Chapter Text
Hermione looked around the room, displeased with this year’s Slug Club. That wasn’t the actual name for the Distinguished Scholars of Hogwarts, of course, but it was what everyone called them. The “club” was comprised of ten students, chosen by the faculty every year at the end of August, from the junior class.
The ten would meet on a near weekly basis for the rest of the fall and almost all of the spring semester for dinners, talks, and more, most frequently led by Professor Slughorn. The advantage of being part of such a group was the connections Hermione would develop through these events; from politicians to entrepreneurs to sports stars, Slughorn’s network went wide.
This, Hermione reminded herself, is what made the present company worth it. She glanced at the opposite corner of the massive square table in the center of the room. Draco Malfoy sat with a bored expression on his face. He was the stereotypical legacy admission; his grades were good but not stellar, nor did he have any noteworthy extracurriculars like Ron or Ginny. No, his entry ticket was, as he was prone to drawl at least once per conversation, “my father.” Next to Malfoy were two people whose names Hermione first learned from the press release announcing the Distinguished Scholars, Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass. So far, they seemed the quiet types, content to let Malfoy drone on and add little to the conversation.
Down the right edge of the table from the corner Hermione sat at, she recognized Susan Bones, Katie Bell, and Anthony Goldstein. Susan had to be related to Amelia Bones, a judge whose career Hermione followed intently. But she’d shared several classes with Susan through the years, and knew she at least was more than a family name. Katie had given Hermione a friendly wave when she’d entered the room; though they didn’t know each other well, their orbits brushed through Ginny and the lacrosse team. She’d only learned of the third in their group, Anthony, from the article as well. From what she could tell, he was some kind of wizard with tech.
That left Hermione herself, sitting next to Cedric Diggory, Viktor Krum, and, to Hermione’s immense surprise, Fleur Delacour.
Upon entering the small, historic building on north campus styled like a tiny castle, Hermione had made up her mind to take a seat alone, an island of one at the massive table that could hold at least twenty people. She wanted to play the field as neutrally as possible, and not let any distractions get in the way of her calculations of what Slughorn could offer, and which opportunities Hermione should strike at. But then Cedric had smiled warmly and raised his hand in a half wave, saying, “Hi, Hermione. Care to join us?”
Not wanting to be so overtly rude as to decline, Hermione had taken a seat to Cedric’s right. The two were acquainted and had shared one brief, polite conversation a few weeks ago. His long-term girlfriend, Cho, was another starter on the lacrosse team with Ginny, so they’d found themselves dragged to the same event. To Cedric’s left, Viktor had given Hermione a nod and a small smile. He and Harry were teammates and both stars of the soccer team, so Viktor and Hermione were acquainted too; for nearly a year, even. She’d expected an acknowledgement from him, which alone was incredibly friendly by Viktor’s usual surly standards, so the smile caught her off guard.
But it didn’t throw her nearly as much as Fleur Delacour’s presence in their group did. The Delacour family was notorious, even in America. Once the first scandal broke—corruption in the French government, with some branch of Delacours at the center—news of additional scandal after scandal throughout the family had broken in waves. This was all years ago, before Hermione had matriculated at Hogwarts. Before she’d received the press release with all their names, Hermione had no idea that any member of the proud Delacour family would deign to study outside of France. Now Fleur Delacour, with her perfectly straight, shiny blonde hair and haughty expression, was not only part of her graduating class, but also in a clique that Hermione didn’t even know she’d find herself in? Curious.
Of the three, Fleur was the only one who didn’t greet her. Hermione didn’t try to engage with her either, just pulled out the textbook for her current trickiest class and flipped the pages, absently skimming the material she’d already studied, while her mind worked through the potential dynamics in the room.
Slughorn finally swept into the room twenty minutes late into the two hours allotted to the inaugural meeting of this year’s cohort. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione could see Viktor and Cedric exchange amused looks. Slughorn’s penchant for dramatics was well known.
“Welcome!” Slughorn greeted, clapping his hands together. “What a crop, what a crop,” he said, smiling wide, rubbing his hands together. He looked like a villainous, greedy walrus.
He went around the table, greeting every one of his new acquisitions—that is, students—starting with Anthony, Susan, and Katie, to Malfoy’s group, and then to Hermione’s own. She listened with interest as Slughorn tactfully skipped over the significance of the Delacour name, instead praising Fleur’s academic and artistic abilities, and lamenting her decision not to continue with her sport at the university level—though he didn’t say what it was. Curiouser.
As expected, Slughorn fawned over Krum’s stardom on and off the field. Though Hermione bristled internally, her natural reaction to Harry’s talents being overshadowed, she had to admit it was accurate. Krum could easily go professional today, while developing further at the college level was necessary for Harry. For Cedric, Slughorn kept it brief, mentioning that he was the class president, of course, and calling out that his grades were almost the highest out of all the group.
“Second only,” Slughorn said, sliding his gaze to Hermione at last, “to our precocious Miss Granger here.”
Hermione felt acutely like she was being served up as a delicacy, carefully saved for last.
“Hermione Granger, double majoring and triple minoring, the highest GPA at the university in any grade, and a full year younger than most of her classmates,” Slughorn declared. “From a small town—the very same that our Viktor’s teammate, Harry Potter, is from! Tell me, Miss Granger,” he chuckled, “what do they put in the water there?”
Already uncomfortable and wanting to squirm in her seat from the introduction Slughorn gave her, Hermione bristled at the mention of her past.
“I don’t know, Professor,” she said stiffly, “but they certainly don’t put fluoride in the water.”
At Slughorn’s raised eyebrows, Hermione added, “My parents are dentists.”
“Oho!” he chortled. “Well, they must be incredible people to have raised you, Miss Granger.”
Thankfully, Slughorn moved on then. He spent the remaining hour they had together waxing poetic about the wonders that awaited their time ahead, name dropped at least once every other sentence, and was completely oblivious to the yawns everyone around the room stifled, even though it was only approaching 9 pm.
The moment that Slughorn exited his stupor and released them all, exclaiming at the time and how he’d kept them so late, Hermione sprang up. She shoved everything into her bag, perfectly in their places, in record time, nearly sprinting out the door before anyone could engage her in conversation that would trap her any longer.
Had Hermione stayed longer or simply taken her time, she would have seen deep blue eyes watching her every move.
*
A red blur jumped into Hermione’s bed, jostling her awake. Hermione groaned and turned over, burying her head further in the pillows.
“Come on, ’Mione, it’s nearly noon!” Ginny exclaimed, her upside down face popping into view as she leaned over, following Hermione.
“That may be so, but I was up until 4 last night,” Hermione grumbled.
“Ooh, was it a boring library night, or were you being fun party Hermione somewhere?” Ginny asked, waggling her eyebrows.
Resigned to the fact that she would not be getting back to sleep, Hermione rolled back over and half sat up.
“Library, but I’ll have you know it was still fun,” Hermione said, playing up the miffed tone in her voice.
“Sure,” Ginny rolled her eyes, smiling. “I knew anyway; who else takes you to parties but me?”
“I have other friends,” Hermione retorted without heat, playfully shoving Ginny’s arm.
“Yeah, my square of a brother, and Harry,” Ginny scoffed, “who also only go to parties I drag you all to.”
Not wanting to reveal anything, Hermione kept her mouth shut.
“So?” Ginny asked expectantly.
“What?” replied Hermione, nonplussed.
“Last night!” Ginny said impatiently. “First Slug Club. How’d it go?”
“Fine,” Hermione said, but wrinkled her nose. “Well, kind of awful. At least next week there’ll be a guest so it’s not just Slughorn preaching about himself.”
“Hermione,” Ginny said.
“Ginny,” Hermione replied, mocking her serious tone.
“Ugh, did you sit with Cedric or not?”
“Yes,” Hermione said, raising an eyebrow. “Was that your doing?”
“No, but it was mine and Cho’s,” Ginny grinned. “We realized you’d probably just put yourself in a corner or something so she maaaay have said something to Cedric.”
“Well that failed, because we all sat at a corner,” Hermione said dryly.
Ginny just stuck her tongue out in response.
“That really wasn’t necessary, Gin,” Hermione admonished, but she couldn’t help the feeling of warmth spreading through her chest.
The only person who’d ever looked out for her like that before this year was Harry. They’d met when they were 13, and since then, it had been just the two of them against the world—at least, the part of the world that came at them in their hometown.
Hermione yet again felt a surge of gratitude for the Weasleys. When Hogwarts had given her the opportunity to matriculate a year early, the offer had been too good to pass up. It didn’t make leaving Harry behind any easier. She’d promised him that, if he didn’t get in, a transfer from the prestigious university to anywhere else was already an almost done deal. Harry had protested, but in the end, it was moot. On the strength of his talent in soccer—once he’d gotten his license, he was able to join an academy in the nearest city—and with his academics in good standing, thanks to years of Hermione’s tutoring, he became a Hogwarts student one short year later. Matched together as dorm-mates, Harry and Ron had become fast friends.
When Ron, learning of their home situations, had invited Harry and Hermione to stay with the Weasleys all summer long at the end of last year, she was skeptical. But Harry assured her that if it wasn’t right, he would leave with her and they could go and do what they always did—he’d make sure it didn’t offend Ron.
Luckily, Mrs. Weasley was nothing but welcoming to the two strays, and Hermione felt more at home at the Burrow than she could have anticipated. This hadn’t been what Hermione expected from another generational Hogwarts family; the Weasley name wasn’t on as many buildings and centers as the Malfoys, but still a few. However, the Burrow had been modest and Hermione was starting to gather that the Weasleys got in on legacy combined with merit, rather than legacy and wealth.
Hermione also left that summer with a new best friend of her own: Ginny, who returned to Hogwarts with them for her freshman year. Ginny, who let herself into the house that Hermione, Harry, and Ron shared, whenever she wanted, and rudely woke Hermione up after not enough sleep.
“Hermione!”
At the sound of her name, Hermione’s head jerked back up. She’d been nodding off again, Ginny still sat on the foot of her bed.
“What?” Hermione said, blinking her bleary eyes.
“I said, what are you doing today?” Ginny repeated.
“Studying,” Hermione said with a frown. It’s what she did every day.
“The boys and I are going to play a couple friendly games on the field,” Ginny said. “Want to meet up for dinner after?”
“Sure,” Hermione agreed with a relieved smile. The one time they’d convinced her to bring her books to the bleachers, she’d left after less than 20 minutes.
* * *
The first month of the fall semester passed in a blur—a well-regulated, reliable, and steady blur. As with last year, Hermione went to her classes, studied, and relaxed with Harry and Ron. The two additions to her junior year were a mixed bag. Ginny’s presence was immensely positive; Hermione knew the freshman dorms weren’t too far, but the amount of time that Ginny spent with the trio of housemates was still impressive. The Slug Club, however, was more of a drag than Hermione had anticipated.
Their biggest guest so far had been Gwenog Jones, and while some of the others—the athletes, mostly—had been quite enthused, Hermione was not. They’d also had many evenings with other professors, and while Hermione was on good terms with nearly all of them, such was the range of classes she took, it was disappointingly mundane to just converse with people she already knew.
The closest they’d had to a mover and shaker so far was dinner with Lucius Malfoy. Draco’s father had been every bit as unpleasant as his son, but had a greater iciness about him. There was also something far more sinister and foreboding to Lucius under the surface than his sniveling son. But Hermione understood the influence he had in the upper echelons of society, and played her part perfectly. A man like Lucius would always look down on her, she knew. But Hermione could smile and not simper, impress Lucius despite his own preconceptions, and privately take everything he stood for as more fuel for her own fire. She would make it on her own in this world, not relying on name or blood money, but on her own wits and determination.
So, in all, the Slug Club was turning out to be a massive waste of Hermione’s time. And it would keep going until nearly the summer. At the very least, the meetings never interfered with her regular classes. The exact day of the week could vary from Monday through Wednesday, but the time of day was only ever in the evening. A good thing, because if the group were to ever throw a wrench in her jam-packed, precisely orchestrated four-year schedule, she’d just quit it.
She did have to admit that Ginny was right, though; sitting with Cedric’s group made it more bearable. Before long, and despite her best efforts to the contrary, Hermione was paying as little attention to Slughorn as anybody else. Instead, she had side conversations with Viktor and Cedric in a notebook they passed between the three of them.
While Fleur occasionally read over Viktor’s shoulder, she never brought her own pen out.
* * *
“Seriously though,” Ginny said, leaning against a dirty kitchen counter, a red plastic cup in her hand. “Did you three ever have fun before I came here?”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged a conspiratorial look.
“Should we tell her?” Hermione said.
“Nah, let her gloat some more,” Ron replied. “It’ll make it even funnier when she realizes.”
“I don’t know if she’ll even believe us,” Harry added.
Ginny narrowed her eyes at the trio. “What’re you talking about?” she said, a small frown forming.
“Hate to break it to you, Gin, but we partied plenty without you,” Harry said with a grin.
“Yeah, haven’t you noticed we can all hold our liquor?” Ron said.
Ginny looked at Hermione. In lieu of speaking, Hermione just raised her clear glass in a silent toast. She was on her third gin and tonic; two was enough for a buzz, but three was where she started to really get into the partying mood.
“Oh my god!” Ginny yelled, but she was grinning too now. “Who? Where? What?” she said in disbelief.
“Soccer team,” Harry said simply.
“Art students in my classes,” Hermione supplied.
“These two,” Ron said with a shrug.
Ron and Harry then exchanged a look of their own. Before Hermione could stop them, Harry was telling Ginny, “You really missed out on last year.”
“What was last year?” Ginny whipped back.
Hermione managed to let out a, “Do not answer that!” to the general room, but no one listened.
“Let’s just say Hermione has pull,” Ron said sagely.
“No!” Ginny gasped. “Who?”
“Nobody,” Hermione replied immediately. At the full force of Ginny’s stare, she explained, “Look, no one important. Just one-night things.”
“Hermione, those are even more interesting than relationships,” Ginny groaned.
“I’d try to help,” Harry said with a shit-eating grin, “but I never got names.”
“Because Hermione never got names,” Ron spelled out.
Hermione glared daggers at the boys, but they ignored these too.
“Other details, then!” Ginny shouted. Then she stopped, holding comically still, and looked at them all with wide eyes. “Wait—does she have a type?”
“She,” Hermione said, “is standing right here. And no, I don’t.”
Harry frowned. “You do, though. Tall.”
“Blonde,” Ron added thoughtfully.
Hermione gaped at them now. “That is not true.”
“Kinda is, though,” Ron said.
“No, I mean, empirically,” Hermione said, face flushing. “I don’t have a type; I’ve—I’ve—gone home with—all types of women,” she protested. “And a few men!”
“Yeah, but…” Harry said, searching for words.
“There’ve been a lot of tall blondes,” Ron finished.
Ginny was staring at Hermione, wide-eyed. Hermione knew it wasn’t in disgust; she’d been out for years, and didn’t bother hiding it. Everything, between the thrifted men’s pants she wore, to her thick, wavy hair that she left loose and wild, screamed her sexuality to anyone with eyes.
No, Ginny was looking at her in awe.
“I have to find Cho and Luna!” Ginny shouted, leaving the kitchen in such a rush that her drink sloshed out onto the tile.
“Thanks, guys,” Hermione grumbled, but was unable to keep the smirk off her face now too.
“Anytime,” Harry replied cheerfully.
*
Deciding that they’d venture out into the crowd, but meet back in the kitchen whenever they needed a retreat, the trio filtered back into the party. Hermione made her way toward Ginny, who waved her over when she saw her. Hermione joined Ginny and Cho near the center of the living room.
“Hi!” Cho greeted brightly. She leaned in and stage-whispered, “How’s Slug Club?”
“Don’t remind me,” Hermione groaned. “I think you know exactly how it is.”
Cho laughed.
“Actually,” Hermione started, the realization coming over her that Cho was exactly the person to ask, “how does Cedric know Viktor?”
“I think their cousins got married a long time ago, or something,” Cho answered. “So they met as kids and then realized it during a class freshman year.”
“Small world,” Hermione mused. It applied to all of them, really—Harry to Viktor, Viktor to Cedric, and from the other end, Harry to Ron and Ginny, to Cho and Cedric.
“And Fleur?” Hermione asked, trying to make it sound like a casual inquiry. In reality, she was desperate to know about the immovable wall—the beautiful, perfect, immovable wall—that sat with them week after week but had said almost nothing.
“I think Fleur’s mom’s side of the family is Bulgarian,” Cho said, brow furrowed in thought. “I can’t remember if she’s somehow related to Viktor though, or if that’s just a coincidence.”
“Are you and Cedric good friends with her?” Hermione asked, still trying to play it nonchalantly.
Judging by Ginny’s raised eyebrows at her from behind Cho’s back, Hermione was pretty sure she had not succeeded.
“No, I’ve never even met her myself,” Cho replied, thankfully oblivious to Ginny’s facial expressions. “Cedric just met her for the first time through Slug Club too. She’s kind of a recluse.”
Another teammate of Ginny and Cho’s came up to the group, and Hermione let the conversation slide on.
* * *
After September ended, Hermione arrived at the first post-fall break Slug Club event earlier than she’d meant to. With classes not back in full swing yet, the coffee shop was far emptier than usual, and she’d barely had to wait for her drink. Rather than try to sit there for a too-short amount of time to really get settled, she decided to just go to the historic dining room awkwardly early and deal with it.
She was not prepared to see the large square table empty except for one Fleur Delacour.
When Hermione opened the door, Fleur looked up at her, surprise flickering across her face. Hermione just held her coffee up silently, as if it explained everything. Mentally, to her, it did. In reality, to Fleur, it said nothing…
Oh god, did she really have a type? Was her brain actually breaking right now?
Pushing that thought of her mind, Hermione sat down at her usual seat—leaving two seats between her and Fleur, one for Cedric, and around the corner, one for Viktor. She pulled a book out of her bag; nothing for a class, just some light reading, and sipped at her coffee.
Someone cleared their throat.
Hermione raised her head. Fleur was looking directly at her.
“Hermione,” she said.
Had Hermione ever heard Fleur talk before? Of course she had. She had a melodic, beautiful voice that could sound light and airy, or heavy and biting, depending on whether she was laughing with or insulting someone. But Hermione had never heard Fleur say her name, and that felt… entirely new.
“Yes?” Hermione said. She was distantly thankful her voice didn’t crack.
“You are a history major, no? Among other things,” Fleur said.
Good god. Her eyes were so blue. She had the cheekbones of a model. Her nose was adorable, and her mouth was—
Focus, Granger.
“I am,” Hermione replied. She didn’t trust herself with more than one or two word answers.
“My final general education requirement is not agreeing with me,” Fleur said, crinkling her nose.
Don’t look at her nose or her lips again.
“Could you help me with it?” Fleur asked.
“Uh—” Hermione replied eloquently.
“If you are not too busy,” Fleur said smoothly.
“No,” Hermione said too loud and too quickly. “No, that—not busy, yes, I can help,” she said, tongue still tied.
“When are you free?” Fleur asked.
Hermione did the mental math. The ball was in her court. A time that she was free, but probably best not to suggest a random block of her day that was a common class time, because that might not work for Fleur. Then they’d just end up going back and forth, and god forbid Fleur just give up after getting hung up on the logistics…
“Friday at 5:30?” Hermione suggested.
“Perfect,” said Fleur. “How about that coffee shop?” she added, tilting her head toward the cup in Hermione’s hand.
Hermione just nodded in response.
She returned to her book hastily, before she could ruin this encounter. But out of the corner of her eye, she thought that Fleur had a somewhat more pleased expression on her face than usual.
*
As it turned out, Fleur and history did not disagree at all. Hermione quickly established that Fleur wasn’t actually struggling with her class in any way. No, their first meeting in the coffee shop was just Fleur asking question after question. They went on a whirlwind tour through context that was left out of the textbook, theories that her professor stated as fact without backing up any claims for, and missing links between what was taught pre-university in France as compared to the United States.
Hermione elaborated on topic after topic, pleased to have met someone as interested in history as her, and who could keep up with her every turn and detail. This first meeting came to an abrupt end nearly two hours later, when Hermione realized she was late to meet Ginny. She sprang up and apologized to Fleur for rambling so much. But Fleur gave her a genuine smile and a firm dismissal of the idea that Hermione had done anything wrong.
In fact, Fleur asked if they could meet again at the same time next week. In her rush to not leave Ginny hanging for too long, Hermione agreed readily.
It wasn’t until she was halfway to her house that Hermione realized, unless Fleur was planning on being hit very hard in the head soon, she still wouldn’t need help with history in a week’s time.
*
The second time they met, Fleur didn’t even bother to bring her history book at all. Hermione arrived just a few minutes after 5:30, but Fleur had clearly been sitting there for a while. She had an empty cup and a small plate with a few crumbs, next to a short stack of textbooks.
Dropping her bag on the floor and taking a seat, Hermione slightly lifted the cover of the small book that was Fleur reading off the table, so that she could read the title.
“Wait, are you in Professor Vector’s proseminar?”
“Yes,” Fleur said, first looking bemused at Hermione’s interruption, but then raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “How do you know that?” she asked.
“Septima tried to convince me to take it the last time I saw her,” Hermione explained, “but I couldn’t fit it in this semester.”
“You are on a first-name basis with the dean of the math department,” Fleur asked flatly.
“It’s not like that,” Hermione blushed. “Math is one of my minors, but they don’t bother giving me a real advisor, so I just go chat with her once a semester.”
Suddenly uncomfortable with the intense look Fleur was giving her, Hermione mumbled, “I’m going to go get a coffee real quick.”
When she returned, Fleur filled her in on all that Hermione was missing from the graduate-level discussions.
* * *
As October became November, Hermione and Fleur continued to meet every Friday. Their conversations quickly broadened from history and mathematics to their other favorite subjects. Before Hermione knew it, she and Fleur were verbally sparring and trading information like old friends—a friend the likes of which Hermione had never had. Every single time they talked, Hermione felt her mind expand and make new connections.
It was fun, exhilarating, and all week every week, Hermione looked forward to Fridays with Fleur. They became her favorite thing in the world, easily. It wasn’t even close. Hermione even made sure to completely clear her Friday evenings; after their first meeting, she never wanted to be the reason they had to part ways.
The first time Hermione was ever late to their standing appointment, it was chilly and dark out. When she opened the door to the coffee shop, Fleur jumped up from her seat. She quickly smoothed a worried look off her face as Hermione approached and made her apologies and explanations.
Fleur didn’t say much in return. She just scribbled on the corner of a piece of paper, ripped it out of her notebook, and thrusted it into Hermione’s hands. It was her number.
After their usual long conversation over coffee, Hermione texted that night.
“Hi, it’s Hermione. Just thought you should have my number, since I have yours.”
She didn’t receive a response until the following Thursday night.
“I’m busy around 5:30. Dinner instead?”
Hermione’s heart nearly jumped out of her chest.
It’s just dinner with a friend. You’re friends, and that’s good. She’s a very interesting friend. Goddamnit, pull yourself together and reply already.
“Sure. When and where?”
“7? Meet outside the usual place. It’s a short walk.”
As promised, at 7 the next evening, Fleur was waiting for her outside the coffee shop. She was wearing an incredibly flattering knee-length wool coat, cinched around the waist, heeled leather boots that looked more worn than Hermione would have expected from her, and a thick, warm looking blue beret. Like Hermione, who had come from her house a few blocks away, Fleur had no book bag with her.
“Hey,” Hermione greeted as she approached. “You look nice,” she said without thinking.
To her surprise, Fleur blushed. But she must get compliments all the time.
“So do you,” she replied.
Well, now Fleur was just being nice. Hermione was in an old, thick leather jacket, also thrifted, her favorite pair of jeans that Fleur had seen her in a dozen times, flat, comfortable shoes, and she had earmuffs on, wrapping around her neck from under her wild mane of hair.
“Uh, where to?” Hermione asked after the silence stretched on a beat too long.
“I—it’s nothing fancy,” Fleur said, looking, what, almost embarrassed now? “But do you like Korean? If not, it’s okay, there’s plenty around.”
“Sounds great,” Hermione replied.
*
“Oh my god,” Hermione moaned.
Fleur raised an eyebrow at her, smirking.
“This is the best bibimbap I’ve ever had,” Hermione declared.
They were sitting at a hole in the wall that Hermione had never noticed before, despite walking this street a hundred times. The lights were dim, but it was clean, with wooden tables and old, peeling booths. It was decently busy but far from crowded, and a pleasant background of chatter filled the space. It was the perfect ambiance for talking.
“Thank you for agreeing to dinner,” Fleur said, surprisingly shy.
“Of course, it was barely a change from our usual time,” Hermione replied. “And I really enjoy our friendship.”
Fleur stiffened ever so slightly.
Shit. Were they not friends? Did Hermione just make a massive presumption? Was Fleur just intellectually stimulated by their chats too, but considered her a mere acquaintance?
“Sorry,” Hermione blurted out. “I didn’t mean—I mean, I’d like to be friends, but we don’t have to be, if—”
“No,” Fleur cut her off. “Friends,” she smiled, but it was still muted.
*
Days later, falling asleep after a late night in the library, Hermione sat upright in bed with a jolt.
“Fuck!” she swore at herself.
She’d been so oblivious. Fleur’s uncharacteristic reserve at dinner, the fact that she’d proposed meeting later to begin with—and asking Hermione for “help” in the first place!
Hermione was an idiot.
But okay—she could try again this Friday.
*
On Thursday, she texted Fleur.
“7 in front of the coffee shop again? We can go wherever you want. I trust you.”
She received a two word reply.
“Yes, please.”
*
Hermione was sure that Fleur had to have done some reconnaissance for this restaurant choice. It was even darker than the last one. There were candles on every table. And the tables were tiny. Their legs were pressed right up against each others, to avoid their knees knocking painfully. Hermione was closer to Fleur’s face than she’d ever been before. She was finding it difficult to breathe.
How had she missed this before? The tension in the air between them. Every look from Fleur was charged. The contact between them was spreading a fire up Hermione’s legs. She would swear she could feel Fleur’s breath fluttering on her face.
If asked, Hermione couldn’t have told you what exactly they ate. But she could tell you how many shades of blue, and a few of green, she counted in Fleur’s eyes.
After they paid—after Fleur paid, as she always did, which Hermione wanted to protest, but in reality could only be eternally grateful for—Hermione stood reluctantly. She walked with Fleur to the door, glumly pulling on her earmuffs and gloves from her coat pockets. It was time to walk in opposite directions, as they always did. Judging by their usual routes, Hermione presumed that Fleur lived in the nicer side of town, generally inhabited by professors, families, and with a sparse few rentals.
But when their feet hit the sidewalk, Fleur suddenly stopped. She reached out her hand, grabbing Hermione’s left wrist. Hermione froze, rooted to the spot, as Fleur pushed Hermione’s glove slightly out of the way and looked at the face of her watch.
“It’s late,” Fleur said.
It really wasn’t.
“Walk me home?” she asked softly, still holding onto Hermione’s arm and standing close.
Hermione was not about to say no. She nodded, swallowing, her throat dry.
They walked in the darkness of pre-winter. Away from the main street of the small downtown near campus, and on the side with far less traffic, they were illuminated only by the occasional street lamp.
Hermione was hyper-aware of her arms as she walked.
Did she usually walk with her hands in her pockets? Wait, she had gloves on; they were too bulky to fit in jean pockets, even men’s. Did her arms always swing so awkwardly and ungracefully like they were now? Or were they doing something different just because she was paying attention to them?
But she must have been doing something right. The back of Fleur’s thinly gloved hand brushed against hers. Once, twice, and then again and again. Fleur never took her hand, and Hermione didn’t push her to. But she left her hand where it was, outstretched slightly more than was natural, toward Fleur.
Fleur eventually stopped in front of a house. It was more dilapidated on the outside than any other on the block, the true sign of a rental in this nice neighborhood. Pressing one finger to her lips, Fleur led Hermione off the sidewalk, around the house, to a side door. Hermione followed her through the door silently. It opened directly into a staircase. The rest of the house was mostly obscured from view by an inner wall.
Tiptoeing up the stairs, Hermione caught a glimpse of the main staircase on the landing. It had a railing; it must overlook the front door and whatever rooms were at the front of the house. Fleur led her down a short hall. She opened a dark brown door on the same side of the house as the staircase. Hermione stopped for a moment to appreciate the magnificent old trim; the wood was intricately carved with vines and swirls.
Her eyes moved to feast on the interior of Fleur’s room. Hermione hadn’t expected anything, but if she had, it would have been blue. Instead, Fleur’s room was full of light green and decadent cream shades of white. Hermione shut the door behind her as Fleur drew the curtains shut and selected one of many records from a shelf. She removed the cover, placed it on a turntable, and music filled the room.
Fleur turned to face Hermione, staring at her with smoldering eyes. Fleur took a step forward.
“Huh, is that Tchaikovsky?” The question escaped Hermione before she could think about it.
Fleur paused in the center of her room. “It is,” she said, fighting off an amused expression from her face. “Is talking about that what you would like to do right now?”
Hermione swallowed. “Uh, not at the moment,” she said, losing herself in Fleur’s eyes.
Fleur nodded slowly and walked up to where Hermione hadn’t moved from the closed door. She stopped just before their bodies could brush.
“Do you—” Hermione murmured. At the same time, Fleur started to say, “Before we—”
Hermione stopped, waiting silently for Fleur to speak. Fleur hesitated. A few locks of her hair, which had started in a neat bun before the heat of the restaurant and the chilly walk, fell in her face as she looked down at Hermione.
“Before we do anything, you should know,” Fleur said. “I’m not… I’m…”
“Not gay? Just experimenting?” Hermione asked. A cold feeling settled in her stomach as she reevaluated Fleur’s actions. But it was fine. This happened more often than not. Hermione could still be a willing participant, even if she felt like a fool for thinking there could be something more on Fleur’s side.
“No,” Fleur said, her brow furrowing. “Of course I am. I’m just not out.”
“Ah,” Hermione said, meeting Fleur’s troubled eyes. “I understand. I’ll be discreet.”
Fleur nodded in relief, and before Hermione could think about anything, Fleur’s lips were on hers.
Fleur kissed her firmly, without the hesitation that usually accompanied a first kiss. She opened her mouth, gently probing a tongue at Hermione’s lips, and deepened the kiss when Hermione let her in.
Her hands grasped Hermione’s waist, and she pressed herself flush against Hermione, now pressed between Fleur and the door.
Oh my god, Hermione thought. She is tall. And this is nice. Maybe she did have a thing for tall people…
Hermione let Fleur take the lead. She didn’t know how not being out would have affected Fleur’s experiences with women so far, and she didn’t want to do anything to make her uncomfortable.
Fortunately, Fleur was more than happy to move things along. She slid Hermione’s coat off her shoulders and tugged her shirt over her head. Hermione, emboldened to get Fleur to an equal state of undress, did the same.
They paused and stared at each other, breathing hard, faces mere inches apart. Then Fleur was taking Hermione’s hand, drawing her to the bed. Fleur turned them gracefully and gently pushed Hermione onto the bed on her back. She crawled on top, undoing the button of Hermione’s jeans. Before Hermione could reciprocate, Fleur was sliding down, pulling Hermione’s jeans with her.
“Is this okay?” Fleur whispered, from where she rested near Hermione’s knees.
Nodding enthusiastically, Hermione whispered back, “Yes.”
And then Fleur was at her thighs, pulling her underwear down, pressing wet kisses near where Hermione wanted her the most.
Hermione put a gentle hand in Fleur’s hair, not grabbing or leading her anywhere, just needing more contact between them.
When Fleur finally did press her tongue against Hermione’s center, Hermione’s eyes shut involuntarily. Fleur started a confident rhythm, and as the pleasure built up, Hermione couldn’t help thrusting her hips in time with the surges of Fleur’s tongue. Finally, when she almost couldn’t take it anymore, Fleur brought a thumb up, easily adding the tiniest pressure to the precise spot that Hermione needed to let go.
“Holy shit,” Hermione exhaled when she could see again. She looked down at Fleur, who was still between her legs, looking up at her with a smug expression.
Hermione reached a hand out toward Fleur’s and pulled her up.
“Where did you learn that?” Hermione said with a laugh, definitely wanting to know, but leaving room to allow Fleur to take it as a joke if she wished.
Fleur’s smug expression faltered slightly, showing a hint of uncertainty. “First time,” she shrugged.
“No,” Hermione replied, staring in disbelief.
“Not my first time receiving,” Fleur said. “Only ever from men before,” she added, with a look of slight disgust. Hermione could commiserate. There were things she enjoyed about sex with men; oral was not usually one of them.
“I noted what did not work and what I wished they had done instead,” Fleur said simply, but Hermione still saw a trace of insecurity in her face.
“Well, what you did really worked,” she assured, leaning in to kiss Fleur.
The heat of the kiss was searing. Hermione reached down to gently tug at the waistband of Fleur’s tight pants.
“Can I?” she asked.
“Please,” Fleur breathed.
“I’ll give you another data point,” Hermione said, grinning as she made her way down Fleur’s legs. “And after, you can tell me your notes on me.”