Chapter 3: Chapter 3Notes:
Translations at the end if you need them.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Five years later, in a small village square near the southern French coastline, a dozen restaurants and cafés were buzzing with the new day's waking energy. Tables and chairs were already set up outside and occupied with university friends gathering, working parents running late, and solo travellers enjoying the serenity of the tourist-free springtime. In the far corner of the square stood a café that was in dire need of a paint job, but it had the loveliest hanging flower baskets of the entire courtyard. It was the café that would feel the sun's morning rays last and the afternoon's rays the longest, and some of its customers preferred that so they wouldn't sweat through their work clothes before they got to the office. Out of its two current patrons, only one seemed to mind such a thing, and it wasn't the young brunette woman reading lazily with her back to the restaurant glass.
The young woman had loose chestnut curls that hung past her shoulders and light brown eyes speckled with flecks of gold that were currently hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses. A few smatters of freckles across her nose and cheeks looked more prominent than usual since she had caught some sun recently. The brunette sipped on her coffee contently as her eyes scanned across the pages of the book in her hands. Her sunglasses had slipped down her nose slightly, so she pushed them back up and turned a page of her book.
No one would know it, but Hermione Granger wasn't actually reading Jane Eyre. She'd already read it, technically. Not that she minded reading books twice, especially Brontë, but she was working, and the book was a prop right now. She stretched her legs out and flipped another page. It was late morning, and the sun was just starting to peek over the roof of the apartments sitting atop the restaurants on the eastern side of the courtyard. The warm light was inching its way towards her little table at the front of the café, slowly shortening the shadow cast from the large statue displayed in the centre of the busy marketplace.
For April, it was just cool enough to get away with jeans and a grey jumper, so her beige coat was hanging behind her on the chair. It wasn't cold enough to really need it, but it would come in handy later. She turned another page of her book, body posture relaxed as her eyes swept around the busy square beneath opaque lenses.
Ninety seconds, heading North.
With an exaggerated sigh, she closed her book, threw some money onto the table, and stood, stretching her arms out though she didn't need to. She faffed around for a few moments to organise the things in her bag so she could put the book away. Finally, she pulled out her phone, dialling a fake number and tucking the phone between her cheek and shoulder as she shrugged her coat on. Without another glance, she began walking up the small boulevard across the square with the phone to her ear, the time ticking down steadily in her head.
Forty seconds.
She started chattering away in French to no one as she reached the corner, turning and gesturing with her free hand and laughing loudly at something her imaginary friend, Arlette, said on the other line. Hermione stopped walking when she reached a rose-coloured wall covered in vines and looked at the ground, nodding along to the fake conversation in her head as a smile stretched across her face.
Ten seconds.
Wooden-soled shoes could be heard hitting the cobblestones and she chuckled into the phone again, scoffing in disbelief that Stephen didn't even have a hand towel in the loo when Arlette visited.
"Sûrement pas!" she exclaimed.
The brunette suddenly moved away from the wall in her animated state to gesture with her free hand, but distracted as she was, she accidentally bumped into someone behind her. She dropped her bulky phone and it skidded a few times into the empty street. Hermione swore, as did the man she ran into, who had dropped his briefcase and an unbound leather folder. The papers in the folder went flying, and the brunette started moving to stop them before they could escape in the slight breeze.
"Oh merde, je suis désolée monsieur! Je ne regardais pas. S'il vous plaît, permettez-moi!" she apologised rapidly, scurrying forward and disregarding her phone on the ground as she bent to collect his papers. Her coat fanned out behind her like a cape as she hastily gathered everything she could from her crouched position, reprimanding herself out loud for not paying attention.
The man was tall and lanky, with silver hair that was starting to recede and a severe expression. He grunted and mumbled something about youngsters not paying attention to anything as he bent down behind her to get his folder. Once they were all collected, the brunette stood up and turned to him, handing over a small stack of loose papers and his fallen briefcase before apologising profusely again and picking up her phone from the ground.
"Arlette? Tu es encore là?" she said loudly into the phone, "Ah, bon!" and she laughed again as her imaginary companion made another joke.
The man huffed once more and shook his head imperceptibly before continuing on his way down the empty road. Hermione glanced down the street and watched as the skinny man turned the corner before closing her phone and sticking it in her jeans. Facing the vine-covered wall and opening her coat, the brunette pulled out a dozen papers she had tucked into a hidden pocket. She folded them neatly and stowed them in a manila envelope she had in her bag that was pre-stamped and ready to mail.
She had already started walking in the opposite direction, sealing the envelope closed and depositing it in a post box on the corner of her way out of the quaint shopping square. Hermione walked for ten more minutes and sat down in a wooden chair at a different restaurant. She gracefully plopped herself next to a small fountain with a fantastic view of the ocean in the distance. The fog was just beginning to burn off on top of the water, and the sun was bright and beating down on her already as she ordered her second coffee for the day from a young man in a white apron. After he left, she pulled out her phone again—a different one this time—and constructed a text that read:
Documents on their way and tracking device planted in briefcase. Payment expected within 24 hours. Thank you again for your business–this number will no longer be active.
-The Raven
Hermione pressed send to the one number she had in there and turned off the phone. Moving it discretely under the table and out of view she pulled off the back cover and battery, sliding out the SIM card before snapping it with her thumbs and throwing the pieces into the dribbling fountain next to her. Watching idly as they floated to the bottom with the array of wishing coins, she pulled the screen back on the flip phone until that snapped in two as well, stowing the pieces in her bag and waving her hand to vanish them wordlessly. Hermione shrugged off her coat again and hooked it onto the back of her chair, sighing now that she was finally able to enjoy the French sunshine with one job down.
The Raven was an alias she had to pick eventually. As her experience grew in her particular field, she needed something so that she could grow her little business. It was a dual tribute of sorts. On the one hand, it was something of a joke. During her sorting at Hogwarts, the hat on her head toyed with the idea of putting her in Ravenclaw for some time, but in the end, it thought her innate sense of moral direction would be better suited for Gryffindor.
She snorted to herself as she sipped on her coffee. What a joke. She often wondered what the hat would say now if it fell upon her head.
The second reason was one that ironically came after she had already chosen the name. Months and months of going through the arduous process of becoming an unregistered Animagus, and the animal she fatefully turned into was, of course, a raven. Oh, how she loved a full circle. The serendipity wasn't lost on her, but after years of working in her field, she couldn't have picked a better disguise as it turned out. Not only did she have excellent sight and hearing in her animal form, but she had the ability to go unnoticed in nearly all public spaces.
Plus, she thought she looked rather good in black.
The brunette had two more jobs in France before her schedule cleared up. A few needy clients had requested her services in England, but she turned them down. She needed a break for a week or two and she hated going back there anyway. It wasn't her home anymore, thankfully, but she avoided going back whenever she could. Digging through her bag once again she pulled out her other phone, reading through her messages as the sun climbed higher and beat down on her more intensely.
By noon, she was nearly sweating as she read through the background details for her next job. She pushed her sleeves up to her elbows, thankful that her tattoos now hid the offensive scars still branded on her skin. She couldn't imagine Muggles being very receptive to them, and considering how important it was that she has the ability to blend in she chose to redecorate, so to speak. She always hated looking at them anyway—they just reminded her of…never mind. Anyway, if you looked closely you could still see them, but rarely did anyone come close enough to her now.
Hermione pulled off her glasses and ran a hand through her hair, taking a break from her notes. Over the past five years, she had learned to tame the frizz and manage her curls. The experience in disguising herself lent a hand in that. Her line of work saw that she travelled all around the world, and she was sporting a little tan from basking in the foreign sunshine whenever she got a chance, such as now.
It wasn't all unicorns and rainbows, however. There was always more work to be done and Hermione was something of a workaholic, you could say. She had been going non-stop now nearly six months, bouncing all over the place and booking herself up, but now there were two more assignments to complete and then she swore to herself she would take a holiday. Sighing, she sat up and put her head in her hands, closing her eyes and reciting the job again.
Target is Sergey Ibramonov. Non-Magical - a Russian diplomat and illegal arms dealer. He will be arriving at the InterContinental Marseille-Hotel Dieu at 1800 hours in a blacked-out Mercedes. He will be escorted by two armed guards up to the penthouse suite where they will be stationed outside the door for the evening, each armed with two handguns and a switchblade. Dinner will be brought up at 1900 –steak, steamed vegetables, and a bottle of Stolichnaya. He will be watching T.V. in bed and asleep by 2300. Operating window to recover flash drive between 0100 and 0400 hours. Deposit in PO Box 3859 at 140 Rue de Billon by 0415.
She played over various scenarios in her head that could complicate her task and variables that hadn't been accounted for yet, like if he woke up or the guards suddenly came in. This one was quite straightforward, thankfully, but she'd had "easy" assignments before that left her hanging upside-down in a Croatian warehouse, so she had learned to run through every set of circumstance beforehand. Her hands moved to her lap as she ran through it one more time, nodding to herself as she visualised herself at the hotel.
Target is Sergey Ibramonov. Non-Magical - a Russian diplomat and illegal arms dealer. He will be arriving at the InterContinental Marseille-Hotel Dieu at 1800 hours in a—
"'Ermione?"
The Raven froze, her eyes widening in surprise. That voice. Fuck. What a moron. She knew she should have used a disguise. Too many people around to use magic here. Heels clicked closer and her eyes darted around quickly, taking in the setting in more detail.
Thirty-five feet away coming from due east. Five-inch heels and a tight dress. I could easily outrun her. Closest opportunity to disapparate? Restaurant has back alley entrance.
The brunette discretely gripped her bag in one hand and her coat in the other. She knew she shouldn't, but she a chanced a look to the side at the approaching blonde before she moved. It was only a second or two that their eyes met, but it was enough. Those eyes. That deep, dark blue she hadn't seen in five years were pouring out emotion, just like she remembered they could do. Surprise. Anger. Disbelief. Pain. Everything was swimming plainly in her stunning depths. Hermione's eyes flitted over her, memorising everything she could in two-and-a-half seconds and trying to ignore how incredible she looked:
Still no ring—divorced now? Were her cheekbones always that high? Right arm has glamour for her wand, meaning it's holstered like Law Enforcement. No more curse-breaking, then. Auror? Based on time of day, her slight tan - Merlin, those legs - and the partial logo on the folder sticking out of her bag, she's with the French Ministry now.
Normally, the information she gathered like this was stored somewhere useful and she moved along with her day. Fleur Delacour, though, she had rooted her for exactly 1.5 seconds longer than she knew was necessary. She was staring now, and the Raven never stared. Her heart was thudding dangerously in her chest when she remembered the last time she saw her; the feeling of her lips, the sound of her shaky sigh.
Fuck.
The blonde was getting closer, and the brunette finally unglued herself from the floor, bolting through the restaurant door and once again leaving an angry veela standing in shock by her small table. A pair of dark sunglasses and a half-empty cup of cold coffee left as her only reminder that Fleur did, in fact, see Hermione Granger.
Fleur had been sitting at the same table at the seaside café for nearly two hours now. She couldn't move. She couldn't think. She was replaying the scene over and over in her mind, and every time it got more and more confusing.
She had been running an errand in the nearby square before she had to get back to the office. It was a beautiful day for this time of year. One of those clear, blue-skied days that made her ever grateful she had decided to move back to France a few years ago. The spring rains had just passed, seemingly giving new energy and life to everything and everyone. Yes, she was glad she moved back. After her divorce was finalised, she received an offer from the French Auror office and began working for them in Paris. Her training as a curse breaker was fun and interesting, but she had always wanted to do more than that.
She reached out to the French Ministry after the Battle of Hogwarts, and they said they were interested in having her but wanted to see some training before taking her on. She quit Gringotts immediately after and studied for a year in the British Ministry team along with Harry, with whom she got very close to throughout the course. When she finally graduated with top marks, her home Ministry was more than willing to transfer her over.
That was four years ago, and now she was the Lead Investigative Auror for International Crime and Counterterrorism. She was…startlingly good at it, she found. The veela senses helped, but in order to be successful, you had to think like a criminal, which she was surprisingly adept at as well. Plus, there was a blend of understanding a suspect's psychology, detecting patterns, and following her gut. Luckily, her gut hadn't failed her yet, and she quickly gained notoriety at her department for her unique abilities. It was a long journey and she all but gave up her social life for work's demanding requirements, but she enjoyed it and it kept her mind off… other things.
Hermione things, namely. Fleur hadn't seen her for five years. Five years of not knowing why she left, or where she was. Five years, and not a word about her. Was she dead? Injured? She had no idea. No one did. No one had heard anything from her since the battle. Sure, there were whispers and rumours, but Fleur didn't know what to believe anymore. Some said she flew to Australia to get her parents and stayed, but that didn't make sense. Her parents were back in England with their memories restored, and they said their daughter came back with them.
Some said she was just travelling abroad and reading on secluded beaches. More likely, she had to admit. One rumour claimed she was a muggle librarian in New York, trying to get away from the wizarding world entirely. Another claimed she had tried to backpack through the Alps with a stray dog she befriended and fell down a ravine accidentally. The veela hated thinking about that possibility. Finally, one rumour claimed she was an assassin, which made Fleur double over in laughter when she first heard it.
Aside from Fleur, the only person who was still actively searching for her was Harry. They spoke at least once every other month about Hermione's whereabouts, as they were both in law enforcement and had nothing better to do that brainstorm about where their long-lost friend had disappeared to. It was painful for both of them, but they never stopped trying. She didn't think they ever would.
Fleur was rounding a corner to a spot she knew she could disapparate at when she spotted a young woman sitting alone at a seaside café. The veela stopped in her tracks and her breath stopped. From her angle, she could only see the woman's profile, but Fleur would know that sloping nose and jawline anywhere. Those lips she had only known for a moment were slowly mouthing out something to herself. Blue eyes raked over her form greedily, taking in everything she could, still not convinced what she was seeing was real. She shook her head as if it would clear up the mirage in front of her.
Hermione was in denim jeans and a grey sweater with the sleeves pushed up. Her hands, forearms, and the sides of her neck were covered in black tattoos that she couldn't make out the design of, and she was running a hand through wavy brown hair that hung just past her shoulders. She looked…well, to be honest, Fleur thought she looked amazing. Her legs and arms were toned, indicating she was definitely taking care of herself. Her olive skin was tan and healthy, and the veela wished she were closer so she could see if her freckles were still there. She couldn't move though. She could only watch as designed hands moved under the table slightly, connecting the thoughts circulating in her head like she was conducting an orchestra.
"'Ermione?" she asked, still in disbelief this was real.
The brunette's hands froze. It was her. Fleur finally started moving again. She needed to speak to her. It had been five years, and her heart was hammering in her chest again like they were still in that room at the Shrieking Shack. There were so many things she needed to ask. How? Why? What could possibly have led her to think this was the only viable option? Did she really not trust us—her—enough?
Hermione looked at her then, just for a moment, and it wasn't like their time at Shell Cottage. There, she could hardly see anything in the depths of her eyes, but this was different. She looked…not scared, but startled, definitely. And there was curiosity and something else that made her body temperature increase. Fleur could feel her eyes raking down her body like her nails lightly scratching over her skin. She wanted more of it, like she had always fantasized about, but then the eyes met hers again and they were apologising.
And then she was flying, darting through the restaurant doors with her coat and bag in a tight grip. Fleur ran after her through the restaurant and into the kitchen, calling her name over and over, but it was too late and she was too slow in these damn heels.
Hermione wasn't completely lost, or dead. She was alive and well, and…working? Reciting something in her head? What was she doing here? Out in the open like this if she was in hiding? It just didn't make sense.
The veela knew she should move from the table. She should get up and go to the office and apologise for missing two meetings, but she couldn't shake the feeling of seeing the younger witch. It had taken years for her to get over her disappearance, and even then, it was so hard to just forget her. She always thought there had to be something; some way of finding her.
Fleur realised, with a painful finality that felt like an icepick to her heart, that she just desperately didn't want to be found.
Hermione was scowling. It was nearly two in the morning and she was bouncing on her toes to try to stay alert as the cold, crisp air slowly numbed the tip of her nose. Her eyes were starting to burn with exhaustion and probably looked just as red and angry as the cherry on her cigarette. She took a deep pull, feeling the familiar rush to her head for a few moments before she exhaled. She watched the smoke furl away into the clear night sky before sticking her head out of the entranceway she was standing under, checking down the street again. Amber eyes followed down the line of cars parked on the right side of the street before landing on a characterless window near on the second floor above the distant street sign.
Still no signal.
This is the part no one tells you—how boring this line of work can be. The waiting, and the planning, and then more waiting. Normally she was quite good at keeping herself focused and she hadn't had a cigarette in months, but tonight felt different and she needed something to settle her nerves. She was watching for a light to click on and off three times in a row from that second-story window, but it was taking longer than she expected and she just wanted to go home now. This was her final job before she was going to take a break, but the downtime just let her mind wander to Fleur again and she couldn't help but get lost in thoughts and painful memories.
Yesterday had been a kick to the gut for the Raven, who had all but forgotten her past life exceptionally well up to this point. She didn't think about them anymore, nor did she want to. She was fine on her own and wanted to keep it that way. Over the years there was a lot she had to learn about herself, and it took effort to get here. Hard work that took years to build and strengthen that she didn't want to just get liquefied in an instant. She had a history, yes, but that didn't matter. There were only two main lessons about her past that mattered to her now after some painful retrospection of her torture experience.
Lesson One: she would never depend on her wand again. Hermione's helplessness at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange was the first time she realised she relied on that stupid piece of wood far too much. After the battle, she toyed with the idea of keeping it. It was powerful, Bellatrix's wand, but it was a symbol of her own suffering. It was the very tool used to break her apart, and she wouldn't depend on it to build her back up. She wouldn't depend on any wand again. The brunette threw it in the ocean somewhere in Australia one humid evening on her trip to get her parents back. It looked like a peaceful goodbye, floating away in the clear blue waves, but she knew in time that would change. The wood that ripped her open would roll around in the whitewash and the brine would slowly leach into its permeable skin. It would swell and rot and disintegrate into nothing—into meaningless particles—just like that fucking bitch was doing underground somewhere.
She chuckled to herself at the thought and took another drag, checking down the street once more through the cloud of smoke rearranging itself into the night sky. Still nothing.
After Australia, the Gryffindor spent the next year practising wandless and wordless magic like her life depended on it. It was hard at first. Hermione felt like a first-year again trying to concentrate on the simplest of spells. Without a wand to channel her magic, she felt her power drain more quickly as she tried to get used to focusing her energy. At some point, however, everything just clicked. She found out exactly how to use her fingers and hands for each spell, and learned that intention and attention were critical in her accuracy and endurance. By now, she was even more powerful without a wand when it came to her magical strength and ability, and she would never be without that control again.
Lesson Two: she was weak. Physically and mentally. They were easily caught by the snatchers, and she succumbed to mindless suffering at the hands of Bellatrix without even putting up a fight. She blamed herself for being so vulnerable. Since the Battle of Hogwarts, she demanded more from her body. She would run or swim every day at varying speeds and lengths. She had found a Muggle training facility that taught various self-defence classes, and she started boxing, wrestling, and practicing Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. She became a regular at the gym and nailed down other self-defence forms such as Krav Maga and Muay Thai. She took weekend trips to shooting ranges (mainly for her resume, more than anything) and spent her nights concocting potions and poisons in her spare room. After months of researching the best way to do so, she slowly started introducing herself to certain common poisons in small doses to build up her immunity. She learned how to handle various weapons, but she mostly she trained without for the same reason she learned to use magic without a wand: she'd never be caught off guard again.
Hermione discovered she was also mentally vulnerable. At Shell Cottage, she was exhausted and trying to understand and process what had happened to her at the Manor. She distanced herself from, well, everything, physically and emotionally. Or she tried to, at least. It took her a while to figure it out, but eventually she realised her friends, family, and sense of self left her exposed, so she cut them all out. It was better for everyone that way anyway. No sappy goodbyes. No questions she wouldn't have the right answers to. No explanations that made no sense to anyone. She didn't want to open herself up again—find herself helpless again—and they wouldn't understand regardless. She was not the same person she once was, and she never would be. She didn't want to be.
So, she ran. She pulled all her money out of Gringotts—which was quite a large sum after the Ministry dumped in a truckload for her "efforts" in the war (apparently, getting branded for life came with a hefty price tag, but at least it was enough to disappear for a while). After returning from Australia with her parents, she told them she would be travelling for some time. They didn't know why, and she had kept her involvement in the war to herself, but she knew they heard her screaming at night and they had certainly seen her scars. They didn't fight her, not that it mattered. Without a word to anyone else, she blended in as a Muggle for a year. She got a job in a run-down bookstore under a fake name and spent her days reading, training, and planning her new future.
There were plans in place for Hermione Granger to become something. Everyone knew she had potential, but the potential for what? She was smart. Of course, she was smart. She had been told she was smart for twelve fucking years, but that didn't matter. Lots of people could recall facts and think critically, and obviously it didn't make much of a difference for her when she was convulsing under Bellatrix's sturdy boot, did it?
No, intelligence meant little to her now aside from a means to get what she wanted. And what did the Golden Girl want? Safety, sanity, and solidarity. The Golden Girl wanted to be left the fuck alone, and she knew she couldn't do that as Hermione Granger anymore. She had to create a new life; find something she was good at that didn't leave her out in the open; something that she liked that would give her renewed agency. The Brightest Witch of Her Age would have to dissolve and become someone new entirely.
And because she was Hermione Granger, she did.
But then Fleur Fucking Delacour comes trouncing right back into her life in all her divine glory like some runway model trying to strut all over her self-inflicted isolation. Like all of that hard work was just some practice test. Like the years of meditation and training to drill her and everyone else she knew out of her foolish head was useless. As if the years she spent becoming someone else - becoming no one - was all for nothing.
Hermione squished the end of her cigarette butt into the wall behind her and pulled out another one, lighting it and taking another deep, satisfying pull. She let her mind linger on Fleur again.
She never felt like nothing around the woman, irritatingly. That bloody veela had an unnatural ability to make her feel seen, even when she didn't want to be. Just as Hermione was able to observe those around her, she knew the blonde was just as good at reading her and it drove her insane. Whilst she could hide her unravelling mind at Shell Cottage from the boys, she always knew the Frenchwoman saw right through her cunning charade.
The blonde could tell she was withdrawing. She knew see she was disinterested in everything and everyone. Well, except her. Fleur knew, and Hermione knew that she knew. And the battle—Hermione thought of that day often. More often than she cared to admit. Fleur was watching her. Or, watching over her more than anything. The brunette knew if it had been anyone else, she would have been offended, or at the very least irritated with the idea of being babysat. With Fleur…she was excited. It felt like a game at first, strangely, but the feeling radiating from her body as their lips held each other in a brief whisper felt like anything but that.
She sometimes wondered what would have happened if she had stayed. If she had let her conflicted, perverted heart carry her a step towards the veela instead of her reasonable head dragging her back.
She would have pulled her mouth open and tasted her fully, completely. She would have run her fingers through her hair, testing if it really felt as soft and full as it looked. She would have savoured the sweetness she knew was waiting on her golden skin, and traced her lips down the fine muscles in her neck that she had been eyeing for weeks. She would have marked the places where the veela responded to her the most, creating a map for herself to navigate through again later because it couldn't be the only time. She would have pressed the veela's firm body against the moaning wall until she moaned louder, and Fleur would have fought back with a bite to her lip and nails digging into her scalp in exchange. And maybe it would have been brief and desperate, but she would have opened herself to her and let her take whatever she wanted; whatever she needed in those few, frantic seconds. And she would have taken what she needed, too. Fleur would have let her, she knew.
She didn't do any of that though. Hermione couldn't stay. She had never planned to.
That was the first instance she realised she had fallen for the veela, and it was the strongest driving force to start anew. To get away. The brunette didn't want to admit it that she liked her—or more, even, if she was capable of that sort of thing—but she knew that's what it was. Shell Cottage was uncomfortable as she navigated the dark, meaningless thoughts bouncing around her head, but Fleur was kind, careful, and didn't her ask a lot of questions. She was just there. A beacon of light and peace that helped ground her when she got too lost in the shaded corners of her mind. She hated how bright it all was sometimes, and she wished she could just look away from her glare but it never fucking worked.
It was the little things, really. Hermione liked watching her write. Her hand would flex and fly across the paper, and her stunning façade would always betray small moments of joy and unease. She watched her read, too. Books in English, Hermione would see her mouthing the words to herself, still trying to commit herself to the challenge of fluency. Books in French she got lost in entirely, and her clear blue eyes wouldn't surface back up to reality for hours.
The brunette would close her eyes and fight a smile when she hummed her favourite songs to herself unthinkingly. And whenever she spoke, however irregularly, it was so full of passion and intellect. The brunette would watch her eyes as she tried to translate complex subjects to English in real-time for her. The concepts she couldn't translate easily always had a way of being painted in vibrant colours by her overly descriptive words. The brunette had started studying French in her downtime, certain that she would be even more colourful in her native tongue.
And of course, the treatment to get the dark magic out of her blood was something else entirely. Hermione often thought about those fingers and palms pressing into her. The mild burning sensation she would endure from whatever sacred veela spell she had used on her, and the effort it took not to tell her how light she always felt around her. Not just her physical form, either. Fleur was just easy to be around. If Hermione asked her something she would answer, and she was honest with her. She never once appeased her for the sake of making things seem easier.
The veela would stay silent otherwise, letting the brunette watch her wordlessly as she worked and not questioning why she did so intently. She wished she could tell her how good her hands felt on her; how her skin tingled deliciously whenever she was near her and how it had nothing to do with her thrall; how the weight of things seemed fractionally lighter when she was in the same room; how she thought she was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen, and how she made her feel beautiful, even though she was marred and broken.
Hermione was too chickenshit to say anything, though. She didn't want to confess anything, especially not with the uncertainty of war still looming over them. And…she was fairly sure she would get over her infatuation in time. So the Gryffindor just observed in that bizarre and silent manner of hers, and suppressed the weightlessness in her stomach whenever she got a whiff of vanilla and jasmine.
Ironically, as great as Hermione was with deducing the world around her, it took a while before she realised her feelings were likely reciprocated. She would often catch the veela staring, but whether it was out of concern for her recovery or something else she didn't know. The brunette did know the blonde had a habit of chewing on her bottom lip when she stepped out of the shower in a towel, and she often caught her eyes drifting over her form when she thought she wasn't looking.
Hermione had always thought there was something there—something wicked and depraved in those eyes she had grown addicted to—and then the kiss happened, and she knew for certain what it was, but it wasn't depravity. It was too kind, too careful, too haunting to be that. And the brunette had to make a decision about who she was and what she wanted. She still didn't know if it was the right one. For a while it felt like it was, but the ache in her chest now had little to do with the smoke filling it for the last hour.
Hermione sighed, taking another drag of her cigarette and trying, now for the eighteenth time today, to stop thinking about the Frenchwoman. She kept circling back to those long legs and pained eyes, letting her double-crossing mind wander. She wondered what she was up to these days. Was she dating consistently? Did she see her family often? Did she still speak to Harry, and the Weasleys? Was she happy? She looked bloody amazing, but that didn't mean anything, Hermione knew.
Anyway, none of that mattered. Fleur spotted her, and now she'd have to make sure she never saw her again. There was no way she could go back there. She couldn't open that door, it was too dangerous.
A light at the other end of the street flicked on, and the brunette took a long drag as it turned off a moment later. On. Off. On. Off. She exhaled, flicking the glowing butt onto the ground and putting it out with the toe of her boot before heading down the street in the opposite direction for her final job.
I am really going to enjoy a little vacation, she thought tiredly, as she flicked her wrist to unlock a heavy metal door halfway down the block. Her boots echoed as she descended the wooden stairs to a damp cellar where three men were already waiting. One had his arms and legs tied tightly to a chair with a pillowcase over his head. The fabric was fluttering in time to his heavy, panicked breaths. The other two stood behind him with their backs against the wall, staring ahead and avoiding eye contact with her entirely. The only light in the room was coming from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. The air was thick with moisture and she could see the plain grey walls sweating, failing to contain the body heat in the stifling room.
The Raven stood in front of the whimpering man for a moment before pulling the bag off his face, watching as his brown eyes adjusted to the sudden light. He looked around frantically, the muscles in his neck strained as he pulled against the restraints with a hysterical yelp and a whispered prayer in another language. The Raven pulled off her leather jacket and threw it in the corner. The man's black t-shirt was sticking to his chest with sweat and his chest was rising and falling rapidly as she walked closer and stood over him again. She leaned down so she was at his eye level. He tried to avoid it, but he eventually met her steady gaze.
"Tienes muchos enemigos, Señor Vasquez. ¿Estás listo para hablar ahora?" she asked quietly, and his eyes widened.
"¡No, no, por favor! No hice nada!" he yelled, though his voice shaking as it bounced around the confined space. He started praying again, reciting those same futile lines over and over. They weren't going to help him.
Hermione sighed and straightened back up, pulling out her cigarettes again and tapping one out of the case. She really didn't prefer these assignments, probably due to her own experience, but they paid well and rarely did she need to get physical. That felt too obvious, and it was actually pretty startling what you could get once you know someone's personal information. Knowing the birth dates and names of the favourite stuffed animals of his two daughters, Elisa and Maria, for example, would probably work just fine to get under his skin.
Plus, The Raven was selective of the jobs she chose. You wouldn't know it from looking at his soft face, but Señor Sergio Antonio Vasquez was the third in command of an international sex trafficking ring that kidnapped, drugged, and sold underage girls and boys all over the world. He happened to be in France for a "scouting" visit, so she wouldn't mind if it got a little physical. It would do her good to let off some steam, and she was rather adept at healing her own broken knuckles now. Merlin knows she could do with a distraction that wasn't in the form of chain-smoking.
"Pues," she said slowly, pausing to stick the cigarette between her lips. His fearful eyes followed her every move as she flicked her lighter open and took a quick pull. She exhaled the smoke in the man's face and continued quite factually, "Va a ser una noche larga para ti."
Notes:
Translations:
French:
"Oh shit, I'm sorry sir! I wasn't looking. Please, allow me."
Spanish:
"You have a lot of enemies, Señor Vasquez. Are you ready to talk now?"
"No, no, please! I didn't do anything!"
"Well, it's going to be a long night for you."
I tend to not prefer in-text translations, but maybe I will adjust how I do them since I may have quite a few languages in this story. Let me know what you guys prefer.
Thanks for reading! Part 1 of the fun, what do we think? Next chapter will be another juicy one :)
Psych x