Chapter 9: Chapter 9Notes:
We back, nerds. Enjoy.
Chapter Text
Fleur twisted through her floo as gracefully as any veela could, but as soon as the sensation slowed she knew something was wrong. Her ears picked up the noise before she had even managed to land in the physical realm again, and she clutched her wand tightly as she readied for a surprise attack.
There wasn't one, however, and the grip on her wand relaxed as she gawked at the utter mayhem that was her living room.
There were at least half a dozen owls hopping around on her furniture and two patronuses circling her coffee table reciting frantic messages. She must have left the damn window open. She didn't know where to look or what to do as loud voices reverberated around her incoherently. She shook herself out of her shock and rushed forward to grab a letter from a nearby grey owl, hastily ripping it open to see who the hell all this mail was from as the racket around her echoed off the walls. She looked down at the letter between her hands, taking in the urgent scribbles splashed hurriedly across the parchment:
WHAT HAPPENED?! ARE YOU OKAY? NO ONE CAN REACH YOU PLEASE CONTACT THE OFFICE.
J.R.
Her eyes went wide as she read the signature. She grabbed another letter and ripped it open.
Delacour, please call me immediately.
J.R.
Another. The owls had started to get the idea and they began hopping closer to her and lining up to wait their turn. Her eyes kept getting wider as she opened each letter.
BERGEN SAID RESTAURANT WAS BLOWN UP WHEN HE GOT THERE WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?!
J.R.
Please don't be dead. CALL. ME.
J.R.
FLEUR I SWEAR TO MERLIN'S LEFT NUT I DO NOT HAVE THE ENERGY FOR A RESCUE MISSION WHERE ARE YOU?
J.R.
The veela swore under her breath. Whatever order these came in hardly mattered. Her boss was going insane and she needed to figure out a game plan.
Game plan. A game plan. Shit, what was the plan? There was no way she was convinced that this urgency proved his innocence, but she couldn't exactly play that hand right off the bat. Then again, if she didn't suspect him, he might think she were getting too soft. What a nightmare.
The circling terrier and fluttering blue jay were still yelling their heads off. Fleur took a moment to try and catch what they were saying over one another.
" Fleur, this is your boss. God dammit, you need to call me immediately when you get this—"
" Good evening Auror Delacour, this is Deputy Head Rambourg's personal assistant, Viviane—"
"— If you have gone and got yourself killed, I am in for a world of fucking paperwork and I really don't want to have to find someone competent to replace you, so—"
"— I have been asked to attempt to reach you. Please notify us when you receive this message."
"— call me, please? Fuck."
They wispy white animals disappeared. Finally. Silence. Well, mostly silence. The owls were still hooting and every now and again one would stretch their wings, blowing the littered notes over the hardwood.
If the situation wasn't so dire she might have laughed at its absurdity, but she had no time for that. She rushed to the kitchen and broke off a piece of bread. She ripped it into a few pieces and threw them on the floor for the owls. Then, she grabbed a muggle pen and a sheet of paper nearby and began to write.
J.R.,
Messages received. We need to talk. Tomorrow. 10:00AM at La Petite Sorcière.
F.D.
The birds started scuffling back to the window. Fleur followed them out, flicking her wand to clean up the bread crumbles on the floor. She tied the note to the last owl, shut the window and pressed her forehead against the cool glass. She closed her eyes, exhaling heavily until the glass fogged in front of her. She just wanted to crawl into bed and be done with this day, but she knew she couldn't do that. She was starting to formulate a plan, and if everything went well, it was going to be a big day.
Hermione glowered at the mess in her living room. It was the early morning now, and her breakdown last night looked rather pathetic now as she reassessed it with a fresh face and a steaming cup of tea between her hands. The wall was streaked with dried red wine from where she threw her glass. There were shattered shards scattered across the floor and sticking out of the rug. A few grapes managed to survive the attack, but the cheeses were all being smothered under the thick cutting board.
Quite pitiful, really. Walking back towards the kitchen, she flicked her hand and everything righted itself as the broken glass and smashed cheese vanished.
Truth be told, she felt fucking stupid. She was supposed to be better than this, she had forced herself to be better than this. It was with a deep, deep reluctance that she admitted the blonde had such immediate effects on her emotions, but there weren't really any other explanations for such her outburst last night. There was a phase when her trauma used to consume her like that, but she had learned to distance herself from it. At the very least she learned to channel it into energy that was advantageous, like throwing herself into work or a punching bag. Over time it got better, feelings got easier to stow away, and she didn't need to do any of that anymore. She could just shrug it off, walk away. Really, she just grew more and more disassociated from human emotion in general.
It was one thing seeing Fleur again, which was already something she had been dealing with for weeks, but to bring up Harry? Her best friend? Her brother at one point in time?
Harry misses you, she had said.
It was all blood in her fingertips. All she heard was sound. The phantoms of a past self trying to break through, competing for control over this single body.
The Hermione she knew now wanted to run as fast and far as possible. She wanted to scream until the rushing in her ears muted. She wanted to pummel something over and over again until the memories of all her demons didn't hurt her anymore. It wasn't a perfect reaction, but she hadn't needed to flex this muscle in a while.
The Hermione she didn't know anymore just wanted to hold her head in her hands and fucking cry.
Harry misses you.
She missed Harry every time she let herself think of him, but how dare Fleur remind her of that? How dare she remind her of how weak she is? How she couldn't stick it out and try? That she left everyone to clean up her mess? How dare—
Hermione closed her eyes and sucked in a breath through her nose, swallowed down the emotional bile building in the back of her throat. She was spiralling again. She exhaled slowly, repeating that cycle a few times until her pulse slowed back down. She needed a cigarette. Or a run. Something to make her lungs ache and take her mind away from last night. Something to distance herself from whatever version of herself she was turning into.
Setting her empty mug down on the counter, the Gryffindor sighed as she looked out the kitchen window. The rising sun was casting shadows across the valley beyond her makeshift yard. Steep mountain ridges and limestone cliffs stretched for miles, with the frosted grassy hills below covered in a thin mist.
It might have surprised Fleur to know that she lived in France. Deep in a recluse valley on the fringe of the Pyrenees mountains, she found a cabin tucked away beneath a dense treeline. It was exactly the kind of home she had been looking for–one that was out of sight and far from society, but that had a view of everything. Unseen, but seeing. She felt safe here.
She spent months patching it up and reinforcing the crumbling beams, but she refused to change the outside. Something about the rugged, wild nature of her little cabin was reassuring to her. With vines webbed tightly up her stone chimney, and the wind and rain slowly eating away at the dark green paint of the southernmost facing wall. There was a magic here. The power an object refusing to be moved, and yet accepting that it would therefore be forgotten. She wanted to change that fate out of respect for it; the cobwebs catching the light in the morning; the scurrying family of mice living in the hedges that kept chewing through her vegetable garden; the small wooden bench on her porch she built by hand that was always too dewy to sit on, but she did it anyway. It was the first place that had ever really felt like a home to her. The only place, really, since Hogwarts.
Harry misses you, Fleur had said. She sighed.
She found comfort in that feeling again. A home, or whatever a home could be without loved ones to share it with. At least she could manufacture a small piece of that for herself here. Fleur was a window back to it all. Back to all those feelings, all that…family. All that support, and kindness when she knew she didn't deserve it. Last night was a testament to that, and to her unpreparedness as her history resurfaced.
She didn't know how to do this; hadn't planned for any of this and she planned for everything. She didn't know where to stand, where to look. She didn't know how to pretend like she hadn't confined herself for five years under the guise of some freedom she felt so far from that these days. She did miss it, of course she did, but she was resolved. She had weighed it all out, but this life was never meant to bend.
It was just…worrying. Just like that week she took on holiday, it felt like it she was edging into dangerous territory. Fleur's soft footfalls were creeping around in the hallways of her head, and she thought she had shuttered up the windows up there. She didn't know whether or not to pry open the windows or tear the whole place down.
It's not the blonde's fault for trying, she knows. If the roles were reversed, she would certainly not be so accommodating. Or maybe she would. Fuck, she has no idea. It's hard to put herself in anyone else's shoes anymore.
It was hard to feel dignified at the moment, but she would be foolish to admit she could stand alone on this one. Fleur was going to help her—Merlin knows why. She doesn't deserve it, but she knows the stubborn veela will be on her side regardless. Hermione sighed again, finally turning away from the climbing sun. She just hoped that Fleur, however and wherever she was helping her, was staying out of trouble.
Fleur was nearly fifty meters away when she spotted Rambourg. He was wearing a blazer two sizes too big, but that was fairly normal. She would never have the heart to tell him he looked like a child in the Auror uniforms. She watched as he entered the café, looking around for her unsuccessfully.
She was positioned on the other side of the street, looking through the small gap between two large vendor stands stationed next to one another. The hustle and bustle of this street was easy to get lost in, but she knew she didn't exactly blend in easily. Nonetheless, she would wait five more minutes after Rambourg to see if anything looked suspicious before heading inside. She looked up and down the street, letting her eyes and ears take in her surroundings.
All in all, it was a seemingly normal day. A group of screaming children ran down the middle of the street casting spells at one another with fake wands. Three men in matching blue robes were deep in discussion as they took a coffee break. Two elderly witches sharing a meal were listening closely to the daily broadcast from the Ministry:
"Minister, Minister, please," the radio blared, "What information do we have from the latest murder and are you worried they will continue on French soil?" a woman's voice asked over what sounded like a group of reporters.
A voice rang through the magical speakers and Fleur easily picked up nasally pitch of the French Minister, Louis Moreau.
"The news of another murder in France is, of course, very upsetting," he said, "Unfortunately I am unable to comment on the details of ongoing cases, but I can tell you the victim was home and there were clear signs of magical involvement."
More voices jumbled together on the speaker, until another woman spoke, "Minister Moreau! What is the Ministry doing to catch the killer?"
" While I cannot get into the specifics, I can assure you we are doing everything we can. We will be expanding our teams and allocating all available resources to this. No one should feel frightened in their own homes. Not on my watch. We will find them."
Fleur snorted, earning herself a glare from one of the elderly women listening nearby. She looked away sheepishly, checking up the street again for anything unusual. Rambourg was still sitting in the window, shaking his leg and looking anxious.
"Okay, one more question, please!" a voice shouted over the group.
"Minister Moreau," a deep voice boomed from the speaker, "Do you worry this serial killer will have an effect on your re-election if he is not caught?"
There was a slight pause as raised voices muddled together on the stereo, but the nasally drone of the Minister was soon heard again, "While I appreciate the concern for my re-election, my number one goal in this station is to protect my community and the citizens of France. I will do everything in my power to catch this killer, and whatever happens as a consequence is out of my control. Thank you."
Fleur stifled the snarky remark. He had no idea what was really going on, like most legislators. Most wizards in France hadn't taken a liking to Moreau in the past four years. The latest string of victims was really the only time she had really seen him taking to any strong action from the public's perspective, but the veela wasn't fooled. It was always the same. Even in times of war in Britain, responsibility and guidance fell too heavily on the shoulders of the powerful few.
She was wary of those with such influence. It isn't cynicism, she would argue to those who picked up on her political distrust. It was with remembrance for those lost in the war that she so readily hears the undertone of false promises. It is hard to forget about the delicate balance between sovereignty and freedom when you were there fighting for the right one of them. She loves the French, but they would do well to remember that.
She shook herself from her thoughts and started to make herself across the street. Rambourg was looking around for her at the front door, but she made her way through the back entrance, smiling at the chef and giving her a deliberate nod as she did so. Soon, she was towering over his shoulder as his hand idly twirled a spoon in his lukewarm coffee.
"Rambourg," she said abruptly.
"Fuck!" he yelled, jumping in his seat and scaring a nearby patron. He swung his head around to look at her, his beady eyes narrowing, "You scared the shit out me, Delacour."
"Yes, well, I intended to," the blonde shrugged, holding a hand out, "Take it. We're leaving."
"What?" he asked, frowning. Fleur eyed the bags under his eyes now that she was closer. It looked like he hadn't showered.
"I said we're leaving" she repeated.
"Where are we going?" he asked, eyebrows coming together in confusion at her outstretched palm.
"For someone who helped train me, you must think me a complete idiot if you think I would tell you that," she said bluntly. He shrunk in his seat, but she didn't care. She was sick of the niceties now.
He searched her face for a few moments, his already thin lips gnashing together in an imperceptible line,"Fine."
He stretched his clammy into her palm, and she twisted them away without another word. The temperature was a bit cooler, the wind from the coast unguarded and blowing her hair behind her as she dropped his hand and walked away. She'd thought about where to do this. She didn't want Rambourg to feel like she was going to attack him at any point, but she also didn't want to feel like she could be attacked at any point either. She wanted him to know she had the control.
Alas, here they were. There was a small restaurant here she had happened across by happy accident a few years ago. It was a tiny Muggle town on the coastline, no more than 500 people whom Fleur noted preferred to amble rather than walk. There was a quiet here she liked to listen to, and the coffee at the seaside café was the best she'd ever had in France.
Rambourg was following, staying silent as she sat at a small table at the front of the café. It wasn't very different from the spot she had first seen Hermione again, now that she thought about it. Maybe more wind here. He ungracefully plonked himself into a chair across from her, and she watched him guardedly until the waitress came over. An elderly woman Fleur had met previously smiled at her and took their orders. Rambourg was practically squirming under her steady gaze, but she didn't care. She was watching his hands. His body language. Her wand hand was twitching as if they were in some Western movie.
"So, you're alive," he started lamely, after the woman left to get their coffee.
"No thanks to you," she retorted stiffly.
"Dela—Fleur, I swear, I had nothing to do with that. You have to believe me," he begged, splaying his hands on the table.
" I don't."
"You think it was me?!" he cried. Fleur watched him closely. Every muscle on his face observed, every slight movement carefully catalogued.
"I didn't say that," she finally said, "but I don't have any evidence to suggest it wasn't you." He gaped like a fish for a few moments, but eventually nodded, seemingly agreeing content with that logic.
" Okay, okay, well we know it wasn't Bergen—"
" How?"
"How what?" he asked. The elderly waitress came back with their drinks, and Fleur waited until she had walked back inside before responding.
"How do you know it wasn't Bergen?" she replied finally.
"I—I mean…h—he couldn't possibly have any idea…I—It was a meeting our department set up—" he stuttered.
" I think, perhaps, you have no idea what is going Auror Rambourg,"
" W—Well, listen now, Fleur, I am still your boss—"
"Let me ask you something, Julian," she interrupted again, setting down her coffee cup lightly on the saucer.
He huffed at hearing his first name, "What?"
She leaned forwardmaking sure to look him directly in the eyes, "What would you be doing if it were you?"
"I…I'm not sure," he replied honestly.
" What would you recommend that I do?"
"I…I'm not sure, Fleur," he repeated.
"That's fine, because I know what I am going to do. I don't trust you right now. I don't really trust anyone right now, but I am not giving up this case. Do you understand?" she asked, eyeing him carefully again.
He shifted uncomfortably, digesting her words. After a few seconds he stopped chewing on the inside of cheek and nodded, "Yes, I understand. More than you know, actually," he swallowed and met her gaze again, "Do you…do you want to talk about it?"
Fleur's eyes narrowed, "Of course I don't want to talk about it."
" Right, right. This is just…strange. I just…I hope you know I will support you here. Whatever you are planning, whatever you have up your sleeve. I know you don't trust the department right now, but I am willing to show you that you can at least have faith in me."
"Well, that's what I would expect you to say regardless. I don't need words, I need action," she said stiffly.
Rambourg frowned a little, twisting his hand into his hair nervously, "What 'action' do I need to help with?"
Fleur was smiling a little now, "You are going to be audited," his eyebrows rose, "I will be hiring an external investigator with no affiliations to our branch, or even our country. They will be combing through everything within our department—every note, every meeting. Everything. They will conduct interviews and raise hell if they find there was any foul play coming from the inside. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I—I understand, and I think that makes sense," he nodded slowly, "It's a good call."
Fleur continued, "I am not done. You will accept any and all terms that I have for this investigation. All costs will be incurred by the French Ministry, and there will be no deadline until I am satisfied. Sound good?"
"Yeah, yeah, I get it Delacour," he replied sharply, sounding like his old self again, "You're going to do what you have to do, and I need to get it approved. Got it. Whatever you need," he waved his hand. Fleur assessed his body language. Restrained, but eager. Nervous, but worried.
Genuine, generally speaking. She truly didn't think it was him, but she couldn't let her guard down just yet.
"Good," she nodded, leaning back until the wooden chair creaked, "I am glad to hear that. I still do not trust you, you know, but this is a step in the right direction."
"If it's any consolation, I am glad you got out of there," he said, looking away from her. Fleur watched his throat bob for a moment before he changed the subject again, "Who are you going to hire?" he asked curiously.
"I have my contacts," she replied shortly.
"Right, right. Don't share that with me," he mumbled, waving a hand.
"I was not planning on it," she said, raising an eyebrow.
"And that's why you're the best I've got," he said, smiling a small, sad smile—and unless Fleur's stellar hearing was failing her—letting out a shaky breath to go along with it.
****************
Fleur was on edge. The steady drumming of her index finger against the corner of her desk was annoying her a little, but she didn't care. It was an outlet for the noise in her head. Julian had told her earlier to look composed and confident. She glared at him until he stopped rambling. She was trying her best not to look too paranoid, but every interaction at the office felt heightened today.
He was right, of course. She knew she needed to maintain a façade. Thankfully, if there was one thing Fleur Delacour could do in her sleep it was emotionally guard herself from the rest of the world. She'd had a lot of practice, but even so, this felt different. Everyone felt too nice, too nosy, too knowing. Everyone knew what happened, but no one truly knew anything. They were all just acting, trying to make her relax and turn her back for a single moment before they stuck the knife in.
The quiet, sweet payroll lady who sometimes brough her a sandwich seemed overly eager today. The nerdy guy in magical forensics who would shakily ask for a certain file felt too confident. Rambourg was a mess, which would have made her feel more grounded if he wasn't still a suspect on her list. She didn't know what to do and what to say, so she just stayed in her office with the door propped. Waiting. Index finger drumming.
It wasn't until half past one that they came. She heard the secretary at the front raise her voice slightly, and Rambourg's voice was heard a minute later trying to assuage her. Fleur stood, finally taking a deep breath, finally able to relax after the rollercoaster that was the last 24 hours. The voices were coming closer. They were heading towards his office but she wanted to intercept them on the way. She stepped into the hallway, a smile already trying to stretch across her lips.
The small group following Rambourg was a sight to behold. Conversations halted and curious heads turned as they were led down the main hall. Uniforms pressed neatly, shoulders back and wands holstered. They looked like something out of a muggle film, she thought, marching through her office with their tensed jaws, ready to take a bite of anyone who got in the way. When they finally reached her they slowed to a stop. Rambourg kept walking, but Fleur saw him give her a small nod. The woman in the back with bright pink hair scanned the office with narrowed dark eyes. A tall, lanky redhead in front of her gave Fleur a knowing grin. The man at the front stepped forward. His green eyes betrayed his happiness, as usual, but she could see the concern swirling beneath that.
"Fleur," Harry said, effortlessly managing to sound both friendly and surprised at the same time. He moved forward to bring her into a hug, "It's great to see you."
"You too," she whispered so that only he could hear, gripping his shoulders tightly, "You 'ave no idea."
Hermione had been in this building enough times to know where she was going and who to try and avoid. It was a small firm—at most a few hundred employees spread out over two floors.
There was a cute brunette at the front desk who used to go wide-eyed when she showed her magic tricks. A guard by the elevator who watched the clocks more than he watched for security breaches. An older gentleman who wore the same thing every day and seemingly just roamed the first floor to check in on what people were working on. A young assistant who glared at newcomers and had a drawer filled with Mars bars. Another guard on Poling's floor that she had to confund to get past, as he was a bit more perceptive. And then Poling himself, the slimeball.
Westin Poling was the head of a well-known muggle loan shark agency called MHM. They were known to provide loans to just about anyone, and they didn't care about what the money was being used for as long as they found it returned. When it wasn't …well, let's just say there was a tendency for ill-fortune to come to the families of said borrower until Poling felt he was paid back in full. It wasn't the most risk-free business, but Hermione always thought he got off more from people trying to get away with stealing from him than the actual money he made in the transactions.
He hired her a few years back after he had distributed a large personal loan to a so-called tech entrepreneur. The young man took the money and ran, and MHM hadn't heard or seen from him in over eight months. Considering Poling ran in some shady circles, The Raven's name came across as a possible solution to his problem.
Hermione caught the guy easily. Almost too easily, in fact. Poling was one of the first serious muggle clients and she quickly realised she needed to slow it down so as to not raise suspicion in the future. Nevertheless, Poling and she built a mutually beneficial system. She would hunt the sly fuckers trying to run off with his money and bring them back to his office, and then he would pay her handsomely to take it from there. At some point he learned she had a knack for the more…persuasive arts. Poling all but begged her to broaden her "workload" for him, offering her twice the money if she was able to get a hefty chunk of the outstanding loan back. She had a pretty good track record, as expected.
They worked harmoniously together for four months, and she actually had started to enjoy his company until the "incident." Poling was a cunning businessman, but he was also a tall, muscular, dashingly handsome thirty-something who acted as though the world belonged to him. He was a silver-spoon fed, trust-fund brat who happened to be blessed with thick, wavy brown hair and hazel eyes that shifted between green and light brown depending on the brightness of the room. Basically, he was rich, attractive, and powerful. Perhaps he thought she was more enthusiastic about him than what he paid her, which was just blatantly untrue, but eventually he thought there was something there because he tried to win her over in different ways. He would lock his office door when she entered and try to hover over her when she sat down in the guest chair. It was all benign, until it wasn't.
Hermione nearly hexed him out of his own skin when it happened. He had asked her to look over some photographs and he walked around the desk to look over her shoulder, closer and closer, until she felt a significant thing press against her lower back. She spun around and kneed him in the bollocks. It took everything she had not to resort to magic, but that was the risk of running around with muggle clients. He threw a fit befitting a towering toddler and she stormed out of the building, fully committed to never see him again.
The irony was that he kept calling her after. He wanted to have a talk. A meeting. A dinner. He tried to say that he was sorry and that he wanted her back to work for him, which she grudgingly agreed to because the pay was absolutely ludicrous and she wasn't exactly made of money at the time. They worked together awkwardly for another three months. Sometimes he tried flirt harmlessly, and she would remain professional and say no to all the dinner requests…until the idiot did it again.
He had a whiskey or two after celebrating a hefty loan retrieval and grabbed her wrist, trying to trap her against his office door. Maybe he thought it was sexy, or his head was so inflated he couldn't understand the meaning of "no" even after fifty repetitions. Either way, he dodged the knee that time so she broke his nose instead. The security guard had to escort her out.
Poling still, to this day, tries to reach her, but she ignores it now. Fool me once, and all that shit. Half the time he reaches out it's a bouquet of flowers or a burner phone riddled with dick pics in her P.O. box; half the time it's threatening messages, calling her names generally synonymised by the unimaginative "slut."
To be completely honest, she didn't really get why he cared so much. Sure, her services were quite beneficial for his business. Her success rate was practically perfect, after all, and she managed to capture nearly £3 million in outstanding loans for him in the time they worked together. Undoubtably he would sorely miss her as a business partner, but she also thought he couldn't really be surprised she was put-off by the "working conditions."
That being said, there were a few things that didn't make sense to her when it came to these murders. Firstly, he was a Muggle, and for all she knew had no idea the magical world even existed. Considering the broad array of magical murders, she couldn't see how that worked, unless he ran into someone who was aware of who she was. Those with power tended to blend between her worlds, so it wasn't exactly out of the question, but she still had a hard time picturing him going to such lengths.
Either way, no stone would go unturned when it was her head on the chopping block.
That head happened to have a particularly nasty migraine forming behind her right eye the longer she looked to the familiar gold nameplate on his office door with dread. Steeling herself, she reached for the handle, and wordlessly cast a silencing spell before closing the door behind her. The first things she noticed were that he was alone (good), that his office looked remarkably the same to the last time she saw it (weird), and that he was in a fairly dishevelled state (not unheard of). Everything else was catalogued in quick succession:
He's been running his hands through his gelled hair. A very unusual 5 o'clock shadow present. Sluggish response rate. His eyes are bloodshot and tracking slowly - he's been drinking today. His watch is reading the wrong time – probably broken. Suit is new, but lack of stitching indicates it's cheaper than his usual. Cell phone is…in pieces on the floor. He's had a bad fucking day.
That would make this easier.
Hermione finally met his dumfounded gaze. He was frozen, the only movement coming from wide eyes torn between shock, anger, interest, and confusion.
"Westin," she said. That seemed to do it. It's like he began to melt. He started shifting in his seat, his throat bobbing nervously.
"Raven...W-What are you doing here?" he asked, hands hovering above his keyboard.
"What? All those messages and I can't I stop by for a chat?"
"Now?"
"Yes, love, right now," she said sweetly. Or at least, she thought it sounded sweet. In her head it was like nails on a chalkboard. She definitely didn't do seduction very well, much preferring to outwit an opponent to solve her problems. Or…other means, but Poling knew that, and it wouldn't get her anywhere. She'd have to stroke his ego a little, maybe threaten or blackmail him a little, and as a very last resort she'd resort to violence or magic, with a little memory charm to top it all off.
The problem was that Muggle clients were easy to get cocky around. You could go around wiping memories left, right, and center, but eventually it leaves a trail, and The Raven doesn't do bloody trails, dammit. Plus, these days the Ministry had their hands in all sorts of Muggle police affairs, and anything that looked fishy was inspected with ten times the scrutiny. It wasn't worth the hassle usually, so she had a general rule: Muggle methods with Muggle clients; magical methods with magical clients.
It wouldn't be necessary here. Poling would lose blood to his head fairly quickly, so she hoped she wouldn't need to resort to too much embarrassing flirtation. She walked across his office—past the armchairs and dying plant in the corner—rounding his desk until she was beside him.
"How have you been?"
"O-okay," he said, finally moving his hands. He swivelled his chair to face her. Hermione could smell the whiskey on his breath. She swallowed a cringe and leaned forward.
"Did you miss me?" she asked.
His eyes got a little wide, "Uhhh, yeah, of course I did. Where have you been? Did you get my messages?"
She just about managed to stop herself from rolling her eyes, "Yes, yes, I got them. I just needed some time away for a while," she said.
"Do you need work? I have work! I've been trying to reach you for m—"
"I'm not looking for work, Westin," she interrupted, and then more softly, "I wanted to see you," she said, leaning forward slightly and resting her hand on the top of the desk. He looked at her hand, up her arm, and then back to her.
Merlin's pants, he's fucking slow. Three, two, one….
A slow smile stretched across his face and his legs shifted excitedly. Gross.
He was just about to open his mouth when a sudden rap on the door made the both of them freeze.
"Mr. Poling? I have your four o'clock here," a voice interrupted.
"Shit," he muttered, "Okay, who—?" Poling said, shaking his head from the mental table tennis and straightening his tie. Hermione straightened, watching him haphazardly put himself back together before he looked to the door. His mouth dropped open obscenely. She stopped herself from scoffing. Honestly, what kind of professionalism was th—
Hermione finally looked over and the thought fizzled out. She blinked, scrunching her eyelids together a few times. Well, that can't be right. She blinked again. Nope, still there. She genuinely must have been slipped a hallucinogen because standing behind the assistant's shoulder was Fleur Fucking Delacour.
How the….? The stream of inquiries she was about to run through dissolved as the veela stepped farther into the office, the assistant closing the door behind her. The brightest witch of her age was reduced to a mere pile of goo as her eyes scraped up and down the figure gliding confidently into the room.
Fleur was in a skinny charcoal suit with a crisp white button-up shirt underneath, revealing a fraction of her prominent collarbones. Heeled boots gave her an extra four inches on top of her already towering figure. Her silver-blonde hair was tied into a chic ponytail, and a black leather belt with a silver badge clipped to the front glinted off the light coming from the windows. She looked entirely collected despite being four feet away from the woman who basically kicked her out of her home last night.
She must know it's me, Hermione thought to herself, she can smell me from a mile away!
Fleur stepped forward, seemingly unaffected by her presence, all smiles and bright eyes. Introductions took place, and the blonde moved forward to shake hands with Poling. Hermione greedily drank her in as they got themselves acquainted, eyes still wide in shock.
"Detective Swann, it's a delight to meet you," Poling said, smiling and shaking her hand. His bloodshot eyes were doing little to contain his eagerness.
"The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Poling. Please just call me Erica," Fleur responded warmly in an impeccable American accent. Hermione's eye grew even wider. She stared at the side of Fleur's face, silently demanding she look over at her.
Fucking! VEELA! Look at me! What the fuck do you think you're doing? Damn it, look at me! she willed her thoughts to telegraph into that thick blonde head. It didn't. Fleur remained perfectly calm and replied to Poling, "Thank you for agreeing to meet on such short notice."
"Oh, it's no problem at all. Please, return the favour and call me Westin," he replied, smiling even wider. His hazel eyes gleamed at the veela standing by his desk.
They continued with their small talk, completely disregarding her presence. Thank Merlin, too. The brunette was acutely aware of how ridiculous she probably looked, her mouth opening and closing in muted shock. It took a minute too long, but she finally unglued her eyes from the blonde's legs, closed her mouth, and kicked her brain back into gear.
How fucking idiotic was she? She just handed over those names last night! How the hell Fleur found his office let alone got a meeting was beyond her, but that didn't matter at this point. She needed to stay put. The veela had a meeting with this gropey asshole, and she would be damned if she left her in here alone.
"Well, I would love if we could get started," Fleur said clearly, clapping her hands together, "As you know, many Americans are no strangers to using less-than-official means to find someone on our suspect list. I'm hoping we can come to a mutual understanding and help another out...so to speak," she smiled widely, batting her long eyelashes a little too much.
Hermione's brain was boiling. Her eyesight was tunnelling. Her left eye was definitely twitching. Fleur was way too good at this, and Poling was looking like at her like she was stuffed turkey covered in…whatever assholes eat. Caviar? Whatever, all she knew was that Fleur was turning him into mush and she was steadily losing all control over the situation at hand.
"Of course! We often work your intelligence teams, actually. Amazing what you can accomplish if you are willing to break a rule or two! Please, take a seat, take a seat," he said hastily, gesturing at a chair in front of his desk.
"It's just…who is this?" she said, gesturing and glancing over to Hermione infuriatingly offhandedly, "I hope you don't mind, but I would prefer to speak with you alone," The brunette saw the corner of her mouth twitch.
This. Motherfucking. B—that's it. It's official. I am going to murder her.
"Ah, yes. Well this is…." Poling trailed off, evidently just realising that she was still in his office. The Raven suppressed an eyeroll and clenched her jaw. As usual, the presence of a veela has had a predictable impact on the attention-span of the only man in the room. He stuttered, trying to find a solution to this apparent problem, "This, this is—"
"His assistant," Hermione finally finished, snapping up a nearby notepad and pencil. She walked over and took a seat in the corner, her hand perched over the paper looking expectantly at the blonde.
Fleur met her gaze and quirked her eyebrow. "Is that so?" she asked slowly. Hermione was fairly certain the bloody witch was trying not to laugh, but she schooled her face and looked back to Poling for confirmation. Hermione gave him a mildly threatening, don't even think about it look. He probably thought it meant "I'll sleep with you if I can stay" rather than "I'll fucking kill you if I can't stay."
Either way, he looked far too overwhelmed by the changing atmosphere of the room; a hot blonde model/cop and the seedy business partner he'd been pining after for years? Oh, how the day was turning around for Mr. Poling.
"Uh, um, yes, yes! My assistant! She—well, she is a part of the diversity program here."
Silence.
"Diversity program?" they both said at the same time. Blue eyes met brown, and they quickly looked away again. Fleur's mouth twitched again.
Poling didn't notice. "Y—Yes! You see, my firm has long believed in including all groups. Miss…er, Miss…Gyro here is from Greece, you see. We're really trying to broaden the scope of our team. I hope you don't mind, but it's very important to my firm that we give equal opportunity to all, you see."
Another pause. Poling was still talking to the room though no one was listening.
"How is being Greek diverse?" Hermione muttered to herself through sheer confusion, "I'm half black, you complete spatula."
Fleur snorted softly next to her.
"Surely Greeks need a seat at the table, Miss…Gyro?" the blonde asked lowly, her expression serious despite the gleam in her eye.
Hermione sent a glare that could have blown off the back of her head. Fleur turned back to Poling, smiling sweetly and complimenting him being such a kind and caring businessman with programs that helped to include more Europeans like that. He turned a deeper shade of red at the compliment. Hermione watched as his eyes shifted to her chest again, and the pencil in her hand snapped in two.
"Oh, fuck this," she said, standing up and marching over to Poling. Fleur had the audacity to look mildly bored as she flicked her wrist and knocked his chair over.
"What the f—"
"Shut up," Hermione said, standing over him, her fingers already starting to form the movements for her memory charm, and the thin white wisps melted into his forehead as his angered eyes glazed over.
When it was over a minute later, she turned to Fleur, who looked far less chagrined than she thought she should.
"Outside. Now."
They walked side by side to the elevator. Poling was still working his way through a fake memory Hermione had crammed into his hippocampus, and the rest of the office was none the wiser on the quiet chaos that just happened. It's not like Fleur was going to question it. In fact, she suspected this would play into her hand rather well. She pressed the button to take them down. They waited. The elevator dinged. Doors opened. She chanced a glance at the younger witch, then, but the brunette was looking straight ahead. There weren't any obvious expressions of emotion, but Fleur knew they were there. She could practically hear her brain humming at a dangerous frequency; could feel the anger rolling off her. She sighed.
The doors opened. They walked through the lobby, Hermione ahead by a few steps so as to not make it so obvious that they know one another. The tension was held high in her shoulders, her arms moving ever so slightly by her sides. Hands clenched, then relaxed. Clenched again. Out the front door, Hermione took a right down the first small lane. Fleur kept walking, eyes straight ahead. Five minutes later she was just about to make a right turn of her own when she felt a hand close around her wrist and tug her sideways.
She didn't put up a fight when she was swung around. A metal security door rattled as her back collided with it. Hermione stepped into her personal space as she let loose on her.
"What in the fuck do you think you are doing Fleur!? That was my—mmph!" Fleur stopped her with a hand over her mouth.
"Non, you do not get to speak yet," she said tersely. She steeled her gaze and returned the brunette's glare, who had surprisingly quieted despite having an upper-hand position, "I told you I would be investigating. This is me investigating. You 'ave no right to be upset."
"MMMPHHMMPH!" she heard against her hand. She pressed her hand harder against her lips. If looks could kill she'd be in a world of trouble, but the brunette wasn't throwing punches or hexing her into oblivion at least. Progress. Maybe.
"I said you do not speak, 'Ermione," she repeated, "Listen to me first."
The brunette finally stopped her muffled complaining. Fleur took a deep breath, "I do not care that it was your lead, or someone you felt I had no business looking into myself. I told you we could work together, and you declined. This is 'ow it will work unless you change your mind. Twice the work, twice the danger, and 'alf the results."
Hot breath was hitting the side of her hand. Hermione was fuming, knuckles white in tightly clenched fists at her sides. Her glamour was wearing off and her olive skin was flushed, tattoos and scars starting to bleed back into her smooth skin. Fleur finally felt her mouth relax under her hand after ten more seconds. She raised an eyebrow at the temperamental witch. She felt a subtle nod against her hand, and slowly she released it from her mouth.
The Raven huffed and wordlessly stormed off down the lane. It was a dark, narrow alley and there was no one around, thankfully, for she could easily hear a string of choice profanities echo back to her. The blonde leaned back against the security door and watched idly as Hermione paced back and forth, muttering angrily to herself. She kicked an innocent trash bin over and with a final "FUCK!" made her way back over to her.
Her wavy hair was already mussed, but she ran a hand through it again and stopped in front of her again.
"Are you finished now?" Fleur asked innocently.
Hermione scowled at her. She didn't mean to be such an ass, but it felt good to do the aggravating for once.
"You're not doing this again," she said resolutely, "That was reckless, Fleur."
She shrugged, "It was fine. You need to relax."
"Stop telling me to relax," she said between clenched teeth, "You could have gotten us both killed!"
"Oh, please, don't be so dramatic," she waved, unimpressed.
"What if I wasn't there? He could have seen right through you, and then what? What was the fucking plan, Delacour?"
"The plan would 'ave been fine, Granger, despite your unexpected attendance. I would 'ave gotten all the answers I needed," she said, shrugging again.
Hermione eyes bulged for a moment, she looked torn between storming off and or completely blowing a gasket, but she did neither. She held her ground, "You don't know that!" she threw her arms up in frustration, "How do you know he doesn't know about magic? Or me? Or you! You have no fucking idea, Fleur! This is my contact–how would you even know if he's not just lying to you?"
"'Ow would you know 'e's not lying?" Fleur asked, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes.
"I'd beat the shit out of him!"
Fleur rolled her eyes and tsked, "So uncouth," she waved a hand dismissively, "There are easier ways to get what you want without using violence, you know," she said nonchalantly, inspecting her nails because she knew it would drive the Gryffindor insane.
It did. She all but stamped her foot down and let out a strangled screech, not unlike what Gabrielle used to do as a child.
"Will you stop fucking around?! You can't just use magic with Muggles! I have rules! Guidelines! This is serious. Anything out of the ordinary with people like this can trigger Auror suspicion."
Fleur snorted, "'Ermione, I am an Auror."
"But that's different! Plus, I told you these weren't people to mess with."
The veela sighed, pushing off the wall with her foot and coming to stand in front of the enraged woman, "As much as it might blow your brilliant mind, I did actually 'ave a plan in there."
"Yeah?" she asked, crossing her arms, "Go on, then. Let's hear how you were going to get the truth out of him."
Fleur let a slow smile creep across her face and slowly released her grips on her thrall. Like any muscle, she could let it loose when she wanted. Hermione's suspicious eyes went wide for a moment before glazing over. Her eyelids drooped, and then sprung open again. She was trying hard to fight it. She swayed forward slightly, her shoulders dropping as the tension released. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, and Fleur finally drew it back in.
She let her have a moment or two to regain her composure, waiting for what she knew was coming.
"Your thrall?! That's the big plan?" she cried.
"Oh, will you stop shouting? You're giving me a 'eadache. Don't underestimate it. I could 'ave stuck my finger in your nose and you wouldn't 'ave noticed."
She scoffed, "That's preposterous."
"Want to try it?" she grinned, wiggling an index finger closer to her face.
"No! Wh—" swatting her hand away.
"Well then stop talking about things you don't understand," she said curtly, "Most men don't 'ave the capacity to conjure a lie under the thrall. I'm one of the best Aurors in France for a reason, you know. I'm basically oozing veritaserum. Well, as long as they like women, that is," she admitted."
"That sounds incredibly illegal," Hermione alleged.
Fleur barked a laugh. The brunette raised an eyebrow.
"Sorry, it's just, you don't find that a little ironic? Ah, never mind. It's not legal, but who said we can't play dirty, too? My boss and I actually tested its effectiveness with actual veritaserum on convinced suspects with fairly impressive results. If it's anything to go by, anything 'e says would very likely be a genuine response."
Her eyes narrowed, "You don't think that leaves a little trail of confusion? You can't possibly be able to do that to everyone," she crossed her arms, but Fleur could feel her starting to thaw a bit as the explanation unravelled.
"Oh non, not at all. 'E would 'ardly remember the conversion. Plus, I don't use it all the time, but for important cases it is very useful," she smiled wide. Hermione was trying to glower at her, but Fleur could tell she was curious. Underneath it all, that brainy bookworm was still in there.
She shifted her weight to her other foot, scuffing the boot of her toe on the pathway a little. Fleur waited.
"What are you talking about?" she finally asked.
The veela smiled to herself. Such a bookworm.
"The thrall is a…delicate thing," she said, "Most don't know how it works – including yourself. Many think it is all or nothing; here or there. It's not…exactly like that, like a…a flick? I can't remember the word. Comment dit-on interrupteur?"
"Switch," she supplied with an eyebrow quirk.
"Yes, a switch! Anyway, it is not like that that. More like a dial. I can control the, uh, force, of the thrall, if you will. Sometimes even the flavour, but that's a little more complex," Fleur said, "And that was…well, not full thrall, but enough to diminish some cognitive faculties."
"Hm," she grunted.
"It is quite…'andy, in certain situations," she continued, "And I promise I 'ave 'ad some practice," she smiled again.
Hermione glared, "I don't care if it's handy. You're not barging in on my shit like that again," she crossed her arms.
"Well, respectfully, your shit is now my shit," she said, crossing her own arms over her chest until they mirrored one another.
"You asked to be included in my shit!"
"You need me to be included in your shit, and you know what that means at the end of the day," she explained patiently.
Hermione frowned, a cute wrinkle forming between her eyebrows, "I know what it means," she mumbled, "We'll do this together if it means you won't do that again."
"I will remind you again am I not a novice 'ere," Fleur said, her tone taking on a much icier tone, "You 'ave your skillset, and I 'ave mine."
Hermione looked down, anger still simmering under the surface somewhere, and took a deep breath through her nose. She ran her hand through her hair again. Fleur could see her eyes tracking back and forth, racing thoughts running between them.
She finally met Fleur's gaze again, "Fine. You will meet me at Café Gilli in Florence, Friday at 3:45PM. I don't want to hear anything about you. Or anyone else. You will not hear anything about me. We will tail Sandoval—"
"Not Poling?"
"—Don't interrupt," she held a finger up, "Not Poling. We will tail Sandoval and work out what to do after that. Got it?"
Fleur smiled, lips stretching widely. She clapped her hands in front of her, "Oui, très bon! This will be so much easier now. What should I wear?"
Hermione looked over sharply, trying to tell if she was serious.
"Are you kidding me?" she asked.
Blue eyes hardened, "I never joke about fashion," she said. She put a hand on her hip, squaring her shoulders.
The brunette rolled her eyes, "Fine. Um, something you can move in, I guess?"
"Hmmm. D'accord," she tapped a finger against her chin in thought for a moment, "Well, I will figure it out. I so look forward to it!"
"You're a right piece of work, you know that?" Hermione asked, scowl in place once again.
"So I 'ave been told," she winked and blew a kiss for good measure as she walked away, "À bientôt, 'Ermione!"
"And how the hell do you have a perfect American accent?!" the Gryffindor yelled after her when she was halfway down the alley.
"I will see you Fri-day!" she yelled in singsong with a wave over her shoulder. Hermione tried not to, but she was definitely staring at her swaying hips again.
She huffed. "Bloody veela," she muttered.
"I 'eard that!" Fleur waved again, and then disappeared dramatically with a pop.
Hermione sighed, "Fuck."