Lovegood and Ginny in the entrance hall about some strange new creature that Luna has probably made up on the spot just to annoy them both. She feels a hand on her shoulder and turns to see Fleur’s face peering at her from underneath that ridiculous Beauxbatons hat.

“Do you have a minute?” Fleur asks as Ginny gapes at Hermione and Luna seems completely preoccupied with something just off to Fleur’s left.

Hermione nods. “Sure,” she says. “I’ll catch up with you on the train, Gin?”

Ginny nods mutely at her, and pulls Luna way from them, back up the stairs and towards the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor dormitories. Hermione watches them go, waiting until they are fully out of earshot before she turns to Fleur.

“What is it?” she asks. Fleur usually does not seek her out like this, save for that one time when Hermione had not shown up in the library and Fleur had gotten concerned. Hermione was still annoyed by that, to some extent, but the aftermath had been well-worth the annoyance.

Fleur presses a piece of paper into her hand, and wraps her arms around Hermione’s shorter shoulders in a tight embrace. “I am going to miss you,” Fleur mutters in Hermione’s ear.

She can feel the eyes of the school watching her, and she decides that she does not care. She wraps her arms around Fleur and holds on as though Fleur is her only anchor to solid ground. She’s made her feelings clear to Fleur, despite her parents being there and the subsequent awkwardness that had caused.

Fleur smells of sunlight and of the sea – scents that one does not usually smell in the north of Scotland – and Hermione inhales deeply. “I’ll write every day,” she promises, her voice thick with tears she did not realize she was holding back. She does not want Fleur to leave. She does not know if she’ll ever see Fleur again. She does not want this… whatever it is between them… to end. “I’ll give you my information so you can write me back.”

They pull apart, Fleur’s hands resting on Hermione’s shoulders. “Hermione, I love you, please don’t think that this will… that this will end.” Fleur leans down, brushing her lips against Hermione’s. Her mouth is open, shocked at Fleur’s boldness. She supposes that the school would have found out eventually, and she’d rather not have them doubt her resolve or her sexuality. Harry and Ron already know, and they don’t care, which is all that truly matters to Hermione.

“I love you,” Fleur says, pulling away after holding the kiss for a moment. “I am sorry that it took me so long to say this.”

Hermione laughs and throws her arms around Fleur’s neck. “I love you too, Fleur.”

~

Over the summer, Fleur writes Hermione. The letters are long, languid like the record heat of the summer and full of sinful words and descriptions of what Fleur longed to be able to do to Hermione's body. Fleur’s grasp on the written form of the English language is fantastic, and the way that she weaves her words together makes Hermione moan into her pillow late at night. She feels foolish, curled around her pillow and a shirt that Fleur had loaned her after Hermione’s got ruined in one of their misadventures, reading the letters by the light of her bedside table.

Her parents tell her to go to bed, knocking gently on the door to Hermione’s bedroom at one or two in the morning as Hermione has yet to turn off her light. She can’t. She can’t turn away from Fleur’s words. They’re driving her wild, making her long to see Fleur again.

Her parents don’t think much of it when she tells them that she wants to go to France. They tell her that they can’t afford such a trip right now, and that’s that. She can’t visit Fleur, even if she goes by wizarding means. She doesn’t pout, or feel sad, because that afternoon Fleur writes her telling her that she’s going to be coming to London in two weeks for a meeting and a job interview.

I did not do this for you, Fleur’s letter says, but rather for myself and for Cedric. You are the added bonus and incentive for me to get this job.

Hermione tells her that that is fantastic and she’ll look forward to seeing her.

She’s just sent Fleur’s owl off when an owl arrives from the Weasleys inviting her to spend some time with them for the next few weeks. Ron is vague on the details in his letter but he calls Hermione from a payphone at the local drug store a few hours later and explains that they’re not actually going to be at the Burrow, but at a different location that needs some serious help cleaning up and stuff and if she could please come as he needs the moral support as his mother is a right terror and they're not allowed to use magic but it really needs magic to be cleaned.

Hermione agrees to go, and resolves to simply tell Mrs. Weasley that she has to floo to London to see Fleur when the time is right. Mrs. Weasley of all people should be alright with her wanting to see Fleur. After all, Hermione being gay meant that she was not trying to sleep with Harry, or Viktor, or (certainly not) Ronald, and proved that everything Rita Skeeter had written about her in the newspapers had been falsehoods.

It sort of slips out that she is seeing someone over dinner one night before Mr. Weasley and Bill come to fetch her. She tells her parents that she can’t help who she loves and her mother hugs her close. “We always knew,” she says quietly, and Hermione is flabbergasted. She’s only just become really sure of it herself – how could her parents have known?

When she asks her father says that she had simply never been interested in boys as anything other than friends and that Harry and Ron are clearly her heterosexual life partners (in crime and all other unmentionable things). Hermione sticks her tongue out at her father and he proceeds to ask her a lot of very awkward questions about Fleur.

Hermione is bright red and stumbling over her words when the smiling face of Bill Weasley appears at the door and she practically throws herself at him to escape. He laughs when she tells him to get her out of there and helps her father carry her trunk down from her bedroom. They set it down in the living room and he tells Hermione that he’ll be right back for her as he vanishes with her trunk.

“I’ll never get used to that,” Hermione’s father says quietly and Hermione nods her agreement.

“It’s rather alarming, but I can’t wait to learn how to do it,” she says. She got her pillow under one arm and her book bag slung over her shoulder. Her father has given her far too many books to read (as usual) and she’s resolved to at least attempt a few of them before the summer’s out. “I’ve read all about it, but it sounds like the sort of thing you have to just do to learn, you know – like driving.”

Hermione’s father nods his agreement and Bill and Mr. Weasley return, the latter offering up some pumpkin bread that his wife had baked that morning. Hermione’s mother takes it and Bill extends his arm. “Shall we?” he asks, and Hermione nods.

“I’ll call you,” she says to her parents. “Or write if that’s easier, not entirely sure where we’re going.”

“Alright,” they said, and Hermione feels a tug much akin to a Portkey pulling her by the base of her stomach towards a destination far away.

Number 12, Grimmauld Place, is a truly ghastly piece of architecture somewhere either in London or very close to it. There’s a Tube Station just down the road and a convenience store that Hermione has already taken Ron to at least twice to sample muggle chocolate. Sirius Black is there, and Remus Lupin on occasion. She’s even seen the real Mad-Eye Moody and Professor Snape once or twice. She’s met more Aurors than she can count in the past few days, one of whom is Sirius’ cousin, Nymphadora Tonks. She’s an odd sort of person, but Hermione takes an instant liking to her sense of humor and easy smile. It makes it easier to know that to some of the occupants of the house at least, the world is not filled with doom and gloom. Still, it is very surreal, honestly, staying there, at the center of the resistance against Voldemort.

Bill tells her that back in the day, during Voldemort’s first rise to power, the Order of the Phoenix had been the organization or record fighting against the Death Eaters. Hermione has read about them in books and thinks them fascinating, but finds the close-lippedness of the rest of the household with regards to the subject infuriating. Even Tonks seems to want to keep her mouth shut about things, which is odd because she will happily talk about anything under the sun with Hermione and Ginny. Mrs. Weasley says that they are far too young to be hearing about such things and Hermione points out to her than in less than a month and a half she’ll be sixteen and that she is certainly mature enough to know at least some of what’s going on, thank you.

That doesn’t go over too well and Hermione spends the day hiding on the fourth floor with Buckbeak.

Hermione wants to write to Harry with all the details of what they’re doing, but Dumbledore makes them promise to not tell him where they are or what they’re doing. Ron protests and Hermione tries to see the logic in it and can’t, but they both know that Dumbledore must have a plan or else he would not have asked.

Still, she hates the silence, hates lying to Harry. She helps Mrs. Weasley, Ginny and Sirius clean out bedrooms as a lot of people are staying in the house, and she plays chess with Ron in the evenings. He’s getting so good now that she hardly sees the point any more – he can beat her in under five minutes and yet cannot apply this dedication and forethought to his schoolwork at all. She wants to shake him to sort out his priorities.

Ginny still goes to bed relatively early, and Hermione lights a candle and reads Fleur’s letters late into the night. They are still full of the same sinful words that have been driving her to release since the beginning of summer, but Fleur has also become more closed-off about certain things that Hermione asks in her responses. Fleur won’t tell her where the job interview is, but says that she’s going to be staying with some friends for a few days in London after the interview. Hermione is annoyed at how vague she’s being, and tells her so in her response.

Fleur tells her to wait and see.

Hermione can’t really say that she is all that surprised when Fleur turns up at the next Order of the Phoenix meeting. She’s watching from the second floor landing with Fred and George, while Ron has gone off to get something from his room, when the door opens. First Snape comes in, looking dark and menacing and generally unpleasant; they all back up so that he can’t see them. Hermione knows that he has when he shoots a dirty black-eyed glare in their general direction before slamming the door to the kitchen behind him.

“Git,” Fred mutters.

Dumbledore comes in a few moments later, with someone following close on his heels. Hermione peers forward, hoping it isn’t Mad-Eye Moody (she doesn’t think the footsteps sounds like his unique gait though), and sees a flash of pale blonde hair. Her face erupts into a smile and she’s halfway down the stairs before George grabs her and tells her that she can’t go down there – that Mrs. Weasley’ll tear her head off and he doesn’t want to be responsible for her untimely demise.

Hermione does not care, and she twists out of his grasp and continues down the stairs and into Fleur’s arms. Dumbledore seems mildly taken aback, but nods to them both after a moment and sweeps his way into the kitchen, leaving the door open behind him. “Come along when you’re ready, Ms. Delacour,” he says. His eyes are twinkling like nothing Hermione has ever seen before and there’s a wide smile on his face.

Fleur grins down at Hermione who is grinning right back at her.

“I can see why you were so vague,” Hermione says quietly.

Fleur laughs at that, and kisses Hermione on the forehead. “You were not all that forthcoming in your letters either, Hermione.”

She can’t deny that, but she can’t deny much of anything when Fleur spins her around and presses her up against the wall. There’s something in the air now, full of pent-up longing and frustration, and when Fleur’s lips crash down harshly on her own, Hermione cannot help but feel as though she’s finally come home.