Chapter 4: Chapter 4Notes:
Enjoy x
French
Thoughts
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
A huge fist landed in the middle of her stomach with a wet thud, and Hermione groaned, bending over in pain. Sweat was dripping down the side of her face and every inch of exposed skin was slick with moisture. She took a breath and focused on gripping the balls of her feet to the mat.
"Again."
Thump. Grunt.
"Again," she gasped.
Thump. Grunt.
"Again."
"Sure you don't want a break?"
She just gave her trainer, Jason, a withering look. He shrugged before winding up and slamming his heavy fist back into the brunette's toned stomach. Her fingers were interlocked tightly behind her neck to keep from countering, but she couldn't help but curl up and groan again and again at each incoming assault. She took a moment to breathe before she flexed again. Nodding to him, he did it again.
Although she ditched her shirt long ago due to how hot it was in the sweltering gym, she had still managed to sweat through her sports bra and running shorts. Her bare skin was bright red from his repetitive beatings, but that was nothing new. It was Sunday, after all, and Sunday's were her ab day. Jason was used to this unusual request by now, in which she finished her hour-long core routine with one hundred punches to her abdomen, fifty spiderman push-ups, and a mile run flat out. She still had twenty-eight to go.
Thump. Grunt. Thump. Grunt. Thump. Grunt.
"How's work going?" Jason asked, alternating hands. A light sweat had started to form on his brow, and his wavy brown hair was sticking to his forehead. Her stomach was completely numb by this point, but she couldn't stop tensing now or each hit would be ten times more painful.
Thump. Grunt.
"Pretty good," she gritted out, tightening her hands together behind her head. Thump. Grunt. "Taking some time off for a week or so though." Thump. Grunt.
"You?" Thump. Grunt. "Taking time off?" Thump. Grunt. "What has the world come to?" he joked.
Hermione chuckled, but then groaned louder again as a punch landed. She braced tighter. Thump. Grunt. "I know," Thump. Grunt. "I have no idea what to do with myself," Thump. Grunt. Thump. Grunt.
"Travel?" Thump. Grunt. "Lay on a beach somewhere?" the ex-marine switched hands again. Thump. Grunt. "Go on a date for once?" Thump. Grunt. Thump. Grunt.
"Dating is my last priority right now," she answered honestly. Thump. Grunt.
Thump. Grunt. Thump. Grunt. Thump. Grunt.
"You could do with," Thump. Grunt. "getting out there, you know."
Hermione rolled her eyes. Thump. Grunt. Jason and she had gotten close over the past two years, despite his painful American-ness and their initial awkwardness when he tried to hit on her. She let him down easy, of course, having explained she was Kinsey-six gay and entirely uninterested in the male population. As it turns out, they ended up bonding over his disastrous dating adventures, which Hermione found all too amusing. He was a great mixed-martial arts trainer and something of a friend now, she supposed, but she didn't need the lecture on her lack of recreational activities. He barely knew the prologue to her story, after all. He stopped to wipe his sweaty forehead on his shoulder before continuing.
Thump. Grunt. Thump. Grunt.
"I am doing just fine," she said through her teeth.
Thump. Grunt.
"When was the last time," Thump. Grunt. "you had some babe," Thump. Grunt. "breathing all hot and heavy underneath you?"
Thump. Grunt.
He drew his fist back again and swung it forward, but this time Hermione shifted her hips, coolly leaned back, and Jason lost his balance as the blind swing sailed past her. She lightly kicked the back of his knee on his supporting leg and he topped over onto the mat with a high-pitched yelp. He rolled onto his back with a groan of his own, still breathing heavy with a smile on his face.
Hermione lowered her arms from the back of her head and looked down at him with a grin, "Right now, babe," she winked, and he let out a booming laugh so loud that the young girl at the front desk jumped off her stool. Jason propped himself up on his elbows.
"I deserved that," he chuckled again, "That was a hundred?"
"Of course," she replied with a curt nod, getting down to her knees next to him and placing her hands on the mat, shoulder-width apart.
"I'll never understand how you keep track so well," he said.
"You mean pay attention?" she joked, and he just rolled his eyes with an underhand comment that was intended to be heard.
She smiled again before lifting her knees off the floor. Getting herself into a decent plank position, her stomach still sore from all the blows, she began doing her push-ups, lifting a leg out to the side every time her chest reached the floor until her knee touched her elbow.
Jason finally sighed and heaved himself off the mat, evidently realising the brunette would be incapacitated for the next few minutes or so. Hermione could see him shift his weight a few times in her peripheral vision, and she focused on breathing as she waited for whatever he was about to say.
A few moments later, when she was halfway done with her fifty, he finally spat it out.
"I'm serious, you know," he said, and the brunette sighed and got back to her plank, gulping down a few breaths.
"About?" she asked, and continued her reps.
"Enjoying your vacation," he explained, "I know you work hard with your consulting business, and you drag your ass here nearly every day, rain or shine. Just…I think you should try to find some time to relax, or there won't be any point to taking a holiday at all."
Hermione just grunted again, touching her right knee to her elbow again.
"You're not going to listen to me, are you?"
"Probably not," she huffed, and he sighed. She could practically see him throwing his hands up in exasperation, the big drama queen. He walked away and let her get on with it uninterrupted.
After finishing on the mat, she got up and jogged outside to start her mile. When she hit the street-post marked as her start line, she opened up her stride on the familiar route and let the mild burn in her lungs take over her other senses. Six minutes. Six minutes. Six minutes when her legs felt like they caught fire, and her stomach ached with each foot pounding onto the hard pavement. She yearned for this feeling and had to admit it had become a little addicting. It was strange, pushing yourself more and more until you were both entirely numb and wholly agonised at the same time. The longer she ran the more her body ached, and her muscles longed for her to stop. Her mouth was parched, and after four long minutes, the world began to fade around her until she was transported somewhere else entirely.
She could hear the sounds of tree roots exploding around her. The hot snort of a heavy breathing werewolf behind her. Draco Malfoy to her right with his hand over his pale lips, holding back his nausea. Ron's muffled shouts in the background.
Less than a minute now. She could see the entrance to the gym in the distance.
Black eyes and charcoal teeth were in front of her, and a surprisingly delicate hand wrapped around her neck and started to squeeze.
She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe. Pain. Pain. She winced and pushed her legs to move faster.
The grip became tighter, and she struggled to find any oxygen. Her head was getting light. She could hardly feel her arms, but she tried clawing frantically at the hand around her neck.
Everything hurt, but she kept pushing. Kept breathing. Kept going. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe. Pain. Pain.
The hand tightened again and her ribs expanded pointlessly. Her muscles twitched in need. She longed to feel air, even just a whisper crawling down her throat, but nothing could make it past her crushed windpipe. She looked up into black depths.
Her vision was tunnelling and darkening around the edges. She was suffocating. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe. Pain. Pain.
Her arms went limp and her eyes rolled back in her head as her chest heaved for air again. Her lungs expanded desperately, but there was nothing there for them and the seductive night began to wash over her.
And then it was over.
Six minutes. She stumbled to a stop and dropped her hands to her knees in front of the gym door. She gasped and gulped, pulling in as much air as she could. A few beads of sweat fell from the tip of her nose and splatted on the pavement between her trainers. The oxygen she was urgently swallowing slowly overcame the acid that had built up in her muscles, and her wheezing gasps started to lengthen and quieten as she finally caught her breath. She looked at her watch. Six minutes.
Only six minutes, but they were the absolute best minutes of her day.
The blonde pursed her lips as she read through the file in her hands. She was hunched over her desk, fervently scanning the document and trying to consolidate everything she was reading. Her left knee was shaking up and down, a frustrating but predictable symptom of the fourth cup of coffee she just mainlined.
"Delacour!"
Fleur jumped in her office chair and glared at the bright wispy badger hovering in her doorway, "My office please."
She stifled a theatrical sigh and slowly stood up, her neck popping as she tilted her head to the side and rolled her shoulders. She hated when her boss did that, especially when he knew she was in one of her work grooves. Putting her hands on her hips, she stretched her lower back a little with a light groan and mentally reprimanded herself for another too-long occupancy in her office chair.
Once again, she had gotten lost in her work for the better part of the day. Having just wrapped up a case, she was catching up on the mountain of paperwork it entailed. The perpetrator had a fondness for throwing a muggle acid concoction on the politicians involved in the new magical imports policy, and she had put a team together for an undercover operation that, thankfully, went quite smoothly. Well, aside from one of her agents kneeling on a puddle to restrain the gentleman thinking it was water on the floor. She had to be rushed to the healers. Other than that, though, she was pleased with how it went. The blonde had mixed experiences with covert ops, and although it sounds adventurous and interesting, after four years she knew it generally just meant an eternity of waiting and about full three days of paperwork and debriefing afterwards.
A short, but much-needed walk to the opposite side of the department floor had the veela standing in another office that was a similar size to her own. Unlike her own, however, in which she tried to maintain some semblance of order and a modicum of décor, her boss tended to work in what could only be described as utter mayhem. Confidential folders were lying open on the floor. Post-it notes were stuck all over his walls with illegible scribbles and drawings that Fleur could never connect to their work. Papers were strewn on every available horizontal surface, some stacked so high they reached his chin when he was seated at his desk, such as now. His brown tabby cat was on its back in the corner, playing with a crumpled newspaper its owner had charmed to float around six inches off the floor.
Julian Rambourg was the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for the French Ministry. He was quite a skinny man, and a few inches shorter than the blonde. She always knew that bothered him, but he made up for his small stature with a classic, albeit fairly mild Napoleon complex in which he spoke too loud and tried to assert himself far too often. After years of working with the man, she found it quite harmless and learned he actually had a brilliant mind for organised crime and murder. He, too, had gotten to know her past the visage of beauty, which she appreciated. When it came down to it, all he really cared about was that she got the work done. Considering how many hours she spent in her office and how many cases she had solved, he had nothing to complain about pertaining to her performance.
"Delacour," he said, not looking up from the file he was reading. His free hand was in his hair twisting a greying lock around his middle finger, a nervous tick that Fleur noticed he did when he didn't like what he was reading. "How are you getting along with the acid asshole?"
"Good, sir," she said, nodding although he still wasn't looking at her, "At this rate I should be done and filed by the end of tomorrow."
"Good, good," he said distractedly, his brow furrowing as his eyes continued to scan the file he was reading. Fleur waited a few moments before speaking again.
"Was there something you needed me for, sir?"
Julian sighed and shut the manila file, frustration plain in every movement. He slapped the folder onto the only space on his desk not covered with papers and stuck a skinny index finger onto the middle of it, "You're on this one."
"Counterterrorism?" she asked, her interest piqued.
"I don't know."
She raised an eyebrow.
"International victims?"
"No," he confessed.
Fleur let out a huff, "Well, what do you know, and why do you want me on it then?"
"I don't know, blondie. I just don't like the look of it and I want you on it," he demanded, and they stubbornly had a stare-off for a few moments until she relented.
"Fine. I will have a look at it, but if it's not my field I don't know how helpful I will be," she admitted.
"It's not that," he said, leaning back in his chair until it creaked and looking tiredly at the ceiling, "It feels funny, and you have a good eye for the funny ones."
Fleur sighed, resigned. Julian had done this before. He would sometimes pick out cases that didn't exactly fit her area of expertise just to get her take on them. He liked her gut instincts, and he told her as much a few times. She knew he respected her as an investigator, but never before had he asked her to lead a case start to finish that wasn't counterterrorism or murders across state lines.
"What is funny about it?" she asked, shifting her weight ever so slightly.
He leaned forward and put his elbows back onto the desk, reciting the details routinely, "A middle-aged muggle was found dead in his home with distinct signs of magical foul play. His son found him, and they ruled it as a heart attack, but obviously we know differently," He picked up the file and handed it to her. She peered at it, sorting through the first couple of pages as he went on, "Two hundred miles north and eighteen hours later, a twenty-nine-year-old magical business owner was found dead in her locked office with similar traces. In both cases, there were no witnesses, no signs of a struggle, and some sort of signature left at the scene."
"Signature?" she inquired, glancing at two of the attached photos. One was a close up of a man with a thick beard laying face down a kitchen floor with a wooden spoon in his hand. The other, a woman with straight brown hair slumped forward on her desk, one brown high heel on its side a few feet from her desk.
"Yeah, I don't get it," he muttered grumpily, running his hand through his greying hair again, "These artistic freaks trying to make murder into some sort of finger-painting declaration of how their mommies didn't pay enough attention to them."
Fleur raised her eyebrows and he sighed and shook his head, "Never mind, I just hate these fuckers and their fucking symbolism. It's the only thing tying these two cases together and that classifies it as a serial investigation. Maybe you can sort out what the hell it's supposed to mean," he shrugged nonchalantly and pointed behind her. Fleur turned around and followed his finger to two brown evidence boxes stacked on top of another by his door labelled "11989-A" and "11989-B."
"Everything you need is in there. We'll meet again next week to go over it," he said abruptly. She took that as her cue to leave before he started swearing at her this time.
With a nod to her boss and a flick of her wand, she tucked the files under her arm and made her way back to her office, the two evidence boxes levitating dutifully behind her. After closing her door and unceremoniously dumping her new case details in the corner, she wrote a quick note to Harry and left again to find an available department owl. They had dinner plans, but with the amount of work now unloaded on her by a short Frenchman, she knew she would be late. Maybe she could just make it for drinks instead.
After the owl took off, she got back to her office and made her way over the evidence boxes. Pulling the lid off 11989-A, she carefully sorted through the few of the larger items catalogued by the forensics team. The victim's t-shirt and jeans were folded and zipped individually. A watch. A wallet. Two worn converse sneakers. Sifting through everything, she remembered what Julian said about a signature and began sorting faster, trying to find whatever he was referring to. Moving an evidence bag containing a wooden spoon still stained with pasta sauce, her eyebrows furrowed as she looked at the last small clear bag at the bottom of the box.
"What the hell?"
As much as she hated to admit she was wrong, Jason might have had a point. It was now the fifth day of her vacation, and Hermione couldn't exactly say she had done a lot of classically relaxing activities. She skipped the recommendation to get drunk on some tropical beach all week, and instead bumbled about her house and enjoyed what she considered to be moderately soothing tasks. She therapeutically cleaned her house the muggle way from top to bottom, baked some home-made muffins, reorganised her bookshelves, caught up on the newest transfiguration research, replaced the brake fluid on her Ducati Monster, restocked and relabelled her potion inventory, sharpened her knife collection, and cleaned her sniper rifle.
All week she made sure to keep busy because, unfortunately, she kept seeing a certain shade of blue out of the corner of her eyes. She tried not to, but every time she looked there would be nothing there. Look, she knew there was nothing there, but it kept happening anyway. It happened when she was cooking dinner and taking a shower. It happened when she was getting ready for bed and waiting for her cup of tea to steep. It happened when she was working out, and that shade of blue was like an evil spirit strategically skirting out of her vision. Each time she felt like she was going mad, and an onslaught of memories of Fleur flooded her thoughts. Wounded, wide blue eyes. Those fucking eyes. Chiselled jaw dropping slightly before it clenched. Perfect, rosy lips parted in surprise.
Hermione had to close her eyes and take a few deep breaths to shake herself out of it. She kept repeating to herself that she couldn't go back; that she didn't want to.
I can't go back. I don't want to.
She knew it was a figment of her imagination and that she was just shocked to see her, is all. She just needed time to adjust again and then it would all be okay. Nevertheless, her internal mantras didn't stop her cerulean hallucinations, and by Friday evening she decided that her cheeky trainer was right: she desperately needed to get out of her house and distract herself more effectively.
That is how the Raven found herself back in central London, her fists stuffed deep into the pockets of her black overcoat. Rain started to pelt down and she grimaced as the heavy drops dinged against the metal of the car parked in front of her. She was across the street of a prominent muggle lesbian bar, standing under the overhang of some kebab shop and watching as four high-spirited women laughed and stumbled ungracefully into the establishment, just narrowly avoiding the sudden downpour. Her fingers twitched against her palm, itching to have another cigarette but she knew she would only be stalling. Why was she doing this again?
Biting the inside of her cheek, she gave herself one more mental pep talk to suck it the fuck up and started walking, her boots splashing in the puddles that had already accumulated on the uneven cobblestones. With her head down, she hustled to the door and wrenched it open, shaking out her now-damp hair before stepping through another set of glass doors into the warm atmosphere of the dive bar.
A few curious eyes landed on her, but she kept her gaze down and made her way directly to the bar. It was always nice coming to Muggle spots. After her mishap in France, she came up with a new personal rule about disguises in public spaces, but the inside of a dingy bar in the middle of Shoreditch was different and she knew she was safe here. It was one less thing to worry about, and she grew tired of butterbeer anyway.
Overwhelmed by the sudden temperature change, she shrugged off her coat and hung it on the coatrack. Dressed in combat boots, ripped black jeans, and a loose black t-shirt, she started walking towards the bar. Based on her initial assessment, it looked as though the place was split into two areas that were used for distinct purposes.
The first room, the one she was currently walking through, was a warmly lit bar with a handful of high tables scattered around the footprint. Twenty or so women sipped on beers and cocktails, and a catchy Fleetwood Mac song was playing from the speaker. The other room, separated by a pair of double doors, was dark, loud, and tightly packed with bodies swaying to an unrecognisable beat. Reaching the bar, she pulled herself onto a stool and waited for the bartender to make her way over. After twenty-six seconds, a thick hand slapped down on the sticky wood in front of her.
"What'll it be, love?" a brusque Northern voice asked. Yorkshire. Hermione looked up at the bartender, an overweight middle-aged woman with short grey hair and a rainbow flag necklace tucked under her neckline.
Owner. T-shirt is wet and nose is red. She just took the trash out and hasn't replaced the lining yet. Worn vocal cords. Smoker. Habitual nail-biter when stressed. Wait, previous smoker, then. She's trying to quit again and keeps chewing on them. Cat hairs on her jeans. Not married, but the age of the initials tattooed on the inside of her wrist indicates she is likely in civil partnership.
"Red wine, please," the brunette answered after a moment.
The bartender betrayed her displeasure with her order. Well, not intentionally, but Hermione could see her lip quirk and her eyes narrow fractionally.
Sneer. She has a prejudice against the wine drinkers that frequent her business. Statistically, more "feminine" presenting customers stick to the non-beer drinks, and their drunkenness irks her more than the women she can directly relate to. Considering the increasing youthfulness of the area, she is glad for the business but misses the old clientele.
A mostly clean glass of red wine was set in front of her, and Hermione turned on the charm. She donned a smile and thanked her, asking how much she owed and how her night was going. Again, the woman's stoic face betrayed her. Fractionally, but enough that she caught it.
Surprise. Relief that a younger customer is being friendly. She is sweeter than she looks. Lonely, even. Probably cries every time she watches Titanic.
They chatted for a few minutes, and the Raven found herself genuinely engaged in the light conversation. Deb, it turns out, was down a bar hand, but had thankfully gotten a hold of someone to cover before the rush came in. Another woman came up to the bar to order a drink, and the brunette internally groaned as Deb became preoccupied again.
Come on, Granger, you're a bloody mercenary for crying out loud, she thought, throwing back a healthy portion of wine before she'd have to make her way into the sea of women.
"This seat taken?"
Hermione choked, nearly spraying it all over her herself but hoping she managed to save herself by turning it into a few dry coughs. Unfortunately, even after a few painful seconds, her eyes were still watering and she very much doubted there was any suaveness to her little episode.
"Sure," she said with another small cough, gesturing to the open seat. She thumped on the centre of her chest with her fist and cleared her throat again.
The woman next to her let out an obnoxiously fake laugh, and she heard the stool scrape as a weight settled into the chair next to her.
"Haven't seen you here before," the woman said. Hermione finally glanced over, her watery eyes quickly gathering data on her new companion.
Natural blonde, but not naturally straight. Late twenties. 157cm and 60kg. Heavily contoured make-up. She thinks her face is too round. Scar on her left ear from an earring being ripped out when she was a kid. Slightly uneven shoulders. Played sports when she was younger. Paper cut on her dominant hand and angry callus on the index finger. Not used to writing a lot. Got a new admin job recently.
"Yeah, it's my first time," she replied.
"How are you liking it?" she asked, her speech slowed a little as she reached the intonation. The woman's hazel eyes were shining in the warm lighting. Her posture shifted, and the brunette catalogued the movement.
Trying to get closer. Cheeks flushed. Already drunk. Came with the brunette in the corner who keeps looking over. Not their first time. They come together pretty often. Going to be touchy once she gets comfortable. She's moving to the beat a little and will want to dance later.
"It's…familiar," Hermione answered tactfully, but the blonde didn't notice. She started talking about how long she had been coming here and how much better it was than the other place across town. The brunette smiled and nodded along, but she knew this wouldn't work. As much as Jason would struggle to believe, she had done this before. Many times, in fact, and she had a few specific prerequisites that needed to be met when she did.
Blonde was not one of them. Magical? Fine, but it could get complicated. Blue eyes? Preferably not, but if so, they'd have to turn off the lights. Tall? Maybe, but only if she was demure. French? Absolutely. Not.
They spoke cumbersomely for the five minutes or so, and Hermione decided she wouldn't want to take her home anyway. The entire conversation was filled with brief mentions of her ex. Psychologically, she probably thought this made her seem more available and sought-after, but the Raven knew it was because she was lonely and only came here hoping to run into the woman. The brunette excused herself after some time and made her way through the double doors into the other room. The deep bass from the music could be felt in her chest, and she leaned comfortably against the wall to watch the dancers.
Over the next ten minutes, the music had started changing. Bodies rolled faster and the lights got darker. It was getting hotter, and she thankfully sipped on the rest of her cold beer (she switched, much to Deb's palpable delight). Honey eyes scanned over the sea of swaying bodies, taking in the details of various women and categorising them into the unnecessary corners of her organised mind.
Attractive, but too young.
Too drunk. She'll be sick within the hour.
Daddy issues, but could be fun.
Likes to control but won't give anything in return.
Experimenting. Married to a man with two kids.
Hermione's eyes caught a flash of red and her eyes trained on a petite woman with long auburn hair in the middle of the dancefloor. A small smile slowly crept across her face.
The woman was moving back and forth to the sensual beat, her arms sliding up over her head and her eyes closed to shut out the rest of the world. She was in jean shorts that came up to her bellybutton and a cropped white tank top left little to the imagination. A thin gold necklace kept shimmering under the pulsing lights and she had a small scripted tattoo that ran down the length of her forearm. A sheen sweat had started to form on her freckled shoulders as she continued to rock to the song.
Perfect.
The Raven downed the rest of her beer, left the glass on a nearby table, and started to make her way into the throng of pulsing bodies. The lights above her moved and flashed and the dancing figure she was focused on was fractured in picture frames. The temperature observably increased, and the heat started weighing on her as the space between the women became packed more tightly. She trained her eyes forward, weaving through everyone with a steady hand; a touch of the elbow here, a hand to the small of a back here.
She reached her winding target and stopped a few feet away, waiting. Maybe it was another kind of magic that tends to happen between humans, but it was like the woman could tell one body from the next, and that Hermione's was asking hers for something. Her fluid rhythm stopped and she opened her eyes.
Blue. Fuck. Whatever.
Energy started to build between them as they spoke in a silent conversation. Blue eyes skimmed down and back up. Hermione took half a step forward and paused, asking permission. The woman smirked. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips and her teeth captured her bottom lip for a brief moment. The brunette reached for the skin on her waist. Blue eyes lingered on her mouth and a hand came up to wrap around her neck. Hermione took another step and pressed against her. The woman shifted and guided her leg between her own, and then they began to move together.
Hips leaned and swayed. Hands clutched and explored in time with the persuasive beat of the music. The pulsing lights contoured and led them in waves of purple and black and green over the next few songs, and the brunette rolled back against the silent pressure that was mounting. The stranger's lips hovered over one of the black runes on the side of her neck. Temptation. Ironic. Short nails pulled her out of her thoughts, raking roughly against the skin at the base of her skull as they tangled into one another. A leg drove forcefully between hers before the redhead turned around and dizzyingly ground her ass back into her.
Definitely the right choice, Hermione thought with a grin before grabbing her waist and rolling in time with her.
Close to an hour later, in a dark bedroom, a breathless voice was crying out her fake name from a mouth that kept tugging painfully on her earlobe. Fingers gripped her shoulders tighter with every practised thrust of her hand until a long whine escaped from the back of the woman's throat. And then finally, as she reached farther into the fluttering warmth of the stranger straddling her lap, who shuddered and threw her head back with a low, guttural wail, was the Raven able to forget about that deep—fucking—pitiful—shade—of—fucking—blue.
Fleur stepped out of floo and into the Potter's living room at Grimmauld Place close to nine o'clock that evening. As expected, going through the new case details took ages, and though she still had to finish up her other reports she was feeling the familiar pull of curiosity at the new information. Her head was already reeling with possibilities of what could have happened, and unfortunately, none of them seemed to be very likely.
The muggle man was in the construction industry, a recent divorcee, and liked to grab a beer with his friends on the weekends after his son's football games. He liked to work with his hands and spent a night in jail once when he was in his twenties for public indecency. The business owner was a single half-blood from an affluent family up north, had a membership to the local theatre, and enjoyed painting in her spare time. She had a clean record but was well-known by her neighbours for calling the police on anyone making noise past 10 PM. Both of them, upon first glance, had absolutely nothing in common that she could connect to an underlying motive.
Fleur was hanging up her coat as Harry entered the living room, a glass of red wine in his hand. The veela groaned in appreciation, gratefully accepting the glass and giving him a quick peck to both cheeks.
"You are a lifesaver, mon ami," she said as she pulled away.
He chuckled and waved his hand, "It's no problem. I know the feeling. Come on, Ginny still has some food out if you are hungry."
The Quidditch star did, in fact, have a plethora of food out on the large island, but it was disappearing rather quickly considering she was busy eating it herself. Currently dragging a chip through some creamy sauce, she eyed Harry and the blonde entering and let out a cheer.
"Phlegm! You made it! I thought you'd be here around midnight," she exclaimed, accepting two kisses to the cheek from the veela, who rolled her eyes at the old nickname.
She grabbed a chip for herself and started to dig in beside her, "Me too, but my brain stopped working around eight and I thought it best to just give up and start again tomorrow."
"Mmmm, yeah, good move," she agreed passionately, taking a huge bit of pita bread.
"'Ow are you two? Still training, Ginny?" she asked as she filled up a small plate with some crackers, cheese, and a few pieces of fruit.
"Oh, yeah, still going. Just entering the preseason in a few weeks, so it's pretty full-on right now," she said before stuffing half a pizza in her mouth. Harry and Fleur looked at one another with a shared grimace before the blonde laughed.
"Is that why you are eating like your brother?"
"Hey," she held up a finger as she to chew through the wad of cheese and dough in her mouth. Finally swallowing with a gasp as she came up for air, she shot back, "At least I keep my mouth closed."
Fleur smiled and shook her head, "And 'ow about the baby things? Are you still trying?"
Ginny paused with the other half slice halfway to her mouth and looked at Harry with a loving smile, "We are going to wait a few more months to start again. I want to make it through the whole season, and he just got a bunch of cases dumped on him. Not the right time yet," she shrugged, and took a more respectable bite this time.
Fleur nodded understandingly and turned to him, "New cases? Anything interesting?"
"Ugh," he groaned, "Don't get me started on it. I have three—"
"No, no, no," Ginny interrupted with a startling resemblance to her mother, "You know the rules. You get to go off and talk about all your Auror things later, but for now, we talk about normal things."
"Yeah, yeah, you're right," he relented, "How is Gabrielle?"
The veela smiled and dove into a story about how she charmed her charms professor's hat to grow every time she said 'wand.' The redhead was in tears by the end of the story when Fleur explained that the professor was standing under a hat that reached the ceiling by the time she noticed, and the little blonde troublemaker was dragged by the ear to the Headmistresses' office.
They spent the next hour going over this and that. Luna and Neville were due to come by over the weekend, and Ron would be over sometime during the week to catch up. Eventually, Ginny determined that she had eaten too much and excused herself to digest horizontally, which left Fleur and Harry at their usual armchairs by the fireplace. A warm glow filled the cosy sitting room as the veela worked through another glass of wine and Harry sipped on a butterbeer. They watched the flames contentedly for a moment, happy to get lost in them before diving into the nuances of their long days and overworked minds.
After five minutes or so, Harry spoke up, "So how is everything, Fleur? I haven't seen you in a few weeks. Rambourg keeping you busy over there?"
She nodded solemnly, "Oui, I 'ave a few new cases this week that are going to keep me occupied for the foreseeable future."
"Yeah, me too," he sighed heavily, "My department head asked me to help out with this one down in Brighton that's connected to another one up north. Kind of a strange case..." he trailed off.
"I am sure you'll come up with something."
"Well, same goes to you," he paused and looked into the fireplace, sadness washing over his features, "I wish Hermione was here. She would have been so good at this kind of stuff."
A wave of guilt spread like bile in her gut, and she took a few moments reprieve to sip on her wine and collect herself. She knew they would talk about Hermione—they nearly always did in some way or another—but she was still riddled with this horrible feeling of shame.
She toyed with the idea of telling Harry that she saw her—she knew she should tell someone, at least, and he was obviously the best option. He would be so hurt, though if he knew, once and for all, that she had left them willingly. Fleur didn't even know what she thought about it, to be perfectly honest. She hadn't allowed herself to ruminate on it too long, thankful, for once, that she was completely slammed at work.
The fact that she saw her a week ago and hadn't told anyone was stressing her out. She was probably required to notify at least some authority that the Golden Girl wasn't dead, but she hadn't. Call it intuition, but she thought something was up. Hermione was panicked and she fled, but she was fine and healthy. She tried to understand her personal choice to disappear, but it hurt so much more than the alternatives. Fleur considered the implications of the brunette's actions over and over again this past week. She had forced herself to comprehend the brunette's choices. It was the only way she could swallow the bitter pill of rejection.
Hermione had been hurt by the war. Hurt in so many ways that she didn't expect her to ever recover from. Fleur knew this, so she slowly, slowly reasoned that she had to leave. She had to leave everyone behind without a word because that was the only way she would be able to find herself at all.
So, if Fleur told Harry, then what? Teams would be notified and posted across the borders; floo networks would be shut down. Another huge witch hunt would be afoot to try to find the Gryffindor, and she would take herself to the other side of the world to get away from it, knowing the veela was responsible for it. It just wasn't sitting right with her. Hermione was a friend, first and foremost, and the blonde was just happy to see she was alive, even if it hurt that she left them.
That she left me.
Fleur didn't know what they had between them, but it had never been nothing. No, she didn't understand and she probably never would, but she couldn't betray her trust, even after all the pain she had been saddled with.
"She would be," she replied softly, and he nodded, still staring into the fire vacantly. The fire cracked and she could see the shooting embers reflected in his pained green eyes.
She changed the subject before her guilt made her do something she was going to regret, "Tell me more about this case you are working on."
Harry shook his head and gave her an appreciative smile that twisted the knife in her stomach more.
"Yeah, it's a weird one," he started, sitting up a little, "Three cases across England, but no connection between victims at all."
Fleur frowned, "That's interesting. I am working with a similar issue, actually," she said slowly.
Harry ran a hand through his messy hair, "Yeah, and the only reason we know they are connected is this little clue they keep leaving."
The veela's eyes widened, and her voice came out abruptly, "What was it?"
Green eyes looked at her and frowned when they took in her tense posture. "Um, well, they keep leaving a black feather next to the body."
"Mon Dieu," she whispered.
The Raven leaned against the doorframe. The bedroom was still dark, but she could see the outline of the pale figure quite clearly now that her eyes had adjusted. Taking a few moments to look around, she noticed a small TV in the corner and a pile of laundry on the floor by the en suite. One drawer of the dresser was open, and a picture frame of the stranger and what looked to be her brother was placed on top of it.
Her fingers twitched again. Merlin, she really needed that cigarette now. It was time to get a move on anyway. Sighing, she silently walked up to the side of the bed and ran her eyes over the moonlit skin. She was good—really good, in fairness—but this had to happen. It was easier this way and she had made mistakes before. Not anymore though. She had to be more careful.
The redhead sighed a little and mumbled something unintelligible between her soft lips. She shifted and tugged on the duvet. The brunette waited, looking at the body on the bed with a final air of appreciation as she settled onto her side with a heavy sigh. The Raven lifted her right hand and opened her palm. Her lips moved soundlessly as fingers formed an intricate pattern. A soft white glow emitted from her fingertips for a few seconds, and the woman in bed mumbled once more in her sleep, and then it was over.
Sorry, love. It's better this way, she thought to herself before walking away, closing the door with a flick of her wrist behind her.
Notes:
So, how is the view from the literary cliff I have you dangling from again? It's with love, really.
My posts are going to slow down soon methinks, but I've had this one ready for a while. I can give you a little spoiler for chapter 5: our leading ladies will meet again ;)
Psych x