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The library was absolutely boiling. Hermione Granger had already shed her thick woollen cloak and the heavy wool jersey beneath it.
It was irritating. Made worse still by the fact that every student on the premises seemed to have decided to jam themselves into the library for the evening. None of them seemed to actually be studying. Some were even thumbing through magazines. Others crowded around tables, giggling audibly.
Hermione rolled up the starch white sleeves of her uniform shirt. She hunched her shoulders and leaned firmly over her desk, intent on ignoring the revelry around her.
Thank god for Madam Pince prowling around regularly, keeping the too-rowdy in check.
Flecks of ink spat from Hermione’s quill as she scratched her words with more firmness than necessary.
“Ah… Hello…”
Hermione instantly scrunched her face up at the greeting. She felt a headache coming on. Her quill paused abruptly in her rapid scrawl, partway through a sentence on goblin reforms. She’s always hated being interrupted while studying or completing homework. It’s her version of nails on chalkboards.
This interruption, however, was even more insufferable due to the person who was doing the interrupting.
“Can I help you?” Hermione said flatly, raising her gaze from her parchment to glare at the gorgeous blonde standing at the end of her desk.
Fleur Delacour. The teenager was ethereal in her beauty, hinting at the fraction of creature blood that flowed through her veins. Fleur is small and petite, but has all the icy confidence required to cut an imposing figure. That, and the impossibly high heels she always seemed to wear with her uniform, added inches to her real height. She perpetually looked like she’d either stepped right off a runway, or is about to cut someone. Hermione was sure she wasn’t the only one on edge around the girl.
Hermione exhaled heavily, a cross between annoyed and wary.
Fleur was quickly becoming the bane of her existence. Ron was frequently reduced to a drooling, zombie-like state in her presence. The rest of the boys around the castle were no better, following her around and trying to show off. Hermione could already see some knuckle-heads tossing a quaffle around by some bookshelves. She was sure they’d never stepped foot inside a library in their lives. They were only here to try and capture Fleur’s attention.
But the blonde’s piercing blue gaze was directed solely at Hermione.
Hermione knew from the way Fleur looked at her that she was a far stretch from the vapid, ‘dumb blonde’ that the Slytherins and Skeeter enjoyed portraying her as. She was quick, intelligent. She had an overly analytical look in her eyes, like she was quietly assessing everything and everyone around her.
But, despite her dangerous intelligence, she was dreadful. She made everyone around her act like fools. She complained about Hogwarts—the food was too heavy, the hallways were too cold. Hogwarts was Hermione’s home away from home! If Fleur didn’t like it, she shouldn’t have put her hand up for the exchange in the first place. Snooty wench.
Just the thought of Fleur made Hermione itch with indignation.
Hermione became aware that a silence had extended since she had asked Fleur what she wanted. Perhaps her tone had been a little too biting. No matter, nothing the blonde didn’t deserve, Hermione was sure.
There was a light pink dusting Fleur’s high cheekbones, now. She seemed a little caught off-guard. Like she was reconsidering approaching Hermione in the first place.
Good, Hermione thought tartly. It was a much needed reaction.
Fleur had a tendency to show up around Hermione. It was the most dreadful coincidence, and something Hermione wanted to deter as much as she possibly could. She couldn’t stand hearing the blonde whine about the cold. Couldn’t deal with the boys knocking over chairs and hollering in their attempts to get Fleur’s attention.
Couldn’t deal with the constant flipping of long, silky blonde hair in the peripheral of her vision.
“I… Ah…” Fleur seemed at a loss for words.
Hermione was quietly pleased. She was always rude to Fleur, and to her perpetual delight, it seemed to affect the blonde’s ridiculous confidence. Hermione was sure the French girl was used to people falling all over themselves for her.
Fleur bit her lip. Hermione absently observed her plump, pink bottom lip caught between her perfect, white teeth. Merlin, she was gorgeous.
Hermione narrowed her eyes.
Fleur shifted on her heels.
There was a loud commotion as some Ravenclaw boys knocked large textbooks to the ground behind them. They had got carried away shoving each other while watching Fleur.
Hermione sighed.
“Look, I have an essay due at the end of the week…” Hermione began. She was growing tired of the blonde staring at her dumbly. Did Hermione have a sign on her back signalling she was an information centre for the exchange students? Viktor Krum had been coming to ask her a number of inane questions in the library lately, too.
“Ah, could I borrow that book?” Fleur asked suddenly, motioning an elegant hand towards Hermione’s desk.
Hermione’s brows knitted together with confusion. She glanced at her desk. Stacks of books on the goblin wars and subsequent law reforms. Surely a fourth or fifth year subject, no matter what the school.
“These are for fourth year History of Magic,” Hermione replied slowly, returning her gaze to Fleur.
A new suspicion grew in Hermione’s mind.
Perhaps it was a cruel trick. The pretty girls at Hermione’s muggle school had always seemed to delight in tormenting her. Bullies seeking her out was not new to Hermione.
Why else would Fleur want to talk to her? She probably had a gang of beautiful French girls waiting behind a bookshelf, waiting to hear about how the Hogwarts nerd had been made to look like a fool.
“Oh, er, my mistake,” Fleur replied, looking at the floor briefly before once again meeting Hermione’s eyes. Her blue eyes were almost inhumanly blue. An unusual shade Hermione hadn’t seen before. Hermione tried not to get distracted. She was too busy trying to work out the blonde’s angle. How she was trying to mess with Hermione, or otherwise judge her.
Fleur flipped her hair over her shoulder. It was loose today, long and silky. Hermione wondered how convoluted the girl’s haircare routine was. Lavender had a ten-step haircare routine and not even her hair looked as silky and soft as Fleur’s.
Hermione’s fingers itched, an intrusive thought prickling at the edges of her mind—I wonder what her hair feels like?
“I hear you are… Er… Supportive of creature rights?” Fleur continued after another long pause.
This was getting painful now. Hermione restrained herself from dragging a palm over her face. What would it take to be rid of this cursed girl?
Some Slytherin boys had entered the library now, loudly talking amongst themselves as they ogled Fleur from a safe distance.
“I have an essay to complete,” Hermione told Fleur sharply, “If there’s nothing else…”
It was rude, sure. But it was a lot more polite than what Hermione really wanted to say: If you’re quite done judgmentally staring at me, could you either get on with your bullying or move along?
Fleur seemed startled by this. Her eyebrows raised slightly. If Hermione didn’t already know the girl to be a cold and judgmental bitch, she would almost wonder if Fleur looked a little hurt.
“I…” Fleur seemed to consider her words carefully this time, swallowing and furrowing her brows cutely before continuing, “Perhaps you could assist me with my English some time?”
Good grief.
Hermione was ready to scream.
“Your English sounds fine to me,” Hermione said, picking her quill back up again and returning her gaze to her essay, “Besides, seems like you’d have your pick of volunteers to help you.”
Hermione resumed her scrawling, crossing out a sentence. Bloody Fleur had made her entirely lose her train of thought.
“Oh… All right…” Fleur sounded a little defeated. Good.
Hermione waved a hand dismissively, which seemed to finally get the point across. Fleur turned on a heel primly, before walking back across the library. Hermione only raised her eyes again when Fleur was at a safe distance, watching the almost hypnotic way that Fleur’s hips moved in her blue silk uniform.
Harry, Ron and Ginny were not sympathetic at all to Hermione’s plight.
Harry didn’t see why Hermione was so bothered by Fleur being in her space.
Ron barely hid his jealousy, swearing under his breath and spending a good couple of days blatantly stalking Hermione himself in an effort to glimpse Fleur.
When confronted by Hermione, he claimed it was so he could do the honourable thing and volunteer to be the one to help Fleur with her English. Hermione barely bit back a sarcastic retort.
Ginny, in perhaps the most annoying reaction of all, insisted Hermione was merely being paranoid. The infuriating redhead even went so far as to suggest that maybe Hermione was the one that kept showing up in Fleur’s locations? Maybe Hermione was the twelfth person Fleur had asked to teach her English in the library that evening?
“For goodness’ sake,” Hermione growled one evening, as Fleur and her friends seated themselves at the Gryffindor table for dinner. They usually sat at the Ravenclaw table, sparing Hermione from the distraction that Fleur brought with her.
Ginny rolled her eyes at Hermione.
“Oh, come on, there’s like ten of them at the table with her,” Ginny responded, “Or are you now suggesting there are ten pretty girls stalking you in addition to Fleur? Because that’s beginning to get up there with Cormac McLaggan’s ego levels.”
“You know what? You lot can sod off,” Hermione prickled, “I swear she singled me out. She’s starting to be around me too much to be a coincidence.”
“Kinda sounds like you’re paying an awful lot of attention to her, yourself,” Harry joked, a rare sparkle in his green eyes.
Hermione glared at the Boy Who Lived.
Glancing over at the Beauxbatons students further down the table, Hermione felt her breath hitch in her throat. Bright blue eyes were staring at her again. Fleur was watching her, an unreadable expression on her face.
“She’s so annoying,” Hermione groaned, turning back to her friends, “What? Do I have sauce on my face? Why can’t she just get the horrible comment over and done with and leave me alone?”
“Why d’you assume she’s trying to be mean to you?” Harry remarked between spoonfuls, “Maybe she likes you. Or maybe she doesn’t even think about you at all.”
That quietened Hermione. How mortifying if it genuinely had been a series of coincidences.
Maybe she shouldn’t have been so harsh to the girl in the library.
But then, Hermione considered the situation again. Fleur was dreadful, her frequent complaints were evidence enough of that. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world that she had received some rudeness in return.
Hermione chanced a look over at Fleur again.
The blonde wasn’t watching her anymore. She was deep in conversation with her classmates and the Weasley twins, who were causing her to laugh. She was like a work of art when she laughed, her sharp jawline and elegant features softening with a glimmer of unbridled amusement.
Hermione frowned and looked away.
Hermione’s doubts that Fleur was actively trying to target her only lasted a short while.
The very next day, Hermione was leaving her Runes class when she found the beautiful blonde waiting patiently outside the classroom, her friends a little further down the hallway from her.
The shadows of the dimly lit stone corridors played prettily on Fleur’s delicate features, making her seem even more inhumanly striking. Her eyes instantly locked on Hermione, and she seemed to perk up, chin rising a little as she stepped forward.
“Ah, excuse moi?” Fleur called out as Hermione tried to hurry past her. She almost made it, too. Hermione was just slipping between some Hogwarts students when a slender, warm hand wrapped around her wrist—effectively trapping her.
Gods, what could this girl want?
Hermione sighed, turning to face Fleur. It seemed Fleur was intent on actually carrying out whatever cruel joke she wanted to play this time.
“What?” Hermione barked. Finding herself in this situation with the pretty French girl again was reminding her far too much of the girls at her Muggle school. Pretty smiles, cruel words. They were masters at getting Hermione’s hopes up, getting her to drop her guard…
Fleur released her wrist as if burned, pink peppering her cheeks once more.
“I—Ah, je suis desolee—Sorry—” Fleur seemed uncomfortable. Good. If she was anything like the girls at Hermione’s old school, she should feel bad for what she was trying to do. Harassing and teasing the more studious students … It was horrible.
Fleur’s friends from Beauxbatons and Ravenclaw tittered audibly from their spot further down the hallway, causing Hermione to narrow her eyes. She should just storm off. Some kind of sick curiosity kept her rooted to the spot a little longer, strangely interested in Fleur’s latest attempt.
“I heard you had a society for promoting elvish welfare?” Fleur asked cautiously. She was even acting suspiciously, her eyes not settling anywhere for too long. Hermione’s face, the floor, her shoes, the wall just behind Hermione’s head.
Hermione’s jaw tensed. She’d already copped enough jibes from the Slytherins for S.P.E.W., as well as from her own fellow Gryffindors. It was a sore subject.
Zero points for creativity, Delacour, Hermione inwardly remarked.
“Yes, I’m well aware the acronym could use more work,” Hermione cut Fleur off waspishly, “But I’m not going to change it because a few judgmental students can’t see past the letters to the cause I’m trying to promote.”
“I…” Fleur opened her mouth and then shut it again. She looked stunned.
Hermione, 2. Snooty French girl, 0.
“Please just leave me alone,” Hermione finished curtly, squaring her shoulder. She was eye to eye with the blonde, even with the French girl wearing heels. Hermione inwardly thanked her summer growth spurt for the added height.
Fleur muttered something in French under her breath, before positively fleeing down the hallway to her friends, face flushed.
That should nip it in the bud, Hermione thought to herself, satisfied.
She wished she’d had this ability to stand up for herself when she was younger. Maybe then, she wouldn’t have had to endure so much bullying.
As she strode down the corridor with her head held defiantly high, Hermione couldn’t help but overhear Fleur’s words to her friends.
“I hate this place,” Fleur lamented, her hands over her face.
Hermione had about a week’s reprieve after her encounter with Fleur outside Runes.
In that time, she had almost, blissfully, been able to forget about the girl.
There were far more interesting matters to occupy her mind. There were assignments raining down on students from professors with reckless abandon. There were tensions returning between Harry and Ron about Harry’s getting selected by the Goblet of Fire. There were awful pieces by Rita Skeeter and the likes in gossip rags, leading people to believe she was some harlot setting out to break Harry’s heart.
The latter had escalated wildly over the course of the past week.
Hermione had begun to receive some rather heated hate mail from diehard Harry supporters. It seemed that a truly alarming amount of readers believed exactly what Skeeter had written at face value.
Unfortunately, it all came to a head one afternoon when Hermione was opening some mail at the breakfast table in the Great Hall.
“I reckon you should just burn those, like Hagrid does with his,” Ron remarked through a mouthful of jam toast.
Hermione ignored him. Again, there was a sick curiosity that drove her to open them. Perhaps remaining trauma from how horrendously she had been bullied back at her former school. She wasn’t sure why she kept reading each barbed letter.
She pulled open another envelope from the pile.
“YOU ARE A WICKED GIRL. HARRY POTTER DESERVES BETTER. GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM MUGGLE”
Hermione rolled her eyes, discarding the angrily written letter. The person had put such pressure on their quill that they had pierced through the parchment paper in some parts.
It was hard to believe people got so passionate over gossip columns.
Hermione picked up another envelope, this one a little oddly shaped.
“You’re a masochist, ‘Mione,” Ginny remarked, diagonal from her at the table, “I wouldn’t be giving them any attention, if I were you.”
Again, Hermione ignored her friends, proceeding to open the envelope.
As soon as she slid the envelope open, a thick, yellow-green, petrol-smelling sludge burst forth, splattering her hands. Instantly, Hermione felt like her hands were on fire.
She dropped the envelope, screaming in agony and staggering out from her seat at the table.
“’Mione?”
Hermione could barely register her friends standing up and staring at her in shock. It felt like the flesh was being burned off her hands.
The rest was a blur as Hermione rushed herself to the Hospital Wing. Things happened in quick succession, Hermione barely registering them.
Madam Pomfrey identified the sludge as bubotuber pus.
Pomfrey managed to successfully remove the remainder of it from Hermione’s hands, and McGonagall came to check in on her, concern etched in the lines of her face.
Finally, mercifully, Hermione was given a powerful pain killer. It made her head spin, but it eased the agony of her hands.
Then, Hermione was left to her own devices. She lay on a sectioned off hospital bed, forlornly staring at her hands. They were marred with copious yellowy boils—almost giving them the appearance of a rather rough set of dragon hide gloves.
Pomfrey had waited until the painkillers had kicked in to deliver the sobering news that the burns and boils incurred from handling undiluted bubotuber pus could remain for up to a year before easing. She had explained that there were very few remedies available for swift remedy of the condition—and none that Hogwarts could locate or even begin to afford.
“Terribly stubborn injuries, they are,” Pomfrey had said gravely before departing, “I hope the aurors catch whoever did this to you.”
Hermione blinked back tears, trying to look at the ceiling of the hospital wing instead.
How would she write her essays? How would she do wandwork effectively? She could barely move her digits. She dreaded the thought of even a moment of the painkillers wearing off. Pomfrey had promised the pain would lessen over time. But perhaps Hermione would have to keep up regular doses of painkillers for the next year or so just to exist.
The thought of it was harrowing.
A door opened at the other end of the ward and Hermione heard clacking footsteps. She hoped they were there to see somebody else, but knew she was the only patient in the ward at present.
The footsteps kept getting closer.
Hermione’s brain felt fuzzy from the strong potion diluting her pain. She hoped it wasn’t Ginny or Ron coming to tell her she should have just burned the hate mail instead of reading it. Little too bloody late for that, wasn’t it? Hermione was already kicking herself. She didn’t need a ‘told you so’ on top of her own anguish.
The curtain pulled back suddenly and Hermione was hit with the visage that was Fleur Delacour. She seemed almost angelic from Hermione’s position, her head haloed by the lights overhead.
“What do you want?” Hermione croaked. Her voice was rough and raw from the screaming she had done earlier. “Come to see the freak show?”
Fleur’s hands flicked quickly to Hermione’s hands before returning to meet her eyes. There was something different in Fleur’s eyes today. Hermione couldn’t even begin to work it out. The potions were making her brain too sluggish, her eyes too heavy.
“Non,” Fleur spoke so softly, Hermione almost missed the words.
She was rocking back and forth on her heels, her hands behind her back. She seemed nervous.
Hermione was tired. She readjusted her hands as carefully as possible where they lay on top of the crisp white sheets.
“Come to laugh at me?’ Hermione rasped, frowning weakly, “Take some photos to send to Witch Weekly?”
Fleur frowned, her bottom lip caught between her teeth again. A small furrow grew between her eyebrows. Hermione hated how adorable it looked.
“Non,” Fleur said again, a little louder, “You cannot tell anyone about this… I am not allowed it… It is from my grandmother and not supposed to be shared with humans… But I always travel with some just in case.”
“Wait… What?” Hermione was a little alarmed now. She willed her mind to think.
The Hospital Wing was abandoned. Was Fleur going to try and maim her while she was already weakened?
Hermione was seriously considering screaming for help when the blonde produced a small glass jar from behind her back.
With alarming swiftness, Fleur got the lid off, a blob of silvery cream on her slender fingers, and slathered a long streak down one of Hermione’s hands.
Hermione hissed—the effect was immediate. It was like the feeling of shoving hands numb with snow straight under too-hot water. A strange kind of simultaneous pain and soothing.
Hermione wondered horrifically how painful the cream would have been without the strong painkillers already in her system.
Fleur made quick work of the rest of Hermione’s hands before quickly securing the lid back on the jar.
“Give it the evening,” Fleur was saying. Hermione was struggling to pay attention. She was staring at her disfigured hands. Was it her imagination or did the boils look smaller?
“What?” Hermione said dumbly.
Fleur looked at her, not unkindly.
“Give it the evening,” Fleur repeated, “It should have worked by the time you wake tomorrow. But please, do not tell anyone about this. I am afraid I will get into trouble with my grandmother… Not to mention the consequences for her amongst her own…”
“Right,” Hermione wondered if she was delirious. This all seemed like a strange dream. Maybe the pain had reached such a point that she had already passed out and was imagining all this.
Fleur looked unsure again, awkward. She drew her hands back behind her back, staring at Hermione like she simultaneously wanted to stay and to flee.
“Ah… Bonsoir,” Fleur said awkwardly.
Her cheeks were a little pink again. Pretty.
“Pretty?” Fleur echoed, her eyes wide and eyebrows raising.
Shit. Was that out loud?
Hope she hasn’t poisoned me or something.
Fleur had a look akin to a mix of horror and amusement on her face. Then she blinked and sighed, and her face returned to its usual, impassive expression.
Fleur simply nodded at Hermione and turned on her heel, disappearing behind the hospital wing curtain again.
Madam Pomfrey was at a loss as to how Hermione had miraculously recovered.
Hermione found it all a little surreal, too. She stretched her fingers and rotated her hands, observing her skin in the light of the window. She gazed at her hands in amazement as Madam Pomfrey grilled her for information.
When Hermione had woken up, she had assumed the Fleur interaction was a drug-addled dream… But then she noticed her total lack of pain. Her hands had recovered! Even more remarkably—to the point where nobody could tell she had ever been maimed by bubotuber pus at all.
She was unsure of Fleur’s motives, but respected the girl’s request for privacy all the same. She played dumb with Madam Pomfrey, stating that if someone had helped her, it must have been while she was asleep.
Eventually, Madam Pomfrey, though incredibly suspicious, seemed to accept that Hermione would not tell her. She released the brunette from her charge.
Hermione might be wary of Fleur, but she was honourable. She kept Fleur’s privacy and refused to tell anyone—even her best friends—how she had managed to bounce back so quickly.
Not much changed after the bubotuber incident, except for an uptick in the Slytherins’ jeering. Most of them seemed bitterly disappointed that Hermione hadn’t been more permanently disfigured by her hate mail.
Hermione still noticed Fleur around her periphery often, but usually at a distance. Or surrounded by a lot of her classmates.
Hermione was far too vigilant to approach the gorgeous girl and ask about the visit in the hospital wing.
It didn’t add up in her mind. Hermione frequently found herself with her brows furrowed, mouth frowning, trying to puzzle out why on Earth Fleur would help her. Why she would share such a secret potion—presumably from the highly secretive Veela creatures—with someone like Hermione.
No matter what angle she looked at it from, she couldn’t see how Fleur was setting her up for a fall. Unless the cream would wear off unexpectedly?
“Hermione, you’re zoning out a lot these days,” Ron commented beside her in Transfiguration.
Hermione rolled her eyes, huffing as she came back to her senses. She had been thinking about Fleur again. Trying to figure it all out.
“You’re just annoyed because you’re having to take your own notes in class for once,” Hermione retorted.
Evidently, Hermione had hit the nail on the head, as Ron fell silent with a sulky frown.
Soon after, McGonagall excused the class, and Hermione joined her best friends in slinging a backpack on. They filtered out of the classroom, idly talking.
“I’m just saying, it’s not like you to zone out—” Ron began, before sighing, “Bloody hell, you’re doing it again!”
Hermione had caught sight of a stunning blonde waiting patiently in the hallway. She could only get brief glimpses of her between the bodies of the jostling students, eager to get out of class.
There was no reason for Fleur Delacour to be in this part of the castle. Not that Hermione had been actively paying attention to Fleur’s schedule, but she was sure that the girl would usually be heading from Herbology to Potions about now.
The students began to disperse as Hermione, Harry and Ron made it out into the hallway—everyone making their way to their next classes. Harry and Ron, apparently oblivious to why Hermione was distracted, bellowed their goodbyes and rushed off.
Hermione swallowed, trying to remember where she had to be.
Runes. Ancient Runes.
With the crowd thinned, Fleur gracefully pushed herself off the wall she had been leaning against. Her intense blue eyes trapped Hermione’s gaze. Hermione halted in her steps.
She felt almost like a deer caught in the high beams of an approaching semi-truck. Everything in her mind telling her to move along, get away from the scary thing. But somehow, she was instinctively rooted to the spot.
This time Fleur didn’t say anything. She reached into her bag and—exceedingly carefully—withdrew a delicate flower. She held it so gently in her slender fingers, Hermione stared with awe.
If Hermione had ever shoved a flower into her overflowing book bag, it would have been mashed up in no time. She could only ever dream of having the ease of grace that Fleur possessed.
Fleur held the flower out to Hermione, her eyes uncharacteristically flicking down—as if she was unsure of herself—before meeting Hermione’s again.
Hermione frowned in confusion.
“Erm… What?” Hermione asked Fleur. She was completely thrown.
For a second—a dreadful second—a look of pure mortification crossed Fleur’s delicate features, before being hidden behind a well-practised look of indifference.
“I could not decide between the pink, the white, or the red,” Fleur said, her voice slightly wavering, betraying the air of confidence she was trying to portray.
Hermione stared at the red flower in Fleur’s hand, wondering if she was missing something. She didn’t understand the interaction at all.
“I…” Hermione trailed off, furrowing her brows. She genuinely had no idea what to say.
A chip in Fleur’s indifferent armour. A muscle twitched slightly in her jaw. She swallowed heavily. Hermione watched her pretty throat flex with the movement.
“It’s for you?” Fleur clarified—which did absolutely nothing to clarify the situation for Hermione.
Robotically, Hermione reached forward and took the small red flower from Fleur.
“Er, thanks?” Hermione began, “Look, about the other day—”
“I should go, I will be late for class,” Fleur interrupted Hermione’s attempt to discuss the events in the hospital wing,
Hermione was left totally baffled, standing stupidly with a flower in her hand as Fleur swept away.
Harry and Ron played wizarding chess as Hermione lounged in an overstuffed armchair beside them. Hermione liked chess, but she hated how violent the wizarding world version was. She had no interest in watching the pieces pummel each other.
The Gryffindor common room was full, restless students whiling away time before dinner.
Hermione rolled the small red flower around in her fingers. She’d been playing with it constantly since receiving it earlier in the day.
Just when she thought she couldn’t possibly be more confused about Fleur Delacour, the girl went and did something like this.
“Whatcha got there?” Ginny commented, sitting on a couch across from Hermione. She nudged Neville slightly to make room for her.
“It’s a camellia,” Neville answered for Hermione, looking up briefly from a herbology textbook.
“You know all the different types of flowers, Nev?” Ginny snorted, “Why is that what you actually remember?”
Neville blushed slightly. He was infamously forgetful, constantly losing things or forgetting where he was supposed to be going.
“My grandmother taught me about all the different meanings of flowers,” Neville replied, ducking his head, “She’s right into all that sort of stuff.”
Hermione leaned forward, suddenly interested in Ginny’s mild ribbing of Neville.
“What does a camellia mean?” Hermione asked.
Neville looked validated, shooting a rather defiant look at Ginny before replying.
“Depends on the colour,” Neville told Hermione dutifully, “Pink means longing for you, white means you’re adorable…”
Suddenly the common room felt far too hot for Hermione.
“And red?” Hermione’s voice came out in a croak.
“You’re a flame in my heart,” Neville replied, “Why? Who gave it to you?”
Hermione felt a sudden low swoop deep in the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t a feeling she’d had before, and it felt dizzying.
“Ah—Nobody,” Hermione replied quickly, “Must’ve been a misunderstanding.”
Ginny crossed her legs, leaning back with a suspicious grin.
“Hermione, are you okay?” Ginny asked lightly, “You’ve gone beet red.”
Fleur had been everywhere Hermione had been—to a maddening level.
Now Hermione actually wanted to seek her out, she was nowhere to be found.
Hermione was sure she was mistaken. Sure of it. But it didn’t stop her mind from sneakily considering the small possibility that she wasn’t…
It made her palms sweat. Her heart beat high in her throat.
But nobody had ever looked at Hermione like that.
Let alone a girl.
Let alone a girl who looked like Fleur Delacour.
Hermione was beginning to take pointless detours on her way to classes. Detours that might take a student coincidentally past some of the Beauxbatons delegation on their way to their own classes.
But she never managed to spot the suddenly-elusive blonde.
It was a truly excruciating number of days before Hermione glimpsed the French girl again.
Late one night in the library, Hermione was trying diligently to keep her mind on her work. She had been far too distracted lately and was beginning to lose the weeks-ahead advance she had on her schoolwork.
Hermione got up, telling herself it was to stretch her stiff limbs and neck. Partly it was to seek out a book on flower meanings, now she was less likely to be caught by mocking Slytherins.
It was late, almost curfew.
The library was fairly deserted. Most teenagers had better things to do with their Friday evenings.
Hermione weaved through the tall, shadowy bookshelves. She could almost make her way through the library with her eyes shut after all these years.
Still, it didn’t prepare her for the shock she experienced when she rounded a corner to find Fleur.
“Ah, hi,” Hermione winced at how her voice came out in a small yelp.
Fleur smouldered in the half shadows. Hermione had always wondered how exceedingly attractive people managed to do that—Seemingly passively smoulder. It made Hermione’s mouth dry and her heart skipped up a tempo.
“Bonsoir,” Fleur greeted. She seemed less nervous this time. There was an air of confidence in her voice. For once, it didn’t grate Hermione.
“What are you doing here?” Hermione asked, trying to catch her breath. She suddenly felt like she had been running a marathon. Pulse racing, sweaty palms.
Fleur waved gracefully at the shelves surrounding them with a coy smile.
“It is the fleur section, non?” Fleur teased, “What are you doing here?” She had a sparkle in her blue eyes. Hermione felt the low swoop in her abdomen again.
The brunette swallowed, nervous.
“I—Erm, I like looking up things, you see…” Hermione half-explained. She was transfixed by the way Fleur seemed to hang on her every word, nodding as if she had observed all this already. “After you gave me that flower… Well, a classmate told me the meaning, and it didn’t sound right…”
Fleur looked delighted now. She smiled brightly, leaning into Hermione in a painfully French way. She was tactile, a hand on Hermione’s shoulder, fingers toying with the cotton fabric of her shirt.
“Why do you think they were incorrect?” Fleur asked. Her eyes looked open, hopeful. She was well into Hermione’s personal space now, biting her full bottom lip and looking up at her.
Hermione brushed a wayward strand of blonde hair away from Fleur’s face without thinking, almost gasping at how soft it felt on her fingers. Fleur seemed to hold her breath.
“I… Erm…” Hermione felt every bit the awkward Brit she had seen portrayed in films and television, “Well… He couldn’t possibly be correct… After all, you’re…”
Hermione trailed off stupidly. Her big brain, faithful companion of so many years, seemed to abandon her in wake of a pretty girl leaning into her. All Hermione could think of was how beautiful Fleur’s eyes looked, how she smelled so good—vanilla and honey, perhaps-- how soft her lips might be…
Hermione felt the fingers of Fleur’s other hand play at the nape of her neck, softly stroking. When had she got both her hands on her?
Fleur was pressing against her now and Hermione barely stopped herself from shutting her eyes with a blissful sigh. She could feel Fleur’s soft curves against her. Hermione’s brain short circuited.
“I’m afraid I am quite transfixed with you,” Fleur murmured with a slight smile. Her pupils were blown and she was openly staring at Hermione’s lips.
The low swoop returned. Hermione felt something coil inside her, heating up.
For once in her life, Hermione didn’t second guess. She didn’t stop to analyse or figure things out.
Hermione dipped her head slightly and pressed her lips against Fleur’s. The blonde sighed into the kiss, instantly deepening it. Hermione had always stressed at the idea of kissing in the past, but it felt natural. Their tongues touched, sending a tingle through Hermione’s body. Her hand fumbled to Fleur’s hip, gripping the soft satin of her uniform.
This was how Hermione had imagined flying. Not the stupid, uncomfortable broom or wind slapping you in the face. This. The dizzying, glorious rush. She ran a hand through silky blonde locks, revelling at how soft Fleur was. Then Fleur bit her bottom lip lightly and Hermione all but passed out on the spot. A reminder that Fleur wasn’t all softness. She had edges to her.
Hermione pushed Fleur against one of the bookshelves, taking the chance to be the one pressing against Fleur instead. The blonde seemed to enjoy it, gasping lightly as Hermione took the opportunity to kiss at Fleur’s slender neck instead.
Hermione nipped between kisses, revelling at the idea that she could leave a mark. Something that would remind the both of them of what had happened. Fleur’s hands ran down her back, nails digging into her skin through her white shirt. It seemed to bring Hermione back to her senses, a little. She drew back, slightly, Fleur still in her arms. Fleur looked at her, lipstick messy from kissing, hair ruffled. She looked stunning.
“What is it?” Fleur asked, cocking her head slightly to one side. Merlin, she was so cute.
“I just…” Hermione laughed lightly, shaking her head, “I thought this whole time… I thought you were just trying to be mean to me.”
Fleur’s face lit up with disbelief and amusement.
“I liked you,” Fleur replied simply, “I had a crush on you from the second I saw you in the library. My friends have been teasing me mercilessly about it. They were convinced that you hated me and I should just give up. I almost believed them.”
Hermione’s grip tightened on Fleur. She felt like a total idiot.
“I’m not too much of a nerd?” Hermione asked, burying her face in Fleur’s hair for a moment. She didn’t want to look at Fleur for fear it really was too good to be true.
Fleur pulled her back to face her, a slender hand cupping her face.
“Non,” Fleur replied, her eyes dark and sparkling again, “In fact, I find academics sexy.”
Hermione’s brain shut down for the rest of the evening.